by Isabel Wolff
‘But…that’s illegal.’
‘No. How many times when you phone a business do you hear the automated voice telling you that the call may be recorded for training purposes etcetera?’
I felt my jaw open, then close, in impotent, mute protest. ‘But the point is they tell you that first. You know you’re being recorded. They don’t record the conversation covertly, like you did, Darren, like some fifth rate little spy.’
‘Insult me if you like,’ he said airily, ‘but what I did isn’t illegal.’
‘But it is unethical. How…low.‘
‘I always record. I recorded everything you said.’
‘No you didn’t. Your machine was switched off for the first twenty minutes of the interview. Then you turned it on. I saw you do it.’
‘I recorded everything,‘ he repeated. ‘So that there could be no dispute later.’
‘But I don’t…understand, I…Oh…I see,’ I said quietly. ‘You had another tape recorder running.’ There was silence. ‘In your pocket or your bag. How…underhand.‘ He didn’t reply. ‘But the first part of our conversation was off the record. We discussed it and you assured me that it was off the record, remember?’
‘There is no such thing as “off the record”,’ he said pleasantly.
I felt my mouth gape. ‘If you have any integrity there is. And I repeat that I did not say that I am “difficult and demanding”—I said that that was one of the tabloid lies. Nor did I say…’ I stabbed the paper with my finger ‘…that “I treated Nick badly…I hurt him…” etcetera…I said that that is what the tabloids had tried to imply. But you deliberately attributed those quotes to me to…to…make out that I blame myself for my husband leaving. I do not.’
‘But you do blame yourself. Don’t you?’
‘No, I don’t, I don’t. I—’
‘It was obvious to me that you do. I could see how uncomfortable you were with that question so it was my duty, as a journalist, to report that. I’m sorry you’re disappointed with the piece but, as we’re both busy people, may I suggest this concludes our conversation?’
‘No Darren, you may not, because I haven’t fin—’
But the receiver had already gone down.
My attempt to set the record straight had left it as twisted as a bagful of snakes. How naïve I’d been to think that I’d be better off talking to a broadsheet newspaper than a tabloid. It had been far, far worse.
‘The News of the World would have behaved more decently,’ I said to Hope when I finally managed to speak to her on her mobile, late that afternoon.
‘Quite possibly,’ she replied. ‘But the piece was so vile, it was obvious that this Darren…Sillyarse, or whatever his name is, had an agenda against you. And it was quite clear he’d taken everything out of context because none of your so-called “quotes” were longer than three words—you could see his saw marks all over them. It was crap journalism.’ In the background I could hear traffic. I wondered where she was.
‘You only noticed that because you’re in PR. Most people who read it will think I did say those things.’ I felt sick as I thought of it again. ‘I haven’t eaten since Sunday. I’ve hardly slept. I’ve had to send flowers to my neighbours and letters of apology to Anne Robinson, Jeremy Paxman and Robert Robinson, God help me.’
‘Sillitoe’s an earthworm,’ Hope said.
‘Wrong. An earthworm has ten hearts—he has none. I mean, there he was, sitting in my flat being pleasant to me, while I fixed him coffee with cream—he actually asked for cream, can you believe—and chocolate biscuits—he asked for those too—knowing, all the time, that his second tape recorder was quietly whirring away.’
‘It’s vile,’ Hope repeated. ‘Pure entrapment and deliberate misrepresentation. So. Are you going to take action of any kind?’ She was slightly out of breath now, as though she was hurrying to get somewhere.
I groaned. ‘I don’t know. I’ve taken advice from Channel Four but it’s very difficult. This is what newspapers rely on because they know that most people won’t sue because the costs are so high and the damages so low. Not to mention the stress. And if you start something, and then drop it, that becomes the story: “Quiz Presenter Drops Libel Action—Semaphore vindicated”.’
‘But I’d say you’d have a very good case.’ She lowered her voice. ‘I mean, that awful bit where he made out that it was your fault that Nick went missing and that you’d basically caused his breakdown—that’s your libel, isn’t it?’
‘Hm.’
‘Although…’
‘Although what?’
‘Well I suppose in order to refute it in court, you’d have to have a statement from Nick to say it wasn’t true.’
