describing her panties, at length.
“Give me a break ,” Gini moaned.
“You’re the wrong sex for this story.” One of the men from the news desk leaned over her shoulder and pressed his ear to the receiver. “Why didn’t Nicholas give it to me? Good God, who is this?”
“It’s number thirty-five. Swedish Au Pair.”
“She sounds as if she comes from South London, not Stockholm.”
“They all sound like that.”
“Bloody hell. What’s that?”
“Her vibrator. Again. She lets it buzz for thirty seconds. They all do. I timed them.”
“Nicky wants you. Now. In his office.” The news-desk man was already bored. “He says drop everything, something’s come up.”
“He should write these scripts. He has the perfect style.” Genevieve replaced the receiver.
“It’s lunch,” said the newsman, drifting away. “He says if you’ve made arrangements, cancel them. You have to meet some photographer, and it must be important. I overheard his secretary making the arrangements. Editors-dining-room stuff.”
Genevieve groaned. She stood up. “That’s the afternoon blown. You’re sure he said me? Since when did you become his messenger?”
The news-desk man gave her a languid salute. “Aren’t we all?” He turned and threaded his way down the room, through the ranked word processors, the ranked desks.
When God summoned, you went. Gini took the elevator to the fifteenth floor. She stepped out onto thick Wilton carpeting. From here the large windows overlooked docklands: there was a gray view of cranes, girders, the river, and Thames mud.
She made her way through the outer office, through the inner office. As she approached the sanctum itself, the door was thrown back and Nicholas Jenkins emerged looking powerful, pink, complacent, and svelte.
“Ah, there you are at last, Gini,” he said. “Come in, come in. Charlotte, get Gini a drink.”
Charlotte, his senior secretary, made one of her rude minion faces behind his back. She moved between Gini and the open doorway. Gini remained rooted to the spot. She was staring into the office beyond, where a tall, dark-haired man stood by Nicholas Jenkins’s desk. The office became silent; the air moved, flickered, became excessively bright.
“Come in, come in.” Nicholas bustled around her. He drew her through the door. He was leading her across to the man, who had turned and was regarding her equably.
“Gini, I want you to meet Pascal Lamartine. You’ll have heard of him, of course….”
Gini took the hand that was being held out to her. She could feel the blood draining from her face. She shook Lamartine’s hand and released it quickly. She had to say something—Nicholas was staring.
“Yes,” she said. “I’ve heard of him. More than that—we’ve met.”
“A long time ago,” Lamartine put in, in a polite neutral tone. His accent was unchanged. Gini could still feel Jenkins’s eyes resting curiously on her face.
“Years ago,” she said rapidly, taking her tone from Lamartine. “I was still at school. Pascal is an old friend of my father’s.”
“Oh, I see,” said Jenkins—and to Gini’s relief lost interest at once.
Years ago, in Beirut. And he had never been a friend of her father’s—quite the reverse. Her father might have won that Pulitzer for his Vietnam work, but by that time fame and bourbon had made him soft.
“An old war horse,” he would say, easing himself into the first highball of the day, holding court in the Palm Bar at Beirut’s four-star Hotel Ledoyen, surrounded by fawning cronies. There was her father, sluicing bourbon and anecdotes, and there she was, silent, ignored, and embarrassed, averting her eyes from the spectacle, watching the ceiling fans as they rotated above his head.
An old war horse, an old news hound, a forty-six-year-old boozer. Her father, a living legend, the great Sam Hunter—worshipped by the rest of the press corps. These days he relied on stringers, helpers. Once a week he
“Give me a break ,” Gini moaned.
“You’re the wrong sex for this story.” One of the men from the news desk leaned over her shoulder and pressed his ear to the receiver. “Why didn’t Nicholas give it to me? Good God, who is this?”
“It’s number thirty-five. Swedish Au Pair.”
“She sounds as if she comes from South London, not Stockholm.”
“They all sound like that.”
“Bloody hell. What’s that?”
“Her vibrator. Again. She lets it buzz for thirty seconds. They all do. I timed them.”
“Nicky wants you. Now. In his office.” The news-desk man was already bored. “He says drop everything, something’s come up.”
“He should write these scripts. He has the perfect style.” Genevieve replaced the receiver.
“It’s lunch,” said the newsman, drifting away. “He says if you’ve made arrangements, cancel them. You have to meet some photographer, and it must be important. I overheard his secretary making the arrangements. Editors-dining-room stuff.”
Genevieve groaned. She stood up. “That’s the afternoon blown. You’re sure he said me? Since when did you become his messenger?”
The news-desk man gave her a languid salute. “Aren’t we all?” He turned and threaded his way down the room, through the ranked word processors, the ranked desks.
When God summoned, you went. Gini took the elevator to the fifteenth floor. She stepped out onto thick Wilton carpeting. From here the large windows overlooked docklands: there was a gray view of cranes, girders, the river, and Thames mud.
She made her way through the outer office, through the inner office. As she approached the sanctum itself, the door was thrown back and Nicholas Jenkins emerged looking powerful, pink, complacent, and svelte.
“Ah, there you are at last, Gini,” he said. “Come in, come in. Charlotte, get Gini a drink.”
Charlotte, his senior secretary, made one of her rude minion faces behind his back. She moved between Gini and the open doorway. Gini remained rooted to the spot. She was staring into the office beyond, where a tall, dark-haired man stood by Nicholas Jenkins’s desk. The office became silent; the air moved, flickered, became excessively bright.
“Come in, come in.” Nicholas bustled around her. He drew her through the door. He was leading her across to the man, who had turned and was regarding her equably.
“Gini, I want you to meet Pascal Lamartine. You’ll have heard of him, of course….”
Gini took the hand that was being held out to her. She could feel the blood draining from her face. She shook Lamartine’s hand and released it quickly. She had to say something—Nicholas was staring.
“Yes,” she said. “I’ve heard of him. More than that—we’ve met.”
“A long time ago,” Lamartine put in, in a polite neutral tone. His accent was unchanged. Gini could still feel Jenkins’s eyes resting curiously on her face.
“Years ago,” she said rapidly, taking her tone from Lamartine. “I was still at school. Pascal is an old friend of my father’s.”
“Oh, I see,” said Jenkins—and to Gini’s relief lost interest at once.
Years ago, in Beirut. And he had never been a friend of her father’s—quite the reverse. Her father might have won that Pulitzer for his Vietnam work, but by that time fame and bourbon had made him soft.
“An old war horse,” he would say, easing himself into the first highball of the day, holding court in the Palm Bar at Beirut’s four-star Hotel Ledoyen, surrounded by fawning cronies. There was her father, sluicing bourbon and anecdotes, and there she was, silent, ignored, and embarrassed, averting her eyes from the spectacle, watching the ceiling fans as they rotated above his head.
An old war horse, an old news hound, a forty-six-year-old boozer. Her father, a living legend, the great Sam Hunter—worshipped by the rest of the press corps. These days he relied on stringers, helpers. Once a week he
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