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Tess laughed. ‘You? A bouncer?’
Although she was dressed completely in black, the pocket–sized busty blonde looked more like a glamour model than a security guard.
‘Don’t laugh,’ said Jemma huffily. ‘These parties need women at the door. Ironically they’re to frisk the female guests to make sure nobody’s taking in cameras. It took me two months to get the gig. I had to moonlight on the door of a club in Chelsea first.’
‘Was it worth it?’
Jemma smiled. ‘Oh yes.’
Tess was practically salivating; this would be an excellent story at any time, but Jemma’s timing was perfect. All week she had been acting editor of the Sunday Globe. Her boss Andy Davidson was on holiday and she had picked up the reins. This could be her big chance to make her mark.
‘So, come on,’ she said impatiently, ‘who was there?’
Jemma rattled off a list of household names. ‘There were a few Hollywood names as well. I had the misfortunate of seeing that foul producer Larry Goldman in the buff. He has man–breasts the size of space–hoppers.’
‘What about photos? We need photos.’
In her twelve years in newspapers, the unwritten law had always been ‘assume they won’t sue’, and Tess had always found that it was an accurate enough yardstick. She had a little black book of litigious stars and those who rarely took legal action, but when anybody did seek to challenge a story they had printed, the onus was on the newspaper to prove what they had written was true. That was why photographs were essential for a story like this.
‘The quality isn’t great,’ said Jemma, opening her laptop to flick through the digital images she had taken. ‘I used a spy camera that I’d hidden in the house during the afternoon.’
Tess leaned over her shoulder and pointed at an image of a flaxen–haired blonde. ‘Who’s this?’ she asked. The woman was wearing nothing but a strap–on and a Venetian mask and stood astride a naked fat man on his hands and knees.
‘That’s Larry.’
‘But who’s the woman?’ said Tess hopefully.
Jemma shrugged. ‘Some hooker, I think.’
Tess’s excitement was starting to wane. So far, this wasn’t the big–noise story she was hoping for. Ten years ago, a cheating MP had been front–page news; but today hookers and studio heads did not shift newspapers like footballers and soap stars.
‘Do we have anything clearer of a bigger name?’ she asked hopefully. ‘What about a soap actress?’
‘How about this?’ said Jemma, enlarging an image with a triumphant look.
The picture was grainy. The man in the shot was naked and bent over what appeared to be a line of cocaine. Tess frowned and squinted.
‘Don’t you recognize him?’
Tess shook her head. ‘Who is it?’
‘Well, maybe you’ll see better in this one.’
Jemma clicked onto an image of a black van. You could clearly make out somebody was being carried into the back of it on a stretcher.
‘Shit,’ said Tess, her eyes widening. ‘What’s going on here?’
‘The same guy being stretchered into a private ambulance,’ said Jemma with a smile. ‘He’s at a private hospital in West London now.’
‘So who is it?’ asked Tess.
‘Sean Asgill.’
It took Tess a second to recognize the name. Sean Asgill was a New York playboy. Heir to a cosmetics family fortune. Handsome and wealthy, he was a fixture in the society pages with a string of model and actress girlfriends. It was a headline all right: “Tragedy at A–list Sex Party”.’
‘Christ,’ said Tess. ‘Did he … die?’
Tess felt bad asking, but it was an occupational hazard for someone in her job, wishing the worst on people because it made a better headline.
