Archer | Mary Vs Monica | 2
44:48 Share

Alice, hello. Classic Matt. He's here and he's back on his BS. What? You're back on your BS. What are you saying that for? I was just being nice. Matt, it means back on your British scandal. No, it doesn't. BS means something completely different. No, really. Honestly, people say it to me all the time. Oh, mate. That's not what they mean. What do they mean? I can't explain it to you now. Can I see you next Tuesday? Sure. The 10th of July, 1987. Royal Courts of Justice. The Strand, London.

Jeffrey walks up to the witness box. He grips his diary tightly, glances over at the jury. He needs to convince them he didn't have sex with Monica Coughlin, and somehow he has to do that without perjuring himself. The courtroom is stiflingly hot. He pulls at his red and white striped tie.

The judge, Justice Caulfield, orders a clerk to open a window before telling the jury to make themselves comfortable in the heat. The men may wish to remove their ties, the ladies may remove whatever they deem appropriate. Oh, please. Geoffrey watches the Stars' counsel, Michael Hill QC, sweep towards him. Hill adjusts his big square glasses. Why did you arrange to pay Monica Coughlan to leave the country?

Geoffrey grips the diary tighter. I felt sorry for her. She told me she was frightened that the tabloids wouldn't leave her alone, so I offered to help her. Hill turns to the jury, then back to him. How very generous of you. Do you often help prostitutes? Geoffrey's jaw tightens. If someone asks for my help, I give it, no matter who they are. Hill nods slowly. And you suggested she'd take your money and go abroad, is that correct? Geoffrey nods.

She told me the tabloids were harassing her. I know how that feels. Hill cuts in. Did you ever meet Monica Coughlin? His heart beats. He can't say yes. It'll destroy his case. But he doesn't want to tell a direct lie either.

This is a common catch-22, which we are familiar with quite recently with a particular royal case where you want to settle or you want to give somebody some money, but you also want to have never met them. Yes, and you prove your innocence by paying millions of pounds to keep it out of court. Hill's eyes glint behind his big square frames. It's a simple question, Mr Archer. Have you ever met her or not?

A bead of sweat runs down his face. Which is why this story is different. That's one of the greatest ad-libs in the history of global podcasting. I think we all just need a second. Whatever you're doing now, if you're chopping carrots or just sat and used to tea, wow. That's like in those top ten greatest goals of all time. Holy moly. Why, thank you. No, I never met her. He sees a grin flash across Hill's face. Perhaps you remember this conversation.

He nods to a clerk. Archer hears himself talking with Adam Raphael, an observer journalist. He'd assumed it was off the record. He squeezes his eyes shut. I have met Monica, actually, but only casually. It was six months ago. I was doing research for my new novel. Hill spins round. You did meet her, then? Archer's mouth feels dry. Hill goes on. You met her in the early hours of September the 9th, did you not? And whatever alibi you have in that diary is a pack of lies.

Archer's throat is tight. He could fess up now, end this whole charade. He takes a deep breath. That's not true. I was mistaken in that tape. I never met her. I never had sex with her. And that's the truth. He stares around the silent courtroom, feels his fingers tighten round the diary. There's no coming back from this. If anyone proves he's lied today under oath, he could end up in prison. From now on, he'll do everything he can to make sure that never happened. By lying.

My dad works in B2B marketing. He came by my school for career day and said he was a big ROAS man. Then he told everyone how much he loved calculating his return on ad spend.

My friend's still laughing at me to this day. Not everyone gets B2B, but with LinkedIn, you'll be able to reach people who do. Get $100 credit on your next ad campaign. Go to linkedin.com slash results to claim your credit. That's linkedin.com slash results. Terms and conditions apply. LinkedIn, the place to be, to be.

As summer winds down, let your imagination soar by listening on Audible. Whether you listen to stories, motivation, expert advice, any genre you love, you can be inspired to imagine new worlds, new possibilities, new ways of thinking. With Audible, there's more to imagine when you listen.

And speaking of listening, you can listen to the best-selling science fiction thriller Project Hail Mary by Andy Weir right now on the Audible app and traverse the galaxy in a desperate last-chance mission along with astronaut Ryland Grace, all from the comfort of your living room.

As an Audible member, you choose one title a month to keep from their entire catalog. New members can try Audible free for 30 days. Visit audible.com slash WonderyPod or text WonderyPod to 500-500. That's audible.com slash WonderyPod or text WonderyPod to 500-500. From Wondery, I'm Matt Ford. And I'm Alice Levine. And this is British Scandals.

