up a hand mirror and stepped out on to the balcony.
The righteous light of the sun shone mercilessly into Susan Street’s face, clearly picking out a word in small red capital letters on her forehead.
SOLD.
The beautiful black girl who had been born Sharon Sealey and was now Serena Soixante-Neuf laughed so loudly that the reporters peeking at her through the glass porthole in
Susan’s door recoiled with shock. Wrapped from head to toe in Donna Karan’s soft red leather and sitting on Susan’s desk, she recrossed her legs and lit a small cigar.
‘Well, Sue?’ she asked boldly, looking Susan straight in the eyes. They had met for the first time only half an hour earlier, but Serena was not one for gradually getting to know
people. Instant intimacy was her business.
Susan clicked off the machine and pocketed the tape. ‘Wonderful work. Thank you very much.’
Serena preened and smiled slyly. ‘And you’re offering . . . ?’
‘That’s not my job, I’m afraid. You’ll have to talk to our money man.’ She picked up a phone and punched an in-house number. ‘Kathy, can you tell Max
we’re ready for him now? Thanks. Tell him Miss . . . Miss . . . Soixante-Neuf is here with the recording.’
Serena screamed with laughter once more. The only thing she liked more than the sound of her own voice was the sound of her own name on embarrassed lips.
Mr Maxwell Sadkin, family man and pillar of his Reform synagogue, took one look at Serena, blanched and offered up a prayer to his God for protection – though whether from Serena or his
own affectionate nature he could not be sure. Susan left them alone to negotiate, Serena towering over the quaking money man. Holding the tape tight in her pocket, she knocked on Bryan
O’Brien’s door. ‘Bryan? I’ve got the Lejeune tape. Got a minute?’
Of course he had; he knew a hot putative front page when he smelled one. And this one had it all: sex, financial scandal and the supernatural, the Holy Trinity of the tabloids – even those
with pretensions to uptown.
Two years ago Constantine Lejeune had been an unknown Black Country clairvoyant who had turned up on the doorstep of a breakfast TV company claiming to know the whereabouts of a kidnapped
knitwear heiress. On the air he went into a trance; on the air the police located the girl, broke down a door and arrested her kidnappers. Since then Lejeune had risen irresistibly to a position
unparalleled by any other supernatural superstar.
He could stop clocks – once, spectacularly, Big Ben – bend cutlery – once, controversially, every fork on the yacht HMS
Britannia
– and find
bodies. But he was not content to be an entertainer or even a detective.
He held meetings which one journalist had compared scathingly to Nuremberg rallies – but then British journalists had a bad habit of comparing any public meeting with a charismatic speaker
and an audience which extended into double figures to a Nuremberg rally. But Lejeune did spout a strong populist line at his meetings: against immigration and international finance, he managed to
implicate a Second Coming into race riots and hinted strongly at having the ear of God. A Yorkshireman of alleged Franco-Greek extraction whose blunt speech was peppered with Gallic exclamations,
his greasy good looks and rabble-rousing rhetoric assured him a massive following amongst middle-aged women and overgrown boys. A book and several long-playing records of prophecy (‘Prophet
with a profit’, Lejeune’s detractors were fond of calling him) had sold millions.
Yes, if there were two things that Constantine Lejeune particularly hated they were miscegenation and high finance. And now here was a tape which not only had him engaged in sexual congress with
a prostitute whose St Lucian accent was clearly in evidence, but also breaking off from his exertions to receive calls from his broker. Constantine Lejeune, hater of high finance and people’s
friend, was using his
The righteous light of the sun shone mercilessly into Susan Street’s face, clearly picking out a word in small red capital letters on her forehead.
SOLD.
The beautiful black girl who had been born Sharon Sealey and was now Serena Soixante-Neuf laughed so loudly that the reporters peeking at her through the glass porthole in
Susan’s door recoiled with shock. Wrapped from head to toe in Donna Karan’s soft red leather and sitting on Susan’s desk, she recrossed her legs and lit a small cigar.
‘Well, Sue?’ she asked boldly, looking Susan straight in the eyes. They had met for the first time only half an hour earlier, but Serena was not one for gradually getting to know
people. Instant intimacy was her business.
Susan clicked off the machine and pocketed the tape. ‘Wonderful work. Thank you very much.’
Serena preened and smiled slyly. ‘And you’re offering . . . ?’
‘That’s not my job, I’m afraid. You’ll have to talk to our money man.’ She picked up a phone and punched an in-house number. ‘Kathy, can you tell Max
we’re ready for him now? Thanks. Tell him Miss . . . Miss . . . Soixante-Neuf is here with the recording.’
Serena screamed with laughter once more. The only thing she liked more than the sound of her own voice was the sound of her own name on embarrassed lips.
Mr Maxwell Sadkin, family man and pillar of his Reform synagogue, took one look at Serena, blanched and offered up a prayer to his God for protection – though whether from Serena or his
own affectionate nature he could not be sure. Susan left them alone to negotiate, Serena towering over the quaking money man. Holding the tape tight in her pocket, she knocked on Bryan
O’Brien’s door. ‘Bryan? I’ve got the Lejeune tape. Got a minute?’
Of course he had; he knew a hot putative front page when he smelled one. And this one had it all: sex, financial scandal and the supernatural, the Holy Trinity of the tabloids – even those
with pretensions to uptown.
Two years ago Constantine Lejeune had been an unknown Black Country clairvoyant who had turned up on the doorstep of a breakfast TV company claiming to know the whereabouts of a kidnapped
knitwear heiress. On the air he went into a trance; on the air the police located the girl, broke down a door and arrested her kidnappers. Since then Lejeune had risen irresistibly to a position
unparalleled by any other supernatural superstar.
He could stop clocks – once, spectacularly, Big Ben – bend cutlery – once, controversially, every fork on the yacht HMS
Britannia
– and find
bodies. But he was not content to be an entertainer or even a detective.
He held meetings which one journalist had compared scathingly to Nuremberg rallies – but then British journalists had a bad habit of comparing any public meeting with a charismatic speaker
and an audience which extended into double figures to a Nuremberg rally. But Lejeune did spout a strong populist line at his meetings: against immigration and international finance, he managed to
implicate a Second Coming into race riots and hinted strongly at having the ear of God. A Yorkshireman of alleged Franco-Greek extraction whose blunt speech was peppered with Gallic exclamations,
his greasy good looks and rabble-rousing rhetoric assured him a massive following amongst middle-aged women and overgrown boys. A book and several long-playing records of prophecy (‘Prophet
with a profit’, Lejeune’s detractors were fond of calling him) had sold millions.
Yes, if there were two things that Constantine Lejeune particularly hated they were miscegenation and high finance. And now here was a tape which not only had him engaged in sexual congress with
a prostitute whose St Lucian accent was clearly in evidence, but also breaking off from his exertions to receive calls from his broker. Constantine Lejeune, hater of high finance and people’s
friend, was using his
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