A Compromising Position

  ‘It’s up to you,’ he says. ‘We can get you on Trisha, Esther, Vanessa, Gloria, Kilroy, Richard and Judy. They’re all keen.’

  I’d never thought about appearing on television. Not in the flesh. I’ll rephrase that. Not in person.

  ‘In America you’re looking at Oprah, Ricki and Montel.’

  America? Yikes!

  ‘If you’re looking at newspapers, we can get you in the tabloids – the Sun, Mirror, Sport, News of the World. They’ll pay the most, but they’ll want more inches of bare body in return for column inches.’ Jonathan smiles at me.

  I realise that I haven’t yet spoken. He’s probably thinking that I’ll make a wild and untameable chat-show guest. I must rescue this and show him that I’m more than a bare bum and a pair of boobs. I need to demonstrate how witty and sparkling I am. ‘Er . . . yes,’ I stammer.

  Well. It’s a start.

  ‘Then there are the men’s magazines. Loaded. Front. FHM. Maxim. GQ. They’d be interested. Playboy would probably offer you a fortune,’ he says. ‘Would you consider nude spreads?’

  What exactly would I have to spread? I want to ask.

  ‘Er . . .’ Nothing else will come out.

  ‘You’re a very attractive woman, Emily. The hair suits you,’ he says, pointing a long, slender finger at it. ‘Makes you look demure.’

  That’s a laugh. The whole world knows that I have moments when I’m distinctly not demure.

  ‘I like it. The two faces of Emily Miller. Schoolteacher and good-time girl.’

  Oh God. What am I doing?

  ‘We may need to change it if you agree to a photo-shoot. But let’s talk about that later.’ He doesn’t even pause for me to consider it. Do I want to look like a victim or a whore is what he actually means. ‘We can turn this round,’ Jonathan assures me. ‘Turn it to your advantage. You can come out of this a very wealthy woman. You need never go back to teaching.’

  I open my mouth and close it again. It seems rather pointless to mention that I actually quite liked teaching. Love it, in fact. There is a world shortage of teachers. But not, I feel, a world shortage of women who will get their tits out for some hard cash.

  ‘How does half a million sound to you, Emily?’

  ‘Er . . .’ I say again. But I sound much more confident this time.

  Half a million? Pounds, I take it. The devastation of my life turned into a lottery win? Is it possible?

  ‘It’s a very achievable figure.’ Jonathan nods at me as if I’ve spoken my thoughts out loud. ‘As I’ve said, it’s up to you.’

  At this point, he gets up and walks round his desk. God, he’s so persuasive. A halo of confidence shines round him. He’d have had no trouble getting me into a Saucy Santa outfit, on the Internet or anywhere else for that matter.

  He pulls a card out of a silver container on his desktop and hands it to me. ‘Here,’ he says. ‘I want you to give this guy a ring.’

  I look at the card. It says Sebastian Atherton, Photographer in classy black type.

  ‘Get him to do some shots of you. Nothing seedy. Tasteful stuff. He can send the bill to me. Do it quickly before the press lose interest in you.’ Jonathan shrugs. ‘Next week they’ll snap a Member of Parliament with someone else’s wife and you’ll be old news. If you want a decent retirement fund, we need to move quickly.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. I know. It’s a bit late to be finding my voice now.

  ‘A friend of mine is opening a wine bar on Saturday night. Be there,’ he instructs with a soft smile and hands me another card which turns out to be an invitation. Temptation, it says. Quite. ‘I’ll see you around nine.’

  Jonathan moves forward. ‘So?’ He touches my elbow as he shakes my hand and his sparkling eyes fix on mine. ‘Do we have a deal?’

  I feel a hot rush leap up my throat. ‘Yes,’ I say. And as I leave his office, feeling slightly dazed, I realise that I’ve absolutely no idea what I’ve just agreed to.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Adam sat on Toff’s desk, leafing through page after page of scantily clad women. It was a grey winter evening and icy fingers of rain tip-tapped sharply at the window. Toff’s office was bathed in a mellow, warm light and the temperature inside was sweltering. Adam was boiling alive in his sweater, but then apart from Toff, most of the people who passed through here in the course of a day didn’t have the benefit of warm jumpers.

  ‘And you call this work?’ Adam said, looking down on his friend who sat swigging one of the cold beers that he’d pulled from the fridge for both of them.