So unless Jeffrey Archer seems like a good guy right? I'm not sure I would say that. I mean so often in these scandals people make a bad decision or they do bad things but we see something kind of redeemable in them or slightly human that we can sympathize with but that is not clear to me with Archer. Okay what makes you say that? I mean there's no other word for it really he's a

He's a big fat liar. I mean, he lied to get into university. He lied to his wife, Mary, about his affairs. He lied about having slept with Monica Coughlin. And then he got his secretary to lie on his behalf, you know, to change his diary entries and everything so that that could be his alibi. So not only all of that, but he's kind of gone on the offensive to cover up those lies. So he's taking the Daily Star to court for libeling him, even though he knows that the

That they're right. Yes, I mean, it doesn't sound great for Geoffrey, but you're forgetting something in his defence. Go on. His amazing books. Oh, shut up. Not a penny more, not a penny less. The Prodigal Daughter, Cain and Abel, First Among Equals, The Fourth Estate. I mean, I could go on. You're such a super fan. I know. I mean, I'm not entirely convinced myself that it makes up for it, but this is episode two, Mary versus Monica. The next day, Royal Courts of Justice, London.

Jeffrey wipes his hands on his knees, watches Terrence Baker walk to the stand. Baker's a film agent and an old friend, and his key alibi for the night he was with Monica. Baker shuffles uncomfortably on the stand, runs his fingers through his slick back hair. He's sweating in his heavy suit. If Baker slips up once, Jeffrey's whole case will collapse. All he can do now is keep his own nerves under control.

Jeffrey's had to pay for this alibi by giving Baker the rights to exploit all of his novels for film and TV use. Oh wow. Baker could make millions. A few weeks ago, he paid thousands to keep his fixer, Michael Stackpole, quiet. He'd sent Stackpole to Victoria Station to pay off Monica. Now Stackpole's living it up in Paris at Jeffrey's expense. But it's not the money that keeps him awake at night. There are simply too many people who know he's lying. If any one of them tells the truth, he'll be ruined.

They always say never tell a bigger lie than you need to. And I think they also always say don't ever let everybody know that you're lying, right? Just have maybe three people in the inner circle. It sounds like he's been shouting it all over town. And if you are going to pay someone off, don't meet in one of the busiest train stations in the UK, full of witnesses. He watches Baker wipe his sweaty forehead with a silk handkerchief.

I met Mr Archer on September the 8th at Le Caprice restaurant. We ate together before drinks. Geoffrey's an old client of mine. Geoffrey rubs his palms on his knees. If the star's barrister asks for proof that Baker was in Le Caprice that night, he's finished. He knows it's a gamble, but Baker goes on. Just before one in the morning, he gave me a lift home to Camberwell.

20 minutes later, Baker stands down. He's answered all of Hill's questions confidently. But now Geoffrey watches a good-looking man in a cream linen suit take his place. It's Aziz Kurtha, the man he bumped into when he was leaving Monica's hotel. Not good. Yes, he was the notorious gossip. Which I still think is a great thing to have as your email signature. I love it if it was a real gossip in the stand. Well, you'll never guess what happened. I know this is not related, but you know Susan, right? Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.

He's met him a few times at parties. He's a barrister and a vocal Labour supporter, and he could blow Baker's story to smithereens. His chest tightens when Curther points at him. "'I recognised Mr Archer straight away. "'I saw him outside the Albion Hotel at around 1.15 in the morning.'

Kurtha says he's actually one of Monica's clients himself. He fixes Geoffrey with a cold stare. I think it's wrong when somebody in public service is dishonest and hypocritical. So I told Monica who Geoffrey Archer was. I said, you've hit the jackpot. Geoffrey leans across to his QC. You'd better be able to take him down. Geoffrey's QC, Robert Alexander, returns him a withering look as he stands to cross-examine Kurtha. You said you saw Mr Archer in his car.

"'Can you tell the court what colour that car was?' "'It was red.' "'Alexander frowns. "'Are you sure?' "'Kirther blinks around, then says, "'Possibly green. Actually, I'm colourblind.' "'Alexander sweeps over to the jury. "'Indeed. Mr Archer's car is dark grey. "'You didn't see him that night. "'You made up this story because you opposed Mr Archer politically, "'and you wanted to destroy him.' "'When his QC sits down, Jeffrey leans across.'

Nicely played. Oh, it gives me the shivers. I imagine he says that after lovemaking. But Alexander fixes him with a stare. He's not your problem. She is. Geoffrey turns to see a petite brown-haired woman in a light grey suit. It's Monica Coughlan. He feels his heart race again. Her evidence is next. Whatever she says will either bring him victory or send him to prison for lying under oath.

The following day, 9.30am, outside the Royal Courts of Justice, London. Monica finishes her cigarette, stubs it out under the toe of her stiletto. She's giving evidence today, and she's going to make sure this court takes her seriously. Yesterday, she'd watched Aziz Kurth a crumble. Archer's legal team are not going to do that to her.

