Sockpuppet: Book One in the Martingale Cycle by Matthew Blakstad Page B

because the sick-smell was rising ever faster and all she wanted was to escape to the ladies and mop down her front; but mainly, she was a junkyard dog when cornered.
    ‘Is that the PM’s view?’ she snapped.
    ‘I don’t see what that—’
    ‘It’s a simple question. Does Simon want me to stay on and fix this?’
    Long pause. Short answer.
    ‘Yes,’ said Karen. ‘Of course.’
    ‘Then are we done?’
    Karen pretended to write a note on her printout: but the first and second fingers of her left hand betrayed her, tapping the page in a rapid rhythm. She slipped the lid back on her Mont Blanc and looked at Bethany.
    ‘I am simply suggesting that you find yourself a clear account of the sequence of events around your statement and of any data breaches. And that you do this before your launch on Friday.’
    Two days, then. That might be enough.
    ‘So no, Beth, we are not done. Though of course you are free to go if you want.’
    Bethany stood. Krish rose with her but Karen held up a finger.
    ‘Do you have five minutes, Krishan?’
    As he sat back down, Krish gave Bethany the briefest look of what might pass for apology. She heaved open the oak door without assistance.

¶LabelMabel
Gimme an O, gimme an M, gimme a G.
Has anyone *seen* B Lehrer’s outfit? Aside from she’s spilled chai tea down her front, what *is* she thinking matching that ill-fitting Westwood with last season’s pink Mulberry clutch?
Also: those shoes with that skirt?

Two
    J-R hovered by the pick-up station, rapping his change on the metal countertop as a crop-headed Slovak fussed with valves. A crowd of men jostled at the counter like horses at a starting line, the steam of the four-spout machine hanging over them.
    This City coffee spot – The Sipping Point – was rammed with these milk-fed rugby types in bellicose pinstripes. As they came and went, they called each other’s names in the same permanent shout J-R imagined they must use at work, to call out, ‘ buy! buy! sell! sell! ’ – followed by guttural ‘ wouarrrr ’sthat made his buttocks clench. This must be where the playground bullies ended up in life, while chess club members like J-R had sought the silence of Whitehall corridors and the security blanket of inch-thick policy documents. The exception being Mark Dinmore. Mark was not just a member of the chess club, he’d been junior UK champion at eleven. At uni he was one of life’s delightful naïfs; and perhaps the only person ever to turn to J-R for worldly advice – ironically, on coming out. Yet he’d found his niche advising these City thugs on data security. He’d gained quite a reputation on the back of his coruscating and hugely popular blog, Electronicana , in which he exposed and lampooned the security failings and data abuses of corporations; who, in turn, paid him a presumably punative day-rate to fix their missteps and avoid further exposure at his hand. A kind of velvet-glove protection racket.
    The coffee shop was Mark’s choice for a rendezvous this morning.
    A two-handled china vat landed on the counter, followed by a chubby Danish pastry, dandruffy with icing sugar. J-R balanced the plate on the cup and raised the crockery tower in one hand while stooping for his folded bike with the other. He tightrope-walked to a corner booth. As he settled on the banquette the street door roared open and there was Mark, dapper in the crisp light, his delicate jawline brushed with reddish stubble: not quite a beard. He wore a neat tweed jacket over jeans and scuffed brogues. Spotting J-R’s raised hand he gave an expansive smile and mimed the purchase of a drink. J-R nodded.
    Mark arrived at the booth with the tiniest espresso J-R had ever seen: it was like a doll’s-house prop. As J-R rose to shake hands, Mark set the coffee down and pulled him wholesale into an embrace, the full length of his body tight into J-R’s flesh. J-R waited to be released before stepping back and coughing. They