Exposure (3 page)

Julia looked at her. She had very blue eyes, cleverly made-up to emphasize their colour.

‘I don't mind, Lady Western. I'm very grateful to you. I was so nervous coming here I nearly turned round and went home. But I won't forget what you've said. Thank you.'

‘Not at all. Now, I think you should go up and change. We'll gather in the drawing room at a quarter to eight. Baker will take you up. See you then.'

Much of what followed was indistinct in her memory when she tried to describe it to her parents. Her mother wanted to know what the bedroom was like, avid for details, but Julia couldn't supply them. It was full of chintz and bright colours, and a handsome bathroom with an enormous round bath. She'd been too frightened of being late to try it before dinner. Afterwards, when she came up and it was all over, she slipped into the bath and thought about the evening. There were twelve for dinner, three couples, another girl, two single men and herself, and the Westerns. Evelyn Western introduced her to the other guests and then steered her towards her husband. Julia knew the face; it was well publicized, but she was shocked to see how slight he was. His wife stood over him like an elegant giraffe. Julia was somewhere around five foot eight, she'd never bothered to find out exactly, and she was at eye level with William Chancellor Western. He had greying hair, a fresh unlined complexion, and pale grey eyes like ice chips.

He repeated his wife's greeting. ‘How nice of you to come. I shall call you Julia. Did you have a good journey? I hope the directions were clear—'

‘Perfectly clear, thank you, Lord Western. It's very kind of you to have me. What a wonderful house –' It wasn't mere politeness. She'd never seen a more beautiful drawing room in any coffee-table book of Great Houses. The plaster work was exquisite, the ceiling soared above a massive chandelier lit with real candles. The pictures … Julia had studied history of art among her degree subjects, and she recognized works by the great English portrait painters, from a massive Vandyke group to a lovely joyous Raeburn of a mother and two children playing with a spaniel. Western saw her looking round.

‘You like pictures?' he asked, without waiting for more than a nod. ‘Know anything about them?'

‘A little,' Julia answered. His manner was disconcerting. He asked a question and then followed on without bothering about an answer.

‘You studied history of art, I remember,' he said. She was amazed that he should know such a detail.

‘I make it my business to research anyone thoroughly before I offer them a job. A lot of people can write a good newspaper piece. It takes intelligence and intuition to be a good reporter.

‘You're seated next to Leo Derwent, over there. Foxy-faced young man, very pushing. He's a politician. See what you think of him, and tell me about it after dinner.' Then he had moved on and left her standing, staring after him.

Julia felt her face burn at the peremptory manner and the rude way she'd been abandoned in a room full of strangers. Don't be afraid of him, his wife had said.

Well I bloody well won't be intimidated, Julia decided. He's not going to walk over me just because of a job. She finished the glass of champagne which had been handed to her by the butler and walked straight across to the man so aptly described as foxy-faced.

‘I think we're sitting next to each other,' she said. ‘We were introduced but I never catch anyone's name. I'm Julia Hamilton,' and she gave him her most charming smile.

Leo Derwent had never heard of her, neither the name nor the face registered in his personal computer of people worth cultivating, but it was a very pretty face, with fiery red hair standing out like a halo. And big dark eyes. Unusual.

A very sexy little piece, he decided, and wondered whether that cunning shit Western was offering him a titbit. He had a way of putting politicians in his pocket. No doubt he knew Leo's weakness for sexy girls who enjoyed playing games. He looked down the front of Julia's dress and said in a careful accent. ‘Aren't I lucky? Leo Derwent – your glass is empty. So's mine. Let's see if we can catch the Admirable Crichton's eye—' He was a dreadful specimen; with his phoney vowel sounds and his self-promotion.

It would have been easy to dismiss him as shallow and pretentious. But under the veneer, so painfully acquired, of manners and attitudes that were not natural to him, Julia sensed there lurked a predator as cunning and ruthless as the animal he unfortunately looked like. He monopolized her during dinner, setting out to impress her with his achievements.

‘I really think', she whispered at last, ‘I'd better say something to the man on my left – I don't want to be rude – you've been so interesting.'

