“I wouldn’t want old VladPop reading my DMs,” Ludo added. “Nothing too saucy in there, I hope? His dirt file is so big heliterallykeeps it on its own server.”
I hate people who useliterallywhen they meanmetaphorically. Red flag. I returned my gaze to the cold-hearted political killer who was currently reading whatever banter Dav, Nick, Stav, Jumaane, and Petey were enjoying. I shuddered at the thought. We had just been talking about Jumaane’s waxed arsehole. As he scrolled, Popov’s shoulders bounced up and down in what I guessed was amusement. I could hear the (presumably metaphorical) dirt file server whirring into action. Could he really justdothis? Was there no way to stop him reading my private group chat?
“He’s typing,” Ludo said. Holy crap, he was right.
“This is all your fault,” I said.
“My fault?” Ludo turned to me, pushed his round-framed glasses up onto his nose, and swept his curly fringe back with his hand. “How’s this my fault?”
“How is thisnotyour fault?”
“All I did was sit down.”
“You didn’t. You threw yourself down like a sack of potatoes and turned the rest of us into a game of press gallery whack-a-mole.”
“No one told me the seat was booby-trapped!” His arms entered the electrocuted-puppet mode I recognised fromWake Up Britain.
“Why didn’t you use your brain?” I said, somewhat unfairly.
“Why didn’t you hold on to your phone tighter?” he said, somewhat fairly. I didn’t really have an answer to that.
“Look, I’m sorry!” he said, saving me from a fight I wanted to have but couldn’t feasibly win. “It’s my first time here. I’m Ludovic Boche. From theSentinel. I’m new.”
He held out his hand, a bit gingerly, as if I might take the opportunity to pull his arm right out of the socket or fling him bodily into the chamber. I looked at his hand, considering whether to shake it or wave my hand over it to see if I could find the strings. When I shook it, his hand was soft but the grip was firm. His skin was olive against my pale hand. I lifted my gaze to meet his and lost myself in his eyes for a moment. They were a vivid blue. Deep like ink, but sparkly like sapphires.
“Sunny Miller,” I said, suddenly aware I’d been shaking his hand for an uncomfortably long time without saying anything. “TheBulletin,” I added.
“Oh, theBulletin…” he said. I could see on his face he was trawling his brain for something nice to say about the paper but coming up short. “Nice phone hacking” wouldn’t really cut it. Although it would be accurate.
“Yes,” I said, letting my hand slide out of his. “And before you ask, no. I can’t get you the phone number of yesterday’s page-three girl.”
“Shame,” he said. “What about the number of the bloke with the big balls on page five?”
I laughed. I couldn’t help myself. Then I was annoyed with myself for laughing. This bellend had ruined my day three times now. Still, it seemed wise to be charitable. In an industry as small as the print media, it wasnevera good idea to make enemies of another reporter. Careers took people in all kinds of directions, and you never knew when someone might become your colleague, your boss, or your key to promotion. It was another reason why it was also a terrible idea to sleep with any of them.
“Congratulations on your big scoop,” I said. It hurt to say it.
Ludo smiled and thanked me. Several other journos plonked themselves down onto the bench, taking their places for PMQs. I nodded hello to those I knew. Ludo introduced himself to those he didn’t. As he leant across to shake hands along the row of reporters, I found myself staring at his arse. For a skinny lad, it was Instagrammablyphat. I had to force myself to look away before my name got added to some kind of list of people they warn new staffers about.
The atmosphere in the House had changed. The prime minister had entered the chamber and taken his seat. The speaker rose to make an announcement, and the volume settled to a low, respectful murmur. I looked down at Popov, who craned his neck around to catch sight of me. He made a series of hand signals that I took to mean “Meet me in the lobby outside the chamber after PMQs.” I sensed there was going to be a high price for this little accident. I nodded at the chief whip and sat back down.
Ludo was already hunched over his notepad, one hand jotting something down in the laziest shorthand I’d ever seen, the other trying to sweep his disobedient hair behind his ear. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. The muscles of his jawline tightened and relaxed. He had a small constellation of moles on his neck and cheek. Proper sexy.
The leader of the opposition got to her feet to ask the first question. I put the nib of my pen against the fresh white page of my notepad.
“Was the prime minister aware of plans to build a nuclear power plant at Newton Bardon in Leicestershire?” she asked. “When did he become aware of the plans, and when was he planning to tell the rest of us?”
The government benches burst into sham outrage, and opposition MPs bellowed cries of “shame.” The great pantomime of democracy had begun. The opposition leader had asked the big question of the day, and everyone wanted to hear the answer.
* * *
As PMQs dragged on and question after question hinged on what the opposition was now calling the “grubby backroom deal” to build a new nuclear power plant in my hometown, the shine on Ludo’s pretty boy looks tarnished. I started to get angry. This story could have been my big break. It had genuine national significance—something to get me noticed up and down Fleet Street. Something, at the very least, to get JT off my back. I couldn’t believe none of my contacts back home had tipped me off. If I couldn’t land an exclusive like this one, maybe JT was right. It also pissed me off that an old friend of Ludo’s father, or someone who used to bugger him senseless in the rowing shed at Eton, had more than likely dropped the story to him. This gold-gilded whalluper was livingmydream, and it had all been handed to him on a plate. I had plenty of good reasons to hate him. It was going to take much more than an adorable, mutinous boy band fringe and eyes you could drown in to convince me otherwise.
Chapter6
Ludo
It was the most important day of my professional life so far, and here I was, covering my first-ever PMQs. Thrilling! I should have been focused on taking down every word of the debate, jotting observations, and conjuring witticisms to make my sketch wazz-your-pants funny. But I couldn’t take my eyes off him. I’d never seen Sunny Miller so up close before. I’d seen his photo in theBulletin, obviously, so I knew he was the copper-topped fellow you sometimes saw in the background of press conferences or interviews in the parliamentary lobby. His bright-red hair marked his location like a beacon, which must have been terribly handy for tracking him in a crowd but far less convenient for him if he wanted to disappear into a corner for a private chat with a source. But what you couldn’t tell from those grainy images, what I didn’t know until I was sitting beside him, was that Miller had the most heavily freckled skin I had ever seen. As I sat in the press gallery, legs jittery with nerves, making notes in my shaky shorthand, I kept sneaking glances at him. He didn’t just have the usual small galaxy of freckles, shining out across his nose and cheeks; he had a whole universe of freckles peppering the expanse of his face. From the top of his forehead to the neckline of his shirt collar, Miller’s pale and milky skin was dusted with flecks of cinnamon and ginger and rust. I had never seen anything so unutterably beautiful in my entire life. Miller was stunning. What’s more, I’d made him laugh. A cute boy hadgenuinelylaughed at something funny I’d said.
