It's Not Me, It's You

by Mhairi McFarlane

  ‘I think we’ve established we’ve nothing for you at the moment.’

  ‘I’m not so sure. Do you have anything for making farts glittery?’

  When Delia walked back into the office, Kurt was chatting to Steph. He was on his way out, but clearly in no hurry. Rats. Delia had hoped to kick this particular meeting under the rug.

  ‘Where have you been, Red?’

  ‘Coffee with a freelancer who wanted to say hi,’ Delia tried to do a blinding smile and hurry back to her seat.

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Uh. Adam West.’

  The atmosphere changed abruptly.

  ‘What did you meet him for?’ Kurt said, sharply.

  Steph looked up.

  ‘He asked to meet. He said he might write about consumer clients but he didn’t seem interested in anything in particular. A bit of a time waste.’

  ‘Never, ever meet that dickfag again. Or so much as speak to him.’

  ‘Is he bad?’ Delia’s heart sank into her stomach as she realised her first bit of initiative had gone horribly awry.

  ‘Is he bad?! Just so you know, Adam West works for an investigative website, a little online agitational free-sheet aiming to stir shit for people who work for a living. He’s nothing but trouble.’

  Delia gave a small shiver at how close she’d skated to disaster.

  ‘Understood.’

  ‘Did you find out who his boss is?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Hmmm. I’d like to know who’s pulling the strings there. Follow the money, always.’

  Kurt’s eyes stayed on Delia after the conversation was over, and she had a horrible sense of a black mark next to her name in the imaginary ledger.

  An hour later, Delia got two missed calls from Adam West. As she looked at her flashing phone screen she thought, hah. Think I’m going to be stupid enough to ever talk to you again? Think again.

  But within minutes, an email arrived too.

  Hello Delia,

  You don’t seem to be answering your phone. A quick FYI to say you left your folder behind. Thinking you might want it returned? Have a great afternoon.

  Adam

  Delia’s stomach contents dropped through the floor. Oh no, no, no – she’d left the client folder with him?! She grabbed her bucket bag as if she’d been stung with a bolt gun, hoping in vain that he was winding her up. As she desperately rummaged through the cavernous bag, she quickly knew her search was fruitless. It was stubbornly empty of its most valuable item.

  She looked around the room, as if it might offer up the answer. Think. Think. If Kurt found out, he’d sack her. Without a doubt. That said, she might sack herself for rank stupidity and carelessness.

  With heart pounding, giving Steph a nervous smile and saying yes thanks to a tea, she tried to stay calm and carry on.

  Adam,

  Yes I would, thanks. When can I collect it?

  Regards,

  Delia

  Oh God, he’d probably only send one of those flashing skull and crossbones that come up in movies when the terrorists have hacked the mainframe.

  How about you meet me at the greasy spoon caff on Endell Street – tomorrow at 4 and we hammer out a deal?

  Adam

  She couldn’t leave the office to see him again! That was sack-worthy too. Her fingers skittered over the keyboard before she had thought it through.

  Hi Adam, I’m very pushed for time tomorrow, could we arrange a handover? I can come to your office.

  Thanks. D

  Wait. And wait.

  ‘You OK?’ Steph said.

  ‘Oh. Yeah!’ Delia said. She couldn’t confess to her. It wouldn’t do any good and it’d make her a collaborator.

  ‘Don’t worry about that Andy West thing. How were you to know he was an enemy of the state?’ she said.

  ‘Yeah. Thanks,’ Delia said, with the world’s fakest and queasiest smile. She saw a new email arrive, out of the corner of her eye and opened it, with due sense of dread.

  Dear Deidre,

  You seem to have mistaken me for a dumb chump. Or you’re the world’s worst hostage negotiator. Hope no one ever hands you the loudhailer.

  The way this works is I have something you want and you have nothing I want and no leverage, as yet. So, see you there at 4, or I keep the folder.

  All best,

  Adam

  Utter, utter wankshaft, Delia thought.

  When Delia could bear it that evening, i.e., after a stiff gin and tonic, she looked up Adam West online. This time, properly.

