LITMIR.BIZ

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Wilson. It’s not as if we stormed into the Pope’s bedroom. You and I both know that no judge in England will grant an injunction on those photos based on privacy. Besides, as your client is very high profile, I believe we could argue public interest, given the circumstances.’

      ‘Please, this is a young, vulnerable man who ingested ketamine mistakenly,’ said Wilson in a more conciliatory voice.

      ‘Vulnerable?’ snorted Tess. ‘Well, I don’t know Sean Asgill, but from what I read he’s hardly Tiny Tim. He’s a playboy whose fast living has finally caught up with him.’

      Mark Wilson’s face was impassive but Tess knew she had got him. He stared at her for a few moments, then shrugged slightly.

      ‘I take it you haven’t written your splash story yet?’

      ‘Not yet.’

      ‘Who owns the photographs?’

      She paused for a moment. ‘We do,’ she said. Actually, this was technically true, even if the paper was unaware of it. Tess was paying cash-strapped Jemma a one-hundred-pounds-a-day freelancer rate and hiding the fee in her office expenses. That meant the Globe could claim copyright to Jemma’s photographs, although no one except Tess and Jemma – and Sean Asgill’s people – even knew of their existence. Mark Wilson nodded slowly.

      ‘Well, I’m sure we can work something out,’ he said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a cheque, placing it carefully on the desk in front of Tess.

      ‘One hundred thousand pounds,’ he said simply. ‘It’s yours if you kill the story, give the photographs to us, and forget any of this ever happened.’

      Tess stared down at the table, feeling her heartbeat increase. She knew deals like this had been done before: celebrities paying to have photographs taken off the market. Some of the most amazing, career-shaking exposés and inflammatory pap shots were fated to lie forever unseen, tightly locked in the vaults of newspapers. But this was different; this cheque was made out to her. None of her colleagues knew about the sex party photographs, no one knew that the paper technically owned the copyright, and Jemma had already been paid for a week’s work. Although her friend could potentially get tens of thousands for them if she realized the international impact this story could have, Tess knew she could fob Jemma off by saying there were legal problems with the story. But could she? Almost involuntarily, her hand moved forward, her fingertips resting on the cheque. What she could do with a hundred grand! Pay off the mortgage. Buy a sports car and a brand-new designer wardrobe. Go on a fantastic two-week break to somewhere incredible: Le Touessrok, the Amanpuri, somewhere hot and luxurious where she could have a beach butler and personal masseuse. Or she could simply refuse the bribe, run the story, and take the glory. What should she do? What would her father have told her to do? She tried to lift her fingers, but found her hand didn’t want to move. Finally, reluctantly, she breathed out.

      ‘I can’t help you,’ said Tess, pushing the cheque across the desk towards him.

      Wilson raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you sure?’ he asked.

      Tess nodded.

      ‘Then make sure your mobile is turned on over the weekend,’ he said briskly as he got up to leave. ‘And you’d better warn your lawyer.’

      Tess walked home. It took over an hour to stroll from the Globe office, close to Lambeth Bridge, to Battersea, and on balmy summer nights she did it regularly. But tonight, feeling so unsettled, so confused, she just wanted to clear her head. She set off along the river, the cold wind pinching at her cheeks.

      A hundred grand, she thought. Today I turned down a hundred grand. No matter how hard she tried to tell herself she had done the right thing, a small voice inside Tess’s head kept nagging away at her: ‘You bloody idiot! You coward! You just weren’t ruthless enough to take the bribe.’

      An even more depressing thought had also occurred to her: what if Mark Wilson had some sort of sway with a judge and did manage to get his injunction to stop the photographs being published? Then there’d be no big fat cheque in her bank account, no story, and a humiliatingly blank front page on Sunday. Tess Garrett would have failed. She had brought herself up to be tough, spending her entire twenties surrounding herself with a hard protective shell, so that sentimentality would not get in the way of her ambition. But did she really have half the mettle she thought she had?

      The worst thing was that she couldn’t even talk it through with anyone. She certainly couldn’t discuss it with Jemma, and Dom would have gone through the roof. For years, they had dreamed of buying a smart flat over the water in Chelsea, the sort of place Dom’s posy public-school friends were now living in. A hundred thousand pounds wouldn’t buy them that, of course, but paying off the mortgage and having full equity on their current home would put them in a strong position to finally trade up to the apartments that twinkled on the other side of the Thames.

      Tess was now walking past the New Covent Garden Market where she loved buying armfuls of beautiful flowers on weekend mornings. Suddenly she could hear the soft purr of a car engine behind her. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw a shiny black car hugging the pavement. What the hell …? Tess began walking a little faster, her heart beating a little quicker than usual, but the car overtook her and stopped thirty yards ahead. Tess didn’t scare easily, but she was still unnerved. The street was dark and, on a cold night like this, she was the only person walking. As she drew level, the rear window of the Mercedes purred down.

      ‘Tess Garrett?’ called a voice.

      Tess stopped and warily looked into the car. Leaning towards the window was an elegant sixty-something woman with fine-boned features and a cloud of champagne-blonde hair that fell to the sable mink collar of her coat. She looked familiar, but for the moment Tess could not place her.

      ‘Meredith Asgill,’ said the woman with a faint nod. ‘I’d very much like to talk to you. It’s a cold night, isn’t it? Perhaps you’d like to step inside the car.’

      Tess exhaled, her breath making a small white cloud in the night air. Meredith Asgill, Mark Wilson’s employer; she didn’t know whether to be anxious or relieved. Before her was the matriarch of the Asgill family, head of the cosmetics dynasty and, of course, Sean Asgill’s mother. Tess opened the car door and stepped inside, sinking into the black leather seat as Meredith leant forward to instruct the driver to head for Mayfair.

      ‘I didn’t think I’d find you walking home,’ said Meredith with quiet amusement. ‘I thought British newspaper proprietors might provide drivers for senior members of staff, but when I called at your office your PA tipped me off that you were walking home this way.’

      Tess smiled politely. ‘How can I help you, Mrs Asgill?’

      Meredith nodded, as if to signify that she too preferred to get down to business. ‘Mark Wilson tells me you intend to run with the story in Sunday’s edition,’ she said, folding her hands on the lap of her blue silk dress.

      ‘No disrespect to you or your family, Mrs Asgill,’ said Tess, trying to keep her cool. ‘But I am simply doing my job. I’m the acting editor of the Sunday Globe and obviously I have to pick the best stories for our readers.’

      ‘Of course,’ said Meredith with a faint smile. ‘And of course it will be a boost to your career. I know you were passed over for the editor’s job. I know you have a point to prove with Mr Davidson being away; you want the most salacious stories for a big-selling issue.’

      ‘And is there anything wrong with that?’ asked Tess.

      ‘Not at all. It’s what I would expect from someone of your capabilities and ambition. In fact, I was not surprised at all that you turned down Mr Wilson’s generous offer. You have a reputation of making it on your own merits.’

      Tess tried not to betray her surprise. It was unsettling how much this woman knew about her, but she supposed a quick Internet search and some join-the-dots suppositions would do the rest. Out of the window, Vauxhall came into view.

      ‘This

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