Mary Baker - The Honey Trap

‘Do you really think I’d have sex while you’re perving at me through a hidden camera?’ Angel wrinkled her nose in disgust. ‘Bloody hell, it’s staggering the respect I get in here.’

‘Don’t know, don’t care. You do what you like, love. It’s no skin off my todger: just so long as you get me my story. Whatever it takes, remember.’ He reached under his desk, pulled out a parcel wrapped up in brown paper and handed it to her. ‘And while we’re on the subject, you’ll be wearing this. It’s your size, I checked with Leo.’

Angel tore open the parcel and pulled out something flimsy, black and slinky. One eyebrow jumped up as she unfolded the dress and held it against her.

‘This is a top, right?’

‘It’s a dress. Make sure you fill it. Remember, Princess, tits and teeth. And give him plenty of leg while you’re at it: I’m told he’s a leg man.’

Angel was seething now. She knew Steve was callous, misogynistic, morally bankrupt and generally a scumbag of the first order, but even by his standards this was skimming a new low.

‘Christ, Steve! Dressing me, seriously? What are you now, my editor or my pimp?’ She glowered across the cluttered desk at the smirking, overweight Yorkshireman, quivering with anger while she faced off against him. ‘And there’s one thing you don’t seem to have considered here, by the way: he might not fancy me! I’m no Carole Beaumont. She’s been voted sexiest woman in the world – twice. Why don’t you ask Savannah? She’d be perfect. She’s gorgeous, she’s bright, she’s ambitious, and she was just telling me what a big fan of Wilchester’s work she is. She wrote her dissertation on him.’

‘Yeah, yeah. She’s a fan, I’m a fan, my missus is a fan: the world and his bloody dog’s a fan. Of course they are, the man’s brilliant.’ Steve turned away from her, spinning his chair around to face the large window that looked out across the grey London cityscape. A recent fall of rain had mingled with the grease and oil of the metropolis, giving the streets a pearlescent sheen. ‘You know why I need it to be you, Blackthorne? Because you’re not a fan. Wake up, love. Sebastian Wilchester lives in a world where everyone’s blonde, everyone’s beautiful, everyone’s a fawning sycophant or yes-man just dying to hump his leg. I picked you because you’ve got a nice arse and a good pair, and because you’re not a part of his world. Trust me, I know people: that’s why I shift papers. And my hunch tells me you’re our best shot.’

It was true, Angel had never seen a Wilchester film. She knew she must be one of the only remaining people in the world who hadn’t. He’d been notching up awards and critical acclaim ever since Unreal City , but he only made gangster movies. She hated gangster movies. Snuggling up with something vintage and classic was much more to her taste.

Still she resisted. ‘Flattered as I am you put such faith in my sex appeal, boss, aren’t there professionals who do this sort of thing? Private investigators? Escort girls?’

He shook his head. ‘It needs to be a journalist, one I can trust. I need a report to go with the pics, and I need someone with a keen eye for detail who knows what’s worth reporting.’

Even through the red mist of her anger, she felt a twinge of pride. So he did rate her journalism skills – and whatever else he was, he knew his stuff there.

‘Why are you so desperate to set Wilchester up? Just out of curiosity. Is this a personal vendetta or what?’

Steve grinned, showing stained, yellowing teeth through his grizzled beard. ‘I’ve been a newspaper man a long time, pet, and I know what the public wants,’ he said with a touch of triumph, rubbing the overspilling belly under his striped shirt. ‘I started in newspapers as an office boy, fifteen and straight out of a secondary modern in Bradford. Twelve years later I was deputy editor of this rag – youngest ever. I’ve been thirty years in the editor’s chair now. I doubt anyone knows what sells a paper better than me.’

Angel wondered where he was going with this extended pat on the back. He was clearly building up to a big finish.

‘You know what people love even more than a rags-to-riches success story, Blackthorne?’

‘I’ve got a feeling you’re about to tell me.’

‘A riches-to-rags plummet. A failure, and a spectacular, crashing failure at that. They adore seeing someone built up only to be torn down.’

Angel curled her lip, appalled. ‘Lovely picture you paint of human nature, boss.’

‘Not just my opinion, love, the stark truth. And you know it. That’s why we have the highest circulation of any national daily. I sell to the darkness in people – their schadenfreude. And this scoop is going to sell me a lot of papers.’

‘God, you’re a piece of work, aren’t you?’

‘I’ve had my eye on Sebastian Wilchester and Carole Beaumont for a long time,’ he went on, ignoring her. ‘The so-called saviour of the British film industry and his beautiful A-lister wife, childhood sweethearts, six years married with never a whiff of scandal? I mean, come on. No one’s life is that perfect. And I’d bet my right bollock there isn’t a man alive who can keep his trousers on when sex is offered up on a plate by any half-attractive bird.’

Seeing her shocked expression, Steve manoeuvred his bulky frame to where she was sat and put a plump, sweaty arm around her shoulders, leaning in close in a manner he probably thought was reassuring.

‘Relax, love, just be a professional about it. Look, we all had to start somewhere in this business and it wasn’t pretty for any of us, believe me. Enjoy yourself tonight. Have a few drinks, let your hair down. You’re not doing anything wrong. If he doesn’t want to betray his wife, he won’t. And if he does then he deserves all he gets, and Beaumont’s better off for knowing the truth while there’s still time for her to chuck him out on his arse and move on.’

Angel remembered Emily’s words in the lingerie shop: no one can make a cheater cheat if he doesn’t want to…

‘Do a good job on this and I’ll see if I can get you some decent assignments in the next couple of weeks, a few byline pieces for your portfolio.’ Steve massaged her shoulder, sensing she was weakening. ‘And next time a staff job comes up, you can be sure your name will be top of the shortlist. For someone with next to no experience, that’s not something to be sniffed at.’

She heaved a resigned sigh. ‘Okay, Clifton, you pervy old bastard. This once, I’ll do it. But this is the last time. Next time you can do your own dirty work.’

‘Not got the legs for it, love. The tits, maybe,’ he said with a grin. ‘Just remember, Blackthorne: relax, have fun and give it all you’ve got. You’ve all the makings of a great reporter. I know you won’t let me down.’

But the editor’s words couldn’t quite calm the sickening feeling in her stomach as she left his office.

Angel examined the man at the hotel bar carefully, mentally comparing him with the blurry photo of the shy young director at the premiere of his first film. Yes, it was certainly Wilchester, but eight years had made a big difference in his appearance. The man in front of her was athletic, tall and broad. His skin was tanned nut brown from foreign travel, chin flecked with designer stubble and he was soberly dressed in a navy-blue suit with a white cotton shirt open to the neck. The curling chestnut hair was just a little too long, its owner carelessly pushing back a stray tendril that was repeatedly falling into one eye.