The Spoiler (34 page)

By the time Tamara had printed out the summary of this week’s stories, checked the morning papers and arrived on the fourth floor, all the seats had been taken in the boardroom and she had to stand by the door, next to a couple of nervous teenage interns. She edged discreetly into a corner, a safe distance from the tea trolley.

Wedderburn, flanked by Tania and Lyra, who were busy making notes, was in a grave mood. He cleared his throat, and the two women looked up sharply and put their pens aside in a synchronised move that could have been choreographed by Busby Berkeley. He moved briskly to business. This morning’s
Courier
had done a spoiler on
The Monitor’s Elite List
, the painstakingly compiled pull-out supplement, planned, at great expense, to appear on Saturday week, naming the “Top 100 Figures of Influence in Politics, Arts, Publishing, Business and Sport.” There was a disturbing degree of confluence between
The Courier
’s list and
The Monitor
’s own, but there was one flagrant omission: Wedderburn himself had been overlooked in
The Courier
’s roll call of publishing and media giants, as had Lukas Lukauskis,
The Monitor
’s leading shareholder. In their place was Neville Titmuss, editor of
The Courier
, and Bohdan Bohdanovich, his paper’s Ukrainian proprietor.

There was more:
The Monitor’s
his-and-hers
Elite
giveaway had been trumped by
The Courier
’s hers-and-his free gifts of a faux-gold tiepin with a faux-gold necklace, both stamped with the letter A, for “alpha.” The
Elite
pullout had already been printed, ready to go in a fortnight, the TV advertising campaign had been paid for, the faux-gold trinkets had been shipped from Taiwan and were waiting to be bagged up at the printers. The promotion could not be scrapped at this stage. They would have to go ahead on Saturday, 1 March, giving the impression that
The Monitor
was scrambling to follow
The Courier
, rather than the other way round.

“It is irksome in the extreme,” Wedderburn said.

Everyone, including the teenage interns, nodded grimly. Tapping the table with his pen for emphasis, the editor stressed that the only way of salvaging the costly circulation-building campaign was to ensure that the Saturday edition for that key date would be a “bumper issue.”

“I’d like all the Saturday editors, when reading their lists today, to also give us advance notice of their plans for the first of March issue. You need to pull out all the stops. Only the best will do.”

The postmortem on the rest of the morning’s papers was cursory; there seemed to be an unspoken pact that, for today, jokes, or attacks on the competence of one’s colleagues were not required. Wedderburn looked as if he might sack them all if he was irked any further. The home news editor read his list—more Tory sleaze, British Oscar nominations, the postponed Kensit-Gallagher nuptials—as swiftly as a tobacco auctioneer, and the foreign editor was a paragon of icy industriousness as she chanted today’s plainsong of mayhem and murder in distant lands. Politics was not represented—Toby Gadge was attending a mass to mark the feast of Saint Adelaide of Bellich—and Vida, standing in for Johnny, who was attending a course on nonverbal communication, gave a subdued account of the main features planned for tomorrow’s
Me2
—“Wish You Weren’t Here,” a pictorial guide to the worst seaside resorts in Britain, and “Granny I Hardly Knew You,” an empowering tale of incest survival.

The money editor seemed to be impersonating a speaking clock as he enunciated details of interest rate rises, retail price index falls and fluctuations in the exchange rate. Ricky Clegg had anticipated the sober mood of today’s conference by wearing a suit and tie. Or perhaps he was going for a job interview later. He spent longer than necessary speculating about the likely performance of David Becking—or was it Beckham?—a twenty-one-year-old London-born Manchester United striker, who would be playing in tomorrow’s World Cup qualifier. Tamara was reassured to see that Wedderburn—scrutinising
The Courier
’s Alpha list again, as if closer reading might yield up his name after all—seemed as little interested as she was in fledgling footballers. The arts editor gave his account of tomorrow’s lead arts story—a comparison of the poetry of Keats with the lyrics of Kylie Minogue—with an air of wounded self-importance and only a passing reference to the brutal spiking of the review of Monday’s Wigmore Hall recital.

