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  So who knew? Larry knew. The lawyers knew, the editors, the board. That sanctimonious nodding dog of an ethics consultant. And me. And our femme fatale, and her agent. And that’s it. That is it.

  So, as the saying goes, WTF?

  Josh said shit happens. I told him that that wasn’t very useful, that clichés weren’t what I needed right now. It was the first time we’ve fallen out, the first time we’ve not been, what’s the word people use nowadays? Aligned. God. What a dreadful world we live in, where people use words like that.

  And then, a week later, the police came to my door and told me that they’d had complaints, reports of harassment.

  ‘Harassment of who?’ I said.

  ‘Charlie Jackson,’ they said. They told me that I’d been sending him emails, among other things. They said that it amounted to a campaign of harassment.

  ‘I haven’t done anything of the sort,’ I said.

  They just smiled, like I was a challenging kid. ‘You have,’ they said, ‘and it’s going to stop, or you’ll be arrested. Understand?’

  No. No, I don’t understand. Of course I don’t understand, none of it. I wish I did, but I don’t.

  I called Mum, thinking that maybe a friendly, understanding voice might help. Hope springs eternal.

  ‘Sophie, you work on some, some … I don’t know what to call it. Scandal sheet. And you’re living in London, no, in Hackney. Darling, I read the papers, I see it on the news. Why don’t you just come home? All this, it’s not good for you. It can’t be.’

  ‘So, okay, so what, you’re saying all this is my fault? My fault for having a career? For being ambitious?’

  ‘All what?’ Mum said. ‘Is it even happening? Have you listened to yourself? People out to get you, parties, drugs? Sophie, for God’s sake.’

  Thanks, Mum. Thanks for everything. First Dad abandons me, and now you. I’m sorry for existing. Sorry for being born, for being such an intolerable burden.

  ‘I’ve seen you like this before. You need to come home. You need some distance, some calm. Are you taking your medication?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Sophie! You know what happens.’

  ‘I don’t need it. I’m okay. I’m happy. Was,’ I corrected myself. ‘Things are good. It’s nothing to do with before, what happened. I just need … I just wanted to talk.’

  ‘Come home.’

  ‘No. I’ve got a job, a career.’

  ‘I can’t help you if you won’t help yourself.’

  Oh Mum, please. Don’t guilt-trip me. I’m not the person I was two, three years ago. And you know why? Because I worked on it, tried, did my best, created a new life out of the wreckage of my previous one. But of course, I didn’t say that. No, what I said was:

  ‘Okay, Mum. I’ll call you later in the week.’

  ‘Do not put the phone down, Sophie.’

  ‘Goodbye, Mum,’ I said, and did exactly that. With family like this, I can’t help thinking, who needs enemies? A control-freak mother and a dad who could not care less about his only child, who hasn’t picked up the phone to speak to her in six months. Josh, please get here soon. Because – and this is the sad and tragic truth of poor Sophie Fortune – she hasn’t got anybody else.

  sixteen

  ‘SHE WAS REALLY GOOD,’ THE YOUNG WOMAN SAID. HER NAME was Jessica and she’d told Fortune that she had worked alongside Sophie, given her advice when she first joined, shown her the ropes. She said that pretty soon Sophie hadn’t needed her help, that she had been a natural. They were sitting in a café, her and Fortune. She had short black hair that made her look like a pixie, and big blue eyes. Pretty. Striking, even. She sipped her coffee, a flat white. What was a flat white? Fortune wondered. When you couldn’t recognize a country’s coffee, he figured, you’d been away too long.

  ‘But she got fired.’

  Jessica nodded. She was intense, very intense, a petite bottle of energy. She looked at Fortune with her blue eyes, fixed him with them. Fortune felt an urge to look away, but met her gaze and held it. ‘Yeah. And nobody’s allowed to talk about it. But, you know …’ She drank from her coffee again. ‘Whatever.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘It’s a long story,’ said Jessica. ‘And before I begin, I need to ask. Do you want to know? Really?’

  ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘Because Sophie doesn’t come out of it well.’ She smiled, not a happy smile. ‘Nobody does.’

