Page 61 of Read My Lips

On the train, we commandeered a four-seat table with a double plug socket. Simon snapped his hearing aids into their charging case, glancing at me like he was waiting for a comment I wasn’t going to give. He let me borrow his spare cable. And as soon as we got into signal range, out of the deadzone of the station, both our phones started jumping.

Ping! Tszzzt!

Ping! Tszzzt!

RICHARD WHITTAKER SEX TAPE HOAX!

Ping! Tszzzt!

RUGBY STAR’S PUBLICIST IN THE FRAME!

Ping! Tszzzt!

Oh god. Sev had got the footage out then. And now everyone in the world had likely seen me basically naked.

But the guy in a boring suit sitting in the seat on the other side of the train carried on tapping away on his laptop like nothing life-altering had occurred. I didn’t have a neon sign suspended over my head telling everyone my freckled arse was making the internet blow up. I was just some guy. I could keep breathing.

Ping! Tszzzt!

Tszzzt! Ping!

WHO DID THE DIRTY WITH WHITTAKER’S PUBLICIST? #Dickydidn’tdothedeed

MYSTERY MUSCLE MAN! #thisisDefinitelyahorse

JUST HORSING AROUND… #paperbagjob #faceforradio

Ouch.

I flipped my phone face down. Under the table, Simon nudged my knee and didn’t pull his leg back.

“The trick is,” he signed, “to remember people are arseholes. And then to ignore the lot of them.”

CHAPTER

SEVENTEEN

Losing most of the morning to train travel didn’t mean the internet stopped gossipping. From the station, we went straight into the office – back to the business of containing this nightmare.

It felt odd pressing the button on the lift up to Simon’s floor, crowded in next to his colleagues like this was any other Monday, when everything had changed.

A bright orange sticky note sat dead centre of the monitor Simon usually plugged his laptop into. He plucked it off, holding it out to me with an eyebrow waggle.

“Not the usual Monday meeting, I suspect.”

The note said Mel Booker was waiting for us. In her office. Jesus Christ.

I hadn’t watched our film on the train. Couldn’t bring myself to hit play on any of the pop-ups at the end of the headlines, when there was no way on this green Earth it would be convincing. But Mel Booker would have watched it by now. And she was probably going to escort us both from the building for doing such a shit job.

Over on the corner of the run of desks, Sev looked up from the triple screen she’d ensconced herself behind. The wheels squeaked as she leaned back in her chair, cradling an oversized travel mug.

“Morning lovebirds.”

I darted a glance at Simon – way too rattled by her tease. The king of cool didn’t so much as blink.

“Well done with the edits, by the way.” He perched effortlessly on the desk, pivoted towards her with one knee crossed over the other. If I tried that, I’d end up falling on my face. “Excellent video.”

“It’s alright, isn’t it?” Sev shrugged like it was nothing, but the glow of pride was there, behind her throwaway attitude.