by Sue Margolis
“Amy who?”
“Walker. You remember my school lunches story … the one you got Jamie Oliver to do instead of me.”
“Oh, yeah. Hi …”
“Look, I’ve uncovered an amazing story, but I’d rather not discuss it on the phone.”
“Okay, but I’ve got some lunch thing with Kylie Minogue, would you believe, at one.” She made it sound like she was being forced to attend a local council refuse committee meeting.
“I’ll be there at twelve.”
AMY ARRIVED ten minutes early. One of the news desk interns, a pretty, studious-looking girl called Ellie, was dispatched to collect her from reception. She took her up to the third floor and led her into the newsroom. This was a large, noisy open-plan office with journalists on the phone scribbling notes while others sat drinking coffee with their feet up. Two or three, no more, were sitting in front of their computer screens, bashing away at their keyboards as if their careers depended on it.
Ellie pointed out Boadicea, and the two said their goodbyes.
Boadicea, a tall, rather lumpy twenty-something in a baggy beige shift that looked like it had been left over from the Peasants’ Revolt but probably cost five hundred quid at Harvey Nichols, was on the phone. From time to time she drew on a dummy cigarette. A couple of nicotine patches were hanging off her upper arm.
Not wishing to eavesdrop, Amy kept her distance. Boadicea caught sight of her and beckoned her over.
“Amy?” she said, covering the phone mouthpiece with her hand.
Amy nodded.
“Be with you in a sec. I’m hanging for somebody at Kabbalah Centre. There’s a rumor that Madonna’s been trying to recruit Sarah Palin.” She suggested that Amy go over to the coffee machine and help herself to “some of our lousy office cappuccino.”
When she returned, Boadicea was putting down the phone. “Ten minutes they kept me waiting, all for a ‘no comment.’” She invited Amy to sit down. “Right,” she said, taking a drag on her dummy cigarette. “Tell me what you’ve got.”
“I’ve found out why men are growing breasts.”
SHE WAS prepared to bet that Boadicea had never moved so fast in her life. Five minutes later, she was ushering Amy into the editor’s office. Roy Hargreaves, a short balding man in shirtsleeves, his pink silk tie at half-mast, was dwarfed by his giant walnut desk and black leather chair. The boss of The Daily Post, who had started out in life selling fruit and veg off a barrow in the East End before becoming a messenger boy at The Daily Express, was renowned for his lack of charm.
“This is Amy Walker,” Boadicea said. “She’s a freelancer.”
“Successful?” Roy Hargreaves demanded. “Do you make a living at it?”
Amy swallowed. “Not so far. I earn a living as a waitress … but I did work in PR for some years.”
Her afterthought didn’t manage to impress Hargreaves. He rolled his eyes and looked at Boadicea, as if to say, “Why are you wasting my time with this woman?”
“Roy, this really is a fantastic story. I think you need to hear what Amy has to say.”
“You’d better sit down,” he harrumphed, pointing at Amy with a Biro. He left Boadicea standing.
Finally he sat back in his chair and perused her over his specs. “So, what is this fantastic story of yours?”
“Okay, as you know, over the last few months thousands of men all over the world have started growing breasts. I know why.” She handed Hargreaves the lab report. He started reading. After a few moments, his face lit up. As he carried on studying the report, he started rubbing his hand over his chin. “Fuck me,” he said, chuckling. “This is fucking brilliant.” He looked at Amy. “What’s your name again?”
“Amy Walker.”
“Right, Amy Walker, this is what you do: First you get a quote from this Cavendish bloke. And we need a picture, so take a snapper with you. Your best bet is to wait outside the CremCo offices until he leaves. That way you catch him unaware. If you phone to make an appointment, you give him time to prepare a statement. Get back here when you’ve got something. We can hold the front page until ten for something this big. Okay, what are you waiting for?”
It was all she could do to stop herself from saluting and saying aye-aye.
The moment she left Roy Hargreaves’s office, Amy phoned Ruby to ask if she could hang on to Charlie until she got home. Ruby knew that she was trying to break into journalism, so when Amy told her she was working on a potentially huge story for The Daily Post, she didn’t hesitate to say that if it looked like Amy was going to be very late, Charlie could stay the night. “Ruby, I don’t know what to say. Thank you so much.”
