“Who was your last client? A fast fashion brand? An influencer?” The bitter tone in his voice already told me everything he thought of me. I wasn’t good enough. And the only thing he had to judge me on was my appearance so far.
It was ridiculous to assume he judged me for my blonde curled hair, or my pink blazer and trainers. I took pride in my appearance — I was partial to a spray tan, and my nail tech was one of my closest friends — but my job was about public image. To most, image was everything.
Salihaspoke for me. “Olivia worked in the tennis and badminton—”
“The client,” he pressed through gritted teeth.
“VinnyGarvs,” I admitted, nearly all my resolve evaporating.
Saying his name churned my stomach. I avoided any topic of conversation to do with him, to what had happened.
But I knew this question was going to be asked. I’d practisedsaying his name in the mirror as if it didn’t normally make my voice tremble and my breaths quicken.
I felt my feet on the floor, in my trainers, grounding me. I’d be judged on it for the rest of my life, but it was in thepast. Nothing could be done now.
The room quietened. A mechanic dropped a tool that clanged on the floor. There was still the noise from outside, the shouts, cheers and calls over a microphone, but the pit box stilled.
“Shit,” one of the mechanics muttered, ducking back down to examine the bike.
“Nasty business, that,” Cris mumbled, shaking his head.
And that was it. I was about to be asked to leave. My last shot at my career. Gone.
Nazminhad said that if it were up to her, I’d be hired on the spot. But nothing went pastCrisBacque.
“It wasn’tLivie’sfault,”Salihapressed, stepping before me. “She did everything she could. There’s only so much you can do with the UK press. A trial is set to take place over their demeanour, notLivie’s.”
Cris grumbled, “Bastards.”
VinnyGarvswas not my first client. But he was the one I would be remembered by. He was a tennis legend set to go against the reigning champion at Wimbledon when a photo was leaked of him and a woman naked in bed. In the aftermath of the revealed affair, his wife had recorded him shouting at her and called the police, citing domestic abuse.
Something I couldn’t confirm or deny. He had a temper, my own relationship with him had been…challenging and something I would rather forget.
When I heard the audio of him on her socials… my heart practically stopped. That he could do that.
But it was nothing in comparison to what unfolded after.
The cheating scandals I’d dealt with. The court case was out of my hands.
He had killed himself after he pleaded not guilty to domestic abuse despite his lawyers’ advice. The UK media went into a frenzy.
Inquiries had started into how the media handled the situation as he had not been found guilty in a court of law, even though they treated him like he was. There was the issue of what you could say about someone when a trial had never taken place.
I’d been in contact with an MP,OluchiEkubo, about changing the law when it came to what the media could and could not share aboutongoingcases. The onslaught of abuse he’d received. The constant hounding that, in the end, had broken him.
WithOluchi’shelp, things were moving in the right direction. She was pressing for debates in Parliament over newspapers reusing information they had not investigated themselves.
Reporting on reporting.
Crisstood straight and released a long breath. “Our case isn’t as complicated as that. We have a man adored by the masses who plans on retiring — which is confidential — and a man who has taken his bad boy impression so far that it is no longer charming.”
The last article about Nixon detailed an apparent cocaine addiction he was struggling to kick before the season started. In the article, the head ofStormSprintsaid there would be more rigorous drug testing throughout the weeks and beforeevery race.
“That said, we have a lot of change within our team whenAlvretires next year and there are often hiccups during the season. You prepared to go frompreppyscones at Wimbledon to the fumes of the track?”
“Prepared and eager,” I told him with a nod.
His mouth was in a tight line as he glanced from me toSalihaand back. “Fine,” he sighed. “You know this isn’t a job for the weak-hearted, don’t you? It’s not a normal publicist job.”
