Reality TV - The Novel

Hughes Mike

Description

Ethan Wolfe is a well-regarded, highly moral investigative journalist, but when an investigation goes wrong, he is forced to take a restorative sabbatical. This intensely engaging novel, 'Reality TV', chronicles what happens next. Sticking two fingers up to his employers, Ethan impulsively applies to appear on 'The Perfect Crime' - a hit UK reality TV show in which a team of detectives attempts to prevent a team, the Criminals, from completing a series of organised crimes. With family problems back home, and ever-increasing hostile tension with young teammate Matt, Ethan's devout moral focus wanders as the show develops, and the team struggles to get a grasp on victory.

Informations

• Publié par: Distributed by eBookpartnership
• Date de parution: 01 avril 2022
• Nombre de lectures: 1
• EAN13: 9781839784538
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

Reality tv
– the novel
M. J. Hughes


Reality TV - the novel
Published by The Conrad Press Ltd. in the United Kingdom 2022
Tel: [phone]
www.theconradpress.com
[e-mail]
ISBN 978-1-839784-53-8
Copyright © M. J. Hughes, 2022
All rights reserved.
Typesetting and Cover Design by: Charlotte Mouncey, www.bookstyle.co.uk
The Conrad Press logo was designed by Maria Priestley.


ONE
‘ If anyone’s going to lead this thing, it’s me.’ Ethan paces across the room, from Juliet’s desk over to the window that spans an entire wall. Outside the tall office block, London hovers in a blur of grey fog, St Paul’s barely visible in the morning gloom.
‘You’re going to be on sabbatical–’
‘A sabbatical you insisted I take.’
‘Yes, and you know why.’
He turns to face her. ‘Yet things are different now. This development, for God’s sake, needs handling carefully.’
‘And I stand by my decision, even so. All that pressure from the pharmaceuticals gaffe in the US has really taken its toll on you. You’re tired, you’re irritable, you’re not getting things right–’
‘According to whom?’
‘Everyone. Jesus, Ethan, do we have to go over this again? You need to do something different for a while. And it sounds like you’ve got the perfect vacation set up.’
He gazes through the window again, trying to make out the Gherkin. ‘I think you’ll find we call it a holiday over here.’
He can feel Juliet shaking her head behind him, almost hear the rustle of her hair across her dark navy blazer. He turns to his managing editor and sees her run her hands through her long blonde bob.
‘Look,’ she says, firmly. ‘You’re on leave as of tomorrow, and that’s all there is to it. We need someone to get this investigation moving now. Ian’s already in Yemen. Cathy’s heading for Pakistan tomorrow. It makes sense that one of them heads this up.’
He presses his thumb and index finger to the bridge of his nose, easing the pressure that’s rapidly building, then moves toward the brown leather sofa on the far side of the room. In a last-second change of heart, he opts to sit in the adjacent red, foam egg chair, perching on the edge of it to stop it from rocking. He seems to remember being told once that Philippe Starck made this chair especially for Juliet, though he can only imagine what Juliet covertly did to help the guy out and make him want to reward her.
‘Cathy, then,’ he says, clasping his hands between his knees. ‘Cathy should head up this drone report. She has her head more firmly screwed on than bloody Ian. And, let’s face it, she could do with a bit of recognition after all that pharmaceutical rubbish.’
‘Thank you,’ Juliet says. She reaches for the phone on her desk and holds the receiver to her ear. Only a second passes before the sound of the low voice of her PA echoes down the line. ‘Mark, get me Cathy Sweeney. Tell her it’s urgent.’
The phone is placed back into its cradle and Juliet’s eyes lift to meet Ethan’s.
‘Do me one more favour,’ she says, a familiar smile on her lips now that she has her own way. ‘Try and relax while you’re on this escapade of yours. Put things in perspective a little.’
‘Yes, captain,’ Ethan says, and he rises to leave, letting the chair swing into a squeaking rocking motion that will surely annoy Juliet once he’s left the room.
•••
By the time Ethan reaches York, it is that time of day when Homestead Park is virtually empty. Joggers haven’t quite left work. Mums are home, their babes already tucked in bed. Kids are gobbling up their dinners after a long day at school. There’s just one old man in the distance, rounded in the shoulders, a fat black Labrador plodding by his side. But as far as the eye can see in every other grassy, tree-lined direction there is no one. Only Ethan, strolling through, on his way home from the station.
He pulls his cord blazer more tightly around him, wishing he’d brought a jumper. Despite the close weather in London, it’s crisp and bright here. More like a November morning than early October evening. The leaves are already shedding abundantly from the tall chestnut trees above and he watches one or two blow along in the soft breeze, trundling their way past his feet.
How can he possibly accept Juliet’s decision to prevent his involvement in this drone report? It is one of the biggest the Bureau has seen, for Christ’s sake, and– and– and– He could argue in his head forever and still the situation will be the same. Sabbatical. There is no escaping it. And his fate is sealed for six weeks. At least, he thinks, the show will fully occupy his mind during this ordeal of missing work.