  ‘Absolutely, sweetheart,’ Sebastian Atherton said. ‘Many’s the day I’ve had to take to my bed with camera clicker’s finger.’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘Sometimes it helps to have company.’ His friend smiled. ‘It takes one’s mind off it.’

  Adam put down Toff’s portfolio. ‘I’ve got to do something,’ he said. ‘How can I pursue Laura for custody of Josh if I’m working shifts? Speaking of which . . .’ He checked his watch as he was due at the Hampstead Observer this evening. He wasn’t even sure why the paper needed overnight staffing – it was known as the graveyard shift and, normally, it was indeed quieter than one.

  ‘It would suit me down to the ground, old boy,’ Toff said. ‘I could toddle off on all these exotic assignments abroad . . .’

  ‘Risking a tropical strain of camera clicker’s finger . . .’

  Toff nodded enthusiastically. ‘And I’d know that I could leave this place in safe hands while I was away.’

  Adam folded his arms and blew out an exasperated sigh.

  ‘What rent do you pay on that poky flat of yours?’ Toff asked.

  ‘Too much,’ Adam said.

  Adam had moved back to Hampstead as soon as he could to be nearer to Josh. He rented a tiny attic flat in Parliament Hill that had been advertised with a stunning view over Hampstead Heath. And it did, indeed, have a view of Hampstead Heath. It was just that you had to stand on the toilet seat and peer out of a window the size of a cornflakes box to enjoy it.

  There was just enough room in the main bedroom to walk round the bed. The spare room held a single futon and served as a wardrobe, office-cum-camera store and general dumping ground for things that he didn’t know what else to do with. When his son had first started to stay at Adam’s flat when he was four, Josh had cried because he missed Laura so much. Adam had taken him home at midnight still in his pyjamas, distressed and bawling the place down. Even though it was now eight years later, it was something his ex-wife had never forgotten. Although, thankfully, Josh had, he was still only allowed to stay overnight on rare occasions – usually when it suited Laura’s plans. When Josh was smaller he had been able to roll out the futon for him. Since then, Adam’s store of clutter had grown in direct proportion to his son’s gangly limbs and it was no longer a viable option. Now, when Josh stayed, he took Adam’s bed and Adam was relegated to a 1950s sofa bed which had more foothills nestling in the mattress than the Himalayas.

  Yet, despite its cramped and compromised conditions, the rent for the flat still took up most of his salary. After his maintenance payments had been scooped off the top, he was invariably broke. Perhaps this was why his social life didn’t consist of eating out in bijou little restaurants every night. On the plus side, the flat was within walking distance of both Patel’s Off Licence and Curry Paradise.

  ‘There’s a flat upstairs,’ Toff said. ‘It’s huge. Take that.’ He nodded towards the garden. The thick lush trees were being tugged back and forth by the wind. Adam knew how they felt. ‘Josh would love that,’ Toff continued. ‘You could play football together.’

  Adam ground his teeth together. ‘It’s tempting.’

  ‘I’ll charge you the same rent.’

  ‘I couldn’t do that,’ Adam said. ‘What about you?’

  ‘Darling,’ Toff tutted, ‘Daddy has places all over Town. I’ve never got round to moving in here. Anyway, it’s not good for me to live above the shop.’
r />   ‘Would it be good for Josh though?’ Adam said. ‘Supposing he bumped into some of your “clients”?’

  ‘He’s a twelve-year-old boy, for heaven’s sake,’ Sebastian said. ‘The biggest problem you’d have would be keeping his friends away. Think of the street cred.’

  ‘Think of what his mother would say,’ Adam gloomed.

  ‘It strikes me, old bean, that you think far too much of what his mother would say. It’s time to break free from the lovely Laura and start doing what suits you.’

  ‘I can’t,’ Adam said. ‘We are locked permanently together by the fruit of our loins. You’ve no idea what it’s like with your carefree single life.’

  ‘No,’ Toff admitted, ‘I don’t. But I am trying to help.’

  Adam grinned. ‘Do you know, Toff, I’ve been looking for someone like you all my life. If you weren’t a bloke, I think I’d be seriously in love with you.’

  ‘Now you’re starting to sound like Chris,’ Toff said.

  Adam jumped down from his perch on Sebastian’s desk. ‘Kill me,’ he said.

