Ambition (28 page)

‘Oh. I see.’ Lying bastard. ‘Well – what has she got?’

‘The goods. There’s a blow by blowjob account of an orgy from this Brazilian hooker. There was a guy in Sun City who saw you with my father, but he’s withdrawn his statement.
But they do have a killer photograph of the tattoo—’ He leaned across the desk and brushed her fringe aside, staring at her forehead in disbelief and shaking his head. ‘Christ,
what a thing to do to yourself, Susan. Yeah, the photograph; you’re getting out of a cab, and your bangs are blown to one side, and it’s there in black and white, like a
Best
banner headline: SOLD. Long lens, hidden camera – whatever they used, they can take
that
to the bank.’

She groaned.

‘Then there’s a testimony from some dyke bartender in New York.’ He looked away. ‘That dive you filled me in on, I guess. All in all, one number it doesn’t add up
to is an editorship within a corporation who’re currently engaged in proving what upright, uptight citizens they are. And of course, they’ve got Lejeune.’

‘Him!’

‘Come on –
we
thought he was newsworthy enough to put on the front page. He
was
playing the market cleverly with that weird mind of his. He’s their ace in the
hole; people believe
him.
I’ll tell you, Susan, it’s a salutary reminder just how far hacks have sunk in the public’s esteem that they now have more respect for and faith
in witch-doctors than journalists. A hooker and a dyke’s testimonies, one or both of whom are highly likely junkies into the bargain – they’re not worth the tape they’re
recorded on. But with
him
– he found those
bodies
, Susan. The police go to
him
, now. They call him Mr Lejeune.’

‘I see.’ She looked at him, wanted to run her tongue over his hair, his hands, his shiny black Church’s shoes. ‘When will they run it, do you know?’

‘In three weeks’ time.’

She looked him in the eyes. ‘If you were me, what would you do?’

He stood up. ‘I’d leave London. Pronto, Tonto. And I wouldn’t bother to come back. You’re finished in this town.’ And with that, he closed the door on her
dreams.

She went out into the street, and she walked until she was clear of the ghost town. Then she walked into an ordinary pub and sat with ordinary people and drank ordinary vodka.
She had forgotten that it was possible to get drunk so cheaply – a double for the price of a glass of water in the bars and restaurants she had become used to. She thought of her parents.
Their cheap drink, their cheap food, their cheap labour. Everything was cheap about the people she had come from, except their souls.

She drank until she was dizzy, got up and walked out. A man followed her; white, middle-aged, badly dressed. He put out his hand. She drew back and offered him her three-thousand-dollar Prada
handbag. She felt beat.

He looked at her, shocked and appalled, and put up his hand. ‘Taxi!’ Slouched inside it, she saw him gazing at the vehicle in drunken, chivalrous dismay. She had forgotten what
kindness looked like, and upon seeing it had recoiled, as though from an alien.

She got home, fell into bed. At four in the morning she was massively sick into the Practical Styling wastepaper basket beside the bed. Afterwards she lay there, tears running into her ears. She
cried and asked theatrically, ‘Why was I born, God?’ Only she was so drunk she said ‘Dog’. ‘Oh Dog, how could you do this to me?’

Matthew woke up fractiously. ‘We’re not getting one, I told you. They moult. And Muggins here would have to clean up after it. Go back to sleep. You stink of drink.’

With Matthew on her case and tears on her pillow, she fell asleep. Her last thoughts before blackness were: all that ambition, all that work – all for nothing.

Then it was dawn and the phone was ringing. ‘Dog?’ she said stupidly into it.

‘What? Stop babbling, girl. It’s me. It’s Zero.’

‘Zero? Oh, it’s so
late.’

‘Late it’s not, girl. It’s
early
. It’s the dawn of the first day of your ninth life, bach. Constantine Lejeune’s been shot, by a demented disciple, at a
rally in Leeds last night. Susan, he’s dead.’

‘Mark Kemp’s a clever bloke, and the
Commentator’
s skint – that combination always makes for wise editing, in my experience.’ Bryan
O’Brien lifted Susan off her feet and sat her on his desk. She blinked at him, surprised, and he smiled. ‘Clever girl, having him offed!’

‘Bryan! How can you say that?’

He winked. ‘Your secret’s safe with us, darling. Isn’t it, Dave?’

David Weiss nodded reluctantly.

