Exposé Page 3

  “But who are the other people on your ‘hit list’?”

  Adam smiled. “Suffice to say that, on the day of publication, each exposé will be uploaded to my website at 9pm.”

  “And whoever the story is about – they’ll find out by logging onto your website along with everyone else?”

  “No, no,” Adam responded, as though the presenter had suggested something completely unreasonable. “Just before the story goes live I will personally phone the man or woman whose private life is about to be exposed to let them know that it’s their turn. All in all, I think I’m being very fair.”

  Fiona sat alone in the kitchen sipping mineral water from a wine glass, the room dimly illuminated by the light above the stove. She had spoken to her parents and they had booked her train journey home for the next day. The house already felt strange again. It was someone else’s home. Fiona’s home was 400 miles north. Mr and Mrs Merroney had offered to stay but she wanted to be by herself, so they had poured Terry into their car and driven him back to their house for the night.

  At 11.30pm, Colin arrived. She heard him rattling at the front door, trying to get in, calling to her, begging her to let him explain. It went on for about 20 minutes. Then he started shouting angrily, but not at Fiona. There was someone else outside. She heard a man say, “Come on Colin, you know the routine, we’re only doing our job,” and then sarcastic laughter before Colin started shouting angrily again. Finally, she heard a car pull up, a taxi. She heard the boot slam, which would have been the taxi driver taking the suitcase of neatly folded clothes she had left for Colin on the door step. Just as she had whenever he went away on one of his assignments. And then a car door slammed, and the taxi drove away.

  Fiona hadn’t had the opportunity to mourn her marriage in secret, or to take a few days to privately deal with her husband’s adultery before choosing who, if anyone, she would confide in. Everyone had found out the same moment she did. She now knew Colin was not the man she was going to spend the rest of her life with. She would get up early the next day, pack her things and catch a train to Edinburgh. Her bizarre, unexpected London life had been a horrible mistake. It was time Fiona McCoy returned home.

  CHAPTER 2

  Best. #Newsnight. Ever.

  cannot be allowed to abuse his position and use his super-rich American ‘husband’ to bully the British media and get his revenge for the suicide of

  I hope @RealAdamJaymes will do the same for local papers too. The wankers at my local rag deserve a good kicking!

  “must not let reporters be frightened away from exposing hypocrisy”

  PLEASE tell me the staff at @TheEar aren’t REALLY expecting public sympathy #getreal #WellDoneAdamjaymes

  “but many will say to you, as the former chairman of the Press Complaints Commission, that Adam Jaymes would not have chosen this course of action if your organisation had done its job properly and”

  Hopefully that spiteful hag #ValeriePierce is next #WellDoneAdamjaymes

  I met Colin Merroney once. He was a complete cock. That is all. #WellDoneAdamjaymes

  “but can I just ask what legal protection the reporters at the Daily Ear actually have? Because it could be seen as the worst kind of hypocrisy if they seek injunctions against Adam Jaymes’ website when the tabloids have spent so much time attacking celebrities for trying to use the law”

  If you missed it, you can see @RealAdamJaymes SLAUGHTER Daily Ear reporter Colin Merroney on @BBCNewsnight on the BBC iPlayer

  “got exactly what he deserved, and that’s a taste of his own medicine”

  Colin Merroney was a total shag monster when he was young. He may not be tall, but is (famously) big where it counts #shortmansyndrome

  I may well be on Jaymes’ hit list, after all there is clearly no love lost between the two of us, especially after

  Gay men are so funny. Unless you piss them off. In which case they drag you onto @BBCNewsnight to publicly ruin your life

  While everyone’s slapping @RealAdamJaymes on the back, remember he destroyed two innocent families just to prove a point

  without a doubt, what is unpalatable to many in the media is the thought that Jaymes may be right. If a reporter sits as judge and jury on the private lives of the rich and famous

  I can’t believe I have to wait three days for @RealAdamJaymes to do his next exposé #WellDoneAdamjaymes

  Does anyone know what key I need to press to get a little accent above the second ‘e’ in expose? #WellDoneAdamjaymes

  “The BBC has denied any prior knowledge that Adam Jaymes was going to use his appearance on last night’s Newsnight to”

  Is @RealAdamJaymes trying to bankrupt Harvey Media International? I hear his ‘husband’ wants to buy a cheap media company #beingcynical

  #WhoWillBeNext?

