Marianne Vale almost deleted the file.
It arrived at the worst possible time, which was usually when anonymous tips arrived. She was seated at the corner desk of her small London flat, one slipper missing, coffee gone cold beside her laptop, and three unfinished drafts open across two monitors. The largest draft had nothing to do with Graham Whitfield, Geneva, offshore accounts, or the old financial scandals that had once made her name useful to editors.
It was about Dayo.
More specifically, it was about the strange mood forming around Dayo after the first week of Beautiful Things. Her editor had asked for something quick and readable, a piece about whether the music industry was finally ready to move past the O2 moment. The phrase in the brief irritated her.
Dayo fatigue.
