style="font-size:15px;"> Removing a large, fat cigar from between his lips, he blew a thick cloud of grey, evil-smelling smoke down the long table. ‘I’ve called you all here today because I’m not happy with our circulation figures. Yes, they’re rising,’ he added over a muttered protest, ‘but not as fast as I’d like. And, as I’ve already told Miz Imogen “all-nightly”, here, I’m definitely not at all happy with our Saturday magazine.’
Alex struggled to keep her face straight as the older woman’s lips tightened into an angry line.
Recently appointed as a deputy editor in charge of the weekend magazine—a glossy supplement entitled, The Chronicle on Saturday—Imogen was already a highly unpopular member of staff. Despite having gained a reputation as a first-class journalist, she’d managed to rub just about everyone up the wrong way. And Mike Tanner—fiercely proud of his poor, working-class back-ground—seemed to take a delight in mispronouncing the surname of a woman he considered a raving snob.
‘And just what, in your opinion, is wrong with the magazine?’ Imogen demanded angrily.
‘Just about everything,’ Mike snapped. ‘But mostly it’s become loo damn boring! It needs some zing and pizzazz...plus a lot more human interest articles. It certainly doesn’t need reviews of a book on some obscure philosophy about which our readers know little and care less.’
‘There’s no harm in trying to educate our readers, surely?’
‘Education?’ Mike exploded, chomping violently on his cigar. ‘What our readers want is entertainment—and don’t you forget it!
‘But, leaving aside the magazine for a moment, just look at what we’ve got in today’s edition of the Chronicle,’ he continued, jabbing an angry figure down at the newspaper open on the table in front of him. ‘I’m ashamed to be the editor of such rubbish!’
There was a deathly silence as Mike glared around the table before pointing a stubby nicotine-yellowed finger at the girl sitting next to Alex. ‘I want a radical overhaul of the fashion page, Tessa. And as quickly as possible!’
‘Er...right,’ Tessa muttered nervously. ‘What exactly did you have in mind?’
‘Well, for starters, like every other red-blooded man, I’m sick and tired of those ultra-thin models—who look more like stick insects than living human beings. I’ll give you double the spread if you can find some women with a decent bust.’
Tessa grinned. ‘Your word is my command, Mike. Nothing under a 36C—right?’
‘I’m glad that at least someone around here has got the message!’ He threw a malicious grin at Imogen, before turning to the City editor. ‘OK, Ben—I want less of those boring share tips, and a lot more about financial scams in high places. Now, I hear on the grapevine...’
Alex, who had little interest in City gossip, took the opportunity to beg some aspirins from Tessa. ‘I was feeling a lot better earlier this morning. But I can’t seem to get rid of this thumping headache.’
‘No problem,’ the other girl murmured, opening her handbag and producing a small bottle of white pills. ‘Hang on to them—I’ve got plenty more in my desk. I hope you feel better soon.’
‘So do L’ Alex smiled ruefully as she poured some water into a glass from the carafe on the table and swallowed the aspirins. ‘Especially since I haven’t even managed to read a newspaper for the past week.’
‘Well, you’d better catch up as fast as possible,’ Tessa cautioned softly. ‘Because, while it looks as though I’ve got off fairly lightly, I hear Mike is out for blood. And woe betide anyone who can’t come up with at least one brilliant, sparkling idea for a new feature.’
‘Thanks for the gypsy’s warning,’ Alex muttered, brushing a hand through her thick mane of dark blonde hair and desperately trying to pummel her brain into thinking of something as their editor’s voice rose several decibels.
‘You’ll have to do better than this—or you’ll be out on your ear!’ Mike was roaring at James Boswell, the editor of the social diary.
‘Research shows that our readers like nothing better than a really juicy divorce, political sex scandals—or reading about high jinks in royal circles,’ he continued grimly. ‘So why give them this feeble piece about some idle-rich banker who’s decided to get married to a margarine heiress?’
‘Well, I had a hot tip...’
The editor gave a loud exclamation of disgust. ‘As far as I can see it’s totally uninteresting. There’s nothing exciting about margarine, for heaven’s sake. Why should our readers give a toss about this guy? I’m sorry, James—but you’re going to have to do a whole lot “butter” than this!’
James swallowed hard. ‘Actually, it is an interesting piece of news,’ he maintained stubbornly, over the rumble of laughter which had greeted his editor’s pun.
‘Mainly because the man in question is a regular Casanova,’ James continued, a distinct note of envy in his voice. ‘I’m told he’s got more luscious, stunning-looking girls queuing up to jump into his bed than I’ve had hot dinners! So, the news that he’s finally decided to take the plunge into matrimony is going to make a lot of glamorous, well-known women very unhappy.’
‘OK, OK, maybe there is a story there,’ Mike grudgingly agreed. ‘But, if the guy has really been such a stud, why didn’t you say so in words of one syllable? Why bother with all this “avoided the clutches of matrimony” nonsense, when what this piece clearly needs is some quotes from angry, disgruntled ex-girlfriends?’
As the other man muttered some excuse about the laws of libel and the difficulty in getting anything past the Chronicle’s lawyers, Tessa gave Alex a quick nudge.
‘James is right. That’s definitely what I call a nice piece of male crumpet,’ she whispered, grinning as she passed Alex her copy of the paper, open at the social page.
Pointing to the picture of a handsome, dark-haired man standing beside his horse at a polo match, Tessa added with a giggle, ‘I always go for men dressed in sexy, skintight breeches. In fact, he can leave those long leather riding boots outside my bedroom door any night he pleases!’
But, strangely, Alex didn’t seem to be listening to her friend’s comments, her face growing pale as she stared fixedly down at the newsprint in front of her.
‘My dear boy.’ Lord Hamilton beamed at his nephew. ‘I don’t suppose I’m the first person to congratulate you on the news of your engagement. However, I’m very pleased to hear that you’ve decided to settle down, at last.’
‘Well, the truth is...’
‘The truth is that I was becoming a little worried about you,’ the older man told him sternly. ‘Quite frankly, it hasn’t done this bank any good to have the gossip columns carrying reports of your idle, loose behaviour.’
‘Oh, come on, Uncle!’ Leo gave a snort of wry laughter. ‘I hardly see myself as some sort of Lothario. In fact, most of the stuff printed in the newspapers was complete moonshine!’
‘Of course, I’ve nothing against young men sowing their wild oats.’
‘I
