The Honey Trap

Angel felt a small twinge of relief. He was probably lying, but if she could delude herself even ever so slightly, that was better than nothing.

‘And no offence, Princess, but you pays your money, you takes your choice. You didn’t have to shag him senseless, I said you could go. But if a job’s worth doing it’s worth doing thoroughly, eh?’ His mouth curved wickedly. ‘You know, that’s what I like about you, Blackthorne: you always see things through to the, er, bitter end.’

She winced with embarrassment. No one but her should know this much about her sex life – or, more usually, her lack of one.

‘I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m thrilled,’ Steve continued. ‘I got a much better story out of it thanks to you. You should get the horn more often.’

‘Okay, okay, so I didn’t have to bloody sleep with him,’ she growled back. ‘But you didn’t have to go into quite so much detail either! You were perfectly prepared to run a story based on nothing but a couple of staged photos the day before. And vice girl, Steve, seriously? What the hell was that all about?’

The editor shrugged. ‘Just sounds better, doesn’t it? The public loves a vice girl. Look, I kept your face out of it, didn’t I? You haven’t had Mummy and Daddy ringing up to ask why their little Angel’s gone on the game?’

She ignored that comment. ‘And what about the office? Even Savannah seems to know! I’ll never hear the end of it!’

Steve waved a dismissive, liver-spotted hand. ‘I wouldn’t worry about it, Blackthorne. You’ve not been here long, have you? Something like this happens every few months in this game. It’d make you blush, the things I could tell you about the staff on this paper. Jez in accounts has got a coke habit that must be putting his dealer’s kids through uni. One of our longest-serving sub-eds, sixty-four and due for retirement next year, is so addicted to high-class prozzies he’s had to mortgage his flat. Even your innocent-looking little mate out there, Lord bless her, has got her dirty secret. I caught Cal, the film critic, giving her one in the stationery cupboard last week.’

‘That’s not the point! The point is – what, seriously, Savannah and Cal? Him with the little bum-fluff moustache?’

‘The very same. Everyone’s on the ladder looking to get a leg up – or a leg over,’ Steve said with a leer. ‘See, lass? Nothing to worry about. You’re not the only one with something to be ashamed of around here. By next week no one will remember your little indiscretion, or whatever you want to call it.’

‘Fine, have it your way then, you sleazy old son of a bitch. I’m dirty, you’re dirty: we’re all dirty, scummy little human beings. But I won’t forget this, Steve. Never.’ She jabbed an accusing finger at the editor’s corpulent frame across the desk, her voice low and dangerous. ‘You betrayed me. Those photos were… private. They weren’t part of what we agreed. And you knew it.’

‘Did I betray you, Princess? Or are you just taking it out on me because you feel like you’ve betrayed yourself?’

Trying not to consider if there was a lick of truth in his words, she drew up what dignity she could muster and turned to leave.

‘Blackthorne. Wait. Before you go.’

She spun back, still seething. ‘What? Have you got another assignment for me, boss? Maybe head down to Battersea and kick a few puppies? Get my tits out for the Chancellor of the Exchequer in time for budget day?’

‘Maybe next week. Look, I just wanted to say you did a good job on that sting. You picked it up like a pro and you really came through. I was proud of you. That was our fastest-selling edition for years. You’ll make a cracking journalist one of these days, lass.’

She didn’t know whether to be flattered or insulted. She didn’t even know if being a journalist was something she wanted at all any more. Turning on her heel, she stormed out of Steve’s office and back to her desk.

***

It was three weeks before Angel set foot in the editor’s office again.

She flung open the glass-and-steel door and slammed both hands palm down on Steve’s desk. Eyes and cheeks burned crimson fury as she faced off against him with an expression of thunderous defiance.

‘What the hell was that email all about, Clifton? Are you deliberately trying to humiliate me or what? Is this punishment for something?’

To her shock, Steve actually looked surprised.

Could he really think he was doing her a favour, assigning her to report on next month’s premiere of The Milkman Cometh? All she wanted to do was forget about Sebastian Wilchester, forget about the honey trap and get on with her life, such as it was. And now here was Steve flinging her straight into the man’s path.

‘Are you tugging my chain, Blackthorne? Your mate Leo had to beg me to let you take this job, with your lack of experience. Flat-out refused to work with anyone else on it. Don’t you know what an opportunity it is, a lowly intern being assigned to cover a Tigerblaze premiere? If you hadn’t done such a great job on that last assignment there’s no way I’d send a rookie for this.’

‘But Wilchester will be there!’ she hissed, refusing to be mollified. ‘What if he recognises me? It’s both our reputations on the line, Steve, mine and yours.’

‘Relax, he won’t see you. These things are always packed out, and he goes out of his way to avoid the press. Hates them. Now more than ever after the stunt we pulled on him, I’d guess. You’ll never even come close to him.’

Angel opened her mouth to speak, but Steve was just getting into his stride.

‘And what if he does see you? He won’t do anything, the story will have been out there for nearly two months by that point. Him and Beaumont are just starting to put it all behind them, he’s not likely to want reminding of it. That’s if he recognises you. For all we know he’s Johnny Yo Yo Boxers seven nights a week. He’s not going to remember one tight little arse out of hundreds, love.’