And she escaped him, leaving him uncertain whether she had snubbed him or she knew something about social customs at smart dinner parties that he hadn't picked up for himself. The dining room was as spectacular as the drawing room. The table was laden with early silver, the food and wine were superb. When dinner was over Evelyn Western stood up. ‘We'll have coffee in the drawing room, and don't be too long, Billy, please!' After a quarter of an hour she said to Julia, ‘I won't have them sitting for hours in the dining room. Why should we have to wait, twiddling our thumbs, till they've finished the port. Ah, here they are – come along, go and sit down next to William. Over there on that sofa. And remember,' her voice lowered, ‘don't let him bully you.' For a moment she touched Julia on the arm. ‘He likes you, I can always tell.'

He turned those slate-coloured eyes on her. ‘Good dinner, wasn't it?'

‘Delicious,' Julia answered.

‘I love food,' he announced, ‘it's one of life's great pleasures. I hate women who diet. My wife never had to bother, she's always been thin. You didn't pick, I noticed.'

Julia took a deep breath. He was doing his damnedest to disconcert her. If she gushed, he'd despise her.

‘I was starving,' she said. ‘I hadn't had any lunch.'

To her surprise he laughed. ‘Neither had I. Didn't have time. I saw you getting on well with Leo. What did you think of him?' Again without waiting for an answer, ‘Clever fellow, come up by his boot straps. Could be Prime Minister one day, only I won't see it.'

Julia said coolly, ‘Well I hope I don't. I wouldn't buy a
new
car from him, never mind a second-hand one.'

‘I see,' he said. ‘Not afraid to speak your mind, are you? Good. And you're right. He's a sharp little crook and one day he'll be caught out. Ever done a profile?'

‘Not the kind you'd publish, Lord Western,' she answered. ‘The papers I worked for wanted nice cosy articles about local people. Head of the Hospital Management Committee, Councillor Bloggs at home with his family. That sort of thing.'

‘Well, I want you to do a piece on Leo Derwent,' he said. ‘Not for publication – you're not going to run before you can walk – but just to show me what you
might
be able to do. Send it up to my office by Wednesday. You'll be starting under Harris; he's been News Editor for ten years and he's a very good man. But he's jealous of new blood. He won't take you seriously, he doesn't rate women beyond fashion and features, so do what he says, smile sweetly and be patient. Are you patient? Not with that hair, I bet. Never mind. You'll have to learn.'

‘I'll try,' Julia promised. ‘Can I say something?'

‘In a minute, I haven't finished. You aren't patient, are you?' He laughed again. ‘Get the feel of the paper, and don't mind the boys; they'll all have one thing on their minds, but I expect you're used to that. What's your own situation – regular boyfriend? Don't blush, I like to know everything about my protégés. You're a protégée; I think you've got promise.'

‘Thank you,' Julia said. ‘I wasn't blushing. I didn't think you had a right to ask, that's all.'

‘I have all the rights,' he said firmly. ‘You'll have to accept that. Now – you wanted to say something?'

He paused, and they looked at each other. He had a hard, cold stare and she hated being transfixed like that. She mustered her courage and stared back. ‘I just wanted to say that this is the opportunity of my life and thank you for giving it to me. I won't let you down.'

He did something that made her jump. He patted her hand. ‘I'm sure you won't. And make no mistake, Julia, you'll be fired if you do. Now I can see my dear wife looking bored, so I must go and rescue her.'

He stood up. He moved on without glancing back at her. One of the women moved across and sat beside her. Her husband had been on Julia's left at the dinner table. She was in her forties, beautifully dressed but there wasn't a line or a laughter crease on the smooth surface of her skin. ‘I hear you're going to work for William,' she said. ‘How exciting!'

‘Yes,' Julia said. ‘Yes, I'm sure it's going to be. If I can stand the pace.'

What a long time ago, she thought, buckling her seat-belt as they came in to land.