  ‘I want to know.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Jessica. ‘So, where I work, what I do, what Sophie did, it’s … well, it’s shit, basically.’

  ‘It can’t be that bad,’ said Fortune with a smile, although from what he had seen in her office, he didn’t find it too hard to believe.

  ‘It works, I guess kind of like the police,’ said Jessica. ‘It’s all about investigation. We need informers, people on the inside. And to do that, we need to go to all the parties, all the events. Get to know the right people. You with me?’

  Fortune nodded.

  ‘How it works is, we help the C-listers. Feature them in the magazine, help them get to be B-listers. To show their appreciation, they give us stories. Who’s taking drugs, who’s cheating on their wife, who’s into gay sex, sex with prostitutes, who’s going to rehab. You understand?’

  Fortune nodded again. ‘Symbiosis.’

  ‘Right. Right, exactly. We raise your profile; in return, you dish the dirt. That’s how it works, generally. Like I said, shit, but it’s all part of the celebrity machine.’

  ‘And Sophie did that?’

  ‘Yeah. We all do. We hang out at parties, events. Schmooze. You ever read her blog?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So you know the kind of thing.’

  ‘I suppose.’ Fortune paused. ‘It’s not exactly my world.’

  Jessica looked at him, his sensible haircut, his suit, his conservatism, but she didn’t comment, just drank more coffee. ‘Anyway, what happened with Sophie, this was something else.’

  A man passed their table and stopped. He had groomed hair and was well dressed. His face was skinny and pale, his eyes dark. ‘Hey, Jess. What’s this? Sugar daddy?’

  Jessica didn’t smile, barely looked up. ‘Frank.’

  ‘You remember my name. Thought you’d forgotten me. What’s happening?’

  ‘Not much.’

  ‘Yeah? Maybe I’ve got something for you.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Jessica. ‘You see I’m busy?’

  ‘Hey,’ the man said, feigning hurt. ‘You can’t be nice?’

  ‘I tried it,’ said Jessica. ‘Wasn’t me.’

  ‘Yeah?’ the man said again. He leant in, close to Jessica, to her ear. She didn’t turn, didn’t look at him. ‘Well screw you.’

  Jessica nodded slowly but still didn’t look at him. ‘Uh-huh.’

  Fortune started to get up, to do something about this man, but Jessica raised a hand. ‘Don’t worry about it. Frank’s just going.’

  ‘Yeah, I’m going,’ said Frank. ‘I’ll take it somewhere it’s wanted.’

  ‘Good luck with that,’ said Jessica. Frank stood for a second, tried to think of something to say, gave up. Instead he left, walking jerkily, agitated.

  ‘Who was that?’ said Fortune.

  ‘That,’ said Jessica, ‘is what happens to C-listers who become B-listers, take a whole load of drugs, piss off everybody they meet and find themselves Z-listers with a cocaine problem.’

  ‘Right,’ said Fortune, trying to process this story of Frank’s rise and meteoric fall in the world of minor celebrity. ‘I see.’

  Jessica flapped a hand dismissively. ‘Just another failed reality star. He’ll disappear back to the suburbs soon enough.’ She picked up her coffee, looked at it, set it back down. Empty. ‘Look, d’you mind if we go for a walk? Feels better to talk out in the open.’

  They stood, put on their coats. As they left, Jessica took out cigarettes and a lighter. She saw Fortune watching her and said, ‘
Yeah, I know. These things’ll kill you.’

  They walked down Regent Street, took a right and wandered through Mayfair. Along the way Jessica pointed out doorways, entrances to exclusive clubs, celebrity hangouts that looked nondescript and unexceptional in the crisp sunlight. Fortune lit up too, smoked, coughed. Coughed some more.

  ‘You okay?’

  He nodded, still coughing. ‘I’ll be all right.’

  ‘Sounds nasty.’

  ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘Let’s go to the park.’

  They crossed Piccadilly, into St James’s Park. It was early afternoon and there weren’t many people. A man in a hi-vis jacket walked past, pushing a rubbish cart. They sat down on a bench.

  ‘I’m not supposed to tell you any of this,’ said Jessica.

  ‘I know. Larry said.’