‘Yes, I…suppose I would.’
‘And let’s face it, you’re not going to get that are you?’
I stiffened. ‘Why not?’
‘Well…because Nick isn’t around.’
I sighed with relief. I hadn’t been thinking straight. ‘Of course.’
‘But you should discuss what to do with Tom.’
‘I can’t—he came back from Cannes on Friday, then he had to go to Montreal for a few days for his Dad’s seventieth and I don’t want to bother him with it when he’s on leave.’
‘Anyway, can we talk about this another time, Laura? I’ve got to turn off my mobile now.’
‘Where are you then? At the tube?’
‘No. St Thomas’s.’
‘Really? Why? What are you doing?’
‘I’m meeting Mike here.’
I glanced at my watch. ‘But it’s only 6.30. He doesn’t finish until nine.’
‘I’m doing the cuddling programme with him.’
‘You are?’
‘They vetted me last week. I start tonight.’
‘Gosh—that’s nice.’
‘Well…regardless of what’s happening with Mike and me, I decided I’d like to do it too.’
‘That’s good. But…why?’
‘To…I don’t know…keep him company, I suppose. He’s walking a new baby tonight—a little boy. And then I don’t do enough for other people. I give money to charity and all that,’ she added. ‘I go to lots of fund-raising events—but I’ve never done anything hands-on, have I?’
‘Well, cuddling a baby is about as hands-on as it gets.’
‘And it’s so easy, Laura. Just walking up and down with a little baby for a couple of hours. The poor little things,’ she added. ‘The poor little…’ I heard her voice catch. ‘It’s so awful to think of them suffering like that before their lives have even started.’
‘Yes it is—but at least they do get well. But it’s wonderful that you’re doing it too.’
‘You know what my real reason is though, don’t you?’
‘Erm. No.’
‘Can’t you guess?’
‘Well…’
‘My real reason…’
‘Yes?’
‘Is that I see it as my penance, for having been such a suspicious cow.’
‘Oh.’ I felt disappointed. ‘I see.’
‘Poor Mike,’ I heard her say.
‘But he was behaving suspiciously. He didn’t tell you what he was doing—and you couldn’t have guessed.’
‘That’s true. Anyway I’d better get up there, Laura. I don’t want to be late on my first evening. Chin up. And try not to worry about the Semaphore—the whole thing just looked fishy—and I imagine you’re getting lots of support from Luke.’
Luke was being supportive, up to a point. He was outraged by Darren’s piece, but apart from expressing the desire to tear him limb from limb he didn’t talk about it much because he was worrying about his trip to Venice. He was convinced that Magda would try to kibosh it at the last minute.
‘I can just imagine what she’ll do,’ he said as he sketched me sitting in his tiny conservatory the next afternoon. ‘Keep still, will you?’
‘Sorry.’ I could hear the soft scrape of his pencil across the pad.
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‘The day before we’re due to leave, she’ll say that she thinks it’s a bad idea for Jessica to go, or she’ll suddenly remember something she’d got planned for her here—or she’ll decide that Jessica’s not well enough, or she’ll pretend she can’t find her passport. Please don’t fidget. And can you relax your features a bit?’
‘No, I can’t. I’ve had too much stress. I feel as though my face has been reverse-Botoxed into a permanent frown.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
‘I’m sure Magda will be fine,’ I went on. ‘Things are obviously going well with Steve which is why she’s behaving in such a benign way.’
She still phoned Luke fifty times a day, but the difference now was that most of her calls were to have cosy little chats with him, rather than to rant.
‘Give me a rrrrink,’ we’d hear her say, very sweetly, on the answerphone. ‘I’d love to have a little word with you, Lukey…’
So he would dutifully phone back, and she’d ask him whatever it was, but although she was being reasonable, she couldn’t resist turning the conversation round to how happy she was with Steve, and how well it was going, and how attractive, reliable and charming to goats he was etcetera, etcetera. Luke habitually had the phone on speaker, so I always got to hear.
‘Steve is such a kind man,’ she’d say. ‘I feel I’ve really fallen on my feet—at last.’