I do feel like there isn't great precedent for sex workers being treated well in scandals like this. Yes, and given that this is set in the 1980s, even less hope. 20 minutes later, she's called in. She confirms her name, that she's a sex worker and that her working name is Debbie. The Star's QC, Michael Hill, nods.

Can you point to the man you had sex with in the early hours of September the 9th last year? She points at Geoffrey. That man there in the red tie. She's colourblind. They can't use that every time, can they? Since when was colourblind like the case ender in any legal battle? The tie is in fact pinkish. A ripple of shock goes round the courtroom. Geoffrey bows his head. She feels her confidence grow.

Oh yeah, because the papers said it was a Red Riding Hood fantasy. Yeah, it's not like the tabloids to invent salacious details. Where did they get that from? I think somebody at the paper has a Red Riding Hood fantasy. The judge interrupts. Did she say matron's uniform? Hill turns to him.

No, my lord. She said, maid's uniform. The judge slumps back, disappointed. Obsessed with this court case. It didn't last long, so I took off the jaw rex and cleaned Mr Archer down with a tissue. I asked him if he wanted another go, but he got up, grabbed his keys and left. It's pretty mercenary, isn't it? She watches Geoffrey's QC, Alexander, jump to his feet. At six foot six, he's the tallest person in the room. He looms over her.

but she's determined not to be intimidated. ''You didn't know who Geoffrey Archer was until Aziz Kurth told you?'' ''That's right.'' ''How many clients do you have a week?'' ''Twenty, thirty.'' ''How could you possibly remember this man when you didn't even know who he was?'' She purses her lips, tells him. ''I remembered him because of his spotty back and the tan line on his wire fronts.'' She grins at the laughter from the public gallery. ''Go on, get him to lift his shirt and show you his spots.''

Look, a lot of people have a spotty back. Let's not make this about spotty backs. Alexander looms closer. You have juvenile convictions for shoplifting and possessing cannabis, do you not? She starts to tell him that that was years ago, when she ran away from home. But he cuts in. How much did the Daily Star pay you? She hesitates. £6,000. But that was for loss of earnings. She hears people in the public gallery giggle.

I need it for my son. I'm a single mother. Alexander sweeps round. But you leave your son regularly to work as a prostitute, do you not? I put it to you that you saw a way to make easy money. You set out to ruin an honest, decent family man. You lied to the tabloids and you're lying now. It's so upsetting that this was 87 and this sounds so familiar. Her eyes sting with tears.

She glares at him. "You might be big with words, but I've never harmed anybody. I just want to look after my little boy." She looks at Geoffrey. "Why are you doing this to me? Why are you doing this to your wife?" She catches Mary Archer smirking at her. "Really?" She looks at the jewellery. A few hostile faces stare back. She blinks away, shocked. Hears herself mutter. "I'm telling the truth." But as she steps down, she's already decided.

Case or no case, she'll never put herself through this again. Never again will she allow herself to be humiliated by these people. This seems to always be the thing. Who is the person whose life falls apart when they're involved in a case like this? Yes, because even though this is a trial about whether Archer's done wrong or not, she has had her character besmirched way worse than he has already. The following day, the Daily Star officers, Fleet Street. Lloyd Turner takes in the breeze from the open window.

listens to the bustle of Fleet Street. He's 49 years old with a cheerful face and huge black-rimmed glasses. He's been editor at the Star for the past seven years, and he's not going to let Geoffrey Archer put an end to his tenure. He sits down opposite his solicitor, a thin man in his 50s, feels his shirt stick to his back. So far, Archer's team have dismantled the testimonies of the Daily Star's witnesses.

It's been painful to watch. But Lloyd Turner's going to change that. He gestures to a young black woman who hesitates in the doorway. Meet our new witness, Miss Dorrit Douglas. Come on in, Dorrit love. The young woman smiles. Her long hair's swept back. She's wearing a business suit with a white shirt. Tell this gentleman what you told me. Lloyd Turner leans back in his chair and fans his face as Dorrit speaks.

No way. That is unfortunate.

Also, I have to say, great book. Oh my God, stop. You must stop. He drove me to his apartment. It was like something from a magazine. He had cigarette boxes, real silver, shaped like his books. He opened his dressing gown and said, What do you think of this thing? We had sex on his white leather sofa. He was a sweet man. I think he was lonely. Turner pushes up his enormous glasses. Dorrit.

Did you see his beck? She nods. Of course. I was there for four hours. It was very spotty. Almost feel sorry for him. When Dorrit leaves the room, the solicitor lights a cigarette, shakes his head. The jury won't buy it.

Turner frowns. You've got to be bloody kidding me. You heard her. She's a credible witness. In an ideal world, yes. But Lloyd, you've covered enough trials in your time. Do you really think the jury will believe a black prostitute over a white politician? Hugely depressing, but hugely true. Turner frowns. But she's telling the truth!

