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straight up.
“Malcolm!” says Vicks in plain relief.
“I’d like to make it clear to all employees that Sir Nicholas did not make these remarks.”
Unfortunately, Malcolm’s voice is a bit rumbly and I’m not sure everyone can hear. “I received
the original memo he sent, and it was completely different—”
“I’m afraid I’ll have to interrupt you now,” Vicks chimes in. “The bulletin’s starting.
Volume up, please.”
Where’s Sam? He should be here. He should be replying to Justin and crushing him. He
should be watching the bulletin. I just don’t get it.
The familiar ITN News at Ten music begins, and the swirling graphics fill the massive
screen onstage. I’m feeling ridiculously nervous, even though it doesn’t have anything to do with
me. Maybe they won’t run the story, I keep thinking. You hear about items being bumped all the
time… .
Big Ben’s chimes have begun. Any second they’ll start a
stomach clenches with nerves, and I take a swig of wine. Watching the news is a completely
different experience when it’s something to do with you. This is what prime ministers must feel
like all the time. God, I wouldn’t be them for anything. They must spend every evening hiding
behind the sofa, peering through their fingers.
Bong! “Fresh attacks in the Middle East lead to fears of instability.” Bong! “House prices
make a surprise recovery—but will it last?” Bong! “A leaked memo casts doubts on the integrity
of a top government adviser.”
There it is. They’re ru
There’s an almost eerie silence in the room. No one has gasped or even reacted. I think
everyone’s holding their breath, waiting for the full item. The Middle Eastern report has started
and there are pictures of gunfire in a dusty street, but I’m barely taking it in. I’ve pulled out my
phone and am texting Sam.
Are you watching? Everyone is in conference room. P
My phone remains silent. What’s he doing? Why isn’t he in here with everyone else?
I stare fixedly at the screen as the footage changes to house-price graphs and an interview
with a family trying to move to Thaxted, wherever that is. I’m willing the presenters to speak
more quickly, to get through it. Never have I been less interested in house prices in my life.85
And then both the first two items are done and we’re back in the studio and the
newsreader is saying, with her grave face on:
“Tonight, doubts were cast on the integrity of Sir Nicholas Murray, the founder of White
Globe Consulting and government adviser. In a confidential memo obtained exclusively by ITN,
he refers to corrupt practices and the soliciting of bribes, apparently condoning them.”
There are a few gasps and whispers around the room. I glance at Vicks. Her face is
amazingly composed as she watches the screen. I suppose she knew what to expect.
“But in a new twist, within the last few minutes ITN has discovered that another staff
member at White Globe Consulting may in fact have written the words credited to Sir Nicholas,
something which official company sources deny all knowledge of. Our reporter Damian
Standforth asks: Is Sir Nicholas a villain—or the victim of a smear attempt?”
“What?’ Vicks’s voice rips across the room. “What the fuck—”
A babble has broken out, interspersed with “Shh!” and “Listen!” and “Shut up!”
Someone has ramped the sound to top volume. I stare at the screen, utterly confused.
Did Sam find some proof? Did he pull it out of the bag? My phone bleeps and I yank it
from my pocket. It’s a text from Sam.
How did Vicks react?
I look at Vicks and flinch.
She looks like she wants to eat someone alive.
“White Globe Consulting has been a major influence on business for the last three
decades,” a voice-over is saying on-screen, accompanied by a long-lens shot of the White Globe
Consulting building.
My thumbs are so full of adrenaline the text almost writes itself.
Did you do this?
I did this.
You contacted ITN yourself?
Correct.
Thought the techies didn’t find any proof. What happened?!
They didn’t.
I swallow hard, trying to get my head round this. I know nothing about PR. I’m a
physiotherapist, for God’s sake. But even I’d say that you don’t phone up ITN with a story of a
smear without something to back it up.
How
As I start typing, I realize I don’t even know how to frame the question, so I send it as it
is. There’s silence for a little while—then a two page text arrives in my phone.
I blink at it in amazement. This is the longest text Sam has ever sent me, by
approximately 2,000 percent.
I went on the record. I stand by what I said. Tomorrow I give them an exclusive interview
about original memo, directors washing hands of Nick, everything. It’s a stitch-up. Corporate
spin has gone too far. The true story needs to be out there. Wanted Malcolm to join me but he
won’t. He has three kids. Can’t risk it. So it’s just me.
My head is buzzing. Sam’s put himself on the line. He’s turned into a whistle-blower. I
can’t believe he’s done something so extreme. But at the same time … I can.
That’s a pretty big deal.
I have no idea what else to type. I’m in a state of shock.
Someone had to have the guts to stand by Nick.
I stare at his words, my brow crinkled, thinking this through.
Doesn’t prove anything though, surely? It’s only your word.
A moment later he replies:
Raises question mark over story. That’s enough. Where are you now?
In conference hall.
Anyone know you’re texting me?
Vicks is talking volubly to some guy while holding a phone to her ear. She happens to
look my way, and I don’t know if it’s my expression, but her eyes narrow a smidgen. She
glances at my phone, then at my face again. I feel a dart of apprehension.
Don’t think so. Yet.
Can you get away without anyone noticing?
I count to three, then casually scan the room as though I’m interested in the light fittings.
Vicks is in my peripheral vision. Now she’s gazing straight at me. I lower my phone out of sight
and text:
Where are you exactly?
Outside.
Doesn’t help much.
All I’ve got. No idea where I am.
A moment later another one arrives:
It’s dark, if that’s a clue. Grass underfoot.
Are you in big trouble?
There’s no reply. I guess that’s a yes.
OK. I won’t look at Vicks. I will simply yawn, scratch my nose—yes, good,
unconcerned—turn on my heel, and move behind this group of people. Then I’ll duck down
behind this big fat pillar.
Now I’ll peek out.
Vicks is looking around with a frustrated expression. People are trying to get her
attention, but she’s batting them away. I can almost see the calculation in her eyes—how much
brain space does she allocate the strange girl who might know something but might also be a red
herring?
Within five seconds I’m in the corridor. Ten seconds, through the deserted lobby,
avoiding the eye of the disconsolate-looking barman. He’ll be getting enough business in a