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icist, to promote the Asgills’ image and to keep scandal – should there be any – out of the media.’
Tess gaped, completely taken by surprise. ‘But I’m a hack, not a flack,’ she stammered, using the industry slang expression for PR.
Meredith nodded. ‘And many top publicists are ex–journalists.’
Tess began to say something, then stopped. She didn’t really know what to say. She gazed out of the window, watching the lights of London, trying to think it through, surprised at her own interest in the idea.
‘But surely a New York journalist would suit you better?’ said Tess. ‘My contacts are largely UK–based.’
Meredith smiled. ‘You have friends working at the Post, the Times, and the Daily News.’
Tess conceded the point, again a little unsettled by the depth of the woman’s knowledge of her.
‘You’ve done your homework.’
‘Of course,’ said Meredith. ‘We can offer a good six–figure salary, one I feel sure is more generous than the one you are currently on, plus a rent–free apartment in the West Village.’
‘I already have a well–paid job on one of the biggest papers in the country,’ said Tess, playing for time.
‘Yes, but you’re unhappy, unmotivated and … ’ Meredith paused. ‘ … You’re about to get the sack.’
‘I am not!’ said Tess indignantly. ‘What on earth–’
Meredith held up a dainty hand. ‘It’s a matter of public record that the Globe Group are streamlining, making redundancies, and pushing people out. I read the Wall Street Journal and the Financial Times, Miss Garrett. I also keep my ear to the ground, and I hear that your editor is bringing someone in to be co–deputy editor. I’m sorry, I don’t wish to be rude, but it does appear your days at the Globe are numbered.’
Tess could only stare in front of her. Meredith Asgill might have been playing hardball, but her words had the ring of truth to them. It stung her to hear them from a stranger.
‘I’ve got a good reputation,’ said Tess, with more bravado than she was feeling. ‘I don’t think I’ll have any problems walking into a new job.’
Meredith smiled politely. ‘I’m sure you’re correct,’ she said. ‘But please be aware that my offer comes with a bonus. A two–hundred–and–fifty–thousand–dollar bonus when the bride and groom marry.’
‘A quarter of a million dollars?’ said Tess slowly. Dom would do cartwheels. But Tess’s head was doing its own back flips – she too had heard rumours about the recruitment of a co–deputy editor being brought in to work beside her. More importantly, Tess had always wanted to work in New York, and this might be just the opportunity to get a visa, and look for a proper job at the New York Post or Daily News.
‘This is an opportunity to make some real money, Tess, not to mention contacts and friends at the highest level,’ said Meredith, seeming to have read her thoughts. ‘The secret of all successful people is an ability to think outside the box. Think of Howard Rubenstein or Max Clifford in London; they make far more than any newspaper editor and have far more real influence. Besides, PR is more civilized than tabloid journalism, don’t you think?’
‘This wedding has to happen, doesn’t it?’ said Tess, and again, behind the cool patrician façade, she saw a flutter of anxiety.
‘Yes. I will not let anything stop it,’ said Meredith firmly. ‘Now, have you eaten?’
Tess shook her head.
‘How about you join me for a late supper? I’m at the Connaught. I can tell you all about Brooke’s fabulous engagement party that’s going to be held at the Billington compound. I assume you’ve never been?’
‘Not yet,’ smiled Tess.
‘Well, I think that you might like it there. In fact, it’s tomorrow night; you can hop on the jet with me back to New York. How’s that sound?’
CHAPTER TWO
‘Brooke? David’s here.’
The pretty Chinese girl squeezed into Brooke Asgill’s tiny, cluttered office and swiftly removed a cup of cold coffee from her superior’s desk. Brooke looked up and nodded. Strictly speaking, Kim Yi–Noon wasn’t Brooke’s assistant. As a lowly commissioning editor in the children’s division at the Yellow Door publishing house, Brooke wasn’t entitled to such privileges, but then lots of things had begun to change since her engagement to David Billington. Working conditions had mysteriously improved; she now had an office of her own – tiny though it was, for instance, and a star–struck intern willing to moonlight as her assistant. Then there was the unasked–for pay rise and the parking space she didn’t need. It was as if the management could smell power on the breeze.
‘Great, thanks Kim,’ said Brooke, smiling. ‘Send him up.’
‘I suggested that,’ said Kim apologetically. ‘But apparently the paparazzi are hanging around the office again. He thinks it’s better if he stayed in the car.’
Brooke winced and glanced down at the manuscript in front of her. Every Friday afternoon she set aside an hour to read submissions from the ‘slush pile’. Most publishers didn’t bother, leaving unsolicited manuscripts to the most junior members of the publishing team, and Brooke had to admit that, most weeks, it was an hour wasted. Vanity projects, poor copies of whatever was hot last year; most of it was mediocre at best. But the book she had picked out today, well, this was something else: it had that indefinable something that made her want to keep reading.