  He had indeed racked up plenty of bylines in nationals. However, if she’d bothered to read more thoroughly, she’d have seen he had been involved in a series of reports about white-collar corruption. It had led to a libel case his paper won.

  Her stomach tightened as she read the plaintiff’s words in reference to Adam:

  ‘Demeaning and invasive coverage … attack dog, bully boy tactics …’

  He was now on a website. It was called Unspun. A cross between Private Eye and a Drudge Report for business, media and politics, lots of longform articles, emphasis on the kind of lengthy, painstaking investigations that broadsheets didn’t do much of any more. Annoyingly respectable and intimidating.

  How was it possible that Delia had pitched propeller-first into the sea, so soon after feeling she was flying high? What a moron. She could kick herself.

  When Emma got in, Delia was morose, channel flipping, on her third Gordon’s, to which she’d barely shown the tonic bottle.

  She filled Emma in.

  ‘What’s he going to do with this file?’

  ‘God knows. It’s everything. It’s all in there. PR firms are very secretive about who their clients are, and this not only lists them all, it has strategy notes and ideas for coverage, autobiographical detail, and so on. It’s a Twist & Shout blueprint. The possibilities are endless.’

  ‘I don’t get it – it’s a new company. What’s his problem?’

  ‘I have no idea. Adam’s a nasty piece of work and muckraker, probably. I mean, look at these stories about him. He’s got form for completely ruining people,’ Delia said, turning her laptop screen towards Emma.

  ‘Oh my God,’ Emma said, after a few minutes.

  ‘See?’

  ‘No, have you seen this photo of him? I’d like him to demean and invade me, preferably three times in a row. Then come at me like an attack dog bully again next morning.’

  ‘Oh for fuc—’

  ‘You’ve met him? Is he fit?’

  ‘He’s vile and completely your type. Horrible ruling class, might wear a wax jacket at the weekend, charge your father a tithe of corn for living on his great estate, sort of bossy …’

  ‘Nnngggg, keep going, I’m nearly there.’

  ‘Emma!’ Delia shouted, but laughing. ‘I can’t believe I left the file lying there,’ she groaned. ‘I’m so angry at myself.’

  Emma squinted at the screen and closed the laptop, before taking a swig of Delia’s gin.

  ‘If he’s that ruthless, he might’ve lifted the file when you were looking the other way.’

  Delia sat up slightly. ‘Oh yeah.’

  The thought made her positively boil. That was illegal – although in reality she knew she was grasping at straws. Still, someone with any sense of British fair play would’ve picked it up, riffled through it at most, then chased her down the street to return it.

  ‘What sort of deal do you think he’s going to offer?’ Emma said.

  ‘No idea. An awful one.’

  ‘OK, I am putting Lawyer Emma hat on. There are very few situations that can’t be turned to your advantage if you hold your nerve. This is a stage in the game, that’s all. Walk in there, see what he’s got to say and remember this is not life and death. The time may come when he’s at your mercy.’

  ‘Heh. Mmm. Thanks, Em.’

  There was a pause during which Emma looked as though she was working herself up to saying something.
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br />   ‘Have you spoken to Paul since you came down?’ Emma said, taking another sip of Delia’s drink. The thought of men being at Delia’s mercy, or not, had clearly turned her thoughts northwards.

  ‘No. He’s called me a few times but I haven’t called him back. I replied to a text and said things were OK.’

  Delia was avoiding Paul, she didn’t know what else to do. She had to wait until she was ready to deal with him, and if she was never ready, that was an answer in itself.

  ‘Did you tell him you’ve got this job?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  Emma looked at her and said nothing.

  ‘Top up – gin with a hint of tonic?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  Not for nothing was Emma a lawyer. Delia knew she perfectly understood the situation from that much information.

  Delia was still giving Paul ice and a slice of cold shoulder, but to tell him about the job was to suggest she was gone for good. And she wasn’t ready for that yet.

  ‘I’m off then, see you tomorrow,’ Delia said to Steph.

  ‘Have fun with your flat feet,’ Steph said, raising a palm, cheerily.