Then, so swiftly, it was the turn of the weekend sections. Tamara looked down at the printout of the
Psst!
list. She had an exclusive to announce: Pernilla Perssen was pregnant. That Tamara had got the exclusive as a result of a complaint—the model’s lawyers had not been amused by
Psst!
’s interpretation of her morning sickness or her weight gain—need not be mentioned here. It was a firecracker of a story. Other papers would stampede to pick it up, and speculation about the identity of the baby’s father would keep the press going for weeks. Perhaps they should save the exclusive for 1 March, which was also the date of the penultimate issue of the genuine, full-fat, carbon-based
Psst!
. They would go out in a blaze of glory.

Tamara mentally rehearsed her delivery. Lofty efficiency would be the key.

Lyra was announcing this week’s contributors to
S
^*
nday
—two Booker winners and a Nobel laureate, an “elite list” all of its own—with the passionate urgency of a Shakespearean actress auditioning for the part of Portia. One day soon, thought Tamara, her own name would be slipped in among the Greats in Lyra’s stellar
S
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list. The books editor was speaking now, stumbling through his dull catalogue of reviews and literary nonstories—an exploration of the genius of Alexander the Great, long overdue; a global history of colonisation; and a new novel by, or perhaps about, a hard-drinking Bulgarian punk. Caspar Dyson’s manner was apologetic, and Austin Wedderburn’s displeasure, or simple lack of interest, was obvious.

“… We’ve also got a study of nineteenth-century Portuguese verse,” added Caspar, wiping a glistening moustache of sweat that had formed on his upper lip.

Tamara looked through her own list again. Should she go with the Pernilla Perssen scoop first or save it till the end of her list? End with a bang, as it were? But Caspar had not finished.

“… And on March the first our lead review will be Tania Singh’s four-thousand-word essay on the life and work of Honor Tait, in advance of the publication of Tait’s new book,
Dispatches from a Dark Place
.”

Tamara rocked back in her chair, appalled. What was he saying? She looked across at Tania, smirking self-importantly, and at Lyra, evasively doodling on the cover of her notepad.

“You can’t do that!” a voice cried out in impassioned protest.

Every head turned towards Tamara, stunned at the breach of protocol.
The voice of protest, she realised, had been her own; the words had flown from her lips at the speed of thought.

Austin Wedderburn dropped his pen, which made a guillotine clatter in the silent boardroom. He looked at Tamara directly, probably for the first time since she had started work at
The Monitor
.

“Why, precisely, can’t we ‘do that’?”

She felt a sudden tightness in her throat, which made it difficult to breathe. When she finally spoke, her voice was a strangulated whine.

“It’s a spoiler,” she said.

“A spoiler?” said the editor. “
Another
spoiler?”

He emitted a bitter laugh, granting permission for the susurration of mirthless hilarity that ricocheted round the table.

“Surely we’re all for spoilers here,” he continued, “if it means we steal a march on the opposition. Or do you have a moral objection?”

Tamara tried to ignore the slow smiles spreading across the faces of her colleagues; they knew that as long as someone else was buckling under the heat of Wedderburn’s wrath, they were safe, for the moment.

“Not the opposition,” whispered Tamara. “It isn’t a spoiler against the opposition. It’s
S
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nday
’s story. One of us.”

Wedderburn looked to his left at the radiantly innocent face of Tania, then to Lyra, who had resumed her note taking.

“Lyra? Do you have any objections? This Honor Tait piece in the books section? Does it preempt any plans you have for future issues?”

Lyra looked briefly at Tamara, then turned back to Wedderburn.

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Not at all. No plans.”

This was treachery on a spectacular scale. All Tamara’s hopes drained away, as suddenly as if a cistern had been flushed. She was left with nothing, humiliated.

“Glad we’ve got that straight,” said Wedderburn, turning to address the conference. “One spoiler in a morning is unfortunate, two would be careless!”

His mouth crinkled tremulously, then relaxed into a shallow smile, and dutiful laughter eddied round the table. He gathered up his papers, signalling a move to the next item on the agenda. Only Tania was looking at Tamara now, and her expression—clear-eyed, her head cocked, birdlike, to one side, with a wry twist of a smile—was one of unbounded pity.

Wedderburn nodded to Xanthippe Sparks, whose appearance today—back-combed hair, flounced skirts, laced boots and torn fishnets—suggested that she had just emerged from the Nancy Sikes Refuge for Distressed Burlesque Artistes.

