England, England by Julian Barnes

Author:Julian Barnes [Barnes, Julian]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 978-0-307-55595-3
Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Published: 2011-08-23T16:00:00+00:00

GARY DESMOND NEVER CAME too soon. That is what his colleagues used to say of him, admiringly. He had good contacts, secured his sources, did the leg-work, triple-checked anything iffy, and only brought his story to the editor when it was busting out of its bra. He also had the advantage, as an acquirer and purveyor of sex stories, that he didn’t look like one. Most people imagined some coarse, collusive, blackmailing humanoid who leeringly licked a pencil between note-taking and had stains on his trench-coat which might have been beer but probably weren’t.

Gary Desmond wore a dark suit and restrained tie, and on certain occasions a wedding ring; he was intelligent, civil, and rarely put discernible pressure on his informants. His approach was – or seemed – sympathetic yet businesslike. This story had come to the paper’s attention, they had researched it thoroughly, and were intending to publish shortly; but first they wanted, out of courtesy, and indeed moral obligation, to check it with the key protagonist. There were some facts she or he might like to clarify, and obviously the newspaper would like to help in any way it could when rivals picked up the story and – let’s be realistic about this – persuaded other parties to put a different slant on affairs. In short, there was a problem, and a problem that wouldn’t go away, but Gary Desmond was there to help you. Instead of suggestive pencil-licking, he made slow notes with a gold-nibbed fountain-pen, the sort of semi-antique that could become a talking-point, and his manner was endlessly patient and faintly subservient, so in the end it was usually you who first mentioned money. It just needed a mild ‘I suppose my expenses will be covered?’ or a more blatant ‘Drink in it for me?’ – and before you knew it you were at a ‘secret hideaway under an assumed name,’ which sounded more exotic than a Home Counties conference hotel near a by-pass, but still … And the tape-recorder would turn and turn – the likeable fountain-pen having long since been put away – as Gary Desmond went over and over things he already knew, or seemed to know, but just wanted to double-check. By this time you had already signed the contract and seen the air-tickets. Indeed, such was your bonding with Gary – as you had slipped into calling him – that you even wondered, with a cute toss of your bleached hair, whether he couldn’t come with you and share those five days in the sun waiting for it all to blow over. And sometimes he did and sometimes it was regrettably against the rules.

All this professional lulling did not prepare you for a front page which read MY DRUG-CRAZED LEZZIE ROMPS WITH PRINCE RICK. Inside, across two pages, you saw yourself, cleavage adangle, laid out in a French basque on a snooker table naughtily cupping a couple of balls in your hand. Then came the call from your parents, who’d

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