“I’m afraid I’ll have to interrupt you now,” Vicks chimes in. “The bulletin’s starting. Volume up, please.”
Where’s Sam? He should be here. He should be replying to Justin and crushing him. He should be watching the bulletin. I just don’t get it.
The familiar ITN News at Ten music begins, and the swirling graphics fill the massive screen onstage. I’m feeling ridiculously nervous, even though it doesn’t have anything to do with me. Maybe they won’t run the story, I keep thinking. You hear about items being bumped all the time… .
Big Ben’s chimes have begun. Any second they’ll start announcing the headlines. My stomach clenches with nerves, and I take a swig of wine. Watching the news is a completely different experience when it’s something to do with you. This is what prime ministers must feel like all the time. God, I wouldn’t be them for anything. They must spend every evening hiding behind the sofa, peering through their fingers.
Bong! “Fresh attacks in the Middle East lead to fears of instability.” Bong! “House prices make a surprise recovery—but will it last?” Bong! “A leaked memo casts doubts on the integrity of a top government adviser.”
There it is. They’re running it.
There’s an almost eerie silence in the room. No one has gasped or even reacted. I think everyone’s holding their breath, waiting for the full item. The Middle Eastern report has started and there are pictures of gunfire in a dusty street, but I’m barely taking it in. I’ve pulled out my phone and am texting Sam.
Are you watching? Everyone is in conference room. P
My phone remains silent. What’s he doing? Why isn’t he in here with everyone else?
I stare fixedly at the screen as the footage changes to house-price graphs and an interview with a family trying to move to Thaxted, wherever that is. I’m willing the presenters to speak more quickly, to get through it. Never have I been less interested in house prices in my life.85
And then both the first two items are done and we’re back in the studio and the newsreader is saying, with her grave face on:
“Tonight, doubts were cast on the integrity of Sir Nicholas Murray, the founder of White Globe Consulting and government adviser. In a confidential memo obtained exclusively by ITN, he refers to corrupt practices and the soliciting of bribes, apparently condoning them.”
There are a few gasps and whispers around the room. I glance at Vicks. Her face is amazingly composed as she watches the screen. I suppose she knew what to expect.
“But in a new twist, within the last few minutes ITN has discovered that another staff member at White Globe Consulting may in fact have written the words credited to Sir Nicholas, something which official company sources deny all knowledge of. Our reporter Damian Standforth asks: Is Sir Nicholas a villain—or the victim of a smear attempt?”
“ What? ’ Vicks’s voice rips across the room. “What the fuck —”
A babble has broken out, interspersed with “Shh!” and “Listen!” and “Shut up!” Someone has ramped the sound to top volume. I stare at the screen, utterly confused.
Did Sam find some proof? Did he pull it out of the bag? My phone bleeps and I yank it from my pocket. It’s a text from Sam.
How did Vicks react?
I look at Vicks and flinch.
She looks like she wants to eat someone alive.
“White Globe Consulting has been a major influence on business for the last three decades,” a voice-over is saying on-screen, accompanied by a long-lens shot of the White Globe Consulting building.
My thumbs are so full of adrenaline the text almost writes itself.
Did you do this?
I did this.
You contacted ITN yourself?
Correct.
Thought the techies didn’t find any proof. What happened?!
They didn’t.
I swallow hard, trying to get my head round this. I know nothing about PR. I’m a physiotherapist, for God’s sake. But even I’d say that you don’t phone up ITN with a story of a smear without something to back it up.
How
As I start typing, I realize I don’t even know how to frame the question, so I send it as it is. There’s silence for a little while—then a two page text arrives in my phone.
I blink at it in amazement. This is the longest text Sam has ever sent me, by approximately 2,000 percent.
I went on the record. I stand by what I said. Tomorrow I give them an exclusive interview about original memo, directors washing hands of Nick, everything. It’s a stitch-up. Corporate spin has gone too far. The true story needs to be out there. Wanted Malcolm to join me but he won’t. He has three kids. Can’t risk it. So it’s just me.
My head is buzzing. Sam’s put himself on the line. He’s turned into a whistle-blower. I can’t believe he’s done something so extreme. But at the same time … I can.
That’s a pretty big deal.
I have no idea what else to type. I’m in a state of shock.
Someone had to have the guts to stand by Nick.
I stare at his words, my brow crinkled, thinking this through.
Doesn’t prove anything though, surely? It’s only your word.
A moment later he replies:
Raises question mark over story. That’s enough. Where are you now?
In conference hall.
Anyone know you’re texting me?
Vicks is talking volubly to some guy while holding a phone to her ear. She happens to look my way, and I don’t know if it’s my expression, but her eyes narrow a smidgen. She glances at my phone, then at my face again. I feel a dart of apprehension.