‘Yes, from what I hear they’re pulling the whole series now. Without their corpse-finder gimmick all they’ve got to take to the bank, and the libel lawyers, are the tall
stories and grudge matches of assorted lowlife – a bit flimsy and downmarket, especially for the
Comm
. Face it, these girls will say anything for the price of an ounce.’

‘Girls like Miss Soixante-Neuf, you mean?’ put in David Weiss sarcastically.

Bryan flashed him a condescending smile. ‘Oh no, Dave – that was legit. Public interest as well as human interest; ethics as well as morals. You remember the first rule of popular
journalism from when you learned it at the school of hard knocks, don’t you? – ethics is money and morals is sex. Our Lejeune scoop was an
ethics
story – the sex was a
side-dish, as it were.’

‘Well, you certainly didn’t leave any on the side of your plate for Mr Manners, did you?’

Bryan sighed with infinite, weary patience. ‘Dave. What sort of paper d’you think we’re running here?’

‘Well, Bryan.’ David Weiss looked serious. ‘I wish I could answer that without sounding rude. All I know is how I’d like the paper to
be
. You know that old Hays
Office maxim from the Thirties about couples on beds keeping one foot on the ground at all times? That’s what I’d like the
Best
to do. I know that people want escapism, and
that they want a little sleaze too. But we shouldn’t either have to be in the clouds with the royal family or in the gutter with Serena Soixante-Neuf all the time. I think we should try to
keep one foot on the ground.’

‘Suggestions?’ If Bryan O’Brien had moved one more muscle, his set smile would have become a sneer.

David Weiss looked at Susan. ‘Miss Street. When Anstey was editor, isn’t it right that the
Best
was something of a campaigning paper?’

‘In a modest way, yes. But Charles certainly didn’t rule out anything that smelt of fun. He didn’t think that if it tasted bad and bored you it was necessarily good for you
– the take-your-medicine school of journalism.’

‘I’m not
looking
to be one hundred per cent serious – you’ve got me wrong.’ That note of exasperation which Susan had noticed came so quickly into American
voices when they couldn’t get their own way had crept into his. ‘Keep the royal family. Keep the sleaze. But can’t we have a little more
investigative
journalism? A
little more
campaigning
journalism? Are those the only words too dirty for newspapers these days?’

‘ ’Course not, Dave. You’re absolutely right, mate.’ He turned to Susan. ‘Sue, I want a big investigative piece on how many Page Three girls aren’t getting it
regularly. And then we’ll run a big crusading campaign to match them up with eligible young royal blokes – Edward, Linley and the gang.’ He smiled at David. ‘That the sort
of thing you wanted, Dave?’

Their only answer was the slam of the door.

‘Look at me, I’m Sandra Dee,’ said Bryan and they laughed. ‘
He’s
a bundle of fucking laughs these days. Needs a good seeing to.’

She shrugged. ‘Not my job.’

‘Can you believe its front? Waltzes in here from a
book publishers
and tells
me
how to run a newspaper. ME! Fucking colonials.’

Susan laughed. ‘
You say that
?’

‘Ah, it’s true. The Aussie hates the Pom until the Yank butts in. Then you see what we’ve got in common.’

‘Such as?’

‘Seeing things on the slant. Whereas they come barging in like a bull in a china shop. Thinking that so long as the bull wears a white hat it doesn’t matter if everything gets
smashed to buggery. Look, you know and I know, despite the difference in our ages and backgrounds, that a lot of popular journalism is a joke. But the readers
know
it’s a joke, and
they know that Brit papers tell that joke better than any other popular press in the world. They laugh
with
us when we tell the joke and they laugh
at
us when we get our asses
sued. Either way they get the last laugh. But a Yank can’t see that. He thinks we’re putting one over on the poor buggers. Why does he think they buy the bloody thing, because
we’re at the newsstands with cattle prods? They love being lied to. It makes them feel important.’

‘They place a lot of importance on telling the truth over there, Bryan,’ Susan said, getting to her feet. ‘Wee Georgie Washington and the cherry tree. Nixon murdering all those
poor people by proxy in Indochina and then getting the sack for telling a fib. They’ve got a passion for honesty.’

‘Mmm. That’s a bastard, isn’t it? Talking of which, your pal Moorsom plans to come back with a bang this afternoon. Andrew called from the lobby. He’s tabled another
question.’

