Helen Griffiths
Hartley Wintney u3a
Regional Winner South East
The Naked Journalist
Good evening.
Do you read? Newspapers? Or perhaps follow Twitter and Facebook?
I see. In that case you might like to hear a story?
Good, then I’ll give you an exclusive, with pictures, not exactly selfies, but we’ll come to that. I’m not a journalist myself, but, as your serving Conservative representative for Wandsworth, I do know a little about the craft, if you can call it that. Indeed, I am intimately aware of some of its more controversial aspects, the dark side, as it were. And I am very familiar with the species, I see so many of them scurrying around Westminster, long- nosed vermin, digging around in the dirt, sniffing out a scoop…
Please excuse me for a minute. Must refill my glass, settle down. That’s better. Nothing beats this good old Parker Knoll, though Moira is keen to get rid…
Journalism. How would one define it? Is it always a truthful representation of the present? No, no more than history is a truthful representation of the past. The victors, not the vanquished, tell the story. There is no such thing as Objective Journalism. The phrase itself is a pompous contradiction in terms. Reporters trade in pain and suffering. Everyone knows it sells papers. Even the most upstanding and respectable of us dearly love to read ill of others. After all, what is the point of a happy novel with happy, uncomplicated characters? Who cares? What is Cinderella without her ashes and ugly sisters? Red Riding Hood without the wolf? Absolutely colourless!
But I digress.
Do you remember the Daily Chronicle, their red-headed ace reporter Rebecca Dart, six-foot Rottweiler in stilettos and designer clothing? She had that certain concentrated, avid-for blood look that glows on the faces of those on the trail of a big story. Face and legs made for television. A couple of appearances on Meridian News and, yes, I concede she did have a burgeoning career once… Rebecca, good-looking, feisty filly, I’ll give her that. Not quite my type but, then again, I have rather eclectic tastes when it comes to the fairer sex. I admit it is rather a weakness of mine. But we all have our foibles; temptation abounds along the testosterone-driven corridors of power. Only female Prime Ministers have skeleton-free closets. Johnson and Corbyn! Woeful marital records! And as for that old Welsh goat, Lloyd George, well, need I say more? It almost goes with the job.
Besides, Moira is very understanding.
As time passes one looks back. Can’t help it. My one mistake was Karen, dear, lovely, uncomplicated, Karen. I can’t quite recall when she began as my intern in the Cabinet Office. Or even how with a second-class degree from Aberystwyth University. Perhaps those trusting large blue eyes, apple cheeks and long blonde hair charmed the recruitment officer as much as it did me. No matter. Loyal Karen was wonderful at her job. Her dedication went far beyond the strict calls of duty. You can understand.
And then it happened. I could have taken care of things, as I had before. Conception. Such a hit and miss affair. The loaded dice of destiny and all such sentimentality. But Karen, with her Welsh Baptist background, would have none of my pragmatic approach to an intractable problem.
Sorry, I need to refill.
Her solution? A fall from the fourth floor of a multi-story car park in Croydon. It made the papers, of course, and dogged reporters soon came sniffing around.
Moira was very understanding and remarkably sympathetic.
Things got really rather tricky after that. E-mails and phone messages which I thought had been deleted… The autopsy raised even more questions, but nothing concrete came out in the end. The official version was that she “killed herself while the balance of her mind was disturbed.”
But that did not satisfy Rebecca’s bloodlust.
I am firmly of the opinion that if one is not talented enough to be a novelist, not smart enough to be a lawyer, then one becomes a journalist. Rebecca had a very high opinion of her abilities and, pumped up with vanity, began to tout her thinly-veiled screenplay and debut novel around town. A top-notch journalist should always thoroughly research his sources. Had Rebecca been in that league she would have discovered that Jude Roy-Crawley, the most successful literary agent in London, and I go back a long way. I do not put everything in my entry in Who’s Who. There simply is not enough space and there is the question of discretion. Jude’s mother and I were very close many years ago and so the dear boy, having quickly ascertained what Rebecca’s fiction really referred to, simply came to his godfather for advice.
It did not take a great deal of sleuthing to discover the naked truth about Rebecca. Just the right word, here and there, in the right ear, the right gentlemen’s clubs and other kinds of establishments, the kinds you can still find in Soho to this day, if you have the right connections. Jude played his part so well, taking a great deal of interest in her trashy manuscript, editing, proofreading and praising her authorial voice. There were dinners in the Ivy, the Connaught, all the best Michelin-starred restaurants. There was even a trip to Paris to discuss translation rights. Little by little, Rebecca, spellbound by his saturnine good looks and easy manner, fell into Jude’s charming arms.
Moira was not pleased that I was spending so much time with Jude raking over such unsavoury affairs. “No good will come of it,” she would often say and “best let sleeping dogs lie. I don’t want any more press camping on my doorstep.”
Now, I have always liked my women to be meek and subservient in demeanour. That is probably why Rebecca’s overt, aggressive, domineering manner never really appealed. Jude has a different take on these matters and confided in Rebecca his secret fantasies. She of course, as we had already ascertained, was more than happy to play a role which was rather familiar to her. Do you remember Mary Howitt’s famous poem?
Will you walk into my parlour, said a Spider to a Fly;
'Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy.
The way into my parlour is up a winding stair,
And I have many pretty things to shew when you get there
Rebecca walked straight into that parlour, without a backward glance.
I mentioned a photograph. Well, here it is, take a good look. Unmistakeably her with that red cascading hair and glittering green eyes. My word, those thigh-length black leather boots are quite something, aren’t they, and the way she expertly holds that whip. This was taken by a hidden remote camera before she donned the black feather mask. Although partly clothed, she might as well be stark naked. A wonderful depiction of a naked journalist, stripped bare to her essence, hoist by the petard of her naked ambition. I’m sure she had her suspicions but she never discovered for certain that Jude had betrayed her.
As soon as that hit Instagram and various other social media sites, don’t ask me the details, I’m not up on such things, well, that was the end of Rebecca’s glittering career. Finished, as she had planned to finish me.
But I am the master of my own fate, captain of my own soul.
Moira, only daughter of the Laird of Glencross, is suing for divorce.
All you see here, the Gainsborough, the Chippendales, the silverware, all this belongs to her right down to the hideous stag antler wall hanging. I still have my old chair though and my special bottle, kept for extraordinary occasions such as these.
As I drink the bittersweet liquid I think back on my life, and remember dear, sweet Karen. How she must have suffered.
I am the master of my fate.
This will be my last glass.
You have my word.