‘I’m so glad you’re happy,’ Luke would say calmly.
‘Oh I am thank you Luke. I’m very happy. Steve’s a wonderful man.’
‘I’m delighted to know that, Magda,’ he’d say. ‘You deserve no less and I couldn’t be happier for you.’
‘He’s invited me to his mother’s wedding.’
‘How nice,’ he said indolently.
‘It’s next weekend.’
‘Oh. Well that is good news,’ he said, suddenly brightening. ‘Next weekend, did you say?’
‘Yes. There’s going to be a huge family party on the Saturday night—black tie.’
As Luke put the phone down he grinned. ‘Great. That means she won’t monkey about with my trip to Venice. Steve, I love you too,’ he smirked. ‘You gorgeous man, you.’
‘And where in Venice will you stay?’
‘At the Hotel Danieli. It’s a restored palace near St Mark’s Square.’
‘How lovely. So have you stayed there before?’
There was a flicker of hesitation. ‘I have actually.’
‘When?’
‘On our honeymoon.’
‘I see. So you must have happy memories of it.’
‘Well, we were happy then, that’s true. Not that it lasted long,’ he added balefully. ‘Anyway, it’s a beautiful hotel—very expensive, but I want to spoil Jess.’
‘It sounds blissful,’ I said wistfully. I glanced at his sketch of me. I looked sad and anxious.
‘I wish you were coming too, Laura, but it’ll be my first holiday with Jess on my own.’
‘It’s okay. You don’t have to explain.’
‘But we will go on holiday together soon. After Venice everything will change. And as Magda’s talking about taking Jessica away in the summer with her and Steve, she can hardly object to my doing the same with you can she?’
‘No—but she probably will.’
‘We’ll go somewhere lovely,’ he went on happily. ‘Maybe Crete. Would you like that?’
‘No,’ I said. He looked surprised. ‘I mean yes—but not Crete.’
‘What have you got against Crete?’
‘That’s where Nick and I had our last holiday.’
‘Oh I see. Bad vibes then?’
‘Sad vibes. That’s when we were last happy.’ And with good reason. But within a month everything had changed. His father fell ill, and then died, and from then on things spiralled downwards, culminating in our nightmare before Christmas, and its continuing aftermath.
‘How about Corsica?’ I heard Luke say.
That Friday, Tom returned from Canada—his black eye now faded to a lemony yellow—and filed a formal complaint about Darren Sillitoe to the Press Complaints Commission.
‘Paragraph Ten of the PCC Code forbids the covert use of “clandestine listening devices,”‘ he said, showing me a copy of the letter. ‘So I’ve based the complaint on that.’
‘And what about the deliberate inaccuracies?’
‘That’s harder.’
‘But they were outrageous.’
‘I know. But the Code allows the selection of the material for publication to be a matter of “editorial discretion”. I’m sorry I encouraged you to do the interview now,’ he added. ‘But none of us could have known.’
Except Cynthia, I thought ruefully.
‘What about his e-mail saying I’d have copy approval?’
‘I asked the Channel Four lawyers about that and apparently it’s not enforceable—there are ways round it.’
‘I see. But he’s defamed me, Tom.’
‘Yes. But do you really want to start legal action? It would inevitably focus on your marriage, Laura. Who of us would want that?’
‘He’s libelled me, Tom. He’s reduced my standing in the eyes of others.’
‘You may have to live with the injustice of it. I’ll do my best to get some sort of apology through the PCC, but don’t even think about litigation because you will end up bankrupt—and stark, staring mad. Any kind of legal proceedings are just…awful,’ he added. He was obviously thinking of his divorce. ‘Anyway, can I change the subject, Laura, because there’s something very serious I need to ask you…’
‘Really? What?’
He swung a book of carpet samples on to his desk. ‘Which
one of these do you like? The refurb’s being done next weekend, so we’ve got to choose today. They’re all in stock, apparently, but you can decide.’
I flipped them over, then stopped at a green speckly one.
‘This one,’ I said. ‘Green’s restful—which is exactly what I need after all the shite I’ve had to deal with.’