‘Oh dear.’ She sat down.

‘Never mind.’ He gave her a smile she couldn’t quite decode. ‘This honesty . . . you can’t catch it from toilet seats, can you?’

Very soon she saw the announcement in the
Independent
:

Not long after that she turned on the television to see the upper-class white girl of twenty and the battered black man of forty-five sing a smoochy, saccharine shadow of a soft
soul song called ‘Born Again Beige’, a hymn to the healing power of love which the pampered girl and the calloused man sang with such conviction that a sentimental Western world wept
long and hard enough to turn the record from plastic to platinum.

And not long after that, Susan received the wedding invitation from Truslove & Hanson at Sherratt and Hughes, announcing a quiet civil ceremony at Chelsea Town Hall, brought forward to
accommodate Coffee and Cream’s forthcoming European tour.

Candida, radiant in black, and Washington, ridiculous in white, greeted her warmly that Saturday morning.

‘Hey, Suze.’ Washington looked like the black panther who had got not just the cream but the milkmaid, every well-fed white inch of her.

‘Hello, Washington. Congratulations on your record.’

He shrugged happily. ‘Just beginner’s luck.’

‘Washy, don’t
say
things like that!’ Candida flung herself at Susan. ‘Hi, Susie!’

‘You look lovely, Candida.’

‘D’you think so?’ She peered down at herself, squeezed into a boned black dress. ‘Hyper Hyper. I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s silly to spend a lot on
clothes. I can’t
believe
I was such a little breadhead when you first met me – remember? Lindka Cierach frocks, the Café de Paris, Fuck U – it all seems like such
a long time ago!’ She giggled. ‘Now all I care about is making music and fucking Washy!’

‘Language,’ said Washington automatically. ‘That’s no way for a special lady to talk on her wedding day.’

‘Are your parents here?’

‘Oh no. Listen Susie, this is really funny. I told them I was marrying a black man and they were really sweet. And then I told them I was planning to wear a black wedding dress! They
freaked! Refused to come. See, they don’t care what you do as long as you remember protocol. And a black wedding dress is not protocol. But we’re going down to stay at their new place
in Somerset for our honeymoon, before we go on the road. We had to sell our seat, you know. To
Americans
.’

‘Yes, Caroline told me.’

‘Sue!’ Gary Pride, who was doing business as usual, broke off from a bullying phone call and made a thumbs-up sign. ‘Dig you later!’

‘Is Caroline here?’

‘She’s over there.’ Candida pointed, frowning.

‘ ’Scuse us, Susie. We must mingle.’

Susan turned to look for Caroline and saw a shadow instead. The radiant blonde of the early Eighties soft-focus skinflicks, the hothouse hybrid of Diana and Deneuve was gone, replaced by an
ageing waif in a rumpled houndstooth Chanel suit. Her hair was chopped short and ragged, and she was living proof that you can be too thin. She was leaning against a wall, warily and wearily
observing the wedding preparations.

Susan walked over to her. ‘Hello, Caroline.’

‘Oh, hi.’ Caroline pulled nervously at her fringe. ‘Haven’t seen you in yonks. How are you?’

‘Fine. Working hard. How are you?’

‘Not fine. Not working hard.’ Caroline laughed. ‘But I’m sure you’d deduced that already. Been seeing much of Tobes?’

‘I’ve only seen him once since we had lunch.’

‘But I bet he calls you up a lot, wherever he is.’

‘I spoke to him in Munich recently.’

‘I spoke to him recently, too. Last week.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes.’ Caroline lit a cigarette with shaky hands. Susan didn’t remember her smoking. ‘I’m going to tell you this story, just so you’ll know what kind of man
you’re dealing with. I picked up the phone one morning, and his first words were: Caroline, it’s me. Listen. I could have got a lackey or a lawyer to do this, but as we’ve known
each other for so many years I thought you deserved better. A more human approach. So I’m telling you myself; pack your things and be out of the flat by Friday. Post the keys through the
letterbox. So I said, Why, Toby? And he said, I wish you hadn’t asked that, but because we’ve known each other so long I’ll do you the courtesy of telling you. The reason I want
you out is that I need a thirty-year-old junkie with no visible means of support like I need cancer of the rectum. Goodbye.’ Caroline looked at Susan both triumphantly and defeatedly.
‘What do you think of
that?
– that’s his idea of the human touch.’