  CHAPTER 3

  “I’ve always considered Adam Jaymes to be a fraud and a liar,” typed Valerie Pierce, fag ash spilling onto her keyboard. “Now it seems I can add the words ‘bully’ and ‘hypocrite’ to the list.” She drew on her cigarette and surveyed the scene of complete carnage that was playing out on the other side of her glass office wall. The Daily Ear newsroom appeared to be in meltdown.

  “I am telling you now, Felicity, that if anyone comes in here today to tell me I’m not allowed to smoke, I will stub out my cigarette on their face. I swear it. Right. On. Their. Face!” she spat, clearly spoiling for a fight. Valerie loathed Adam Jaymes at the best of times but his Newsnight victory had sent him straight to the top of her ‘most hated’ list for the day.

  “Oh, I don’t think you need worry about that,” Felicity replied. “Everyone’s too busy. You could probably start a small camp fire in here and no one would notice.”

  Valerie had taken a liking to Felicity which was unusual because, as a rule, she tended not to like the young. Felicity was an intern, an attractive black girl who always seemed to underplay her prettiness as though she didn’t want it noticed. She was smart and well-spoken and had been endlessly helpful with all sorts of tasks that Valerie couldn’t be bothered to do herself. She had just brought Valerie a morning coffee from Starbucks, and been invited to stay to keep her out of the way until things calmed down. They watched as lawyers, PR advisors and even a few rarely seen executives rushed in and out, while senior reporters argued in groups around the newsroom where the phones hadn’t stopped ringing since Newsnight.

  “They’re trying to form a company view on how we should cover this story,” Valerie said. “How the hell do you cover a story when you are the fucking story?”

  “Are you worried?” Felicity asked.

  “Should I be?” Valerie elegantly sat round and leaned across the back of her chair, blowing smoke as she spoke.

  Felicity nodded. “Well, it’s just that someone set up a poll on Facebook.”

  Valerie gave a ‘so what?’ shrug. She had a casual knowledge of social media and certainly had no interest in what it had to say about her.

  “And you are favourite to be next.”

  Valerie narrowed her eyes. “Do I owe you for the coffee?” she asked.

  “No, you’ve already given me the money.”

  “Of course, of course,” she said. “My memory’s shot to pieces these days.” She tapped the side of her forehead. “Too much going on in this old noggin. But nothing a good stroke wouldn’t sort out.”

  Felicity wasn’t quite sure how to respond but smiled and let out a little chuckle, assuming that’s what Valerie had wanted to hear. Valerie stood and walked slowly to the glass wall which overlooked the newsroom. She had recently turned 53, the age her mother had been when she had died. Valerie had written endlessly about this fact, and the traumatic journey she had travelled before, during and after her own 53rd birthday. A major part of this journey had been a decision to finally cut her long brown hair into a power bob. And whilst Valerie had concentrated on the emotionally charged narrative leading to that life-changing haircut, most other people had commented, more simply, on h
ow it framed her sharp features in a far more severe and unflattering way.

  She was wearing her favourite trouser suit which was purple, her signature colour. She’d bought it in the mid-eighties and was proud it still fitted all these years later without any alterations. Not only did she think it looked good, but it had been useful ammunition whenever she wrote a disparaging article about any fat women who dared to appear on television.

  “You got 47% of the vote,” Felicity revealed. There was silence and Felicity shuffled from foot to foot, waiting to see if she had crossed a line. She’d heard a story that two men once tried to mug Valerie on the underground, but ran off when she turned round and glared at them. Right now, she thought that story was probably true.

