When Cormack saw Charlie he cut short his conversation with the bespectacled man and came over to talk to him. Charlie was from the Post: the biggest-selling tabloid in the country, and the evil empire’s flagship title. The bespectacled man understood.
“Evening, squire.”
“Evening, Alan.” Cormack had been a journalist himself, until the prime minister had spotted his talent for intellectual thuggery, fished him out of the tabloid swamp and made him his creature; Cormack’s gratitude, and his loyalty, were boundless. Charlie could see his premature bald patch reflected in the gilt mirror on the wall, the skin of his scalp reddened by the warmth of the party and the wine.
“How’s the handicap? There’s an 18-holer in Dubai now apparently. We might have time in between the pressers if you’re coming on that trip to the Arab League summit next month.”
“Not sure yet. Clashes with the other lot’s conference. He coming up?”
“He’ll be up. Bollocking the health secretary I think.”
A veteran from a broadsheet that had recently been bought by a Ukrainian oligarch came over and interrupted them. He was one of those fruity Fleet Street types who put on a permanently high-camp tone in lieu of humour.
“Dear boys,” he said. “Hell-oooo.”
Charlie scanned the room. The woman from the preachy daily and the man from the Post’s broadsheet stablemate, who everyone knew were having an affair, were chatting to each other at an ostentatiously safe distance. Most of the rest were positioning themselves for the game.
【The inner circle?】相关文章:
★ 英语自学方法大全
★ Bombing strikes Assad's inner circle
最新
2020-09-15
2020-08-28
2020-08-21
2020-08-19
2020-08-14
2020-08-12