Ethan glances back down the path in the direction he has come from. A woman is a hundred and fifty or so paces behind him, wearing a huge, black fur jacket and tottering on too-tall heels. Her hair is a wild mess of plum dye. He continues on his path, but can’t let go of the feeling of her behind him. He takes a quick look again. God, she looks like Mary. It is uncanny.
He shakes his head, trying to rid the image of her, and quickens his steps. When he reaches the park gate, he turns right onto Shipton Road. After just a few hundred yards a taxi appears in the distance. In plenty of time, Ethan sticks his arm out, flagging it down. He jogs across the road.
‘Elmwood Avenue,’ he instructs as gets in, and the taxi reverses into a side street, pulls out and heads in the direction from which it came.
What was he thinking walking home? He needs to conserve his energy. He closes his eyes in the back of the cab, lets his head loll back onto the rest, empties his mind of drones and foreign countries and corruption. They are no longer his concern. Now he has a new focus.
By the time the cab pulls up at the house, darkness is starting to hover at the edges of the sky, and he sees the downstairs lights are on as a result.
Emily is home.
He exits the cab, pulling his overnight case behind him, pays the driver and moves mindlessly up the three front steps. The door snaps open at the turn of his key and the smell of red wine brewing with onions floods his nostrils.
‘Is that you?’ Emily calls, her voice travelling from the kitchen.
‘No,’ he replies, hanging up his coat next to her striped mac.
‘Great! I was expecting my husband, but as you’re here why not come through and we’ll fool around till he gets home?’
Ethan wanders into the kitchen. Emily is at the range, a large glass of red in one hand, the other stirring the contents of a tall copper pan. Her mousy hair is tied in a loose bun, wispy strands framing her face. Ethan is dying to take her in his arms.
He strides over, sweeps the hair from her cheek and brushes his lips against her soft skin. She kisses his lips briefly then quickly bumps him out of her personal space with her hip.
‘Cooking,’ she says.
And it is all she needs to say, for, even though he’s been away for the night, even though he will be gone tomorrow, he knows too well that when she is cooking, she is concentrating, and that requires room to breathe. No time for sex here.
Unlike Ethan, Emily is, what they call, a leisure cook. Meaning Ethan’s culinary masterpieces adorn their table most nights, and hers appear at the weekends only. Or on special occasions. Which, Ethan supposes, this is. Especially as there is no sign of Jess, their five-year-old daughter.
‘How did it go?’ Emily asks. ‘Can you tell me what Lady Juliet wanted, or is top secret?’
Ethan takes the bottle of red from the kitchen island and half fills a large wine glass that Emily has left out for him. It’s a heavy wine, full of body; the perfect accompaniment for her boeuf bourguignon.
‘There’s a big deal going on with some drone knowledge we’ve got. And I mean really big. They’re putting at least five dedicated reporters on it and she wanted my opinion on who should head up the team.’
‘Ouch,’ Emily says, her back to him as she continues to cook, throwing bay leaves into the pot and sipping at her wine simultaneously. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Not a lot I can do about it, really. How was your day?’
‘It was good. Dropped Jessie at school without any tantrums. Ran a few errands, including collecting a couple of books from the Minster Gate to tide me over while you’re away. Tea with Mum this afternoon.’
‘This illustrating business is quite cushy really, isn’t it?’
She turns, her eyes squinting at him through false loathing.
‘Yeah, yeah, says the man taking time off work to be a TV star.’
Ethan laughs. It’s an outlandish thought. He never would have dreamed he’d even apply for something like this a year or so ago. But when the sabbatical was announced and the application period opened for the show at the same time, he felt a twang of reckless impulsion that drove him to apply. A finger to the Bureau… which backfired somewhat, as Juliet had been in full support from day one.
Ethan perches on one of the stools at the granite-topped island, watching Emily stirring her pan. She isn’t a natural cook and her movements are jerky, her head darting back and forth between cookbook and hob like she’s watching a game of tennis. But her slim waist, the curve of her breasts, even the rounding of her elbows, the softness of the lobes of her ears: they are all perfect, and Ethan is content to watch her in silence, sipping at his wine.
He does this for several minutes, until their happy peace is broken by the shrill ring of the telephone.
Emily reaches around the corner of the range chimney – the wooden spoon still clutched in her other hand, dripping deep red sauce over the tiled floor – and she pulls the receiver from its wall cradle.
‘Hello?’
The kitchen is quiet as the person on the other end explains their reason for interrupting this precious evening.
Without a word, Emily holds out the phone to Etha