Tasmina Perry - Original Sin

Tess glanced around and had to admit that things were a tight squeeze in their two-bedroomed Battersea flat, but Jemma was her best friend’s sister, she had known her since school; and besides, Jemma’s line of work sometimes came in handy.

‘Honey, you are never going to write that novel, with or without anyone living in our spare room. You’ve been talking about it for as long as I’ve known you. Come on. It’s time to get up anyway. Your flight leaves at eight thirty – shouldn’t you be at Heathrow in an hour?’

Dom was the deputy travel editor of the broadsheet, the Sunday Chronicle , which meant he was on some exotic press trip at least once a month. Groaning, he slid out of bed, scratching his tousled hair. Tess rubbed her eyes as she watched his gym-honed bum cheeks vanish into their en-suite bathroom. Jemma returned with two mugs of tea and thrust one towards Tess.

‘So, what’s worth a five thirty summit meeting?’ Tess smiled.

Jemma took a slurp of tea. ‘I’ve been to a Venus party,’ she said with a grin.

Tess’s eyes opened wide and she sat cross-legged on the bed, feeling suddenly energized. Jemma was a paparazzo photographer who usually sold her work into one of the big picture agencies, but sometimes Tess asked her to work on solo projects for her. Tess had been hearing rumours of organized ‘membership only’ sex parties in London for years but, despite the best efforts of Fleet Street’s finest, no one had ever been able to track them down. She had begun to suspect they were one of those wishful-thinking urban myths, like Diana’s love child, but, around three months ago, Jemma had got the scent of a new underground scene called ‘Venus parties’ and the whisper was that they took decadence to a whole new level. Understandably, access to them was near impossible – entry was via personal recommendation and the vetting process rigorous – but the guest list was said to be dynamite: senior politicians, Hollywood stars and players, high-ranking police, Premiership footballers – and that was just for starters. Tess had put Jemma on a retainer to work on tracking them down.

‘There was a Venus party last night at a big house in Wycombe Square out in St John’s Wood,’ said Jemma gleefully. ‘I got in.’

‘That’s fantastic,’ said Tess, barely able to hide her excitement. ‘How on earth did you get past the checks?’

Jemma glanced behind her, making sure that Dom was still in the shower. Tess understood; Dom might have been her boyfriend, but he still worked for a rival publication.

‘I was a security guard,’ she whispered.

Tess laughed. ‘You? A bouncer?’

Although she was dressed completely in black, the pocket-sized busty blonde looked more like a glamour model than a security guard.

‘Don’t laugh,’ said Jemma huffily. ‘These parties need women at the door. Ironically they’re to frisk the female guests to make sure nobody’s taking in cameras. It took me two months to get the gig. I had to moonlight on the door of a club in Chelsea first.’

‘Was it worth it?’

Jemma smiled. ‘Oh yes.’

Tess was practically salivating; this would be an excellent story at any time, but Jemma’s timing was perfect. All week she had been acting editor of the Sunday Globe. Her boss Andy Davidson was on holiday and she had picked up the reins. This could be her big chance to make her mark.

‘So, come on,’ she said impatiently, ‘who was there?’

Jemma rattled off a list of household names. ‘There were a few Hollywood names as well. I had the misfortunate of seeing that foul producer Larry Goldman in the buff. He has man-breasts the size of space-hoppers.’

‘What about photos? We need photos.’

In her twelve years in newspapers, the unwritten law had always been ‘assume they won’t sue’, and Tess had always found that it was an accurate enough yardstick. She had a little black book of litigious stars and those who rarely took legal action, but when anybody did seek to challenge a story they had printed, the onus was on the newspaper to prove what they had written was true. That was why photographs were essential for a story like this.

‘The quality isn’t great,’ said Jemma, opening her laptop to flick through the digital images she had taken. ‘I used a spy camera that I’d hidden in the house during the afternoon.’

Tess leaned over her shoulder and pointed at an image of a flaxen-haired blonde. ‘Who’s this ?’ she asked. The woman was wearing nothing but a strap-on and a Venetian mask and stood astride a naked fat man on his hands and knees.

‘That’s Larry.’

