The Yacht Party (Lara Stone)

It was something Alex heard a lot these days. His profession seemed to split into two camps. Those who were just clinging on, hoping to make it to retirement, or those taking leaps: over the past year he’d heard of dozens of journalists and executives retraining as life coaches, landscape gardeners and teachers. It was no big surprise that Dom was joining the exodus.

‘So what’s the big idea?’

Dom shrugged, as if it was obvious. ‘Smart news. It’s an “on your phone” news portal called The Filter. Podcasts, digital, TV, non-fiction books. Think of us as a club, not a newspaper. All tailored to your tastes, interests and beliefs. There’s a studio arm too, gathering stories from around the world and packaging them up as IP to the streamers.’

Alex nodded, impressed. The bespoke aspect seemed smart and he knew that the demand for intellectual property – ideas for film, TV and games – was voracious.

‘Sounds good. Have you got backing?’

‘There’s some seed funding in place, but I need to recruit someone to run the editorial side before we go out for further investment.’

‘Well, there’s plenty of good people looking for work at the moment. the Herald just laid off twenty members of the senior team.’

Dom clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Why would I want them when I have the world’s greatest newsman right here?’

‘Me?’

‘Al, you’re the best.’

Alex shook his head. ‘I’m flattered Dom, but…’

Dominic gave an impatient shake of the head.

‘Does print news still excite you?’ he asked bluntly.

Alex still loved his job, but he had to admit that newspapers were falling behind. At the last two elections, the Chronicle’s headline the next morning had read ‘Polls Too Close To Call’, when everyone in the country already knew the result. It looked unprofessional, sure, but it also looked out of touch, which was unforgivable for a news source.

‘Traditional media still has power, Dom,’ he said, feeling the need to defend his position.

‘But aren’t you sick of working for someone else? With this, you’d own the company. In at the ground floor, full equity partner. You’d be calling the shots – but you’d get to live a life too.’

Alex knew Dom had a point, but it had always been his dream to be the editor of a national newspaper. It all went back to his local paper growing up: The Cumbrian. When Alex had been 14, a child had gone missing in the hills and Doug Bannen, editor of The Cumbrian, had gone into crusading overdrive. Usually a weekly paper, The Cumbrian had pumped out a mini-edition every day, lambasting the police, praising the mountain rescue, mobilising the community to ‘search every hedge and hayloft’. Given he lived above the newsagents, Alex had felt right at the heart of it; he had seen the excitement in the punters’ faces as they queued to buy the new issue. Six days in, the girl was discovered on the Isle of Man, having been snatched by her estranged father – and The Cumbrian had gone back to being a sleepy rag discussing council plans for a new bus stop. But what a week it had been. It had taught Alex that the news had power to excite, to enthral and to motivate – he couldn’t turn his back on it now. Not when he still hadn’t realised his dream of being an editor.

‘How long have you been with the Chronicle?’ asked Dominic. ‘Fifteen years, is it? You know yourself you’re not going to be the sexy appointment for the editor’s job when it comes up. But stepping away for a couple of years might be a smart play.’

That was the trouble with old friends. They seemed to know what you were thinking. Alex’s climb up the Chronicle’s editorial ladder had been slow and steady. And Dominic was right, when they were looking for a new face to head up their f

lagship, the Avery execs were going to be looking for someone who could bring a new energy or experience to the paper. They weren’t going to be excited by someone they passed every day in the corridor.

Across the pool, Alex could see Charlie waving at him.

‘You go,’ said Dom squeezing his friend’s arm. ‘Go and drink some free cocktails and think about it. The offer’s there, but it won’t be forever.’

Chapter 13

Lara had never been to Monte Carlo before, but it looked exactly as she had imagined. As a teenager, she spent most summers in Scotland at the Averys’ Highlands estate, but one glorious week in the Easter holidays she had been to Epcot in Disneyland, which had miniature versions of world destinations: Paris, Kyoto, Marrakesh– or at least fantasy versions of them.

Monte Carlo was like that, a billionaire’s version of the Belle Époque Riviera, the Casino and the Hotel de Paris facing formal gardens designed for Victorian promenading, now used as a mini racetrack for expensive performance cars driving at five miles an hour: being seen was much more important than getting there.

Lara had grown up around wealthy people, she had been to a boarding school boasting one princess and two Comtesses, but this world, the world of the billionaire party-goer, was on a whole different scale. The Averys’ wealth was old and quiet, this was flashy and loud, like a performance engine revving in the street with the sole purpose of drawing admiring looks.

There were designer boutiques and jewellers everywhere too, but Lara was looking at the real spectacle: the couples. Barrel-chested Eastern Europeans in open-necked shirts and dinner-plate watches that cost more than a house. The women were leggy and groomed, wearing anything floaty and short, strappy high shoes, perhaps an ostrich Birkin.

Lara paused for a moment, idly looking for a dress for that night’s party. No Monaco designer store would stoop to putting the prices in the displays, but Lara had to assume they would all be ruinously expensive. Anyway it was the company she was looking forward to. Hopefully tonight Alex could get that corporate stick out of his backside and go back to being the unpredictable fun-loving goof she used to know. Hope springs eternal, thought Lara as she walked back up towards the Hôtel Hermitage with its elegant balconies and queue of expensive vehicles parked outside. Lara saw a Porsche and a Bentley and a shiny pumped up 4x4 all queued up behind a shiny Fiat van with rakes and brushes poking out the back – the driver, presumably the hotel’s gardener, leaning out the window, smoking a Gaulouise. The one drawback to being a billionaire, thought Lara. Even supercars get stuck in traffic.

Lara strode into the Hermitage, smiling at the doormen. Lara turned at the stairs past potted palms and out onto VistaMar, the restaurant on the open terrace at the side of the hotel with a sweeping view of the principality. Lara didn’t usually go to fancy places, she preferred dive bars with loud music, but the setting here was stunning. Sometimes it was worth the money.

Lara spotted Melissa before she stood. Even among a bar full of beautiful people, Melissa stood out. Unlike the rail-thin clones hanging on the arms of the tourists, Melissa had curves, with a natural beauty that made her stand out.