Pleasure Island (24 page)

A
ndrea Levinson was weighing
up her lunch options. Should she risk the wrath of her bitch-face editor by doing a Pret run and treating herself to a no-bread sandwich (surely a misnomer, right?) and a skinny, soya latte, or snatch five minutes to grab a fat bacon-buttie and a cappuccino from the subsidised staff café for a fraction of the time and cost? Fuck it, she thought, scanning the immediate vicinity for any signs of her formidable superior. Cath Redmond had eyes like a shit-house rat and had been known to time her taking a piss in the past, let alone daring to go out and grab some sustenance. But what the hell, it was Friday and she was feeling reckless. Besides, it had been a relatively slow news day so far, at least on the entertainments desk. Aside from a boy band member ‘allegedly' caught smoking a spliff, a Victoria's Secret model spotted on board Leo DiCaprio's boat (yawn), a pathetic spat between two Z-list glamour models which resulted in the loss of some hair extensions, and another non-story on Kim Kardashian's ubiquitous arse, there was little doing. She clicked on her Facebook page, time to check up on this weekend's events she thought, spying the familiar red envelope that told her she had mail. One was from her friend and fellow entertainment hack, Sam Long, asking if she was going to be at the party tonight, the launch of some new reality TV show that listed an entire cast of other reality TV shows rejects, aptly titled ‘The Biggest Loser.' She supposed she might go; after all it wasn't like she was inundated with better offers and at least that was her evening meal sorted. No wonder she was struggling get into her size 12 jeans, she'd been practically living solely off a diet of canapés and cheap fizz for the past two years.

She clicked through the remaining messages, scan-reading them for relevance and importance and then … hang on, what was this?

The message was from ‘Facebook user' suggesting that whoever had sent it was no longer active. Odd, she though, opening it. There was no private note, just three links. Spam, she decided, absentmindedly clicking on the first. Her thoughts returned to her lunch dilemma once more; maybe she'd swerve Pret after all and get some soup from Eat instead. That was healthier, wasn't it? She'd need something a bit hearty if she was going to go to this party and sink half her body weight in Zinfandel. She tugged at the roll of fat on her belly that she was convinced wasn't as substantial this time last year, but then she supposed this time last year she'd been on the heartbreak diet. She'd lost nearly three quarters of a stone thanks to her lousy cheating bastard ex and had summarily put it straight back again on the moment she'd been over it.
Totes annoying
.

The link opened and a title appeared on screen: ‘Billie-Jo Gets a Massage'. Andrea stopped thinking about her lunch immediately. Billie-Jo? The only Billie-Jo she knew was the Z-lister wag that was married to the ex-footballer Nate Simmons. She'd given Billie-Jo quite a few column inches recently, documenting her outrageous outfits and nightclub antics; the girl was a train wreck, a rampant attention-seeker with a pretty face and big tits. Intrigued, she watched the silent sixty-second clip of Billie-Jo having no holds barred hard-core sex while getting a massage. It was definitely Billie-Jo, all right; she'd recognise those double D's anywhere. After all, they'd been on display enough times. Shocked, yet utterly compelled, Andrea quickly clicked on the second link with alacrity.

‘Nate Simmons scores again', the rudimentary font appeared on screen. The footage was grainer this time forcing her to squint. It appeared to be some sort of party, outdoors, a Jacuzzi just visible in the background, again there was no sound or colour. Nate's image came into view closely followed by a woman with long, dark, blonde who was most definitely not Billie-Jo. The pair of them were close, smooching she supposed you could call it, and then they kissed and then …

‘Holy fuckamoly!' Andrea knocked her handbag from her lap and onto the floor in haste as she sprang forward in her seat, her heart knocking into her ribs. She recognised the woman! If she wasn't mistaken it looked very much like the newspaper's revered columnist, Angelika Deyton. She didn't know the woman personally but she'd seen her strut in and out of the office on numerous occasions full of her own piss and importance, smug in the knowledge that she was getting paid more than anyone else on the job.

‘No fucking way!' What the fuck was Angelika Deyton doing kissing Nate Simmons? And where in God's name were they? Come to think of it she hadn't seen Angelika Deyton in the office this past couple of weeks. Was she on holiday? Her appetite dissipating rapidly. Andrea blinked at the screen. Pret could wait; this was all the fodder she needed!