  Delia decided to cover Adam West with a doctor’s appointment, for a problem with fallen arches that might – but not, it was going to turn out – need a referral to a chiropractor. ‘From wearing these ballet shoes all the time,’ she said, unnecessarily, in the way of embroidering all lies.

  Delia hoped and prayed that Kurt didn’t see her with Adam – the only result of that would be an insta-sacking.

  In the bright summer sunshine, she scuttled into the caff under its awning, chin angled into chest, as furtively as someone having an affair. She wondered if Paul had ever taken Celine anywhere. She imagined him, hand on the small of Celine’s back as he ushered her through a doorway, eyes darting up and down the street as he followed her inside. Anger rose inside her at the thought that he’d taken her to dinner at any of ‘their’ places … but no. He wouldn’t have. Apart from anything else, the risk of discovery would be too great.

  The caff was a far cry from Balthazar – china plates of full Englishes with orange lakes of baked beans, bowls of toast and mugs brimming with brick-red tea. The air was alive with the waft of fresh buttery grease and the sound of sausages and bacon spitting and sizzling as they hit the pan.

  It was as if Adam West was unsubtly communicating: yesterday was for show, today we get real. Delia felt dislike, anger and fear in equal measures.

  Across the room, an unsmiling Adam raised a hand in a wave.

  He looked completely out of place in a stockbroker-pink shirt and Delia suddenly decided she hated blond men who wore pink shirts, especially in greasy spoons. Why couldn’t he be in his proper place, precipitating another banking crisis, rather than precipitating a Delia one?

  A white coffee was in front of him. No sign of file.

  ‘Tea? Coffee?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m fine, thanks,’ Delia said, tersely.

  Adam raised his eyebrows in an Oh, that’s how you’re playing it? way.

  ‘Can I have my belongings back, please?’

  Delia was itchy with nerves and hadn’t consciously decided on dispensing with all diplomacy. She simply couldn’t bear the anticipation of finding out what she was in for.

  ‘Yes. Eventually.’

  Adam West’s blond hair, blue eyes and chiselled sort of evil would see him work nicely if cast as a Nazi, Delia thought.

  Also, on reflection, Delia decided he had not one feature that was particularly distinctive or appealing. They all simply hung together in a way that technically ‘worked’. He wasn’t attractive, as such. He was blandly, boringly competent at having a face.

  ‘What does that mean?’ she said, returning to the situation at hand.

  ‘It means I want something in return.’

  Delia glowered fiercely and Adam let go a contemptuous bark of a laugh.

  ‘Oh, come on! As if you wouldn’t use this if our positions were reversed.’

  Confusingly, Delia wouldn’t. She also knew it wasn’t in her interests to hammer the point home that she was a fish out of water. Getting a midget reporter to hop round a maypole was starting to feel distinctly tame.

  She had an uneasy sense that Adam heard her thoughts.

  ‘Exactly how much do you know about your employer?’ he said.

  Delia hesitated. Since yesterday, she’d been on the back foot in this dance more times than a ginger Ginger Rogers. She shrugged.

  ‘He’s from Canberra, he does personal and consumer PR. He’s divorced …’

  ‘I meant his other business interests.’

  ‘I work for Twist & Shout. What’s this got to do with anything?’

  ‘Once again, not exactly done a deep-carpet clean on the internet have you?’ Adam said.

  Delia shook her head, reluctantly. She’d looked Kurt up, but had seen nothing startling. LinkedIn, trade press articles, affiliations with some of the big firms.

  ‘Then it falls to me to tell you what kind of man your boss is. You know when you get those “please help, send cash” emails from abroad, with sob stories about very very sad situations involving “knived robber bandits”? The crooks that always take wallets but never passports, for some reason? You’d be better off responding to one of those than a press release from Kurt Spicer.’

  Delia feigned eye-rolling contempt, while her skin prickled.

  ‘PR man in Not Somalian Aid Worker shocker,’ she said. In order to fight fire with fire, Adam West made her talk like him. Another reason to loathe him.

  ‘Much as I dislike your trade, I recognise some PR shills are better – or worse – than others. Kurt Spicer is an Olympic sprinter in the race to the bottom. He’s a blagger and a bullshitter and someone who will bend truth till it snaps. Or a liar, in old money,’ Adam said, sitting back, fiddling with his spoon and surveying Delia’s reaction to this.

