Page 77 of Cover Story

In the main space, despite their general indifference to a back-slapping corporate jolly, they oohed and aahed. It was lit by chandeliers the size of monster truck wheels, scatterings of stars projected onto the vaulted ceiling. White tablecloths were set with all-white flower arrangements on long gilt stems, with white taper candles.

They found their place cards at a table distant from the stage, as befitted people with no nominations, and got lightly battered on table red wine and bonhomie and ate salmon mousse, chicken in mushroom sauce and lemon tart.

The ceremony was mercifully brisk, engraved shards of Perspex on plinths dispensed to this year’s shining lights of northern media amid waves of applause.

After the plates were cleared and Connor’s internship proved fascinating to the other women at their table, Bel slunk out of her gold seat and approached a handsome young Indian photographer, brandishing a Nikon and snapping stray angles.

‘Excuse me, excuse me, hi,’ Bel tried for her most ingratiating smile and baby Marilyn voice, ‘My work requires me not to have photos online, so would it be all right to ask if you could keep me out of any candids tonight? Oh, thanks so much, Ireallyappreciate it.’

‘Are you a secret ethics and standards inspector or something?’ the photographer asked, flirting.

‘Hah! Something like that. I’d have plenty to inspect, right?’ she flirted back. Needs must.

‘If you’re in any of the backgrounds, I’ll delete it. Shame, though,’ he winked.

They shared a secretive smile and Bel thought:that’s sorted, then.

Bel grabbed her glass and circulated, talking shop with the relaxation that came with free Malbec, and watched Glenn and his entourage in the distance.

She witnessed the cult of personality that Ian referred to: Glenn was the centre of a group that revolved around him. How could he look so normal? How could men who did such things present as the nicest guy in the room? It even made Bel doubt herself, calling to mind Erin, the things said, trying to map it onto the tall, engaging blonde man who laughed easily and often.

Bel turned away until she felt a tap on her shoulder.

‘Excuse me, are you Bel? The Mayor would like to meet you,’ said a woman with ponytailed hair in a suit, one of those curly wires running up the back of her neck to her ear.

‘Me? Are you sure?’ Bel said, suddenly feeling far more sober. Fuck. What if heknew? She recalled Ian saying the Mayor had people everywhere.

‘He’s over there,’ the woman said, and as Bel followed the line of her hand signal, Glenn Bailey raised a glass to Bel, as someone tugged at his sleeve.

She told herself if she was about to receive Tony Soprano whispered threats, it would only invigorate her to carry on. Bel navigated her way through the crowd.

‘Hi, hello! You’re Bel Macauley?’ Glenn said, as she reached him. He extended his hand and Bel shook it. Bel blanked thoughts of where the hand had been.

‘Forgive me for being a little starstruck here, your voice has been the only sound in my ears for weeks.’

‘It has?’ Bel said. The idea was extremely startling. She was the watcher and Glenn was the wildlife and here he was, shining a torch on her. She had been completely caught on the hop. Was he on to her? She sweated, under sequins.

‘Your podcast series is wonderful. I love the way you’ve mixed those famous story backgrounders with your own investigations. I’ve told everyone in my office to give it a listen. A real reminder of what journalism could and should be.’

Glenn was handsome in a weathered way, deep-etched lines and good bone structure.

‘Thank you,’ Bel said, mind racing to come up with a reply. ‘I was lucky that my late aunt gave me a lot of contacts for the legacy stories. I’m kind of a nepo baby, hah. Tamara was a big star on theMirrorin the eighties and when I said I was her niece, people answered the email.’

‘I was going to say, the guy in Sunderland reminiscing about the Ripper and Wearside Jack tapes was a real coup. I’m sure your likeability plays a big role too. It’s not how you get contacts and opportunities, it’s what you do with them once you have them.’

Bel smiled and said thanks and thought:oh, you’re good.

Fortunately, Glenn was claimed by another guest.

‘Bel, I’m sorry this has been so brief, another time!’

Bel made a polite face of gratitude and reeled away with genuine gratitude she’d not had to come up with more to say.

Strange times: had Ian never summoned her to Southern Cemetery, ‘the Mayor loves my podcast’ would’ve been a feather in her cap with her bosses. And she’d have thought he was impressively across his brief.

‘Wow, that’s a special recommendation,’ said a gaggle ofpeople from a weekly paper who’d been standing nearby, shamelessly earwigging, ‘What’s your podcast called?’

‘Thank you,’ Bel said. ‘It’s calledI Might Have A Story For Youbut it’s on hiatus at the moment …’

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