She paused and smiled, as though to herself. Right at the beginning, she said, Julian told her something about himself, something rather startling, even a little shocking. But it was nothing that their love could not absorb, and over the years it had endeared itself to her and she had come to regard it with respect, as an inseparable part of her husband’s individuality. Their trust in each other had been absolute. It hadn’t entirely been a secret either, this curious thing about Julian, because a friend of the family, Molly Lane, who died recently, once took some pictures, rather in a spirit of celebration. Mrs. Garmony was lifting up a white cardboard folder, and as she did so Annabel kissed her father on the cheek, and Ned, who was now seen to be wearing a nose stud, leaned across and put a hand on his father’s arm.

“Oh God,” Vernon croaked. “It’s a spoiler.”

She pulled the photographs clear and held up the first for all to see. It was the catwalk pose, it was Vernon’s front page. The camera wobbled as it zoomed in, and there was shouting and pushing behind the line. Mrs. Garmony waited for the clamor to subside. When it had, she said calmly that she knew that a newspaper with a political agenda of its own intended to publish this photograph and others tomorrow in the expectation of driving her husband from office. She had only this to say: the newspaper would not succeed, because love was a greater force than spite.

The line had broken and the hacks were surging forward. Behind the five-barred gate the children had linked arms with their father while their mother stood firm against the rabble, unfazed by the microphones shoved into her face. Vernon was out of his chair. No, Mrs. Garmony was saying, and she was glad to be able to put the record straight and make it clear that there was absolutely no foundation to the rumor. Molly Lane was simply a family friend, and the Garmonys would always remember her fondly. Vernon was on his way across his office to turn the thing off when the surgeon was asked whether she had any particular message for the editor of the Judge. Yes, she said, she did, and she looked at him, and he froze in front of the television, “Mr. Halliday, you have the mentality of a blackmailer, and the moral stature of & flea.”

Vernon gasped in pained admiration, for he knew a soundbite when he heard one. The question was a plant, the line was scripted. What consummate artistry! She was about to say more, but he managed to lift a hand and switch off the set.

Around five o’clock that afternoon, it occurred to the many newspaper editors who had bid for Molly’s photographs that the trouble with Vernon’s paper was that it was out of step with changing times. As a leader in one broadsheet put it to its readers on Friday morning, “It seems to have escaped the attention of the editor of the Judge that the decade we live in now is not like the one before. Then, self-advancement was the watchword, while greed and hypocrisy were the rank realities. Now we live in a more reasonable, compassionate, and tolerant age in which the private and harmless preferences of individuals, however public they may be, remain their own business. Where there is no discernible issue of public interest, the old-fashioned arts of the blackmailer and self-righteous whistle-blower have no place, and while this paper does not wish to impugn the moral sensitivities of the common flea, it cannot but endorse the remarks made yesterday by . . .” Etc.

Front-page headlines divided more or less equally between “blackmailer” and “flea,” and most made use of a photograph of Vernon taken at a Press Association banquet looking somewhat squiffy in a crumpled dinner jacket. On Friday afternoon, two thousand members of the Transvestite Pink Alliance marched on Judge House in their high heels, holding aloft copies of the disgraced front page and chanting in derisive falsetto. About the same time, the parliamentary party seized the moment and passed an overwhelming vote of confidence in the foreign secretary. The prime minister suddenly felt emboldened to speak up for his old friend. A broad consensus emerged over the weekend that the Judge had gone too far and was a disgusting newspaper, that Julian Garmony was a decent fellow, and that Vernon Halliday (“the Flea”) was despicable and his head was urgently needed on a plate. In the Sundays, the lifestyle sections portrayed “the new supportive wife” who had her own career and fought her husband’s corner. The editorials concentrated on the few remaining neglected aspects of Mrs. Garmony’s speech, including “love is greater than spite.” On the Judge itself, the senior staff were glad their reservations had been minuted, and it was felt by most journalists that Grant McDonald pointed the way when he was heard to say in the canteen that once his misgivings were not listened to, he did his best to be loyal. By Monday they had all remembered their misgivings and how they had all tried to be loyal.

The matter was rather more complex for the Judges board of directors, which met in emergency session on Monday afternoon. In fact, it was rather trying. How could they sack an editor to whom they had given a unanimous vote of support last Wednesday?

Finally, after two hours of meandering and backtracking, George Lane had a good idea.

“Look, there was nothing wrong in purchasing those photographs. Actually, I can tell you this, I heard he got a jolly good deal. No, Halliday’s mistake was in not pulling his front page the moment he saw Rose Garmony’s press conference. He had plenty of time to turn it around. He wasn’t going out with it till the late edition. He was quite wrong to have gone ahead. On Friday the paper was made to look ridiculous. He should have seen which way the wind was blowing and got out. If you’re asking me, it was a serious failure of editorial judgment.”

The following day the editor presided over a subdued meeting with his senior staff. Tony Momano sat to one side, a silent observer.

“It’s time we ran more regular columns. They’re cheap, and everyone else is doing them. You know, we hire someone of low to medium intelligence, possibly female, to write about, well, nothing much. You’ve seen the sort of thing. Goes to a party and can’t remember someone’s name. Twelve hundred words.”

“Sort of navel gazing,” Jeremy Ball suggested.

“Not quite. Gazing is too intellectual. More like navel chat.”

“Can’t work her video recorder. Is my bum too big?” Lettice supplied helpfully.

“That’s good. Keep ’em coming.” The editor wiggled and paddled his fingers in the air to draw out their ideas.

“Er, buying a guinea pig.”

“His hangover.”

“Her first gray pubic hair.”

“Always gets the supermarket trolley with the wobbly wheel.”

“Excellent. I like it. Harvey? Grant?”

“Um, always losing Biros. Where do they go?” “Ehm, canna keep his tongue out of the wee hole in his tooth.”

“Brilliant,” Frank said. “Thank you, everyone.

We’ll continue this tomorrow.”