  Delia remembered what Kurt said about Adam being nothing but trouble. Adam, who was holding her to ransom.

  ‘You’re doing a hatchet job on Kurt?’ Delia said.

  ‘Hatchet job’s very value-laden language. I prefer “exposé”.’

  ‘Exposé of what? PR firms pull strings to get coverage? I think that might be less of a surprise to people than you think.’

  ‘Yes, thanks.’ Adam West pulled a face. He obviously didn’t like being hit with the patronising stick in return. ‘It’s looking at the problems with modern media through the progress of one person. You know, the whole world on the head of a pin. Or a pinhead, in this case.’

  ‘Maybe the public aren’t very interested in press shenanigans,’ Delia said, thinking that would’ve been a stronger observation without the word shenanigans. ‘All the backroom bargaining that goes on.’

  Adam shrugged.

  ‘Maybe not. But I bet the same was said of phone hacking, or MPs’ expenses. The main thing is, put the truth in front of people, then they can make up their own minds. That’s the only obligation of journalism as I see it.’

  ‘The truth as you see it.’

  ‘No, the truth. Facts. Not spoon feeding them confected nonsense like fat babies trapped in high chairs who deserve no better than pre-chewed pulp.’

  ‘The truth, well known to be on every page of those red-top tabloids you worked for,’ Delia said.

  ‘Ah, but I’m not writing for them any more.’

  ‘What do you want from me? I’m new. I don’t know any dirt.’

  ‘Now that I’m prepared to believe,’ Adam said, with a tip of his head. ‘But, you will find out more. My deal is this: I’ll return your file. You meet me every so often and give me the information I request on particular clients. Wait for the bat signal in the night sky.’

  Delia turned this proposition over.

  ‘You want me to be a … double agent?’

  ‘Precisely.’

  Adam reached down and produced the file from his briefcase, pushing it across the table at her.

>   ‘There you go.’

  ‘How do I know you haven’t photocopied the contents?’

  Adam laughed out loud, showing white teeth in his Nazi commandant head.

  ‘I have! Dear oh dear, you’re a proper greenhorn, aren’t you?’

  ‘Then what’s the value in you giving it back?!’ Delia near-shrieked at him.

  ‘You have your file, I don’t dob you in with Spicer for mislaying it. If it all pans out for you, there’ll be nothing I write that can be traced back to my having seen it.’

  Great. Very reassuring. Delia stuffed it into her bag.

  ‘What if I say no?’

  ‘Then I call Kurt and say you left it with me, and I imagine you’d be out of a job. Are you irreplaceable? Sorry to be frank, but you don’t seem it.’

  Delia twitched with hatred.

  ‘Consider this, however – I’ve no motive in losing you your job while you’re useful.’

  ‘A huge comfort.’

  ‘With that in mind, you might want to give me your personal email address. And if you haven’t already, I’d delete the messages we’ve sent so far. Kurt will be a snooper.’

  Adam pushed his notepad and pen over to Delia. She could refuse. But he was right, using her work email would imperil her, not him.

  ‘Thanks for the advice,’ Delia said, as she scrawled, resentfully. ‘Perhaps you can tell me how to wipe my arse too. Is it front to back or back to front?’

  Delia surprised herself with how crude that was and realised she was scared, and it made her judgement wobbly.

  ‘I’ll leave that to your discretion,’ Adam beamed.

  It was pointless trying to be nasty. It only made him happier. He had her in a cage and she could jump up and down all she liked; it was just further entertainment for her captor.

  ‘Can I ask you something? Why were you calling up trying to speak to Kurt when you knew he wouldn’t talk to you?’

  ‘I knew I wouldn’t get Kurt, he doesn’t answer his own landline. I got your Scouse friend before you, she took a message for him. Luckily, you were more helpful.’

  Great. Delia had eagerly walked into this trap.

  She knew there was only one card left to play. It was humiliating and antediluvian, and appealing to someone’s humanity was pretty pointless when they appeared to have none. Delia was firmly in ‘can’t get any worse’ territory.