Mary Baker - The Honey Trap

It felt strange to see someone with whom she’d shared something as intimate as lovemaking, felt to be a living, breathing force while she’d coiled herself around him, trapped in miniature within the impersonal pixels of a TV set. As if he’d somehow ceased to be a human being and become something cold and unreal, a tiny character in a drama Angel had to keep reminding herself involved her too.

‘My wife and I are very much still together,’ she heard Seb say in that deep, brushed-velvet voice of his. ‘I am as much in love with Carole as I ever was, and I am grateful and humbled that she has found it in her heart to forgive my moment of weakness and give me another chance.’

It was Carole’s turn to speak now. She seemed to have forgotten what to say, and was staring with glazed eyes and fixed smile straight ahead. Angel saw Seb give her shoulder a barely perceptible squeeze.

‘I am very proud of the personal and professional relationship Seb and I have built up in the six years we’ve been married – or perhaps I might say in the twenty-four years we’ve been close friends,’ Carole blurted out, gabbling her words as if reciting from a script. She gazed at her husband with a sad but loving look that really did seem genuine. Then again, she wasn’t one of Britain’s most celebrated actresses for nothing…

‘I wouldn’t be such a fool as to throw that away on my husband’s single indiscretion,’ Carole continued in that tinkling voice of hers, now oddly weak and emotionless as she read the words off from inside her head. ‘However, this incident has shown us we need to spend more time together. We have both been working too hard on our careers; now it’s time to do some work on our marriage. We would like to announce that after the launch of The Milkman Cometh in October, we will be taking a partial break from public life as we spend some time looking at the issues in our relationship. I would like to thank the press and public for respecting our privacy while we do so.’

Poor cow. There but for the grace of God…

Angel flicked the switch to turn off the TV. God, she could wish Seb Wilchester had never come into her life, or Carole Beaumont’s either, for that matter.

***

‘Alright, heartbreaker?’ Leo was waiting for her at the top of the stairs, a big grin on his boyish face, when she arrived at work. ‘Flame-haired and tempting as ever. Boss wants to see you when you’ve got a minute.’

Angel groaned, furnishing him with an exasperated eyeroll. ‘Don’t you start. Emily’s been jumping between comfort and tease mode all weekend. This flame-haired temptress thing isn’t going anywhere, is it?’

‘Newp. Never till the day you die. Nice pics, by the way. Just how I remember you.’

She punched him on the arm, though not without the hint of a smile.

It was always hard for good friends who became a couple who became an ex-couple to ever go back to being just good friends again. Angel was proud she and Leo had managed it spectacularly and in style, with no lingering embarrassment or jealousy. They were the same friends they had been in that first year at uni, before they got together. In fact it was Leo, the Investigator ’s best photographer, who had recommended her for the internship in the first place.

‘Morning. Do anything nice at the weekend?’ Savannah said, watching Angel dump her handbag under her desk. ‘As if I didn’t know.’

Even she knew! Bloody hell! Had Steve sold tickets or what?

‘Erm…’

‘Blackthorne! My office, now!’

Urghh. Steve. Well, she had to get it over with sooner or later. At least he’d saved her from Savannah’s knowing smirk.

‘You’ve got some brass balls, Clifton!’ she hissed once the door had swung shut behind her. ‘What the hell did you think you were playing at, splashing those photos across your cheap little rag? You knew I tried to block that camera, and if you had any respect at all for me, any sense of human decency, you’d have turned it off yourself. Christ! I can’t believe I put my arse on the line for you!’

Steve smirked. ‘No pun intended, eh love? Look, don’t get your thong in a twist. I didn’t watch the whole show, tempting though it was. Just skimmed through the vid on Saturday and took a few stills for the story. At the end of the day, I am a family man. We had the grandkiddies in the next room. Your jiggling bum cheeks are not something I fancy them walking in on, still more explaining to their nan, thanks all the same.’

Angel felt a small twinge of relief. He was probably lying, but if she could delude herself even ever so slightly, that was better than nothing.

‘And no offence, Princess, but you pays your money, you takes your choice. You didn’t have to shag him senseless, I said you could go. But if a job’s worth doing it’s worth doing thoroughly, eh?’ His mouth curved wickedly. ‘You know, that’s what I like about you, Blackthorne: you always see things through to the, er, bitter end.’

She winced with embarrassment. No one but her should know this much about her sex life – or, more usually, her lack of one.

‘I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m thrilled,’ Steve continued. ‘I got a much better story out of it thanks to you. You should get the horn more often.’

‘Okay, okay, so I didn’t have to bloody sleep with him,’ she growled back. ‘But you didn’t have to go into quite so much detail either! You were perfectly prepared to run a story based on nothing but a couple of staged photos the day before. And vice girl, Steve, seriously? What the hell was that all about?’

The editor shrugged. ‘Just sounds better, doesn’t it? The public loves a vice girl. Look, I kept your face out of it, didn’t I? You haven’t had Mummy and Daddy ringing up to ask why their little Angel’s gone on the game?’

She ignored that comment. ‘And what about the office? Even Savannah seems to know! I’ll never hear the end of it!’

Steve waved a dismissive, liver-spotted hand. ‘I wouldn’t worry about it, Blackthorne. You’ve not been here long, have you? Something like this happens every few months in this game. It’d make you blush, the things I could tell you about the staff on this paper. Jez in accounts has got a coke habit that must be putting his dealer’s kids through uni. One of our longest-serving sub-eds, sixty-four and due for retirement next year, is so addicted to high-class prozzies he’s had to mortgage his flat. Even your innocent-looking little mate out there, Lord bless her, has got her dirty secret. I caught Cal, the film critic, giving her one in the stationery cupboard last week.’

‘That’s not the point! The point is – what, seriously, Savannah and Cal? Him with the little bum-fluff moustache?’

‘The very same. Everyone’s on the ladder looking to get a leg up – or a leg over,’ Steve said with a leer. ‘See, lass? Nothing to worry about. You’re not the only one with something to be ashamed of around here. By next week no one will remember your little indiscretion, or whatever you want to call it.’

‘Fine, have it your way then, you sleazy old son of a bitch. I’m dirty, you’re dirty: we’re all dirty, scummy little human beings. But I won’t forget this, Steve. Never.’ She jabbed an accusing finger at the editor’s corpulent frame across the desk, her voice low and dangerous. ‘You betrayed me. Those photos were… private. They weren’t part of what we agreed. And you knew it.’