Conflict of Interest

Looking up from where he was examining the clean, cut tip of his cigar, Carter asked, ‘Is there anything you’d like to say before I go on?’

Here we go, she thought. The bastard is going to drag it out as long as possible, no doubt deriving sadistic pleasure from making me squirm.

‘Well, I – I suppose after the last time you spoke to me – I mean about things in general, output – I suppose after that I’ve really been trying to … work smarter.’

He raised his eyebrows in a look of cynical enquiry. ‘M-hmmm. And what else did I say to you that time about working smarter?’

Judith couldn’t think of anything. Why did he always make her feel like a silly little girl? ‘I don’t remember,’ she admitted.

‘I do.’ He began tapping the cigar on the side of his gold Ronson lighter. ‘I distinctly remember saying that I wouldn’t have wasted my breath on you if I didn’t think you had what it took.’

‘Oh, yeah.’ She was now feeling decidedly wan.

‘And what you’ve done has proved me right.’ He commenced licking his cigar. There was a gleam in his eye – was he tricking her, she wondered, or was this something positive? ‘A few minutes ago, in my office, I carried out an exercise.’ His speech was interspersed with sucking and saliva noises. ‘I counted the number of articles with your byline in the past week and compared them to a month ago. I also compared them to the output of the other City hacks. Yours is prodigious, Judith. Quite an achievement.’

He was staring at her now as though she ought to get on her knees and unzip his fly in gratitude.

‘I have been trying hard,’ was all she could say.

‘I know you have. After our last conversation you probably thought I was a complete bastard,’ he chortled.

‘Well …’

‘Come on, Judith, there’s no need to play games. If you felt resentful I could understand. But you see, it was all calculated.’ He was reaching his final moment: the cigar, poised between the fingers of his right hand; lighter in his left; the flame; the vigorous sucking; the great cloud of pungent, blue-grey fumes. ‘I know every member of my team,’ he boomed, his voice thick with smoke. ‘I know what you are capable of better than you do yourself. I know when to chide and when to bless.’

‘I suppose you do.’ She had no option but to agree with him.

‘So here you are, one month later and just look at you.’ He gave a grandiose sweep of his cigar. ‘Sassier. More confident. Output increased – a two hundred and fifty per cent improvement.’

‘Thank you.’

He glanced back towards the door before lowering his voice melodramatically. ‘And that’s why I’m awarding you a pay rise.’

It was the last thing she expected. ‘Really, Alex?’ she found herself croaking. She rarely used his Christian name. And when she did, it was almost always with a sarcastic inflection.

‘Not just some meaningless pay rise, either. Twenty-five percent. Immediate.’

‘That really is … wonderful.’

‘And because I’m awarding it to you now,’ he was relishing the moment, ‘your index-linked rise in two months’ time will be based on the new salary.’

‘I don’t know what to say.’ She shook her head.

‘You don’t need to say anything,’ he glowed. ‘I might be a hard man, but I’m also a fair man. I’m giving you a rise because you’ve worked for it.’

‘Well, thank you very much.’ She was stabbing out her cigarette, hands shaky. ‘It … it really means a lot to me. I’ve been feeling skint.’

‘The lot of the journalist, I’m afraid,’ he told her, massaging his Romeo y Julietta again. ‘Those of us committed to the craft have to look beyond money for our reward.’

‘That’s true,’ she agreed with feeling. She was immediately searching her handbag for the B&H Lites.

‘Some of the stuff you’ve been doing recently,’ he said, stepping closer, ‘your passion really comes through.’

‘Oh?’ She watched his hand suspiciously. Surely he didn’t expect a payback?

‘That stuff you wrote on North Sea fishing quotas. You gave a balanced picture, but you also argued your case with great conviction. That’s journalism at its

best.’