Thoughtfully, Deacon blew a smoke ring into the air above his head. 'You can't afford to sack me,' he murmured. 'It's my byline that's keeping this rag afloat. You know as well as I do that, until the tabloids raided my piece on the health service for scare stories about chaos in the A and E departments, ninety-nine-point-nine-nine percent of the adult population of this country had no idea The Street was still being published. I'm a necessary evil as far as you're concerned.'

This was no exaggeration. In the ten months since Deacon had joined the staff, the circulation figures had begun to show a modest increase after fifteen years of steady decline. Even so, they were still only a third of what they had been in the late seventies and early eighties. It would require something more radical to revitalize The Street than the occasional publicity that one writer could generate, and in Deacon's view that meant a new editor with new ideas-a fact of which JP was very aware.

His smile held all the warmth of a rattlesnake's. 'If you'd written that story the way I told you to, we would have benefited from the scare stories and not the sodding tabloids. Why the hell did you have to be so coy about identifying the two children involved?'

'Because I gave my word to their parents. And-' said Deacon with heavy emphasis-'I do not believe in using pictures of severely damaged children to sell copy.'

'They were used anyway.'

Yes, thought Deacon, and it still made him angry. He had taken great pains to keep the two families anonymous, but checkbook journalism had seduced neighbors and friends into talking. 'Not because of anything I did,' he said.

'That's mealy-mouthed crap. You knew damn well it was only a matter of time before someone sold out.'

'I should have known,' corrected Deacon, squinting through the smoke from his cigarette. 'God knows I've spent enough time listening to your views on the subject. You'd sell your Granny down the river for one more reader on the mailing list.'

'You're an ungrateful bastard, Mike. Loyalty's a oneway street with you, isn't it? Do you remember coming here and begging me for a job when Malcolm Retter bad-mouthed you round the industry? You'd been out of work for two months and it was doing your head in.' He leveled an accusing finger at the younger man. 'Who took you on? Who prised you out of your flat and gave you something to think about other than the self-induced misery of your personal life?'

'You did.'

'Right. So give me something in return. Smarten yourself up, and go chase pictures and quotes off a fat Tory. Put some spice into this article of yours.' He slammed the door as he left.

Deacon was half-inclined to pursue his irascible little boss and tell him that Malcolm Fletter had offered him his job back on The Independent less than two weeks previously, however he was too softhearted to do it. JP wasn't the only one who had a sense of chapters ending.

Lisa Smith whistled appreciatively when Deacon met her outside the offices at seven-thirty. 'You look great. What's the occasion? Getting married again?'

He took her arm and steered her towards his car. 'Take my advice, Smith, and keep your mouth shut. I'm sure the last thing you want to do is rub salt in raw wounds. You're far too sweet and far too caring to do anything so crass.'

She was a beautiful, boisterous twenty-four-year-old, with a cloud of fuzzy dark hair and an attentive boyfriend. Deacon had lusted after her for months, but was too canny to let her know it. He feared rejection. More particularly he feared being told he was old enough to be her father. At forty-two, he was increasingly aware that he'd been abusing his body far too long and far too recklessly. What had once been lean, hard muscle had converted itself into alcoholic ripples that lurked beneath his waistband and escaped detection only because pleated chinos disguised what skintight jeans had formerly enhanced.

'But you're a different man when you take a little trouble, Deacon,' she said with apparent sincerity. 'The enfant terrible image was quite sweet in the sixties, but hardly something to cultivate into the nineties.'

He unlocked the doors and waited while she stowed her equipment on the backseat before folding her long legs into the front. 'How's Craig?' he asked, climbing in beside her.

She displayed a diamond ring on her engagement finger. 'We're getting married.'

He fired the engine and drew out into the traffic. 'Why?'

'Because we want to.'

'That's no reason for doing anything. I want to screw twenty women a night but I value my sanity too much to do it.'

'It's not your sanity that would crack, Deacon, it's your self-esteem. You'd never find twenty women who were that desperate.'

He grinned. 'I wanted to marry both of my wives until I'd gone through with it and discovered they paid more attention to my bank statements than they did to my body.'

'Thanks.'

'What for?'

'The congratulations and the good wishes for my future.'

'I'm merely being practical.'

'No you're not.' She bared her teeth at him. 'You're being bitter-as usual. Craig is very different from you. Mike. For a start, he likes women.'

'I love women.'

'Yes,' she agreed, 'that's your problem. You don't like them but you sure as hell love them as long as you think there's a chance of getting them into bed.' She lit a cigarette and opened her window. 'Has it never occurred to you that if you'd actually been friends with either of your wives you'd probably still be married?'

Вы читаете Echo
Добавить отзыв
ВСЕ ОТЗЫВЫ О КНИГЕ В ИЗБРАННОЕ

0

Вы можете отметить интересные вам фрагменты текста, которые будут доступны по уникальной ссылке в адресной строке браузера.

Отметить Добавить цитату