“That makes two of us, then, sir,” Sunny said, a cheeky grin lighting his whole face. Uncle Ben roared into a full-throated laugh, which descended into a cough. He dropped Sunny’s hand to cover his mouth. Mummy passed Uncle Ben a glass of champagne. He sipped, swallowing down his cough.
“Can we keep him, Hugo?” Uncle Ben asked, when his coughing fit had subsided. “I like him. His eyes need testing, but I like him.”
“That’s because you’re a terrible old flirt who’s easily flattered,” my father said.
“At my age, Hugo, when a young man compliments you on your appearance, it’s neither flirting nor flattery. It’s generosity of spirit. And, believe me, you embrace it with both hands,” Uncle Ben said, winking at Sunny and me conspiratorially. He lifted his glass of champagne. “Na zdrowie!”
Chapter42
Sunny
The pre-coronation party at the Boche palace was in full swing. The combined wealth of all these posh twats, I reckoned, would be staggering. There must have been at least sixty people, milling about, making small talk, jigging to Very British Music and saying “yah, yah” a lot. Jonty was by the firepit, making Instagrammable duck face with some of his influencer mates I recognised from Maxime’s. One of the blokes was so fit I found myself pondering the ethics of walking up to a total stranger and asking them if they had an OnlyFans. At the kitchen table, Beverley and Ben were deep in conversation with a group of BBC types, including Annabelle Statham-Drew, who’d been to Shetland with us the week before but had so far blanked me completely tonight. Out on the patio, Ludo and I found ourselves sinking slowly into the lounger, having been cornered by a very drunk Hugo—who somehow no longer seemed to consider me enemy number one. In fact, quite the opposite. It was like the booze had flicked a switch.
“It was bloody marvellous,” Hugo said. His arms were moving like someone else was controlling them, and I realised where Ludo got it from. I wondered if they had the same puppeteer. “Ludo struck the first blow, mortally wounding Wynn-Jones”—he clapped a hand on Ludo’s shoulder and shook him, making Ludo visibly cringe—“then you went in for the kill and finished off the useless bastard.” He leant over Ludo and slapped his hand on my knee a few times, like he was rewarding a dog. “The future of British journalism is in good hands—and it’s sitting right here on my patio sofa.”
If I’m honest, I felt as buoyed as I did surprised by the pep talk, but Ludo looked like he’d rather be scraping dog shit from his shoes with his own teeth. Hugo knocked back the last of his red wine and grabbed the bottle to pour himself another. I was nursing my third cider, not wanting to get blattered if there was a chance of a serious make-out session with Ludo later. I was starting to feel cold and couldn’t remember where I’d left my hoodie.
“Tell me,” Hugo said, “what are your career plans, Sunny? Where do you see yourself in five years?”
“Father!” Ludo’s annoyance with his old man spilt over. The two of them exchanged a look. Ludo’s was a glare; Hugo’s was more dismissive. Whatever this tension was, I had no desire to wade into it. By the same token, one of the most powerful men on (the metaphorical) Fleet Street had just asked me a question about my career plans, and I fully intended to answer it.
“I’m still learning my craft and making my contacts,” I said. Always smart to start humble. “And I will always be grateful to theBulletinfor giving me my first Westminster gig. But, to be honest, I don’t see myself there long term.”
Hugo’s eyebrows raised, and I wondered if he thought I was being disloyal. It was too late to turn back now, so I carried on. I felt Ludo’s hand unwrap itself from around my back, the night air cool where the warmth of his body had been.
“Ultimately, I want to work at a newspaper where I’m respected, both as a reporter and as an individual, and where my work is valued and treated seriously. Somewhere the subs don’t add in spelling mistakes, factual errors and, frankly, tits.”
Hugo laughed.
“Or beavers?”
“Don’t get me started on the beavers.”
Ludo stood up.
“Shall we go for a walk?” he said, interrupting what was beginning to feel like an important bonding experience with a man who could make all my professional dreams come true. Ludo must have sensed my hesitation. “I want to show you something,” he added. He held out a hand towards me. I looked up at him, his beautiful face framed by Union flag bunting, and heard myself say, “Not just now.”
Ludo’s face fell. He looked hurt.
“Can we go in a minute?” I said, correcting course. “Your dad and I were just?—”
“Never mind,” Ludo said, holding up a hand. “You talk. I’m going to get a drink.”
He turned and walked away. Every instinct told me to chase after him. To wrap him up in a hug, to apologise for being stupid, for letting myself get distracted by his father’s flattery, and to tell him I’d love to go for a walk. But the significance of the conversation I was having with Hugo, the potential effect on my career, was too great. This might be my big shot. In the end, I hedged my bets, wanting to show Hugo I would be a caring partner to his son, not just a good potential employee.
“I should really go check that he’s OK,” I said.
“Don’t worry about Ludo,” Hugo said, the dismissive look returning to his face. “He thinks it would be a bad idea for the two of you to work together.”
Wait, what? Had theydiscussedthis? “Excuse me?” I said.
“He told me the other day, when I asked him if he thought you’d ever consider moving over to theSentinel.”
My mind was spinning, struggling to process what Hugo had just said. If I’d understood correctly, Hugo had suggested offering me a job, and Ludo had stopped him.
“He said you had some funny idea that reporters shouldn’t get involved with reporters from other outlets,” Hugo said.
My heart sank. I picked at the label of my cider bottle, feeling like a proper knobber. I felt the rage growing inside me. Hugo hadn’t wanted to offer me a job on merit; he was just being nice to his son. This was humiliating. Something inside me shattered.
