She unlocked the gate to the marina, wincing as it creaked open and shut it with a clang behind her. She supposed now she’d actually have time to get it oiled.
People were always surprised when they heard that Lara lived on a houseboat at Cadogan Pier. ‘Is it to avoid council tax?’ they ask, perplexed. So Lara had long since given up mentioning it. She said she lived ‘a stone’s throw from Cheyne Walk’ and left it at that, let peoples’ prejudices about posh rich girls and their chi-chi SW3 flats fill in the blanks.
Lara walked down the boat’s little gangway, down to the end of the dock. This is why I live here, she thought. The lights of Albert Bridge shimmered in the darkness, their reflection in the water like ribbons of gold. Sure, she could be in one of those fancy houses off the King’s Road, but she wouldn’t have a view, a feeling like this. The oil-black water rippling like muscle beneath skin, the constant movement, the sense of being in the embrace of a living thing.
She closed her eyes and drew a sharp breath in through her nose. Her parents had barely been 40 when they had died in a yachting accident off the Croatian coast. Eleven year-old Lara had been sent off to boarding school before she’d had chance to process it, but in the months that had followed, she had decided one thing; she was determined to stay close to the water. She learned to row and sail and swam freestyle for the county team; far from being a distressing reminder, water made her feel closer to her parents – or to the little of them she could remember. So when five years ago, the money left in trust had finally been released to her, Lara had snapped up Misty, this wide-beam narrow boat, a remodelled veteran of the Staffordshire canal, and called it home.
Unlocking the little fold-back door, Lara stepped inside, to be met by a happy ‘Mewl’.
‘Hey Dingo,’ she said, reaching out to stroke her cat’s white fur. Dingo arched his back and purred, following along behind as Lara walked into the living space.
‘Have you missed me?’
Dingo answered by jumping onto the sofa.
‘I’ll take that as a yes,’ she smiled, hanging her jacket on the back of a chair. Another thing that surprised people: Misty was lovely inside. A cool contemporary interior, all white clapboard, with a spacious lounge area at the front, two bedrooms and a full bathroom with clawfoot bath. There were bigger houseboats moored along the Thames but then she’d only gather more crap. As it was, Lara furnished it only with pieces that she loved. Framed original cinema posters for Dr. No, To Catch A Thief and Vertigo, reclaimed furniture and one-off design pieces – the desk that had come from a villa in Tuscany, a light-pendant that had once hung in a New York speakeasy, maps and books, things that reminded her where your imagination and a plane ticket could take you.
Lara went into the kitchen and clanked about in the cupboards to find Dingo’s cat food, mulling over Sandrine’s suggestion about joining Le Caché as she did so.
‘Here Dings,’ she said, putting down the plastic bowl. ‘I’ll leave this out for you.’
She leant back on the counter and pulled out her phone, flipping to Le Caché’s home page, which trumpeted their latest scoop – exposing the connection between a Mexican drug cartel and one of the country’s top political donors. It was fine reporting, but it was hard not to hear Uncle Nicholas’s words: who would read this over an item about Meghan Markle or Kylie Jenner? People came to newspapers for entertainment and for an affirmation of their own beliefs. They came to comment below the line, to offload their own frustrations or add to the conversation – because Look at me! My opinions matter and everyone wants to hear them. In 18 months’ time, Lara wasn’t even sure there would be an investigations team at any of the papers. It all made joining Le Caché seem a pointless exercise, a desperate swim against the tide. Still, if Sandrine was convinced, Lara wanted to know why.
She clicked on the ‘About Us’ section.
‘Ah, that’ll be why,’ she smiled, as she saw Eduardo Ortega’s black and white portrait. Sandrine hadn’t been joking when she said Le Caché’s founder and editor-in-chief was impressive. Handsome, connected and accomplished, Eduardo was only around forty and yet the Harvard and Georgetown graduate had worked for El Pais, The Washington Post, CNN and had found time to write half a dozen books on a range of subjects from the history of Myanmar to the civil war in Sri Lanka. He had founded Le Caché two years previously and while their main office was in Madrid, they had a long list of collaborators who worked for some of the biggest media players around the globe. Not really Sandrine’s type though. She usually went for pretty boys with a dangerous streak, like Patric. Everyone grows up though, don’t they?
Lara made a coffee and went back to the sofa. Opening her laptop, she went straight onto the main news websites. Lara’s heart sank.
Newspaper Loses Libel Case
Felix Tait says court result ‘a vindication’.
Justice done or a disaster for free speech?
Deborah Simmons reports.
But as she skimmed the text, Lara was surprised to feel herself detached from the whole story. She was, after all, not part of it anymore and in truth, had felt that way for a while.
The Felix Tait thing had been a blow, but in reality, Lara had been growing increasingly frustrated at work for more than a year. Her promotion to Investigations Editor had, in theory, been a promotion, but had really been a backwards step, taking her away from the things she loved best – researching and writing. Darius Allen was an idiot, over-promoted and unbelievably pompous. Alex was Lara’s friend, but as deputy editor, he still had to toe the line. The more senior you were in the management structure, the more office politics were involved and she knew Alex had to pick his battles. This one – folding the investigations team – had been unwinnable and she didn’t hold that against him. No one was going to back a research team that had just lost the paper a million pounds, especially when the stories that got the most clicks were about reality TV stars.
Lara closed her computer and sat back, idly stroking Dingo who had come to join her on the sofa. As she yawned and stretched, her eyes turned towards the coffee table where a photo of her father was in a frame on a pile of books. It was her favourite photo of her dad; standing next to his boat looking ridiculously pleased with himself. Lara thought of her dad all the time, but it was hard not to think of him this week in particular; it had been David Avery who had given Lara her love for the news and the desire to fight for the truth.
She remembered going into his study at their farmhouse on the family estate, a crackling fire of Scotch pine, always a source of calm wisdom, whatever her problem.
‘What would you do, Dad?’ she asked, looking at the photo.
He certainly wouldn’t have rolled over and let his brother close investigations, that was for sure. David Avery was a scrapper, never afraid to get down in the dirt trading blows – he was old-school that way. Her father had worked during the swansong of Fleet Street when the Chronicle still had their offices within a stone’s throw of St Bride’s Church and newspapermen kept whisky in their bottom drawers. She wondered what he would have made of the modern media where a story could be broken by someone with a tweet and flash around the world before any of the official news channels had a chance to even comment. Lara didn’t know for sure, but she guessed David Avery would have embraced it, taken it on board and used it to his advantage.
A buzzing sensation on her hip woke her up. It was a few moments before she realised she had fallen asleep on the sofa and that her mobile phone was ringing.
She blinked hard, pulled the phone out of her pocket and sat up, swinging her legs to the floor. She looked at the time; 2.30am. Phone calls in the middle of the night were rarely good news, even if it was the paper calling her in to work on a major breaking news story.
‘Hello?’ she murmured, her voice thick with sleep.
‘Lara Stone?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Who is this?’