  “Only 47%?” Valerie said, with half a smile. “I’m disappointed.” She returned to her laptop, trying to ignore the blur of action in the newsroom and re-focus on her column. “Quite exciting for you though, eh Felicity?”, she said. “Being here, today, the morning after Adam Jaymes declared war on the Daily Ear. You’ll be able to eat out on this story for decades. Believe me, decades.”

  “Oh, no, no,” Felicity said. “I’m not going to gossip, honestly. That’s not what I’m like at all.”

  “Oh, it’s not gossip, dear. It’s a story. A great story that’s only just begun. And all caused by that man.” Valerie gestured with her cigarette hand to her computer screen, and the opinion piece she had started to write about Adam. “That man stands in judgement of all of us, but built his career on a big fat lie. He got legions of teenage girls to fall in love with him. He even had millions of mums tuning into Doctor Who each week on the promise he’d get his shirt off in every episode. And so he got to be rich and famous and adored, but the whole time he knew his public image was a complete falsehood. Until one day he moves into musical theatre where, let’s face it, pretty much every man is gay. And finally he admits it. ‘Hi girls, guess what? I’m a homosexual.’ That was unforgiveable.”

  “But some gay people do struggle for years to come to terms with – ”

  “Stop!” Valerie snapped and turned to face Felicity again. “I won’t have a word said in defence of that man this morning. Not. One. Word.”

  Felicity pursed her lips and gently nodded.

  Valerie knew Adam Jaymes was popular, but for the life of her could not see the appeal. Mums loved him, sci-fi geeks worshipped him and teenage girls fancied him. He’d even been voted most popular ‘bromance’ by the readers of FHM pushing David Beckham into second place and Johnny Depp into third. But it was the Daily Ear’s own readers who Valerie had found most exasperating, after voting Adam Jaymes the ‘world’s most beautiful man’ in a poll for the Ear’s Saturday magazine. Hadn’t they read their own newspaper? Didn’t they know they were supposed to despise Adam Jaymes, not fancy him?

  “You know the most disappointing thing about Adam Jaymes,” Valerie said, “is that he has never once spoken to me directly. He’s never asked for a meeting, or tried to call me, or even just sent me a letter or an email. The few conversations we’ve had have always been played out in public. I write something in my column; he responds in an interview with another newspaper. What sort of person behaves like that? And he always, always accuses me of ‘gutter journalism’.” She drew again on her cigarette. “Gutter journalism,” she hissed, “and this from a man whose idea of auditioning for a part is having his face jammed up against the wall of a public lavatory.”

  “Oh!” Felicity hadn’t meant to make a noise, but the poison spilling from Valerie’s mouth had caught her by surprise. She didn’t know how to respond to what had just been said.

  Valerie smiled. “Have I finally managed to shock you, Felicity? How else do you think a man with such a mediocre talent could get so far so quickly?”

  “I ... I ... well, no, but, it’s just that I don’t think there’s ever been any suggestion that he got any of his roles by doing that. Most people consider him extremely talented.”

  Valerie raised her shoulders. “But you never know, do you?” she said.

  Felicity quickly moved the conversation on by offering to help source some pictures for that week’s column, and Valerie gave her a list of images to research. “Now, I have to attend the morning meeting,” she announced. “Assuming there is still going to be a morning meeting.”

  Her heart pounding, Felicity left the office and closed the door behind her. Valerie began to look through some of the angry comments she had scribbled into her notebook the night before, after watching Colin Merroney’s life ripped to shreds on live TV. She had sent him a few texts, but not had a reply. She doubted she would hear from him for a while. “Adam Jaymes,” she said again, her lips curled with disgust.

