Free Exposure by Evelyn Anthony

as a pebble flashed blue fire. The wife of thirty-two years. Marilyn; ex-model, ex-bit-part actress. Incredibly, the delicate creature with her birdlike frame and little painted face was the mother of the hulking blonde girl on the other side of King. Gloria King, a cruel misnomer, for a female version of her father. White-blond hair, the same pale eyes with tortoise lids, the coarse features and heavy limbs; she wore a suite of gold and diamond jewellery like fetters round her neck and wrists. She never looked away from her father’s face. Her eyes were fixed on him in adoration.
    Julia murmured to Felix, ‘There’s King, over there, with the wife and daughter.’
    Felix stared openly. ‘Jesus,’ he said, grinning. ‘She’s going to need a bloody big cash settlement. I suppose if you thought about the money long enough, you’d get it up … Mum looks a better bet. Bit like fucking something out of the Mummy Room in the British Museum.’
    â€˜Felix,’ Julia hissed at him. ‘Keep your voice down.’ She didn’t need to warn him because at that moment Harold King began to shout.
    â€˜Where the hell’s the menu? Where’s Phillipe?’
    â€˜He’s on his way up, sir,’ a nervous wine waiter assured him. King scowled at him. His voice rose over the quiet room, so that everyone stopped talking and turned to look at him. ‘I want him now – go and tell him to hurry up!’
    The head waiter was already hurrying across the room. King waited till he reached the table.
    â€˜I want another bottle of Perrier and the menu – what the hell’s going on here? You call this service?’
    Phillipe was a man of international reputation and part-owner of the restaurant. He held out the leather-covered menu.
    â€˜I have it here, Mr King.’
    â€˜Take it away; you know perfectly well what we always have.’
    He dismissed the man with an angry wave. Phillipe gave a slight bow and said smoothly, ‘Of course. Your Perrier will be here immediately.’
    â€˜My God,’ Julia said. ‘Did you see that? What a pig!’
    Felix shrugged, ‘He was playing games, drawing attention to himself. It’s part of the act. I bet he gives Philippe What’s-his-name a socking great tip when he leaves and the oily little bugger will take it and bow low. Put the moral indignation away, darling, and let’s enjoy ourselves.’
    Julia said angrily, ‘Nothing bothers you, does it, Felix? How could you excuse behaviour like that?’
    â€˜Because I don’t sit in judgement like you do,’ he said quickly. ‘You’re the crusading journalist, not me. After all, if I’m going to spend my life with politicians, I can’t afford to side with the underdog. There’s just no future in it.’
    Julia said quietly, ‘Then you’ll never get to the top, Felix. You make fun of Warburton, but he’s got real standards and integrity. That’s why he’s trusted. Let’s go to our table.’ She got up and he followed her with a slight shrug. She was in a touchy mood, and he was irritated because he wanted to enjoy himself. He didn’t want a moral lecture, he decided, he wanted lobster quenelles.
    Harold King noticed the redheaded woman when he passed them on the way to the table specially reserved for him. It was in the middle of the room, giving him a vantage point where he could see everyone and everyone could see him. He noticed her because he hated that colour hair. He had never considered any woman cursed with it to be attractive. One day he’d seen a secretary in the main office with red hair, and ordered her to dye it or be sacked.
    With the temper typical of the colouring, she’d told him to stuff his job and stormed out in tears. He had told personnel not to give her a reference.
    But this one was familiar. He recognized Western’s star protégée, the reporter