Falling Off Air by Catherine Sampson Page B

about domestic deals and love, and how one didn't work without the other—but
     I didn't, because even in the white hot fury of the moment I was too ashamed of my own bitterness to share it with the world.
     That was for his ears only. That was for later. Right now I just needed to shut him up.
    “Adam,” my voice was barely under control, but I leaned in close so that the material of his suit brushed against my skin.
     I put my hand on his shoulder and spoke in his ear. “I want to talk to you too. I want to talk to you about Paula Carmichael
     and why my name and the names of my children are in her little book, and then perhaps you can explain it all to the police.”
    He stepped back from me as though I'd slapped him, his face white, eyes wide. Then he turned on his heel and was gone.

Chapter 7
    Y OU'RE going to hate this,” Jane warned me on the phone the next morning. “I'm only telling you because someone's got to, and
     you'd rather it was me.”
    It was Sunday lunchtime, and Jane was calling from Quentin Browne's flat, where she was reading the newspapers over eggs and
     bacon. She didn't volunteer that they'd only just got up, but I could tell from her tone of voice. Quentin had picked up an
     award for some news story or other, and there's nothing like a prize to tickle a man's fancy.
    “Okay.”
    “Are you sitting down?” I was standing by the breakfast table. The children had just finished eating and we were having a
     competition to see whether I could clean up the floor before they ate all the bits off it.
    “Just get on with it.” I knew I was being short with her, but we weren't all languishing in a postcoital haze.
    “Okay. I'm reading the diary section of the
Chronicle.
Here goes. ‘At a glittering awards ceremony at the Grosvenor House Hotel last night, broadcaster Adam Wills picked up the
     Nice Try award for romantic melodrama. The great and good of broadcasting were treated to the spectacle of Wills chasing after
     his old flame, award-winning producer Robin Ballantyne, and practically throwing himself at her feet. Ballantyne, who had
     two children by Wills and is said to be deeply bitter about Wills's failings as a provider, gave him the brush-off and left
     him looking distinctly silly. After hounding him for money for the past year, it seems she is now the one playing hard to
     get.’ That's it.”
    For an instant I was speechless, and then it burst out of me, “Playing hard to get?” I was furious. “Hounding him for money?
     Where did this come from?”
    “It didn't come from anywhere.” Jane sounded taken aback. She tried to calm me. “They've just invented it. You know how these
     things work.”
    “I've never asked him for a penny,” I ranted on. “I don't want a … a provider. I …” but I couldn't carry on.
    “Robin, this is just silly. I didn't mean to upset you. You should be laughing …”
    “Why, Jane, are you laughing?” I snarled and hung up.
    I rang the
Chronicle
then and demanded to speak to the editor and told him that I'd sue him for libel unless he printed a retraction. I should
     have known better. It's a new newspaper and it sells itself as the prime purveyor of political and media gossip in the capital.
     It is written in tabloid style but it gets most things at least broadly right, so that what starts out as gossip in the
Chronicle
is often picked up by the heavyweight papers. Its circulation has boomed because it appeals across the board, and because
     no one can afford to dismiss it.
    “A retraction of what?” he challenged me. “He chased after you, you gave him the brush-off. Dozens of people were watching.”
    “I've never asked him for a penny.”
    “We only have your word for that.”
    “So whose word do you have for what you wrote?”
    He almost laughed in my face then, and told me I couldn't expect him to say who his “news sources” were, but that if I wanted
     to put my own side of the story in his newspaper, he'd be happy to