  Secretly, Valerie was rather pleased to have a legitimate reason to write about Adam Jaymes again. She considered him a nemesis and had several old scores to settle. For Valerie, he personified everything that was wrong with modern Britain’s increasingly liberal attitudes towards non-traditional lifestyles. Even the Daily Ear’s own readers appeared less angry and more open-minded which had made Valerie feel increasingly out of step with them. But she considered that to be Adam Jaymes’ fault too.

  Several years earlier when he had issued his famous public statement confirming he was gay, Valerie had leapt gleefully onto the story and dedicated her entire column to it. With great fury she had demanded he hand back his numerous TV awards because, she claimed, ‘Tens of thousands of heartbroken female fans would not have paid good money to phone-vote for him if they’d known he was a closet homosexual’.

  She had fully expected her angry words to strike a chord with Middle England, but there followed an unexpected outpouring of love and support for Adam that resulted in the column getting a record number of complaints. Her attack on the actor was even debated in parliament. Leonard Twigg publicly supported Valerie but quickly dispatched her to Spain to “write a number of in-depth features about expats”. Worse still, he temporarily replaced her with an infuriatingly earnest, hand-wringing TV agony aunt who used Valerie’s own column to rip to pieces everything she had written about Adam Jaymes the week before. A month later, once the fuss had died down, Valerie returned to work and found she had been moved to a much smaller office, just off the main newsroom. It was Twigg’s silent way of letting her know his support only stretched so far.

  Valerie blamed Adam Jaymes for the whole affair, and one thing she certainly knew how to do was hold a grudge. And so when Adam was caught on a yacht with an American billionaire, she patiently watched events unfold and waited for her ‘in’. When it was confirmed the two had secretly married, Twigg instructed her to make it the focus of that week’s column. “Appear neutral, but give people a few negative points to think about,” he had said. “You know – make sure words like ‘marriage’, ‘wedding’ and ‘husband’ are all in apostrophes. I don’t care if it’s legal over there. It’s not legal over here. Yet.”

  But Valerie ignored the ‘be neutral’ directive and wrote a scathing article about Adam’s move to the States. ”What better way for an unexceptional individual like Adam Jaymes to promote his career in America than to marry one of its most famous and richest citizens? And does anyone really think he will give a moment’s thought to the fans he is abandoning? Yes, the British fans that were responsible for making him the success he is today? The words ‘drop’, ‘brick’ and ‘hot’ spring to mind!“ Surprisingly Twigg waved the column through and it was published with only a relatively small ripple of complaints. Valerie had been almost disappointed.

  She noticed Twigg standing in the newsroom, glaring at the scene of madness around him. He was a small man with a large head, always impeccably dressed. There was never a hair out of place, a stain on his collar or a crease in his shirt. And for a newspaper man he had a surprising dislike of the noise, rush and heat of a newsroom. He liked order, and quiet, and punctuality. He liked news to be researched, and measured, and considered, and precise.

  “Poor Leonard,
” murmured Valerie. “This must be like hell”.

  He looked over to her and then nodded towards his office. The morning meeting was about to begin.

  “Colin was one of our own. What happened to him hurt the whole business,” said Gayesh Perera, the short and portly chief executive of the Harvey News Group. None of the editorial staff knew him particularly well, as he was rarely seen around the office. But on this momentous day he had graciously cancelled all of his appointments and decided to take control of the morning meeting. “We need to think like the police do when one of them is shot. We have an officer down, and the threat is still out there.” He looked around the room, expecting his stolen words to have somehow rallied the assembled senior staff into action.

  But no one flinched. Everyone was looking at Twigg. Only Twigg’s opinion mattered. Their editor was seated at the end of the table, scribbling notes into his leather-bound pad. He was clearly not happy that Gayesh was at his morning meeting. He was even less happy that Gayesh was trying to position himself as chair. “Mmm, mmm,” was the only noise Twigg made, as though agreeing. Valerie was on his left and there was an empty chair to his right where Colin usually sat. The rest of the seats were taken by a mix of senior staff from different teams and departments. Felicity was at the back, taking the minutes.