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pressed on at speed. One of his few successful innovations, perhaps his only one so far, was to have reduced the daily conference from forty to fifteen minutes by means of a few modestly imposed rules: no more than five minutes on the postmortem—what’s done is done; no joke-telling, and above all, no anecdotes—he didn’t tell them, so no one else could. He turned to the international pages and frowned. “An exhibition of pottery shards in Ankara? A news item? Eight hundred words? I simply don’t get it, Frank.”
    Frank Dibben, the deputy foreign editor, explained, perhaps with a trace of mockery. “Well, you see, Vernon, it represents a fundamental shift in our understanding of the influence of the early Persian Empire on—”
    “Paradigm shifts in broken pots aren’t news, Frank.”
    Grant McDonald, the deputy editor, who was sitting at Vernon’s elbow, cut in gently. “Thing is, Julie failed to file from Rome. They had to fill the—”
    “Not again. What is it now?”
    “Hepatitis C.”
    “So what about AP?”
    Dibben spoke up. “This was more interesting.”
    “You’re wrong. It’s a complete turnoff. Even the
TLS
wouldn’t run it.”
    They moved on to the day’s schedule. In turn the editors summarized the stories on their lists. When it came to Frank’s turn, he pushed for his Garmony story to lead the front page.
    Vernon heard him out, and then: “He’s in Washington when he should be in Brussels. He’s cutting a deal with the Americans behind the Germans’ backs. Short-term gain, long-term disaster. He was a terrible home secretary, he’s even worse at the Foreign Office, and he’ll be the ruin of us if he’s ever prime minister—which is looking more and more likely.”
    “Well, yes,” Frank agreed, his softness of tone concealing his fury about the Ankara put-down. “You said all that in your leader, Vernon. Surely the point is not whether we agree with the deal, but whether it’s significant.”
    Vernon was wondering whether he might just bring himself to let Frank go. What was he doing wearing an earring?
    “Quite right, Frank,” Vernon said cordially. “We’re in Europe. The Americans want us in Europe. The special relationship is history. The deal has no significance. The coverage stays on the inside pages. Meanwhile, we’ll continue to give Garmony a hard time.”
    They listened to the sports editor, whose pagesVernon had recently doubled at the expense of arts and books. Then it was the turn of Lettice O’Hara, the features editor.
    “I need to know if we can go ahead with the Welsh children’s home.”
    Vernon said, “I’ve seen the guest list. A lot of big cheeses. We can’t afford the legal costs if it goes wrong.”
    Lettice looked relieved, and began to describe an investigative piece she had commissioned on a medical scandal in Holland.
    “Apparently, doctors are exploiting the euthanasia laws to—”
    Vernon interrupted her. “I want to run the Siamese twins story in Friday’s paper.”
    There were groans. But who was going to object first?
    Lettice. “We don’t even have a picture.”
    “So send someone to Middlesborough this afternoon.” There was sullen silence, so Vernon continued. “Look, they work in a section of the local hygiene department called Forward Planning. It’s a sub’s dream.”
    The home editor, Jeremy Ball, said, “We spoke last week and it was okay. Then he phoned yesterday. I mean, it was the other half. The other head. Doesn’t want to talk. Doesn’t want a picture.”
    “Oh God!” Vernon cried. “Don’t you see? That’sall part of the story. They’ve fallen out. First thing anyone would want to know—how do they settle disputes?”
    Lettice was looking gloomy. She said, “Apparently there are bite marks. On both faces.”
    “Brilliant!” Vernon exclaimed. “No one else is onto this yet. Friday, please. Now, moving on. Lettice. This eight-page chess supplement. Frankly, I’m not convinced.”

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