Angel felt a pain she quickly tried to smother. She wasn’t allowed to be hurt by thoughts like that. She was moving on with her life. It was almost as if the whole thing never happened. It was almost as if she’d forgotten the irresistible feel of Seb against her flesh, the way his expressive eyes fired when he gave himself to her, the way he could be so tender and yet so demanding as he brought his lips down on to hers. Yes, almost.

‘Fine,’ she snapped, fighting the warmth surging through her gut. ‘I’ll do it. And I’ll do a bloody good write-up as well. But I want my own byline and when Sarah goes on maternity leave next week I want my CV top of the pile for the temporary showbiz editor job.’

‘It’s already top of the pile, love.’

Chapter 6 (#ucffe615e-83a6-56bd-b0fd-a7b96be15c9d)

The black cab slunk through the bustle of London’s nightlife before pulling into the shadow of the Odeon Cinema in Leicester Square, where the world premiere of The Milkman Cometh was all set to take place.

On the back seat Angel skimmed her smartphone, looking again through the brief Steve had emailed her. It was the standard showbiz supplement stuff: describe what and who stars were wearing when they arrived on the premiere’s red carpet, who they were with, how they looked and behaved, a brief write-up of the film itself and finally a report on the main part of the evening, the after-party. The opulence, the entertainment, and above all, the gossip. For the Investigator, of course, the dirtier the better.

She turned to Leo in the seat next to her, trying hard to calm the frenzied thump of heart against ribcage.

‘Do I look okay, Leo? Is my hair alright?’ She’d tried out a new style for tonight, sweeping the thick auburn mass into a debonair chignon and finishing with a vintage diamond and pearl teardrop pin that had belonged to her grandmother.

‘Fit as a butcher’s dog, Ginge,’ Leo said, putting an arm around her and giving her shoulder a squeeze. ‘I’m this close to ripping your clothes off.’

‘Sweet boy.’ She gave his hand an affectionate pat.

Not for her the slinky little dress and gravity-defying heels, not this time. She knew the chances of Seb seeing her were slim to none and she certainly intended to go out of her way to avoid him, but if by any chance he did catch sight of her then she wanted to be oozing pure class.

With some help from Emily, the undisputed queen of good taste when it came to matters of dress, she’d spent the best part of a week’s wages on a full-length backless gown in floating silver taffeta. ‘Silver will be great with your colouring. Bring out the green in your eyes,’ Emily had told her. The dress had hung on her bedroom door for weeks, where she could look at it and occasionally touch it, until Groucho’s evident desire to shred it up into comfy bedding for himself had forced her to put it away until the time came to wear it.

Angel seemed to be spending most of her meagre salary on clothes for assignments at the moment, and she wondered idly whether she should be putting in expense claims for them. ‘Thong x 1, black satin. Push-up bra x 1, 34C…’ Well, maybe not, although no doubt Steve would get a cheap thrill out of signing them off.

Emily wasn’t wrong about the taffeta. When Angel had tried it on in the changing room, her irises had looked almost emerald set off by the silvery sheen of the material. She’d spent nearly quarter of an hour staring at herself in the mirror, turning this way and that so she could wonder at the way the light caught in the dress’s glistening folds and dimples. A ruched, beaded bodice hugged the curves of her breasts and hips, extending down to her upper thighs before flowing mermaid-like into a lustrous ruffle skirt. It was stunning and she loved herself in it.

Stepping out of the taxi, Angel could taste the close air, tangy with expensive perfume, sweaty bodies and cigarette smoke. The intoxicating scent of glamour, apparently.

She understood now exactly what Steve had meant when he’d said the event would be packed out. Extending out around a fenced-off area was a deep throng of fans, reporters and photographers at least ten-deep, a sea of flash bulbs ready to blind the celebrities as they walked up the red carpet to the venue. She breathed a sigh of relief. No need to hide from Seb here, at least. This was a crowd it would be easy to get lost in.

‘Brace yourself, Ginge. We’re going in.’ Gripping his press pass between his teeth, Leo grabbed Angel by the shoulders and started fighting his way through the crowd. She held up her skirt to keep it safe from the crush of bodies as conga-like they barged their way through. ‘Excuse me, coming through, Investigator, coming through…’

Eventually Leo managed to manoeuvre Angel into a vantage point not far behind the mesh fencing forming the cordon. He slid himself in beside her to a spot where he could join the flash-bulb ocean. It was this winning combination of great pictures and sharp elbows that meant Leo had been Steve’s photographer of choice at film premieres for over a year now.

‘It’ll be over faster than you think,’ he shouted to Angel through the noise of the crowd. ‘Better get yourself ready.’

Angel rummaged in her handbag for her notebook and waited, pen poised, for the guests to arrive. She had a pretty clear view of the carpet between the shoulders of the two photographers jostling each other in front of her. Thank God she was in heels: the inch or so they added to her usual five-six were just what she needed to guarantee her a good view, or at least the best she was going to get in this mob.

First on the carpet was a perma-tanned face Angel recognised as belonging to some reality TV rent-a-celeb, who simpered and pouted gamely for the photographers. The young woman had poured herself into a skin-tight, salmon-pink strapless dress, her surgically enhanced bowling-ball breasts bursting from the low-cut V that extended down almost to her crotch. ‘Christian Dior, naturally,’ she purred, twirling for the gathered press.

Angel jotted down the Z-lister’s name and a description of her outfit as per her brief from Steve, wondering if there was honestly anyone who wanted to read about this stuff.