  ‘Larry. Jesus. The walking suit.’ Jessica laughed. ‘So, all right. Sophie had a source. Not your usual minor celeb looking for a leg up. This was a proper, out-of-the-cold, big-story source with something serious.’ She stopped.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Hold on.’ She took out cigarettes, offered one to Fortune, which he took. She lit his cigarette, lit hers, inhaled, exhaled.

  ‘A girl. Young. Said she’d slept with …’ Jessica looked at Fortune. ‘How well do you know British television?’

  ‘Not well.’

  ‘Ever heard of Charlie Jackson?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So, okay, he’s a presenter, kids’ TV. Kind of, yeah, you could call him A-list. Started out on the radio, now hosts TV shows, guests on panel shows, presents music awards. He’s kind of hot right now.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And this girl, she tells Sophie that he’d met her in a club, given her drugs, taken her to a hotel and slept with her.’

  ‘How old was she?’

  ‘Fourteen. Maybe fifteen, can’t remember. Really young.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Oh indeed. This was big, this was … This was going to make her. Course, none of us knew about it at the time. It was her story, she was keeping it quiet. And she wasn’t content with just printing the story. She wanted to catch him at it.’

  Jessica explained it all to Fortune, how it had gone down. She told it with admiration and feeling, as if it had been she, and not Sophie, who had put it all together. This was their dream, what journalists like Jessica and Sophie got out of bed for. What made their jobs worthwhile. A kids’ TV presenter, exploiting underage girls, giving them drugs, having sex with them. Gold. Pure gold.

  Sophie had gone to a casting agency, found an actress who was nineteen but looked fifteen, tops. She’d got budget from the magazine, got the whole thing signed off by Larry. She’d paid the actress five grand to go to a club, get talking to Jackson and see what happened.

  ‘Sophie did this?’ Fortune could not help but sound astonished. His Sophie? Lost, confused, directionless Sophie?

  ‘Organized the whole thing. With advice from the magazine’s lawyers. A thing like this, well … you don’t want to get it wrong.’

  The actress told Jackson that she’d got into the club using fake ID, that she did it all the time. She was miked up, with a pinhole camera in her handbag, which she put on the bar as she spoke to him. According to Jessica, the quality wasn’t great but good enough.

  ‘You want to see?’ she asked Fortune.

  ‘You’ve got it?’

  Jessica dug in her bag and took out her phone. ‘I’ve got it. Not supposed to, but … This is in confidence, right? You tell anyone, I’ve lost my job.’

  ‘In confidence,’ said Fortune. ‘Absolutely.’

  The camera was positioned so that he could see Charlie Jackson but not who he was speaking to, the actress, though he could hear her. It was dark and Jackson’s face was in shadow, only partially illuminated, the ridges of his nose, cheeks, chin. The sound was okay, though the club’s music and other people’s voices made it difficult to hear. Fortune held Jessica’s phone close to his face, the better to listen.

  ‘I do it all the time.’ The woman’s voice. Jackson laughed.

  ‘How old are you, then?’

  ‘Not old enough.’ The woman giggled. ‘Do you mind?’

  ‘No,’ said Jackson. ‘Nothing to do with me.’

  ‘I’ve seen you on TV. Can’t believe I’m talking to you.’

  ‘Your parents know where you are?’

  ‘They don’t care. Think I’m at a friend’s house. Staying over.’

  Jackson didn’t reply to this, didn’t say anything for a few seconds. Then: ‘You want a drink?’

  ‘Yes please.’ A nice touch, thought Fortune, the ‘please’. Sounded like a child.

  ‘What would you like?’

  ‘Dunno. How about vodka and tonic?’

  ‘Coming up.’

  Fortune watched Jackson lean in to the bar, note in hand, and wait for the barman’s attention. He ordered the drink and paid, then turned back to the actress.

  ‘Here you are. Cheers.’

  ‘Cheers.’

  She drank, coughed, laughed. Jackson laughed too.

  ‘Ever tried anything stronger?’ he asked.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like, you know. Cocaine.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You want to?’

  Jessica took her mobile from Fortune’s hands, stopped the footage and put the phone back into her bag.

  ‘What happens next?’ said Fortune.