She replayed the 20-second clip again. This time she noticed another woman in the background, an older woman with a bobbed haircut who struck her as familiar but who she couldn't quite place. Andrea gave a little squeal of delight. If this little gem didn't see her on a fast-track promotion then nothing would! The third link directed her to what appeared to be a live webcam. What in God's name was this? A woman was sunbathing on a lounger, drinking from a giant coconut, nothing too risqué. She watched the screen enthralled as a man who appeared to be Nate Simmons came into view and took up a lounger next to her. The screen suddenly switched to another man showering – he was naked, of course, lathering himself up, his image unclear due to steam from the hot water. Keen to get a ganders at the goods, Andrea held her breath and when he eventually stepped out of the shower she gasped. She was sure it was Joshua Jones, Sony's new signing and her most-current celebrity crush, she'd recognise those tattoos anywhere. Sizing his naked form she raised an eyebrow; so the rumours
were
true then.

‘Got anything interesting for me, Levinson?' Cath Redmond suddenly appeared behind her, startling her, her expression the usual mix of smug displeasure.

Andrea smirked.

‘As a matter of fact, Cath, I think I might have.'

J
ohn Kirkbride
, group editor of the
Daily Voice
, replayed the footage for the fifth time in succession. Stroking his chin, he contemplated his professional and moral dilemma carefully.

‘Well, there's no denying it's her,' he said, ‘unless she's got a doppelgänger somewhere.'

‘Well, they do say we all have one of those though, don't they?' Andrea added enthusiastically. She was incredibly excited to be inside the group ed's office for what had effectively been the first time in her career on the
Voice
.

Cath shot her a disdainful look that told her to shut up.

‘And this came directly to you on your private Facebook page, right?'

‘Yes,' she answered brightly, mentally spending her pay rise in Ibiza already.

‘And you've no idea of the recipient?'

‘None. It just said from Facebook User. I'm guessing that means whoever sent it is no longer active. Probably created an account for the purpose of sending it and then deactivated it.'

‘It may well have been sent to my account as well,' Cath interjected, ‘although I haven't checked it yet.'

Andrea stiffened. Her bitch of a boss was trying to snatch the credit for herself. Well, this was Andrea's break and she wasn't about to let anyone steal her moment of glory, let alone Rancid Redmond.

‘Well, check,' Kirkbride said quickly. ‘We'll get IT onto it pronto. We need to authenticate the source.'

‘Agreed,' Cath seconded his motion.

But then she would agree to selling her own eyes, thought Andrea, if it meant looking good in front of the big cheese. She really was an epic glory-seeking arse kisser.

‘Where do you think they are?' Cath asked. ‘Some kind of holiday destination? Did Ange say where she was going?'

John Kirkbride chewed his lip silently, deep in thought.

Ange
? Cath was talking like they were bloody besties or something, the stupid cow. Andrea knew that Angelika Deyton had rarely uttered a word to her, and that Cath was always commenting on what a snooty bitch she was. Hypocrite.

‘And you do know who the other woman is, don't you?' Kirkbride said. ‘The one with the dark hair. That's Mia Manhattan. She's obviously there, wherever there is, with that toy boy, Joshua … whatshisname she's been stepping out with …'

‘Jones,' Andrea added helpfully, ‘Joshua Jones from
The Dopamines
.'

‘Yes … Jones, and no,' he said, ‘she didn't say a word about where she was going. Has anyone tried calling her?'

‘Straight to voicemail,' Cath replied. ‘Phone must be switched off.'

‘So who do you think is filming them?'

Kirkbride shook his head.

‘No, idea. Is this stuff viral already?'

‘I'd say so if it's being circulated on Facebook,' Andrea said, basking in her own self-importance.

‘Right. And has any of the competition got wind?'

‘Very likely, I'd say. And if not, then it's only a matter of time.'

‘Are we going to publish?' Cath asked with nervous excitement.

John Kirkbride got up out of his seat and began to pace the scruffy office which was indicative of his appearance. A greying, old, school hack in his mid 50s, Kirkbride had been at the helm for the best part of ten years and despite appearances suggesting otherwise, he was a seasoned news hound and consummate professional, a grass-roots journalist who had been reluctantly dragged kicking and screaming into the age of social media.

‘Publish what exactly? I mean, what's the actual story here? OK, so there's a sex tape. We can definitely run with that. But as for the rest – the footage – it's just a bunch of people on holiday.'