‘But who’s the woman?’ said Tess hopefully.

Jemma shrugged. ‘Some hooker, I think.’

Tess’s excitement was starting to wane. So far, this wasn’t the big-noise story she was hoping for. Ten years ago, a cheating MP had been front-page news; but today hookers and studio heads did not shift newspapers like footballers and soap stars.

‘Do we have anything clearer of a bigger name?’ she asked hopefully. ‘What about a soap actress?’

‘How about this?’ said Jemma, enlarging an image with a triumphant look.

The picture was grainy. The man in the shot was naked and bent over what appeared to be a line of cocaine. Tess frowned and squinted.

‘Don’t you recognize him?’

Tess shook her head. ‘Who is it?’

‘Well, maybe you’ll see better in this one.’

Jemma clicked onto an image of a black van. You could clearly make out that somebody was being carried into the back of it on a stretcher.

‘Shit,’ said Tess, her eyes widening. ‘What’s going on here?’

‘The same guy being stretchered into a private ambulance,’ said Jemma with a smile. ‘He’s at a private hospital in North London now.’

‘So who is it?’ asked Tess.

‘Sean Asgill.’

It took Tess a second to recognize the name. Sean Asgill was a New York playboy. Heir to a cosmetics family fortune. Handsome and wealthy, he was a fixture in the society pages with a string of model and actress girlfriends. It was a headline all right: ‘Tragedy at A-list Sex Party.’

‘Christ,’ said Tess. ‘Did he … die?’

Tess felt bad asking, but it was an occupational hazard for someone in her job, wishing the worst on people because it made a better headline.

‘I followed the ambulance on my scooter and I told the nurse I was family. She told me it was a suspected ketamine overdose. Asgill probably thought it was a line of coke. Apparently he’s in a coma. I hung around for a bit and, after half an hour, this guy of about fifty turned up. His dad maybe? I scarpered pretty quickly.’

Jemma looked at Tess hopefully. ‘So what do you think? Is it the splash?’

Tess shook her head. The irony was that, in the States, this would not only be front-page news, it would also lead the TV news and would probably even make waves in Washington. Sean Asgill’s sister had just become engaged to the son of one of America’s richest and most powerful men, which made her brother’s drugs overdose at a sex party very hot gossip indeed. But over here, Sean Asgill was virtually unknown outside society columns.

‘We’ll talk about this later,’ whispered Tess, snapping the laptop closed as Dom walked back into the room, naked except for a small towel wrapped around his waist, his tanned skin glistening with droplets of shower-water.

‘What are you two gossiping about?’ he smiled, clearly enjoying the two women’s eyes on him. ‘And where’s my tea?’

The Sunday Globe was a newspaper whose glory days were long gone. Tess sat back in her chair and looked at the chipped paintwork and tired carpet: the state of the office reflected the paper’s decline. After twenty years as a Daily Mail wannabe with a dwindling circulation, it had been bought by ruthless media mogul Matthew Jenkins, who had turned it into a red-top tabloid, but the change of direction had failed to boost sales; Jenkins had drastically cut costs and jobs to keep afloat. He certainly hadn’t spent any money on improving the working conditions, thought Tess, shutting down her temperamental and near-obsolete computer. When the Globe ’s much-loved editor, the jolly, corpulent, fifty-something Derek Bradford had had a heart attack and died, Tess had been considered a shoo-in for the top job. Even though she was only twenty-nine, she had paid her dues: three years in local papers doing hard news, women’s editor at the Mirror , features editor at the Sunday Globe , and finally deputy editor. Quite a CV for someone her age. She’d been disappointed but not entirely surprised when, six weeks ago, the vacant editorship had been given to Andy Davidson, number three on the daily paper and Wentworth golfing buddy of the proprietor. Jenkins had long been labelled a misogynist; she’d even heard that he’d once laughed that, as far as the editorship of one of his flagship titles was concerned, he ‘wanted to fuck Tess Garrett, not give her the top job’. Well, he could go and fuck himself , thought Tess angrily, taking a quick swig of coffee. It was why she was determined to use this week in the editor’s chair to prove her boss had made the wrong decision.