THE CREMCO head office was in Manchester Square, off Oxford Street. The cab dropped Amy and Derek, the photographer, outside a white stucco villa that, judging by the brass plate, housed three or four different companies.
Derek—built like a bouncer, ancient blouson leather jacket—said there was no way he was hanging around outside for hours on the off chance that “this Cavendish geezer” might appear. West Ham was playing Real Madrid tonight, and he had booked a front-row seat in front of the telly.
“Somehow,” he said, “you need to get into this bloke’s office. How’s about I create a diversion at reception while you get in the lift?”
“But if I confront Cavendish inside the building, you won’t get your picture.”
“Maybe you could work out some way to lure him into the street.”
Amy laughed. “Right. How on earth am I going to do that?”
“I dunno. Look, I can get you into the office. The rest is up to you. If we don’t get the snap, so be it.”
It couldn’t have been easier. Derek hid his camera in a plastic carrier and ambled into the CremCo reception area. He took up a position in front of the desk and started ranting and raving about how Michael Jackson was living with Elvis and Marilyn in a cellar in Graceland and that they would all reveal themselves once the human race gave up eating protein. While the doorman and the chap at reception manhandled him off the premises, Amy slipped into the lift.
CremCo’s offices were on the second floor. Double doors led in from the hallway.
Inside there was a second reception desk. Another barrier to get through. A young woman looked up at Amy and smiled a greeting. Amy couldn’t think of anything to say other than: “Hello, Amy Walker for Mr. Cavendish.”
The woman consulted her clipboard. “I’m afraid you’re not on the list.”
“Really? Well, reception downstairs had me on their list.”
“Okay, just let me check with Mr. Cavendish’s secretary.” She picked up the phone. “I have a Ms. Walker here for Mr. C … No, she’s not on my list either.” The receptionist turned back to Amy. “I’m sorry. We have no record of an appointment. What was it regarding?”
“Look, don’t worry. If I’m not on the list, I’m not. I’ll make another appointment.” There was nothing she could do. She’d messed up because it hadn’t occurred to her that there would be another reception desk. She would have to go back onto the street and wait for Cavendish to leave the building. Derek was not going to be happy.
She realized she needed to pee. “Excuse me,” she said to the receptionist, “is there a ladies on this floor?”
“Round the corner, first door on the left.”
As Amy stood washing her hands in the ladies, one of the ceiling spotlights started to fizz. She turned her head toward the flickering bulb. It was then that she noticed the smoke detector.
The thought came to her in an instant. If anything was guaranteed to get Hugh Cavendish out of his office and into the street, it was a fire, or at least the threat of one. Her eyes went to the paper towel dispenser. She would set a load of towels alight in one of the waste bins. But what if it all went wrong and she started a real fire? She thought back to Charlie and the kitchen and how little it had taken to start a blaze. What if she hurt herself, killed herself even, and left Charlie without a mother? No, she couldn’t r
isk it. It was far too dangerous.
On the other hand … She found herself rooting around in her bag. She knew she had some matches. She’d bought them to light Arthur’s birthday candles in case Victoria forgot, which of course she didn’t.
Hands shaking, she pulled a load of paper towels out of the dispenser and placed them in the metal waste bin. She put it down on the floor and struck a match. She broke the first one without it lighting. The same thing happened the second time. The third lit up. She dropped the match into the waste bin. One of the towels caught fire. Then the rest burst into flames. She picked up the bin and held it under the smoke detector. Nothing happened. “Come on. Come on.” Still nothing. Seconds went by. Then … Bingo. The earsplitting whistling sound began. She carried on holding the waste bin. If she pulled it away, the alarm would stop. The metal was starting to get hot now, but she had to give it a minute or two. Once the building’s main fire alarm began and people started leaving their offices, she could put the bin down and extinguish the flames. She prayed that nobody would come into the ladies and find her. A minute or so went by. The ringing of the main fire alarm began. Yes. She could hear shouting and activity outside. People were being told to make their way to the exits.
