Sandrine gave a low laugh and Lara had to join in. Her best friend lived in Paris – hence second best city – but she was in London on business. Lara’s mood hadn’t lifted since the Tait verdict the day before, in fact after her meeting with Nicholas, she seemed to have slumped into a deeper hole. The Chronicle’s investigations team had literally been disbanded overnight – all four reporters were being made redundant along with Lara’s assistant Stella, who had the misfortune to be on a zero-hours contract. Lara felt the responsibility for their job losses keenly: hell, she was responsible. If she hadn’t begun the investigation into Felix Tait, there was a good chance her team would still be gainfully employed.
Her friend reached over and squeezed Lara’s hand, the bangles on her slim wrist jangling like a wind chime.
‘Darling, there are plenty of fish in the sea, yes?’ said Sandrine quietly.
‘Him? I’m not interested in that idiot,’ she said, nodding at Mr Dungarees.
‘Not him, the job,’ she smiled, topping up her wine glass. ‘There will be other opportunities for someone as hot as you, Lara. We both know you could walk into a job in any media organisation tomorrow. The Chronicle is good, but it’s not the only game in town.’
She was right, but there was another factor in play: Uncle Nicholas. A member of the Avery family working for News Corp, the Telegraph or The Daily Mail? He wouldn’t let it happen and so Lara felt trapped: unwanted at the Chronicle Group but unable to go elsewhere.
‘Thanks Drine,’ she said, still grateful for her friend’s reassurance. Sandrine had been Lara’s first friend at LSE and they had been as close as sisters, guiding each other through life’s highs and lows, ever since. Lara had chosen the London School of Economics mainly because of its location, sandwiched between the buzz of Covent Garden and the history of Fleet Street. Sandrine had done much the same thing, although her journey had been longer, from Ajaccio in Northern Corsica. As a wannabe reporter from a young age, Sandrine had considered London as the only choice for her studies, knowing that the world’s top media was English-speaking. Ironically, she had still ended up working at Le Figaro in Paris, so they only saw each other a handful of times a year.
‘Anyway, that’s enough about me,’ said Lara, tipping back her rosé. ‘What about you? Why are you in town? It can’t be just to see your favourite failure. Tell me everything: Paris, life, work. Men?’
Sandrine scooped her dark hair up and fastened it into a bun. ‘When have we ever been the sort of women to obsess over men?’ she smiled mysteriously.
‘Obsess? You never tell me anything!’ grinned Lara. ‘Remember – you and Patric were living together by the time you even told me about him.’
Sandrine took a long drink and looked away.
‘That was a long time ago,’ she said.
Sandrine had met the handsome war reporter three months after she had started at Le Figaro. They were two fiercely independent people who fell deeply in love – and then Patric was killed in an explosion in Aleppo. Lara knew Sandrine hated to talk about him and she could sympathise, having struggled with loss herself, but Lara believed that remembering people when they had gone was the only way to keep them alive.
‘I see. Your love life is as barren as mine, then,’ said Lara, trying to keep the tone light.
‘I never said that,’ replied her friend, not quite looking her in the eye.
‘So there is someone!’
‘Don’t get too excited,’ said Sandrine, waving a casual hand, but Lara couldn’t miss the pink dots on her friend’s cheeks.
‘That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?’ said Lara, teasing. ‘You said you were coming to London on Sunday but you’re in town early for a romantic tryst!’
‘I’m in London for the Le Caché conference,’ said Sandrine.
Lara paused, more serious. The Collective or Le Caché – ‘The Hidden’ – as they liked to call themselves, had been one of the media buzz stories of the past year. Frustrated at the rise of global media control and fake news, a group of investigative journalists had got together to sha
re information, tips and sources with the intention of exposing stories which might otherwise go unreported. There had already been some major scoops such as the so-called “cash-for-clicks” scandal where the French government had authorised an internet giant to spy on its citizens.
‘The Le Caché conference?’ said Lara, leaning forwards and lowering her voice. ‘Are you involved with them?’
Sandrine nodded slowly.
‘I am. And I think you should join us. Collectives are the future. You know better than anyone that proper investigations are being closed down and after Felix Tait, newspaper editors are going to be even more risk-averse. If we collaborate, we can put together every scrap of evidence and build a water-tight case. We take away the doubt.’
Sandrine’s passion was infectious and Lara had to admit she was intrigued by the romance of it all, like a cold war spy flying back and forth between Moscow, Madrid and New York, but Lara also knew what journalists were like. They were competitive and cut-throat. When it came to ‘the truth’ it was dog eat dog out there.
‘Can I be honest?’ said Lara. ‘I’m not even sure I want to stay in journalism anymore.’
Sandrine looked at her wide-eyed and Lara could hardly blame her, but now the words were out of her mouth, Lara immediately felt better.
‘I never thought I’d feel that way,’ she continued. ‘But the industry has changed, Sandrine. Everything is opinion not fact, so much is driven by personal agenda or the Twitter bullies. Those stories that we love breaking, the big, powerful, fact-driven exposés, where are they? How often do you see a Watergate or a Wikileaks on the front pages anymore? Could you even get something like that printed these days?’
‘But that’s exactly what we’re fighting for, ma chérie,’ said Sandrine. ‘Just come to the conference on Monday. Meet Eduardo. We might be able to change your mind.’
‘Eduardo?’