Chapter 71
Sunny
The press conference had already started when the Prius screamed to a halt by a gate in the cyclone fence ZephEnergies had built around the Newton Bardon site.
I could see a scrum of reporters, camera operators, and photographers across the field and made a dash towards them with my notepad and the most important documents held tightly in my hand.
Carstairs was wearing a green pantsuit today.
I slipped into the back of the press pack and listened to her speak.
“This project will secure the energy future for people right across the Midlands, as we transition to our exciting low-carbon future,” she said.
She prattled on for three or four minutes; then the questions started.
I edged forward, trying to get close enough to catch her attention.
She took a question from Ford Goodall. Good old Ford asked for clarity on when the deal with ZephEnergies had been done, and Carstairs fudged it, just as she had been fudging it since Ludo broke the story—our story—in the Sentinel.
Crouching, I squeezed in beside Rafiq Farouq, whose eyes bugged wide at seeing me.
I put a finger to my lips to stop him saying anything.
I winked, because that’s the kind of thing people do at moments like this in movies.
In among all the suits, I suddenly realised I was still wearing the old blue hoodie and sweatpants I’d chucked on after yoga.
The fact I wasn’t meant to be here was going to stand out like dog’s bollocks.
After a question from the BBC’s Annabelle Statham-Drew, I popped my head up and shouted my first question.
“Minister, as an investor in ZephEnergies, isn’t it a massive conflict of interest for you to be approving this nuclear power plant?”
Flashes went off, and camera shutters whirred. A murmur went through the press pack. There was blood in the water. Carstairs’s left eye twitched, just a little, a nervous tell. But she composed herself quickly.
“I don’t hold any shares in ZephEnergies, and frankly, that’s a libellous accusation.”
The atmosphere had completely changed. The lions were turning on the ringmaster. I stepped forward and held up the documents I’d brought with me.
“Not directly, but you do. Through a series of shell companies, many of which are registered offshore, but you are definitely an investor in ZephEnergies. As is your husband, Dirk Windhoek, and the chief whip, Vladimir Popov.”
“Rebecca-Jo,” Carstairs said, summoning an aide, “I don’t believe this man is a serving member of the press. Did you check his press pass?”
Rebecca-Jo shook her head.
“I’m sorry, it’s accredited members of the press only, I’m afraid.
” Carstairs flicked her finger towards her government-issue police protection and then towards me.
I was being removed. “You’ll have to take your baseless conspiracy theories elsewhere.
I’m sure you could start a podcast or something. ”
A voice came from somewhere behind me.
“What about me? I’m an accredited member of the press. Can I ask a question?”
I turned to see Ludo, chest heaving, a line of sweat on his brow. Where the hell had he come from? The sun was shining off his glasses, an unkempt curl bobbing in the breeze. He looked beautiful.
“Ludo Boche, the Sentinel,” he said, flashing his press pass at Rebecca-Jo, who knew perfectly well who he was. He lifted his notepad to his chest and peered at it.
“Does the prime minister know you and your family stand to personally earn millions of pounds if this project goes ahead?”
More flash photography. A hum from the reporters.
“Where are you getting this?” Carstairs said.
“Is there a reason you haven’t listed these shareholdings on your MP’s register of financial interests? Why were you trying to hide it from the British people?”
Carstairs looked flustered now. The photographers were swarming like flies on shit.
I showed the documents I had with me to some of the other reporters, proving the information was good.
They began chiming in with their own questions.
Rebecca-Jo declared the press conference was over.
She and the minister turned on their heels, and the press pack upped stumps and followed, squawking like seagulls.
Ludo shouted his last couple of questions above the din.
“Have you lied to the British people, Minister?” and, finally, as car doors slammed and engines revved, he banged on the window and said, “Will you do the decent thing and resign, Minister?”
We’d make a tabloid reporter out of him yet.
The car sped away, and a few of the press pack chased after it, as did Leaf and Karma, who played up to the cameras in the spirit of people who loved a good protest.
“You’re a crook, Carstairs!” Leaf shouted, waving his fist.
“Lock her up! Lock her up!” Karma chanted.
Ludo watched the car disappear down the road, a vision of calmness among all the pantomime.
The wind buffeted his hair. He was still clutching his notepad to his chest. He pushed his glasses up onto his nose.
He looked… content. Satisfied at a job well done, perhaps.
Like he’d proven something to himself. He seemed to have found a confidence I hadn’t seen in him before.
In that moment, I forgot everything else he’d made me feel and just felt proud.
I swept around low in front of him and scooped him up off the ground with my arms around his legs.
“Careful! Put me down. I’m too accident-prone for this kind of thing.”
I was laughing.
“You were bloody fantastic,” I said.
“I know; put me down.”
I loosened my grip and let Ludo slide down my body until his feet touched the ground and our eyes met.
All around us was a chaos of media—of radio reporters doing live crosses, of journos calling their stories back into their newsrooms, of Leaf and Karma being interviewed for the TV cameras.
But for all the anarchy around us, there was, just for a second, only the two of us.
“I’m sorry,” Ludo said. “Father found the article on my laptop in the summer house and—”
I put a finger to his lips. They were soft and plump, and touching them sent lightning through my body.
“It’s OK,” I said. “I’m sorry I ignored your messages. I was so angry. It’s something I’m working on. Summer’s teaching me—”
“You lost your job because of me, and I’m so, so sorry.”
“I’m not.” And I meant it.
Everything we needed to say hung in the air between us, waiting to be said, but for the moment, we’d said enough.
Our eyes spoke for our hearts. They sought forgiveness, expressed sorrow, asked for permission.
I let my finger drift along Ludo’s cheek and down to his neck.
My hand cupped his jaw, and he nuzzled into it, his eyes never leaving mine.
My fingers combed their way around the back of Ludo’s neck and up into his hair.
I pulled him into me, and we kissed. And we kissed and we kissed and we kissed until, finally, Ludo pulled away. He opened the flap of his shoulder bag.
“How did you get here so fast?” I asked.
“I’ll explain later,” he said, pulling out his laptop. “Right now, you need to write.”