Black Sheep

I woke up the next morning with the biggest smile on my face. Me and Harry had decided to go out on Thursday night, and seeing as today was Tuesday, I had plenty of time. I heard the letter box go, and went to get my post and the newspaper. I ignored the headline as usual and started reading through my post; bills, bills, junk, bills, letter from my old uni asking me to do a ‘talk’ (5th one that month – they must’ve been desperate), and more bills. I looked down at the paper and dropped everything.

Harry’s New Girl?
Prince Harry was seen last night with a girl speculated to be his girlfriend. Both were seen last night leaving the Tower Bridge after an evening in aid of a children’s charity (pictured). The girl in question is known to be Becca Broad , the well-known journalist, who made a change from her usual night’s activities of cavorting in London’s busiest clubs. A source close to the pair said “they’re very happy and have known each other for a while. They spent the night in each other’s company, and just used the event as an excuse to see each other again”. The source also said that the pair “were all over each other all night” and “left together in the early hours of the morning, and went to Broad’s flat in Kensington”. Broad is currently working on a project about the prince’s charity Sentebale, which will be aired later in the year.

I couldn’t read anymore. I was a mixture of emotions; scared, angry, frustrated. Scared as to what would happen now, angry at whoever the ‘source’ had been, and frustrated at whoever took the pictures of us. There was a strict policy on security and photography in the venue and even then someone had ruined it. I scanned the article for which bastard had written it, and it was there in black and white; Tony Fletcher. When I first started writing for the sun he did everything in his power to stop me doing my job. At one point he vowed to ‘ruin my career in journalism, and ruin my personal life, to let me go back to the slums where I grew up’. Harsh, I know. All because I’d refused to go to the annual gala night and pose as his girlfriend.

I flicked my cigarette end to the floor and popped a mint in my mouth to disguise the smell of smoke on my breath. I adjusted my sunglasses and plastered on a sickly smile as I went through the automatic doors into the sun building.
“Is Tony Fletcher in today?” I asked the receptionist on the front desk.
“Yes miss I think he is.”
“Thanks, that’s great.” I said walking straight through the passcode door. I walked straight up the stairs and directly into his office, where he was chatting on the phone.
“Yes so I said that she’d only take him if he bought her it. In the end she came back to me and sucked me off under the desk during the editorial meeting the next afternoon.” There was only a certain amount of forced laughing I could take. I slammed the paper down on his desk, making him whip round and face me. He looked genuinely scared, then realised, then smirked at me.
“So then bitch-tits, you’ve seen it then,” he leaned back into his chair, folded his arms and
“Tony, I’m not stupid. I know how much bullshit you’ve written into that.” I said pointing to the paper and putting my sunglasses.
“Really? You ask any one of the people out of there what they think and I’m sure they’ll tell you something different.” He pointed out his window that overlooked most of London. I decided to give as good as I get. I sat on his side of the desk and rested my foot on the chair next to his head. His eyes travelled from my heeled foot all the way up my leg, then coughed and straightened himself up.
“You see Tony, there are such things as laws, that are made so journalists like you and me-”
“You’ll never be a proper journalist,” he spat. I took my leg off his chair and leant over him so my top exposed a bit of cleavage.
“shhh” I said and put a finger over his lips. His breathing picked up and he got more and more fidgety. “You see Tony, these laws mean that you can’t make up things about someone. But you’ve already done that, and the press complaints commission might just have to hear about an important journalist in a high end position in one of the UK’s biggest newspapers making a little slip-up and breaking the law.” By this point he was incredibly uncomfortable and was putty in my hands. I stood up and straightened my clothes out. I turned to walk away, leaving Tony gobsmacked.
“Wha- what do you- erm – want me to do about it?” He asked, getting defensive.
“Just sort it out,” I turned, picked up my bag and the newspaper from the desk, and headed to the door. Just as I was about to walk through the door I turned back to see Tony, eyes wide, mouth open and watching every step I took. “And if I were you I’d sort out that bulge before your 11 o’clock meeting.” I said, followed by a swift exit, closing his office door gently behind me.