“This week,” she said, “we’ve got ‘Catwalk Confidential,’ backstage at the shows; and ‘Sole Sisters,’ a story about sibling shoe designers. The picture-spread focus is on ‘The New Rococo … Frills and Spills … Tiers for Souvenirs …’ ”

The news editor and foreign editor exchanged glances. At least, Tamara thought, when it was her turn to speak, she could reclaim some dignity. Compared to the fashion schedule, the
Psst!
list would sound like Hansard.

“And for March the first, in our menswear special, we’ll be heralding the return of Medallion Man in our picture special: ‘Chest Hair Chic.’ ”

Tamara looked through this week’s
Psst!
list again. Should it be “Inside Baggeley Market: Outrageous Real Life Stories Behind Top Soap” first? Or “The Pits: Underarm Hair Horror of the Stars?”

Wedderburn looked at his watch.

“Right,” he said, raising an eyebrow, “we need to cut this short. That’s all we have time for. Tania is going to update us on interweb development. And then we’ve got a paper to bring out!”

There was another outbreak of approving merriment, which drowned Tamara’s bitter gasp of incredulity. Overlooked again! Had she been of a more paranoid cast of mind, she might have begun to see this as a conspiracy. Her spasm of self-pity was interrupted by the sudden intrusion in her field of vision of a white porcelain jug, which was being waved under her nose by Hazel. Bypassing the teenaged interns, the editor’s secretary had walked across the room to seek Tamara’s assistance in the distribution of tea. There was no way out; Tamara accepted the task with furious zeal. She heaped three spoons of sugar in Wedderburn’s cup and passed a cup to Tania, who looked up briefly and, without pausing in her disquisition on Web traffic and page impressions, raised two fingers at Tamara. It was only by force of imagination, which filled the teaspoon with cyanide crystals rather than sugar, that Tamara was able to finish the job without blundering from the boardroom in a tearful rage.

The weeping came later, over lunch at the Bubbles. She had spent so much time fantasising about the life of excitement and ease that would follow her official elevation to Lyra Moore’s team that the alternative was unthinkable. Now she had to face it; her future was destined to be a dreary extension of the existing reality, a long grey corridor lit only by the distant glow of the crematorium.

Simon passed her an envelope of blanks, procured from the maître d’ of a new Michelin-starred restaurant in the City.

“Could you manage to do these by the end of the week? It would be really helpful, what with Dexter’s birthday and everything.”

She took the envelope without comment, and it was then that he noticed she was crying.

“You okay, Tam?”

She told him everything. He passed her tissues to stanch the flow of tears and ordered a consolatory bottle of champagne.

“It’s Lyra I can’t understand,” Tamara sniffed. “I know exactly what Tania’s up to. It fits in perfectly with her master plan for world domination. But what was Lyra doing commissioning me to write the piece in the first place? And then she just walks away, leaving me stranded, just when I’ve cracked the story, after all the work I’ve done.”

Simon reached across the table and patted her hand.

“Look, Tamara, I didn’t know how to tell you this but … you weren’t meant to be doing this story in the first place.”

Tamara looked up. He had pushed her too far. His lack of faith in her abilities was evident to the point of insult.

“Simon,” she said, her lips pinched with spite, “you’re the content editor of
Psst!.com
, not the editor of
S
^*
nday
. Lyra Moore is. She commissioned me. Nothing to do with you. Her decision. Her choice.”

“That’s the point,” he said, “it wasn’t her choice.”

What did he mean?

“It was all a mistake,” he added gently.

Tamara was gripped by a queasy dread, like the mild seasickness she had suffered at the Features summer party on a Thames barge. She put down her glass.

“What are you saying? She sent me a message. She asked me to do it. It’s there. In my computer. I’ll show you later if you need proof.”

Simon spoke slowly and quietly, like a doctor breaking bad news and fearing the patient’s inevitable emotional outburst.

“She sent a message, yes. She wanted a feature on Honor Tait. But she didn’t want
you
to do it.”

“But it’s there. In black-and-white. Her message. On the office system. From Lyra. To me.”

“Tamara,” he said softly, “remember Aurora Witherspoon? Austin Wedderburn? Best fit? Lyra had started to type in another name on her computer. The predictive text program filled in your name instead. She didn’t notice the error until she got your response.”