Chapter 42
42
The Victorian neo-Gothic facade of Manchester Town Hall was lit with a garish blue and purple NORTHERN MEDIA AWARDS banner strung across its entrance and a red carpet leading to the arched doorway.
A lone paparazzo was half-heartedly loitering, even though the only famous people here were the Mayor, and the actor and the ex- Strictly contestant duo handing out the gongs– Marcus Rashford wasn’t going to suddenly appear among the pallid hacks.
Bel’s heart was in her mouth as she emerged from her minicab in an emerald sequin cocktail dress she’d acquired as a Bella Niven choice (admittedly her Vinted habit wasn’t wholly justified by her needing to kit out her doppelganger). It was one-shouldered and she’d added dangly fake diamond earrings. A YouTube tutorial on how to do your own chignon had qualified success. The look was Best Supporting Actress nominee at the Aldi Oscars-meets-Rutshire wife-swapping party.
As she painstakingly traversed St Peter’s Square at half speed in heels, she could see Aaron. He was early, sucking hungrily on a vape pen, his quiffed dark hair smoothed into place with pomade.
‘Macca, you look properly stunning,’ Aaron said, looking her up and down. ‘The stuff of instant marriage proposals.’
‘Thank you. You look pretty damn good yourself, Parry.’
Aaron pretend-tightened the tie in a Morecambe and Wise gesture.
‘That’s good, because I feel like a total nob.’
Bel cast a glance at others milling around. No sign of Anthony. He’d surely not bother with somewhere this busy? Keep calm, carry on.
‘Let’s get our heads into the social-climbing zone,’ Bel said. ‘Given Connor won’t be here in a few weeks’ time, it’s up to us to work the room. In the nicest possible way, and I say this with envy, Connor is irrelevant here.’
‘Speak of the swaggering irrelevant devil …’
Bel followed Aaron’s eyeline. Jesus Christ. She’d never seen someone suit a tuxedo in the real world before. Bel thought of them as either ill-fitting hire attire at weddings at golf clubs or straining against the circumference of a Tory grandee, and certainly naffer than a good two-piece suit.
And yet. Here was Adams carrying off black tie as if he’d been born in it, one hand in his pocket as he strolled up to them. It was as if he was going to walk the red carpet at the Venice Film Festival or play high stakes poker in Montenegro with an arms dealer. Connor had additionally acquired a five o’ clock shadow that was thinking about becoming a beard and set off his jawline beautifully.
All in all, he was outshining his company to a brazen and impolite degree. Bel knew it couldn’t be her ‘straight woman weakness’ goggles as Aaron was visibly sick as a parrot.
‘You look like one of those hen do strippers who’s going to cook dinner in an apron with his bum out later,’ he said in greeting to Connor.
‘You look like a Buddy Holly tribute who’s going to sing “Peggy Sue” on the Cunard Line,’ Connor said.
‘Not to sound like your mums, but I think you both look great,’ Bel said, diplomatically.
‘Not all of us already owned a custom-made tux like Jordan Belfort here, eh,’ Aaron said, ‘This cost me ￡150 from Ted Baker.’
‘It’s always extra to get the legs taken up,’ Connor said, and Bel had to stop herself barking with laughter.
‘Enough flirting, you two!’ Bel said. ‘We have to present a united front tonight, please.’
‘Let’s do our Peaky Blinders squad strut then,’ Aaron said. ‘Can someone cue up “Red Right Hand” on their phone.’
They joined the flow into the building, Aaron immediately and vocally running into his former MEN pals– ‘Gareth, you twat, you can’t be nominated unless there’s a category for Biggest Email Not Opener’ – breaking up their threesome.
Bel held her dress clear of her feet on the grand staircase up to the Great Hall and picked her way with extreme care.
‘I’m not going arse over tit in front of dozens of my peers whom I respect. And Connor Adams,’ she said.
‘Charmed. Do you know these steps are low-rise for women in Victorian dress? Bustles and the like?’ Connor said, gallantly slowing his progress to stay abreast of Bel and offering his arm. ‘Shaun made me do the history tour.’
They cast eyes up at the towering stained-glass windows.
‘Hmm. You’d think a hundred years later we’d be in trousers,’ Bel said, accepting the arm.
‘Did anyone stop you wearing trousers this evening?’ Connor said, and Bel gave him an oh fuck you eyeroll.
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, I really appreciate 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 he knew ? 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 the Mirror in 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 of people from a weekly paper who’d been standing nearby, shamelessly earwigging, ‘What’s your podcast called?’
‘Thank you,’ Bel said. ‘It’s called I Might Have A Story For You but it’s on hiatus at the moment …’
It was quite something for Glenn Bailey to take second place in the award for ‘man she least wanted to come face-to-face with at this event’, yet she turned round, and there was the first, smirking at her.