  ‘Come out with me,’ Toff said. ‘Tomorrow night.’

  ‘I was only joking, Toff. You’re not really my type,’ Adam laughed.

  ‘When did you last have some fun?’

  ‘Last Tuesday.’

  ‘You did not,’ Toff said. ‘Don’t you ever go out and let your hair down?’

  ‘No,’ Adam said.

  ‘Well, you’re coming out with me.’

  ‘I’m on night shift all week.’

  ‘On Saturday?’ Toff asked. ‘You’re not working then?’

  ‘No,’ Adam conceded.

  ‘It’s fixed then.’

  There seemed little point in arguing. Adam shrugged on his coat, mentally preparing himself to dive out into the cold and rain from the warmth and cosiness of Toff’s cocoon. Looking round him again, Adam decided that he and Josh could do a lot worse than take up Toff’s kind and wholly uneconomical offer.

  ‘Cheers, Toff,’ Adam said, hugging his mate. ‘I warn you though. I never do sex on a first date.’

  Toff grinned. ‘You might change your mind when you see who your date is, old fruit.’

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Cara was feeling terrible. Waves of nauseous guilt washed over her whenever she pictured Emily bounding out of her car in the pouring rain and rushing down into the depths of the Underground. Emily had turned and smiled at her as if she, Cara, was the best friend anyone could ever have. Little did Emily know that she had spent yesterday evening with her boyfriend, ex-boyfriend, and had enjoyed every minute of it.

  Cara chewed the end of her pen, careless of the fact that she might well end up with a mouthful of blue ink, gazing aimlessly at Emily’s poster on the wall. The office was empty, a graveyard of computer headstones stretching out across the paper-strewn wasteland of the newsroom. Whatever had happened to the concept of the paper-free office? Computers seemed to generate more paperwork than ever, if that was possible. It didn’t matter whether it was day or night here. The office was soulless, windowless and airless. Flickering banks of fluorescent lights shone down relentlessly directly over the desks, giving even the hardiest members of staff headaches by the end of their stint. At night-time, the effect was softened by a few well-positioned desk lamps. The money tree in the wealth corner of Cara’s desk wilted in the battle between the chilly onslaught of air-conditioning and the dry, baking central heating. This place was probably a hotbed of germs, Cara thought, and vowed to increase her uptake of Echinacea.

  Declan was a mystery. Cara rubbed her fingers over her throat. Last night had been great. She hadn’t enjoyed herself so much since . . . since before she could remember. This was a very bad sign. They had laughed too long and too loud over Declan’s continued declaration of vegetarianism – particularly when he was eating a medium-rare steak at the time. She’d always liked Declan. He was Emily’s boyfriend. And he was very hard not to like. OK, so he was a complete rogue, but he had a bit of life to him, a spark of character missing from so many browbeaten men these days. Perhaps it was the crushing pressure of work and climbing the corporate ladder that squeezed the fun out of people. Declan had teased her relentlessly about her beliefs, calling them superstitious nonsense, but she hadn’t minded. She had laughed with him. Declan could do that to you.

  And he had talked about Emily a lot too. They both had, she consoled herself. They both wanted what was best for Emily. It was just that she had thought a lot more about Declan today than she had her best friend.

  Adam sat down in front of her. ‘Penny for them,’ he said with a smile.

  ‘Oh, Adam.’ Cara snapped back to the present. She leaned forward on her desk. ‘I was thinking about Emily.’

  ‘How’s she doing?’ He slipped off his coat, shaking raindrops from his mass of dark hair, and settled himself in front of his computer before turning to face Cara instead of his screen.

  ‘Better, I think,’ Cara said. ‘She’s dyed her hair. A sort of disguise. It looks great. She went out for the first time today.’

  ‘Good,’ Adam said. ‘That’s good.’

  It was fair to say that Adam seemed to care more about Emily – someone he had never met – than her own boyfriend, ex-boyfriend, did. Adam was such a nice guy.

  ‘Sorry I’m a bit late,’ he said.

  Cara glanced at the deserted offices. ‘I don’t think this place will fall apart without us.’

  ‘No,’ Adam said, following her gaze. ‘I was just trying to sort out a few bits myself.’ He looked uncomfortable.

  ‘Anything I can help with?’ Cara asked.