‘Well, not exactly just a bunch of anybody,' Cath reminded him.

‘But she's one of us, Cath.' Kirkbride ran his nicotine-stained stubby fingers through his grey thatch, his grubby shirt stretching across his expanding middle, gained courtesy of one too many boozy lunches at Langan's on expenses.

‘Careful, John, you almost sound like you care.' She smirked at him.

‘You need to see the archive footage,' Andrea said, ‘there's loads of it. Some of it's pretty interesting. I'd say, albeit in my professional opinion, that these people have no idea they're even being filmed.'

Cath scoffed.
In my
professional opinion
. She had pairs of knickers older than this girl, fucking little upstart.

‘Moreover, the name Elaine McKenzie has been mentioned a few times.'

Kirkbride's eyes widened and his heart began racing inside his chest, no doubt playing havoc with his high blood pressure.

‘Martin McKenzie's wife? Jesus, you think this could have something to do with the McKenzie's?'

Andrea shrugged. ‘It's possible. Looks like a luxury holiday resort on an island somewhere … maybe he invited them there and somehow someone's got hold of the security footage.'

‘From the bathroom of their private accommodation? Hardly.'

Kirkbride could smell a story from a thousand paces. And this one stank like overripe Camembert. Shit was going down and anything that featured Martin McKenzie – one of the most famous, powerful and revered men in the business – was potential dynamite. That's why he needed to think how to play his hand carefully.

‘I want the whole team on this,' he said, ‘I want the source of the link located and I want you to get in touch with friends and family to find out just where the hell this bunch are and what they're doing there. I want that sex tape authenticated – who, what, why, when and where – and try and identify the massage guy, and get an interview, yeah? Let's report it but not publish until it's been through a thorough legal OK. I'm serious, now. This story is potential gold dust and as we all know the bigger the story the bigger chance of making a major fuck up. If McKenzie's involved in this then we need to tread careful, and I mean tiptoe … ‘kid-gloves' careful. If McKenzie sues then none of us will ever work again. Report the facts; don't speculate or get creative, and don't try and flesh out the bones, you got me?'

Cath and Andrea nodded, their combined adrenalin almost palpable.

‘And what about the footage of Angelika and Nate Simmons?' Cath asked. ‘What do we do with that?'

Kirkbride kissed his teeth and thought about lighting a cigarette but was mindful of setting off the blasted alarm. He still hadn't managed to remove the damn thing's batteries, despite numerous attempts.

‘Jesus.' He exhaled deeply. ‘I mean, Ange is our girl, Cath.'

Andrea bristled. Why wasn't he addressing her?
She
was the one who'd found the damn story after all.

‘And she's married...' As dedicated as he was to the job, Kirkbride liked Angelika Deyton – liked her a lot, in fact. He'd often fantasised about what she might look like in her underwear, bent over his desk, though he was not deluded enough to think such a fantasy would ever supersede anything other than the realms of his imagination. She was a bloody good columnist too, responsible for a healthy chunk of reader revenue and had won the paper some prestigious awards. Could he afford to potentially fuck her in the arse, for want of a better expression? It would need to be managed carefully.

‘Whatever happened to fair game?' Cath flashed him an almost-Machiavellian smirk.

Bloody ruthless bitch would sell her own son down the river for a headline, he though. He supposed that was why she was his second-in-command.

‘At least this way we can be … sympathetic towards her?' Cath said.

‘What's the splash today?' he asked without giving her a straight answer.

Cath rolled her eyes.

‘The Killer Food Bug scare …'

‘Drop it,' he said abrasively. ‘Get to work on this before the bloody
Sun
get their nasty gnashers into it.'

Cath beamed. ‘Yes, boss.'

He stared at the pair of them.

‘Well, go on then, what are you waiting for? Fucking Christmas is months off yet.'

He waved the two women from his office and ran his fingers through his hair, a small cloud of dandruff visibly swirling in the sunlight that was streaming in through the cheap, plastic blinds. He shut them immediately.

‘Oh, and Angela …'

‘It's An
drea,'
she corrected.

‘Well done.'

Andrea almost exploded with pride, savouring every moment of her immediate boss's seething displeasure.

‘Thanks.' She grinned.

Closing the door behind them, Cath Redmond clapped her hands together loudly to alert the chattering news team.

‘OK, everybody,' she boomed authoritatively, ‘hold the front page.'

It was a line she had been waiting to say her whole career.