Cover Story - 58

Bel got back to the office and had half a dozen Post-it notes on her desk with questions from head office.

She and Connor barely looked up from typing and fielding calls, as the sky, through grimy windows, turned to dusk and then to night. Aaron left them at six.

‘All right kids, have a good one. Don’t have been here overnight when I get in tomorrow.’

He loitered by the door. ‘Watch your backs, after this goes live. Remember, in our job, it’s never about the treasure, it’s about the enemies you make along the way.’

Bel made a small ‘got ya’ salute.

‘I can rest easy now,’ Connor said, as they heard the door close. ‘Until Aaron found a wise old grizzled Manc Yoda negative, this was too good to be true.’

‘He’s more of a Baby Yoda, surely? Bel said. ‘The Manc-alorian. You’ve not seen him in winter but he’s got the beige coat.’

‘You find the perfect nickname to annoy him, in my last week?’

They ordered pizzas, Connor nipping out to Marks & Spencer’s for a fresh shirt, as he’d not changed his clothes since the lock-in.

‘Underpants too, all the mod cons,’ he said, slinging a plastic bag on his desk.

‘Let me cue up some music on my phone and you can change in the middle of the room,’ Bel said. ‘How about “Pony”, Ginuwine?’

‘You see, if I said that to YOU,’ Connor said, ‘you and your, as a great man said, “feminist persona”.’

‘We’ve been through this. If you said it to me you’d be implying you wanted to see my arse. Because it’s me saying it to you, I’m turning the tables on objectification while satirising your male vanity. And implying I want to see your arse. Which is obviously non-threatening humour, because who would?’

‘We can let HR adjudicate,’ Connor said, disappearing off to the loo.

They both read each other’s copy before hitting Send.

‘You should have your name alone on the backgrounder, none of that is my work really,’ Connor said.

‘I like the joint byline as a statement of unity and pride,’ Bel said. ‘Also, never give away a byline, Connor, have I taught you nothing?’

‘I could accuse you of a lot but never that,’ Connor said.

Bel had never thought they’d get on, let alone have a rapport. All it took was multiple crises and bonding over men who should have their hard drives seized.

By half nine, they were both pale, shadowed under the eyes and agreeing they’d handle the fresh influx of queries, legals, deadline drama and last-minute checks at first light the next day.

‘I couldn’t have done it without you, Connor,’ Bel said, snapping the buzzing lights off.

‘Thanks, that’s really generous but it’s not true. You could’ve done it all without me, minus the cockup with the photo of my girlfriend on my phone.’

‘All right, please accept that you made almost every moment of it better.’

Bel was as surprised and touched as Connor looked to find that this statement was wholly true.

They shook hands, warmly. When they parted outside, Bel looked over her shoulder at Connor walking to his Metrolink in the dark, just to record one of their last moments in her mind on a historic day. She turned away quickly as he turned back too.

The following day there was a phone call to the Mayor’s office, outlining the evidence, and the content of the interview with Erin, made by someone more senior at the paper than Bel or Connor. They asked if Glenn Bailey wanted to comment. After what was reportedly a flurry of activity at the other end, an assistant confirmed he did not.

Ian messaged Bel:

Apparently Glenn went ballistic, ranting and raving about shadowy forces conspiring to bring him down. Then put his coat on and marched out, that was it. No one can get their heads round the idea that he’s not coming back – they’re wondering if it might be a George in Seinfeld bit where he turns up like he never got sacked, next Monday – but equally, no one can see how he CAN come back.

Official word arrived via press release to all outlets, first thing on Wednesday, the morning their story was running. The Mayor of Greater Manchester, Glenn Bailey, had checked into a private clinic on the recommendation of his doctor to treat ‘sex addiction issues’. He would not be returning to the role of Mayor for the ‘foreseeable future’ and ‘no further statements will be made while he addresses his mental health’.

‘My God,’ Bel said, as they all stared at the news break on their phone screens: ‘He’s the victim, then? No accountability.’

‘Nice try at spoilering your story, too,’ Aaron said.

‘Too late, fucko,’ Bel said, hitting refresh on the paper’s website again; they were publishing at 9.00 a.m.: ‘You’re only going to drive more traffic to us because people want to know why he’s gone. And every subsequent story for the next few days will have to quote us.’

This was what it had all been for. Bel acknowledged her vicarious ‘gotcha’ energy, alongside the nobler sense of having done something to right a wrong. She tried to make sure righteousness did not become gloating. A journalist like Aaron had no problem admitting their glories were others’ horrors, he laughed at Bel’s bleeding heart twinges. ‘ Bless yer. Should’ve become a Macmillan nurse if you’d wanted the love of strangers, Macauley.’

Would she feel anything if Glenn Bailey came for her? Or the Kendricks? No, she’d take her lumps. Aunt Tamara said in life you needed a strong stomach and a strong lipstick. Bel was thirty-four and she had a bird’s eye view of herself today, working out what her job was going to mean. What she was going to make of it.

Bel’s mobile began ringing nonstop as other outlets picked up on it, social media a choppy sea churn of outrage, conspiracies and bad-taste memes with coffee cups. Bel had broken stories before, but never one of this size.

More women started coming forward via Twitter to share their Handsy Bailey (and worse) anecdotes – secretaries, nightclub hostesses, even a cancer survivor he’d met at a tree planting ceremony. Tales of love bombing, lying, brief relations, silence and threats and a theme of wheedling to receive nudes that turned into a stash of ammunition.

Erin had never been alone, just isolated.

The Kendricks’ convictions were rehashed, as MPs and commentators agreed that Bailey’s position was ‘untenable’ due to his taking favours from fraudsters. Bel was nervous in case some enterprising reporter named Amber, but deleting the Airbnb listing seemed to have done the trick of scrubbing her from the record. The ownership of the Didsbury sex den was the issue, not its administration. She wondered what Team Ci Vediamo were making of it all and was highly unlikely to find out.

She and Connor stared at the hard copy stack of papers with their names on the front page.

‘Funny sort of souvenir, isn’t it? But I’ll keep one for my parents,’ Connor said.

Aaron stagily shook the paper out like a stockbroker father in a 1950s film, and read aloud: ‘ Glenn Bailey’s down-to-earth manner and approachability made him immensely popular in his native city. Yet persistent rumours swirled that there was another side to the former ‘nighttime czar’ who’d done so much down the years to reinvigorate the fortunes and image of his beloved Manchester … One person who met ‘the other Glenn’ was twenty-four-year-old Erin Howitt, who interned in the Mayoral office at the start of the year …’

‘You know what I’m taking from this?’ Aaron said.

‘That career abusers in positions of power should never relax?’ Bel said.

‘Knock on the back door instead.’