  Adam shook his head. His hair was curling damply round his face. Cara swallowed.

  ‘No.’ Adam pulled at his earlobe. ‘Well . . . Laura’s trying to take Josh to Australia,’ he said in a rush. ‘And I’m trying to stop her.’ His cheeks flushed.

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I think I might have found a solution.’

  ‘Can you share it?’

  ‘No,’ Adam said. ‘Not yet.’ He fidgeted around with some copy on his desk. ‘I’ll keep you posted though.’

  Cara smiled softly at him and Adam turned back to his desk, scratching at his stubble. It had clearly taken an effort for him to confide so much in her and Cara felt a warm glow spread through her tummy, which was an awful lot nicer than the way she had been feeling. She was going to have to up her campaign of letting the universe direct love into her life. At the moment it was doing nothing but confuse her.

  Chapter Forty

  ‘He said what?’ Cara is outraged.

  ‘Keep your voice down,’ I hiss. The press were late arriving this morning and so we sneaked out to the Café Blanco for breakfast. The Café Blanco is the nearest Hampstead will ever get to a greasy spoon. And, to my shame, I was sort of peeved that there wasn’t the usual battalion of photographers waiting to greet my arrival at Cara’s front door. It makes me feel shallow, and hypocritical, but I guess that’s the lure of celebrity. Don’t want to live with it, don’t want to live without it.

  ‘You can’t possibly be thinking of getting your kit off for a men’s magazine!’ At least Cara has lowered her voice.

  ‘Half a million quid,’ I point out. ‘That’s what he said. Wouldn’t you consider it?’

  Cara stops to consider it. ‘No,’ she says righteously. ‘I have principles.’

  And tits that aren’t big enough for you to be asked in the first place, I think maliciously.

  ‘I have principles too,’ I say. ‘And I also have priorities. Right now, my main one is to get myself out of debt.’

  Cara looks unconvinced. She is so disgruntled that she hasn’t even touched her chocolate croissant.

  ‘You’re forgetting,’ I point out, ‘that the world and his wife have already seen my bum, and I haven’t received a penny for it. The only one who’s made any money out of it is darling Declan.’

  Cara goes red. Which I take as an admission that there is some truth
in there.

  ‘I have to consider this, Cara.’ I rip my own croissant in half. ‘Much as I’d rather not.’ I stuff the buttery pastry in my mouth with a defiant gesture. What I really wanted to eat was sausages, but bowed to my friend’s sensibilities in the eating animals department. Now I wish I hadn’t bothered.

  ‘And he’s going to organise all this for you?’ Cara says. ‘This Jonathan Gold.’ I see the thundercloud scud across her face.

  I nod. ‘That’s where I was yesterday.’

  ‘You’re mad,’ she says.

  ‘Desperate,’ I correct. ‘I have a few weeks to capitalise on my notoriety and try to stop my debts spiralling out of control.’

  There is very little Cara can say to disagree.

  I avoid looking at my friend. ‘He asked me to go to the launch of a wine bar with him.’

  ‘In what capacity?’

  I feel myself cringe as I admit this. ‘I’m not really sure.’

  ‘Oh great!’ Cara’s eyes shoot upwards. ‘You may have dyed your hair brown, Emily, but you are still very much a blonde inside.’

  At the moment, I haven’t the strength to deny it. Cara picks up her croissant and puts it down again. ‘So is it a date with him or what?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘And are you going to go?’

  I lay awake for most of last night trying to work that one out. ‘I think I’ll have to,’ I say. ‘To show that I’m willing.’

  ‘To do what?’ Cara snorts.

  ‘To do whatever it takes to get me out of this mess!’ I can’t eat this croissant. I’m going to throw up. I’m glad I didn’t have sausages. ‘My reputation is in tatters. I’ve no home and no job. Now I could go and work in a shop for five pounds an hour or I could think . . .’ Cara opens her mouth; I hold my finger up and she decides against speaking. ‘Or I could think about what Jonathan Gold is proposing to do and become a wealthy woman. What would you do in my situation?’

  ‘I would think very, very carefully, Emily.’ Cara takes my hand. ‘This may be a quick fix to your problem and, no doubt, it would bring you much-needed money. But don’t forget, my friend, in going down this route there will be a price to pay. And you may not realise how much until it’s far too late.’