Ruth glared at him. ‘A good story for you, more like.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
Ruth knew she should hold her tongue, but she couldn’t stop herself. ‘You know Isaac wants the best person for the job in this role. You are sacrificing the good of the newspaper for your own personal ambition.’
Jim’s eyes opened wide.
‘And how am I doing that, exactly?’
‘By sabotaging my story ideas. I am the only one who generates exclusives on this team.’
His face reddened with anger. He looked as if he was about to scream at her, but then his eyes closed, and when they opened, his expression had softened.
‘Do you know what I think, Ruth? I think Shanghai is a good opportunity for you. You’re a field reporter, you thrive on chasing down a big story.’
‘Exactly, and that’s why—’
Jim cut her off.
‘London doesn’t need a hotshot reporter, Ruth, it needs an editor. Someone who can liaise with the stringers, co-ordinate the bloggers. Someone with an eye on what Washington needs in the twenty-first century.’
Someone to go for long lunches with pretty PR girls and your broadsheet cronies, thought Ruth.
‘Is this how it’s going to be, Jim?’ she asked. ‘Are you really going to make it a competition?’
Jim smiled, a lopsided, nasty smile.
‘It’s always been a competition, Ruth. And frankly, you don’t have what it takes to win.’
5
Sophie turned off the engine of her moped and glanced down at the address written in her diary. This can’t be the place, can it? she thought, looking up at the virgin white stucco building across the road. She had been to some very impressive homes in her time, town houses in Chelsea, estates in the country, villas abroad, but none had been quite as grand and as exquisitely elegant as the one before her now. Egerton Row was one of the most exclusive streets in south-west London, tucked away in a quiet enclave off Brompton Road. Lana’s detached house looked freshly painted, with slate steps, manicured window boxes on the Juliet balcony and miniature privet hedges standing like sentry guards either side of the shiny black door. Recession, what recession? thought Sophie, as she locked her helmet into her scooter’s storage box.
Then again, she had to admit she was benefiting from all this surplus cash too. In the three weeks since she had met Lana, Sophie had made over fifteen hundred pounds from the woman and her wealthy friends for yoga and fitness sessions. She had quickly got over her embarrassment at being their ‘hired help’, as one client had ungraciously called her, and instead had felt empowered at bringing so much money in so swiftly. It had been enough to get her moped taxed and back on the road, to pay off the interest on her credit card bill, and to pay for a plane ticket for her mum to go and visit a friend in Denmark, which had been the first time she had seen Julia smile since the funeral.
To be honest, Sophie didn’t know why she hadn’t thought of becoming a personal trainer before. She’d spent years keeping her body in tip-top condition and had the figure and athleticism to show for it. It made total sense to turn her prime asset into a career.
Lana opened the door dressed in black cycling shorts, her long chocolate hair tumbling over the straps of a hot-pink cropped Lycra vest top.
‘Come in, come in,’ she purred. ‘Sorry I had to ask you to come to the house, but I’m mad, mad busy.’
‘Wow!’ said Sophie as she followed Lana inside. ‘This place is amazing.’
If the exterior of Lana’s house was stunning, the interior was something else. The entrance hall was double height, with a white marble staircase curling off to the right, a grand piano standing centre stage and a stunning collection of art on the walls. Sophie still hadn’t worked out what Lana did for a living, but assumed that the money came from her husband Simon, who apparentl
y did something in the money markets.
‘I suppose,’ shrugged Lana. ‘We only bought it recently, and there’s so much I want to do. I wanted to get the renovation work done while we were away, but I think this is maybe a six-, twelve-month job. Don’t you think it’s looking tired?’
Sophie didn’t think anything of the sort. It seemed perfect to her eyes, all sparkling white paintwork, varnished wood floors and artfully arranged furniture; her idea of a dream house. It was a shame how Lana’s wealth and the ease with which she could spend her husband’s money had anesthetised her to its beauty.
‘So where do you want to do this?’ she asked.
‘There is a studio downstairs,’ said Lana, ‘but it’s a lovely day. Would it work to go for a run?’
Sophie nodded. Much as she would have liked to see the studio, she knew she was here to work. Improving Lana’s cardiovascular fitness was a good idea, and her client was right: the sun was out and the morning air not too warm yet.
They took the back streets towards Hyde Park, crossing Brompton Road, then snaked down Ennismore Gardens towards South Carriage Drive. They didn’t talk much, but when Sophie did say something, it was to praise Lana’s work rate. She knew from personal experience how women with rich partners, no matter how beautiful, tended to be insecure, and needed constant compliments and reassurance. But in Lana’s case, no false flattery was required. She was long-legged, fit and light-footed, and had no problem keeping up with Sophie’s pace. They were inside the park now, running down the shaded path between two lines of sycamores.