Five years had passed since the naïve country reporter had come face to face with the great man, and gone away determined to prove herself. Now she recognized the technique. He liked putting people on their mettle; if they failed to measure up they were no use to him. She remembered sitting up for two nights, reference books and
Hansard
by her elbow, writing and rewriting the profile of Leo Derwent. Western hadn't even acknowledged it. She remembered crying in the lavatory because she was sure she hadn't got the job, but a week later she got a letter telling her to report to Harris. Slowly she settled into the routine of the news room, and made her best effort to get on with Harris.

The first day she had introduced herself, she felt so nervous that she stammered slightly. The man pushed thick horn-rimmed glasses off his nose and looked at her without interest.

‘Mr Harris? I'm Julia Hamilton,' she said. ‘I … er, I've come to start …' He didn't help her. He was somewhere in his early forties, greying hair and an unwelcoming manner.

‘Yes, I know. Your spot's over there. Find your own way round. Davis'll give you something to do.' Then the glasses came down and he went back to reading a print-out. Julia didn't see him glance up when she turned away and watch her go across to the bank of WPs and screens and find the vacant place he had indicated. He saw Davis, who was next to her, grin and offer a hand. Davis would be nice to her; Davis was always nice to women – the secretaries, the messenger girls, even the odd cleaner if they were attractive. Harris wondered how the pretty redhead, blushing to her ears with first-day nerves, would cope with Davis. He shrugged mentally. Not that he cared. The old man liked to foist someone on him from time to time. Like all tyrants, he enjoyed springing surprises. There'd been a number of Young Turks brought in from outside, potential rivals for his job. Ben Harris had seen them all off. He had nothing to worry about with a girl. She was the first girl Western had introduced, which must signify something, he supposed. Some whim, some mischievous quirk had prompted Western to single her out and land her in Harris's lap.

She wouldn't last; he didn't think he had to make it difficult for her, though he was ready to do so; she'd cut her teeth in the news room and if she was ambitious, and sensible, get herself into the Women's Feature where she would have a future.

Ben Harris had come up via the provinces, working as a teenager on freebie news sheets, on to the weekly newspapers, running errands, at the end of everyone's boot. But he had talent; he could write and he could angle a story for maximum news impact. He worked and pushed himself upward, ending on a quality Midlands newspaper, where he became news editor. And then the offer came to move to London, to the Mecca of the Western Group. He was married by then, with two children.

His wife hadn't wanted to move. She liked her home in Birmingham; she had friends, the children were doing well at school. The marriage started to break up when they moved down to London. They'd been divorced for many years. Ben Harris lived for his job. Sometimes, with a few too many drinks inside him, he boasted he'd sucked printer's ink instead of mother's milk. He was tough, he had no friends, only colleagues in the office, and potential rivals. He had one motto and it was the only thing he believed in. Watch your back. He wouldn't have to watch it with J. Hamilton.

She'd been there a month when he told Davis to give her a few minor stories to cover. He noticed that she had seen Davis off, without making an enemy; nobody else had got closer to her than a drink in the pub after work.

He gave her grudging credit for that. Everything she produced was cut to pieces by the sub-editor. Most of it went into the shredder and was never used. Ben Harris waited for her to whinge. Most people would have complained, not to him – he didn't waste time with the minnows on his staff – but he'd have heard about it. He knew everything that went on.

But J. Hamilton, as he called her, disdaining a Christian name, got on with the next assignment, and said nothing. He began to think of her as a pro; quiet, dedicated and adaptable. One morning he asked to see her copy. She'd been covering a protest over a stretch of dangerous road near a school. It was a bottom of the page, half-inch stuff, not important enough to rate a photograph. Just a group of parents parading with placards. Routine, dull … He read the piece. He called the sub who murdered Julia's work as part of his job. Ben Harris said, ‘This is good. Don't fuck about with it. Don't say I said so.'

He watched her progress; it was steady, and it showed decided flair. She had taken the tough period of initiation with dignity and guts. She was popular with the rest of the staff who'd begun to accept her as a colleague. They'd stopped making bets on who would get to lay her first. Incredibly, as Harris realized, she had become one of them. She went out on her stories – often with a photographer now – she stood her round in the pub after work, she asked no favours of anyone because she was a woman. He called her in one day.