‘Well?’ Demetriou says grimly. ‘Is this, or is this not, your necklace, Miss Miller?’
53
VICTORIA
I’m pacing up and down our narrow balcony when my mother rings. I accept the call, hoping a chat with my children might distract me from the disaster unfolding at Villa Paradiso.
‘Victoria!’ my mother shrieks. ‘Thank God. I’ve been trying to reach you for hours.’
‘Hello to you too.’ I roll my eyes. My mother has a tendency to catastrophise. ‘What’s the panic? Are the kids OK?’
‘They’re fine. This isn’t about them. The papers are saying you were the one who evicted that poor homeless man who died. The one on the news.’
My stomach goes into freefall.
‘What?’
‘They’re calling you a rogue landlord, darling. The housing secretary was on the lunchtime news calling for your resignation! Daddy says you should take out an injunction immediately. He’ll have a word with Roger for you if you like.’
My godfather, Roger Steel, is a successful solicitor who specialises in libel law. His success rate in shutting down journalists is legendary. But even he can’t wave a magic injunction wand this time.
‘There’s no point,’ I say heavily.
‘Why ever not?’
‘Because it’s true, Mummy. I did throw him out.’
‘I don’t understand, darling.’
‘He was the last tenant at Twelve Claremont Crescent and I needed him out before I could sell the place. Landlords do it all the time.’ I try to sound airy, but I know I just sound rattled.
My mother’s disappointed silence on the other end of the line is worse than if she’d ranted and railed at me for my poor choices. I close my eyes and tilt my head towards the sky, my hand on my brow as if I can stop my brain from exploding under the stress of it all.
‘Mummy, are you still there?’
‘I am.’
‘Tell Daddy I’ll…I’ll sort it, OK?’ My phone pings again and I glance at the screen. It’s another missed call, this time from Grace Chambers, Chairman of the Trustees of The Anchorway Trust. A hatchet-faced woman with a bosom like a shelf and a sense of humour bypass. Can the day get any worse? ‘Look, I need to go. I’ll call you later, all right? And in the meantime, if you’re contacted by the media, tell them no comment and hang up.’
My fingers are trembling so badly as I open my laptop that I misspell my own name twice before Google corrects me. Not that it matters – I’m trending so high the search engine knows exactly who I am.
The headlines leap off the screen, stark and unforgiving.
Charity boss exposed as landlord who evicted tragic Owen
Rogue landlord blamed for death of vulnerable tenant
Minister calls for resignation of homeless charity chief
And, as I refresh the page, another pops up at the top of the list of results.
This is the face of disgraced charity CEO Victoria Wyndham, the landlord at the centre of the eviction scandal
Fearfully, I click on the headline which leads straight to the online edition of theDaily Tribune. Below the familiar, red-topped masthead is my official photo from the trust’s website. I’d worn my favourite outfit to the photoshoot: a mint-green Jaeger pussy-bow blouse and black Jaeger tapered trousers, both bought before the label was taken over by Marks & Spencer, obviously. I’d paired nude lipstick with Granny Aggie’s pearl earrings and had worn my hair in a low chignon. I’d been delighted with the results. I looked both patrician and authoritative, exactly the image I’d been aiming for. But seeing the photo with fresh eyes, I fear I just look supercilious.
I scan the article.
Exclusive: Homeless charity boss evicted man who died on the streets
