Chapter 34
They had made the video when Stephen was away in the Maldives with his family, a couple of weeks before the party.
It was one of the many lavish holidays that Rose, and Stop the Press, had discovered were claimed improperly as expenses, not to mention the designer clothes he had bought for his wife or the fizzy-water tap that had been installed in his home, put down as ‘entertainment’.
These discoveries gave them the hard evidence, and the confidence, to take Stephen out with a bang.
They could have simply reported him to the chief executive and the other powers that be, but Stephen had told Olivia to make the party a night that nobody would forget, after all.
And it wasn’t the only evidence of impropriety that Rose had gathered about Stephen.
In the last couple of weeks, STP had spoken to numerous women who had, like Olivia, found themselves on the wrong end of his advances: young reporters and PRs and up-and-coming starlets who had been too scared to say anything lest he turn the might of The Morning against them.
But there was strength in numbers, and many of them had agreed to take part in this video, to tell their stories.
Right at this moment, their voices were being projected loud and clear into the ears of the hundreds of guests in the room, all of the women’s faces, except for Olivia’s, blurred for anonymity.
Rose had stayed up late to edit the video for maximum impact, and was uploading it to social media at the same time.
The room is silent but for the women’s voices – even Stephen is horror-struck, staring at the screen like he truly can’t believe what’s happening. The final words are Olivia’s.
‘If journalism is all about reporting the truth, and holding power to account, then The Morning has failed, at least for the time that Stephen has been editor. Thanks to the vital testimony gathered in this video by Stop the Press, we can ensure that the next generation of journalists at this organization are able to work frankly, fearlessly, and most of all, with complete freedom.’
As the video ends, Rose steps on to the stage and approaches Stephen from behind, a pot of bright pink paint swinging in her wake. Several things happen at once, and Olivia is glad, later, that there are enough people in the room to capture it from every angle on their smartphones.
He turns just before Rose empties the contents over his head.
‘You bitch!’ he snarls. He swings for her, almost knocking her on to the floor, as a load of horrified guests rush the stage to pull him off.
Joe and Erling Haaland form an unlikely pincer movement, the footballer grabbing Stephen around the neck, covering himself in pink paint, as Joe throws himself in front of Rose.
The crowd are whooping and cheering at the show they didn’t expect but are very much enjoying.
Rose nonchalantly dusts down her bright blue trousers while tutting at the pathetic specimen in front of her.
A group of security guards have clambered on to the stage, pinning Stephen to the floor as he tries to wipe the neon paint from his eyes.
One of them checks on Rose in a very serious, officious manner – but, given he’s an undercover STP reporter, Olivia’s not worried.
Now is her moment.
‘You all right there, boss?’ she says, walking up to the stage, and standing over the sprawled figure on the floor.
‘Olivia!’ he rages.
‘Good of you to finally call me by my actual name, you ocean-going arsehole.’
Stephen starts to scramble towards her, but is held back by the security guard.
‘You’re fired, Liv!’ Stephen spits at her.
Olivia throws her head back laughing. ‘Good. I reckon the same goes for you too.’
She watches as a group of security guards drag her bright pink tormentor towards the fire exit.
She knows that they won’t want to cover the lifts or the lobby in paint, but thinks it’s a shame that he won’t be dragged out along the blue carpet, in front of all the waiting photographers.
As he flails around, she realizes she is shivering.
Shaking, but strong, simultaneously. She’s expelled the toxin that was poisoning her life, and as she sees him carried off, she understands that her body is thanking her for it.
It’s then that Olivia feels her son’s favourite football player pat her on the arm.
‘What an absolute prick that man is,’ says Haaland, with all the powerful, brilliant simplicity of a striker directing the ball into the back of the net.
There is pink paint in his white hair, but it only improves him.
‘How brave of you. If there’s anything I can ever do to help, please let me know. ’
‘Well, actually,’ says Olivia Greenwood, as frank, fearless and fabulous as ever, ‘there is just one little thing …’