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times but his brain refused to absorb it, such was his anxiety. Not to mention the fact that he found it very hard to read close up these days, but refused to wear glasses. Luckily the autocue was placed near enough so he could still just make it out without squinting.
    ‘Not that young!’ chirped senior reporter, Marco Jensen, from his desk, just behind him. ‘He’s thirty-seven.’
    Luke looked at Marco with ill-concealed dislike. With his thick eyelashes, dimpled cheeks and blond curls, a fortuitous blend of his mother’s Italian and father’s Norwegian genes, he was too pretty ever to be completely trusted by other men. Everyone who met Marco suspected he was gay but in fact he had a gorgeous long-term girlfriend called Stephanie. He was also only thirty-three, which meant he’d been in short trousers when Luke had been out dodging bullets in the Gaza Strip. The most dangerous thing Marco had ever done in his life was accidentally leave the gas on overnight when he came in high on E after a rave.
    Recently, Marco had been promoted to the upper echelons of co-presenters, the four chief correspondents who took turns to be Luke’s sidekick and who hosted the show in his absence. Whenever it was Marco’s turn, the show was inundated with appreciative emails and texts, which was why Luke had been taking less and less time off of late. Even though he worked a four-day week, he frequently volunteered to do five, so paranoid was he becoming about his young rival.
    ‘One day that’ll seem young to you, pipsqueak.’ Lana smiled at Marco so her crow’s feet were etched deeply in her coppery face. ‘What else do you know, Luke?’
    ‘He’s a dumber-downer. Obsessed with the yoof audience. He was the one who caused all the fuss at the BBC by interviewing Jordan and Peter Andre on Newsday .’
    ‘The viewing figures for that were amazing,’ said Marco.
    ‘It’s not all about viewing figures,’ Luke said with as much pomposity as he could muster. ‘It’s about providing groundbreaking, incisive news.’
    ‘Not according to our shareholders. Our viewing figures keep going down. That’s why Chris got the boot.’
    ‘It wasn’t Chris’s fault we’ve lost viewers,’ said Lana. ‘It’s the bloody internet’s. Everyone gets their news from there now.’ She eyed her computer balefully, as if it was that particular PC’s fault that Chris Stevens was now on his way home clutching a P45.
    ‘Well, the shareholders think we should be doing more to fight our corner.’ Marco smirked as he bent his head over the pile of newspapers on his desk. There was a moment’s silence. Lana chewed her nails and applied some lip gloss that smelt of pear. Luke returned to the news list again:
    1   Mad cow disease outbreak in Shropshire.
    2   Rumours of PM calling early general election.
    He was temporarily distracted by the sight of Alexa Marples, recently promoted to producer, wiggling past in a pair of trousers that adhered to her splendid buttocks like clingfilm. Tempting. Stop it, Luke. He turned to his screen. Two new emails. One from a PR, which he deleted without reading. Another from his eldest daughter, Tilly. Oh Christ, no doubt wanting the dosh for the bloody skiing trip Hannah had promised her she could go on. He really should get on with drafting that email to the president of Syria, demanding an exclusive interview, but he just couldn’t summon the energy.
    ‘Oh look,’ Marco said with cheery malice. ‘Nice picture of you here in the Daily Post .’
    Luke’s heart sank. He knew what that meant. ‘Oh yes,’ he said, trying to sound as bored as possible.
    ‘Mmm. Hannah’s written another article: “The Demise of the Trophy Wife”. Sounds interesting.’
    ‘I need a slash,’ Luke said brusquely. He got up and strode across the newsroom to the gents. He didn’t really need to pee, but he needed a moment away from that little shit Marco and the generally febrile atmosphere.
    ‘You all right, Luke?’