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“Please, call me Caroline.” She reached into a desk drawer and handed me a flip file. “I took the liberty of formulating an alternate strategy. The social media positioning is too strong to ignore. I think it may interest you.”
I flicked through pages of circled Twitter hashtags.
#SupportGemma
#NoFakes
#LoveYourCurves.
“What is this?”
“The social media support of Miss Taylor has been quite phenomenal. It appears she’s captured the public’s imagination. The ordinary woman is rooting for the flawed heroine, and that, Mr Redfern, has the makings of a wonderful PR campaign.”
“What are you suggesting?”
She leaned in close. “All I’m saying, Mr Redfern, is I think Miss Taylor would make a wonderful face for atrue love conquers allcampaign. Everyone loves a happy ever after, Mr Redfern. Everyone.” She smiled. “Even me.”
“You think the media would let us rest easy? I don’t want to drag Gemma through more of this crap, Caroline. She’s too good for that.”
“I’m sure we could work the media, but you would have to be prepared to sacrifice your house, or at least fight for it in court.”
The situation had never seemed clearer. “I don’t care about the house, April can have it.”
“Even better,” Caroline concluded. “Which strategy are we running with, Mr Redfern? I’ll action it as soon as you give the word.”
I think that was the first time I’d ever smiled in Gables’ offices. It felt good.
***
April was out at her own PR meeting, followed by some crappy cocktail party with Veronica Ashdown to lay the woe is me foundations, no doubt. I dragged the paperwork from the desk drawer, pleased to find all the little sticky notes still in place. It made it easy to whizz through and sign the lot of them. I dumped it in plain view on the kitchen worktop, and wandered around the house for the last time.
So many memories, most of them shit. It was difficult to feel any remorse at leaving, even taking into account the massive loss of capital.
I threw my clothes in a holdall, the ones I’d need, the picture of my dad, too. I bagged up toiletries and essential paperwork, my laptop as well. The rest could wait.
I took time for one more task before I packed the car. I logged into Twitter and Facebook, ignoring the billion notifications.
One simple status update said it all.
#SupportGemma.
This time I didn’t stop at Steve’s to switch cars. My route was straight, determined. I nearly took out three huddled journalists as I swung the Range into Gemma’s yard. The headlights lit up their wide eyes, like ghosts, and I laughed at their horror, laughing harder at their scrabble to grab their camera gear. They snapped away as I slung my holdall over my shoulder, flashes lighting up the yard. I even gave them a wave as I pressed the intercom. No answer.
I stepped back to check the windows. The lights were on upstairs, I caught a flash of red curls by the kitchen sink, but they didn’t seem to linger.
“Gemma!”
She didn’t hear me, but the journalists did. They were already on their phones, spreading the news no doubt. I scrabbled around for a stone. It made one hell of a bang as it hit the window. Gemma’s face pressed to the glass, and I could see she was angry, even in the shadows. I waved, a proper football wave, arms above my head as she stared down into the yard. She pushed open the window with a creak.
“Jason?!”
She darted away and a buzz sounded, followed by the clicking of the lock. I gave the journalists one last smile before I left them outside, and it was a winner.
***
Chapter Twenty Three
Gemma