She doused the fire with soaking-wet paper towels. Then she put her foot inside the bin and stamped on the black sodden mush. She looked for the faintest sign of a spark. There was none. Now she could leave.
She opened the door and slipped out. A line of people went by, presumably making their way to the stairs. Then she spotted Hugh Cavendish. He was carrying his briefcase and some files. He didn’t seem remotely concerned by what was going on and was talking animatedly to some male colleagues. If she had been asked to describe his behavior, she would have said he looked rather merry, as if he had just returned from a boozy lunch.
She fell in behind some of the CremCo staff and followed them to the stairs. All the time she had Cavendish and his friends in her sights. The stairway was packed, but everybody was moving quickly. There wasn’t the remotest panic. People were chatting away, clearly assuming it was a drill or false alarm.
Finally they reached the reception area. The uniformed guard was directing everybody onto the street. Amy beckoned to Derek. He came lumbering toward her.
“That’s him,” she whispered, jerking her head in Cavendish’s direction.
“Clever girl—you set off the fire alarm. I knew you’d think of something.” He reached for his Nikon.
“No, wait,” Amy said. “Maybe you shouldn’t start taking photographs until I’ve got a quote out of Cavendish. If he sees you, he might get scared and make a run for it.”
Derek nodded his agreement.
Amy made her way toward her prey, who was still chatting to his friends.
“Hello, Mr. Cavendish.”
Cavendish turned toward her and blinked. “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage.” His speech was slurred. She was in no doubt that he had downed a few too many over lunch.
“Amy Walker. We met at the Caffeineissimo launch party.”
He thought for a moment. Then he raised an eyebrow. “Ah, yes. Amy Walker. I remember you. Did you manage to find the ladies?”
“Yes.” It was quicker to lie.
“Jolly good. And I hope you enjoyed your goody bag. I know how you hacks love your freebies.”
“Yes, the comb holder was very nice. Most appreciated.”
“Excellent. Excellent.”
Cavendish’s drunken associates roared at this. “Bloody hell, Huge,” one of them said, “you cheap bastard. Did you really send them packing with comb holders?”
“They were real suede,” Cavendish retorted. “What’s wrong with that? Everybody’s having to cut back these days.” He turned to Amy. “Now, what can I do for you, young lady?”
“Mr. Cavendish, it may surprise you to know that I have had Crema Crema Crema coffee beans analyzed at food laboratories in London and New York. Were you aware that the beans contain high levels of a chemical called Texapene?”
“Nope. Never heard of it.”
“In that case, let me tell you a bit about it.”
She told him what the lab technician had told her. “When the test subjects started to grow breasts, Texapene was banned and never used again … until now, it would seem. Would you care to comment?”
“No, I bloody wouldn’t,” Cavendish barked. “Other than to say you print one bloody word in whichever scumbag tabloid you work for and you’ll be hearing from my lawyers.”
One of Cavendish’s friends seemed particularly drunk. He was swaying back and forth, barely able to keep upright. “Aha, she’s got you banged to rights now, hasn’t she, Huge? How you going to get out of this one? Bloody hilarious, if you ask me. They’re going to lock you in the slammer, old man, and throw away the key.”
“Austin, shut the fuck up!”
“Donchew tell me whadado. I’m not one of your lackeys, you know.”
“And your full name is?” Amy asked Austin.
“Austin Heathcote-Nugent, old school friend of Hugh’s. Run a petrochemical company in Venezuela.”
“Really?”
“Austin. What is this? You’re not just ruining me, you’re ruining yourself.”
Austin was swaying now. “Stop telling me what to do,” he bellowed at Cavendish. “You were always doing it at school. Well, you can fuck off.” He turned back to Amy. “I was the one who told old Huge about Texapene, you know. Read about it. Thought it couldn’t harm anything to give it another go. And the coffee growers agreed because they would sell more and make more money. Total win-win situation.”
“Not quite win-win for the consumer, though, is it?” Amy said.