  ‘Nothing. She’s got what she wants. She tells Jackson she needs the loo and leaves, doesn’t come back.’

  Sophie, thought Fortune. Good on you. ‘So, okay. That’s all good, right? So what happened? What went wrong?’

  Jessica sighed. ‘Everything. Jackson found out about the story, don’t know how. Lawyers got involved. Next thing, the original source, the girl? She’s saying she made it all up, she was paid to say what she said. It never happened.’

  ‘But he was on camera. You had him.’

  ‘Doing what? He bought an underage girl a drink. An underage girl who wasn’t really underage. Big deal. His lawyers argued entrapment, said if we did anything with the film, they’d sue. Get the girl, the original source, get her on the stand. That kind of thing, it doesn’t do the reputation of a magazine like ours any good.’

  ‘What did Sophie do?’

  ‘She didn’t take it well. Don’t forget, she’d been working on this for weeks. And Jackson was guilty, no doubt about it. He slept with that girl, then got to her. No doubt in Sophie’s mind, no doubt in mine. He’s a scumbag.’

  ‘So what happened? She got the sack for this?’

  ‘No,’ said Jessica. ‘For this, she got everybody’s sympathy. Great job, unlucky, shit happens. No, she got the sack because, after he got away with it, she started stalking him.’

  seventeen

  I CAN’T THINK. I CANNOT THINK STRAIGHT, CANNOT WORK out what is happening to me. I want to hide, to go to bed and wrap myself up and never come out. I want to wake up and realize that this was all my imagination, and that none of this actually happened. I want this to stop. I want this all to stop now.

  Okay, so this is what’s happened, in, I hope, some kind of chronological order.

  First, the police came by. Again. How many times now? I’ve lost count.

  ‘One more incident,’ they said. ‘One more incident and we’ll nick you. This has to stop.’

  ‘What does?’ I said. ‘I keep telling you. It’s not me.’

  ‘One more incident,’ they said, and they went. They came and threatened me with things I hadn’t done and then they went. It’s a pattern. But aren’t patterns meant to be easy to understand?

  Then, Charlie Jackson sent me an email, asking to talk. That happened, it did, it definitely did. I’ve got the email. It exists. I have it in my inbox. He said enough is enough, let’s get this straightened out, face to face.

  So I went to his house. He told me his address, so I went to it. He told me his addr
ess in the email, and I’m looking at the email, and it’s real.

  He opened the door and asked me who I was, and I told him, and he basically just completely lost it, telling me that he’d reported me, that his lawyers were on it, and that if I didn’t get off his property immediately he’d call the police. He was screaming and spitting and I was just looking at him in astonishment because he asked me to come. I have the email.

  But anyway, I left, telling myself that it was done, that it was over, and that I wanted nothing more to do with him, with the story, with the whole sorry mess. I went home, ran a bath, poured a massive gin and tonic and thought, to hell with this.

  Only there was a knock on the door, and I got out of the bath and put on my bathrobe and opened the door and the police were there, and they told me that they had found a knife outside Charlie Jackson’s home, and that they believed it was mine.

  ‘No it isn’t,’ I said. ‘Hold on.’ I walked into the kitchen and looked at my rack, my wooden rack where I keep my knives for cooking, and the big one was missing. Gone. My knees trembled and everything went dark for an instant, and the next thing I knew I was lying on the kitchen floor and a policewoman was holding a glass of water next to my lips, and I started to cry and I couldn’t stop, and the policewoman just watched me and didn’t say anything, and eventually I stopped and they asked me to get dressed. They took me to the police station and it was terrible, horrible, and now I just want to sleep and I don’t want to wake up. Ever.

  eighteen

  FORTUNE WOKE UP AND LAY QUIETLY, SQUEEZING HIS EYES closed against the pain in his chest, wondering where he was. Everything was wrong, he knew that. It had all gone wrong. He didn’t want to be awake, didn’t want to emerge into reality, because there was something out there, something terrible …

  Work. Christ. The first disaster in his life hit him, a jolt in his heart like it was reacting against some dark injection. Just short of ninety million dollars gone missing. Ninety million dollars, missing on his watch. What the hell was he doing here? Why wasn’t he there?