‘Okay—and here are the paint cards.’ I flicked through the colour tiles, held them up to the scuffed-looking walls and picked out something complimentary. ‘This guy I know, Arnie, is going to do it,’ Tom went on. ‘He’s given me a good price, but he’s incredibly busy, so he wants to get it done on the bank holiday Monday. Dylan and I are going to shift the stuff the day before.’
‘And how was Canada?’
‘It was okay,’ he said absently. ‘Stressful though.’
I wondered why. Perhaps he’d seen his little boy and it had disturbed him—or perhaps he’d wanted to see him, and his exwife hadn’t let him. I was curious, but couldn’t possibly ask. Although he’d confided in me about Gina, his failed marriage has always been off limits. Not that I’d have known what to say. Sorry to hear you’ve left your newly delivered wife for another woman, Tom. Sorry to hear that you’ve let down your baby son. Sorry to know that you won’t get to see much of him now, if anything. Sorry that you really screwed up.
‘How’s Luke?’ he said suddenly.
‘Oh…he’s fine.’
‘And the ex? How’s she?’
‘Okay. Things are going well with her man at the moment, so that’s good news for us.’
Later that night, as Luke and I were watching Channel Four News, the phone went.
‘Luke?’ I heard Magda sniff. The loudspeaker was on, as usual.
‘Hi,’ he replied. ‘I was just about to call you, to say goodnight to Jess.’ We heard another sniff. ‘You sound as though you’ve got a bit of a cold there.’
‘Uh-uh-uh…’
‘Magda?’ She didn’t have a cold. She was crying. ‘What’s the matter, Magda?’
There was a stifled sob. ‘Oh Go-od-od,’ she said. ‘It’s so—uh-uh—awful.’
‘What is?’ said Luke.
‘Somethink terrible’s happened.’
‘Jessica?’
‘No, no, no, nothing to do with Jessica,’<
br />
Luke clapped hand to his chest. ‘What then?’ He was blinking in bewilderment.
‘It’s just so terrible. Borzasztó Szörnyen. It’s Steve uh-uh…’
‘What’s happened?’
‘Uh-uh-uh-uh…Borzasztó,’ she gasped.
‘What’s happened to him?’
‘Uh-uh-uh. I can’t say it. Ki nem. I can’t.’
‘Will you please just tell me, Magda.’
‘Steve’s d—uh-uh-uh.’
He’s dead, I thought, with an equanimity which surprised me. She’s trying to say the words, ‘Steve’s dead’, and she can’t. I had visions of him plastered all over the M25 or perhaps he’d been trampled to death by Yogi. I braced myself.
‘Steve’s d-d-d—uh-uh-uh—d-d-d…’
‘Dead?’ whispered Luke, horror twisting his features. ‘Are you saying that Steve’s dead?’
‘No! I wish he was! Steve’s d-d-d—dumped me!’ she wailed.
THIRTEEN
‘It couldn’t have come at a worse time,’ Luke groaned, when he put the phone down an hour later. ‘Why the hell did he have to do it now?’
I mentally replayed the conversation in my head. Magda had said she’d just been to Harvey Nichols to buy something to wear for his mother’s wedding, and how she’d spent £200 on a new dress; and how she’d been on her way back to Chiswick in a cab, when Steve had called her.
‘So I began tellink him about the new frock I’d just bought,’ she’d explained between teary gasps. ‘And about how much I was lookink forward to meetink his family and about the—uh-uh-uh—lovely present I’d got for his mum. Then therewas this awkward pause, and he said that he was very sorry—uh-uh—but that he didn’t think I should—uh-uh-uh—go after all…’
‘How awful for you,’ Luke had said sympathetically. ‘So he invites you, then uninvites you. Why?’
‘He said—uh-uh—that he feels it would be unfair to introduce me to his entire fam-uh-uh-ily, when he doesn’t think it’s goink to work out.’
Poor Magda, I thought. Especially as she’d thought it was going so well.
‘And what reason, precisely, did he give?’ Luke asked, evincing all the indignation of an outraged father. I half expected to see him reach for a horsewhip.
‘He said—uh-uh—that he felt that we were—uh-uh—fundamentally incompatible. He said he found me very—uh-uh—attractive and charmink…’