By then Cavendish was hitting Austin Heathcote-Nugent over the head with a cardboard folder. Despite his hand moving up and down at some speed, she could see it was clearly marked: Bean Machine.
All this time, Derek had been snapping away in the background.
“Thank you, squire,” he said. “I’ve got some great shots there.”
“And I appear to have all I need,” Amy said. “I think we’re done.”
When Amy got back to The Daily Post’s office, Boadicea gave her a wave and pointed to an empty desk next to hers. “Hanging for Madge’s people again,” she said. “Such an effing bore.” She dragged on her dummy cigarette. “So, did you get a quote?”
“Oh, yes,” Amy said, smiling. “Actually, I got several.”
She sat down and turned on the computer and Googled “CremCo.” There was loads about Crema Crema Crema but very little came up about the company itself. On a whim she tried “Bean Machine parent company.” Bingo. CremCo turned out to be a subsidiary of Bean Machine!
“Now, then,” she muttered. “Why isn’t Bean Machine paying its bills?”
She spent half an hour trawling through LexisNexis and Factiva, the newspaper archive services, trying to find articles on CremCo and Bean Machine. She suspected that one or both were in financial difficulties, but she needed to make sure. She found a small piece from The Financial Times, which had appeared in February, saying that Bean Machine shares had been dipping in value. It had been expanding too fast into China and the Far East. Though expats there could afford three dollars for a cup of coffee, the locals couldn’t. What was more, they didn’t much care for coffee.
According to the article, the company now saw CremCo and Crema Crema Crema as its life raft. But the directors had ignored advice to turn it into a mass-market brand and sell it at an affordable price. The article predicted that sales to the rich and wealthy wouldn’t be enough to keep CremCo going and, as a result, the future of both companies was in the balance.
She e-mailed Brian, sending him the relevant links:
PRETTY SURE THAT IF WE BRING CREMCO DOWN, BEAN MACHINE GOES, TOO. THEY’RE RELATED! PS—COULD YOU DO ME A FAVOR? WOULD YOU PHONE AROUND AND TELL EVERYBODY, ESP MY MUM AND DAD, TO BUY DAILY POST TOMORROW?.
Then she created a new doc
ument, called it “CremCo moobs,” and started writing:
An exclusive coffee brand has been identified by scientists as the cause of a worldwide epidemic of potentially life-threatening breast growth in men, The Daily Post can reveal.
Researchers at food laboratories in Britain and the United States have discovered that the £50-a-pound Crema Crema Crema contains Texapene, a chemical that acts like the female hormone estrogen.
Crema Crema Crema is sold by a subsidiary of troubled coffee giant Bean Machine and drunk by hundreds of thousands of coffee lovers, including leading celebrities.
After half an hour or so, Roy Hargreaves appeared and began reading over her shoulder. “Not bad. Not … bad. But that para would work better higher up … and okay, down here, why don’t we say …”
Amy started to cut and paste and make the changes. Meanwhile, Roy Hargreaves strolled up and down, drinking coffee out of a mug that said “Drink caffeine: You can sleep when you’re dead.” After a while he was reading over her shoulder again. He started to chuckle. “Fan-fucking-tastic. We have so nailed those bastards.”
In the middle of it all, Boadicea, her manner verging on animated, came over to say she had managed to get quotes from the Department of Health, and the FDA in America, to indicate that if CCC was proved to contain Texapene, they would ban it immediately.
By nine o’clock, the piece was finished. Amy and Boadicea were having a cup of coffee before calling it a night, when Roy Hargreaves called Amy into his office. As soon as she walked in, he offered her a smile and invited her to sit down.
“I just want to congratulate you. You just wrote a fucking brilliant piece on an extremely tight deadline. You should be proud of yourself.”
Amy felt herself color as she thanked him.
“Okay, I’m not going to beat about the bush. I want to offer you a staff job. I have a team of two shit-hot roving investigative reporters, and I need a third—”
Amy stopped him. “Look, before you go on, don’t think for a second that I’m not grateful for the offer, but I couldn’t possibly take a staff job. I’m a single parent with a six-year-old child, and I need to be around for him. My plan was always to freelance.”
