The Model Wife by Julia Llewellyn Read Free Book Online

was the question of how he could have forwarded that email to Hannah. Had he taken leave of his senses? It just didn’t make sense. But here they all were.
    The door opened.
    ‘Aha, we thought this was where we’d find you,’ cried Marco. ‘Dean Cutler wants to see you. Now.’
    If Luke’s heart had been attached to a monitor, it would have started bleeping frantically.
    ‘This minute?’
    ‘You heard me. Chop, chop!’
    Straightening his tie, Luke walked across the newsroom floor towards Chris’s old office. Phones rang softly. Emma had headphones on and was recording her voice-over for a story about heroin in prisons into a microphone. ‘Jermaine Franks had never touched drugs until he was sentenced…’ she intoned, while beside her the story’s producer clicked his mouse, shuffling the images they planned to use like a pack of cards.
    Above his head, a row of clocks showed the time in London, Washington, Brussels, Baghdad, Bangkok. Screens continually broadcast the latest from Sky News. An earthquake in Mexico. Albanian slave ring exposed. Coach crash in France – a handful of Britons hurt: one seriously. Striker Duane Bryonne scoring a glorious goal. Luke loved those screens: loved the idea that all the dramas of the world were contained there for him to pronounce on. He didn’t know why he was so nervous. He was the ‘face’ of the show. Naturally one of the first things Dean would want to do was meet him. But still his heart was running double-time. All new editors liked to make sweeping changes to stamp their authority. What could be more sweeping than replacing the old anchorman with a new one?
    Lindsay, Chris’s old secretary, was still at her desk outside her former master’s den. She looked shell-shocked.
    ‘All right, Lin?’
    ‘Fine, Luke,’ she said, rolling her eyes to imply she was anything but. ‘Go in. Dean’s waiting for you.’
    Luke pushed open the door of the glass box. Dean Cutler stood up behind Chris’s mahogany desk and held out a hand. He was tall, skinny, with cropped blond hair and bulging green eyes that made it look as if he was impersonating a frog. He wore a dark grey polo neck, pinstriped trousers and black Chelsea boots. Anyone more different to the donnish Chris with his rumpled suits was hard to imagine.
    ‘Luke.’ They crushed hands, both determined to show the other who was the more manly. ‘What a pleasure. A real pleasure.’ Dean had a nasal mockney accent that failed to hide his public-schoolboy origins. It took one to know one. ‘I’ve been a fan for so long, it’s a dream come true to finally get to work with you.’
    ‘Thank you.’ Luke smiled, despite his reservations. ‘Err… likewise. I loved what you did with Newsday .’
    ‘Thanks, man. Sit down, sit down.’ Luke sat. Overnight, all traces of Chris had been expunged: the family photos, the assorted awards the show had garnered over the years, the slightly tatty prints of Oxford colleges, the bookcase with its battered copies of Who’s Who and various dictionaries. Now the walls were bare, the shelves empty. It was as if Chris had never existed.
    Luke swallowed.
    ‘So, it’s just a preliminary chat. In the next few days we’ll get to know each other better. Have lunch. Or dinner. Yeah, dinner. Maybe you and your wife would like to come over and meet me and my wife.’ He picked up a dictaphone and spoke into it. ‘Tell Farrah: Luke and his wife to dinner.’
    Luke’s heart sank. Now he’d have to try to persuade Poppy to leave the house. One of the advantages of having such a beautiful wife ought to have been showing her off, but Poppy was so shy their outings were almost always torture – not to mention the hostile vibes that came off Hannah’s many old friends at the sight of them, which made him feel like he was walking through a field of radiation.
    ‘What a great idea,’ he said.
    ‘Now, Luke,’ Dean leant forward and began rolling a hideous red and green paperweight from