Anyway, Jon Snow the mediator looks nothing like Jon Snow from TV. More’s the pity.
We sit down at the long table and start to prepare for the session. Jay takes the chair beside mine, and when he sits down, his hand finds my knee, giving it a squeeze. The look I give him says, stop that. The look he gives me in return says, nope.
His hand is still on my leg when Una Harris and what can only be described as an entourage arrives. She has at least four solicitors with her. I absently scan the generic-looking men and women in their designer suits before my gaze meets with a recognizable face. My eyes travel from that face and straight to Jay. When one of the solicitor’s mentions the man’s name, my suspicion levels hit the roof.
Jay has some serious explaining to do.
Among Harris’ party is Brian Scott, owner of The Daily Post. That shouldn’t be surprising. I knew there was a good chance he’d be here. What I hadn’t expected was to recognise him. He’s the old businessman Jay was staring at that night at the casino. The same man who’d left The Daily Post offices while Jay had been doing his street show, the one he stole something from.
Jay gives my knee one last squeeze before letting go. He knows that I know. Obviously, he knew I was going to remember Mr Scott. He could have at least given me some warning, even if he wasn’t fully prepared to explain everything.
That way my mouth wouldn’t be hanging so ridiculously open right now.
I try to regain my composure by picking up some of the files in front of me and settling them into a very neat stack. The formal introductions are made by the mediator, and he outlines how the session is going to be run. Jay’s eyes are narrowed almost to slits as he looks at Brian, who’s sitting directly across from him on the other side of the table.
Jesus.
If looks could kill, Brian Scott would be gutted and chopped up into very small pieces, and those pieces would be carefully wrapped and sunk to the bottom of the ocean. I finally understand what Jessie meant when she spoke about the “white shotgun” look in Jay’s eyes. He certainly has a way of making people uncomfortable without having to move a muscle or say a word.
I can’t understand the ferocity of his hostility toward the man. I know he owns the newspaper and everything, but it’s Una who’s been slandering him.
Speaking of Miss Harris, my eyes meet hers very briefly from across the table. I’m not sure why she’s looking at me, but I make quick work of focusing my attention elsewhere. As I said before, the woman gives me the creeps. Today her hair is up in a French twist, her lips are red, and she’s wearing a black leather dress. I’m not joking. Altogether, the look is very femme fatale. Quite fitting for her, actually.
The session progresses, and one of Brian Scott’s solicitors puts an offer on the table. “We’re prepared to make a once-off payment to Mr Fields in the amount of 25,000 euros to make up for any losses he might have made in his career due to the articles published. Miss Harris is also prepared to write an article retracting her claims about Mr Fields, alongside an official apology in the form of a letter. In exchange, Mr Fields will drop all legal proceedings against Miss Harris and the publication.”
If I’m not mistaken, I think I hear Jay scoff. He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table and pressing his palms together.
“I think I’ll pass.”
“We should discuss this first,” says Dad.
“No need. I’m not interested in their twenty-five grand or Miss Harris’ apology,” says Jay, his tone dismissive. He says “apology” like it’s a dirty word.
Brian Scott whispers to his solicitor, and then the solicitor amends the offer. “We will increase the pay out to fifty thousand, and Miss Harris will schedule an interview on Radio One where she will make the apology over the air.”
At this Una shoots a highly disgruntled look in Brian’s direction, folding her arms tightly over her chest. Clearly, she’s not happy with the radio interview idea. Brian’s look in return is bland. In person, he seems like a fairly ordinary, inoffensive old man, but there’s something nefarious beneath the surface. Something that suggests he’s not someone you’d want to get on the bad side of.
“Wow, Brian,” says Jay in a fake friendly voice. “You really don’t want this shit to get to court, do you? I’m trying to figure out how a dick could have such a gigantic pussy.”
I think every single person in the room draws in breath at the same exact moment. I bite on my lip, in all honesty, trying not to laugh. Trust Jay to say something like that in what’s supposed to be a formal, professional environment.