The solicitor nods. But if we say Geoffrey Archer had sex with two prostitutes, we libel him twice. And if we lose, we pay twice the damages. I'm sorry, Lloyd. We can't take that risk. Turner springs forward. We have to try.

The solicitor stubs out his cigarette. His team will destroy her like they destroyed Monica. We can't do it. Thank goodness someone is thinking ahead and thinking of this poor witness's life going forward, although I do think it is probably mainly about the money. Yeah, we can't do it because it will cost a fortune. And the thing that Alice, I'm sure, will say in the future about the judgment of women. A few minutes later, Lloyd sends Dorrit home. He takes a bottle of whiskey from his drawer and pours a glass.

All he can do now is hope Mary Archie gives something away when she gives evidence tomorrow. Because if the star lose this case, Lloyd Turner won't just lose his job as editor, he'll go down in Fleet Street history as a liability. And his career and livelihood will come crashing to the ground.

It's kind of mad, isn't it, how your epitaph hangs in the balance? You're either a journalistic hero or you're a disgrace and a failure, and that's not necessarily based on fact. It hangs over all of us. Alice Levine could go down in podcasting history as a liability. Think about that every night. The following morning, Royal Courts of Justice, London. Mary puts her hand on the Bible and reads the oath.

She smooths down her silk dress, lets her eyes scan the courtroom. When she sees Monica Coughlan, her face hardens. She takes in Monica's big hair and high street suit.

She's determined to convince this court her husband wouldn't have sex with a woman like that in a million years. There's very palpable internalised misogyny here, isn't there? Mary Arch is basically saying, my respectable husband, my successful husband, my rich husband would never have sex with a sex worker, but a working class sex worker, a single mother, she's not the right kind of woman, is she? Geoffrey's QC, Robert Alexander, strides towards her.

She knows he has a formidable reputation. She's just glad he's on her side. Alexander asks how she felt when she read the story in the tabloids. I thought it was preposterous. Everyone who knows my husband knows that far from approaching prostitutes, if one were to accost him, he'd run a mile. And my husband is a very good runner. She smiles at the giggles from the public gallery, glares at Monica again. Then her eyes hunt out Lloyd Turner, the Daily Star's editor.

Mr. Turner, your paper cannot keep a consistent line from one week to the next. How about putting that in your next paper? Lloyd Turner shrinks back and pushes his large glasses up his nose. The star's counsel, Michael Hill, is on his feet. Don't be rude, madam! She snaps back. Why not? Mary stares. Hill throws up his arms in surrender. The judge grins.

I think Mrs. Archie's looking after herself very well. Michael Hill rubs at his craggy chin. Do you and your husband enjoy a full relationship, if you know what I mean? She knows exactly what he means. Ferocious game of rummy cub, warm milky drink, then Mary's big spoon. The truth is they stopped having sex a long time ago, but she's not going to admit that here.

And she's not going to discuss any of Geoffrey's affairs either. Probably wise. She juts out her chin. Yes, we have a very happy, very full marriage. And I'm not going to talk about any of his affairs here. We love doing it. Every room, every night. Oh, if you saw us, you'd never ask such a preposterous question. Horrible. Hill nods, gives her a mild smile. Does your husband have a spotty back?

Her mind races. She fiddles with the pearls around her neck. She can't avoid the trap Hill's set for her. She's silent for a few moments. Then she says, My husband does not have any spots or blemishes anywhere on his body. Hill stares at her. Then at Geoffrey. She holds her breath. Any second now, she could be caught lying. No further questions, Your Honour.

She steps out of the box, sits next to her husband, stares straight ahead as Justice Caulfield sums up. Members of the jury, do you believe Monica Coughlin, a well-known trader of her wares, or do you believe Mary Archer, representative

Remember her in the witness box. Has she elegance? Has she fragrance? What? Would she, without the strain of this trial, have radiance? Is Mr. Archer really in need of cold, unloving, rubber-insulated sex in a seedy hotel? Rubber-insulated? This case is as big a libel as has ever been tried in this century.

You, the jury, must decide who is telling the truth. And that neutral summary was incredibly helpful. Thank you. It's amazing how leading that is, isn't it? That is absolutely wild to me. It's not for me to lead you. It's up to you to decide whether you believe this truthful, wonderful person or that woman over there. And that was the birth of the moniker The Fragrant Lady Archer. It's so creepy. It's like the judge had a crush on her. Really, really gross.

Four hours and 19 minutes later, the jury file back. Mary watches the foreman adjust his bow tie before he declares that her husband has been libelled. We award damages of £500,000. Geoffrey runs to the jury to shake their hands. Mary looks over at Lloyd Turner slumped in his chair, sees Monica run from the courtroom in tears. She lets her head tip back in relief. It's over. Geoffrey's reputation is saved.

But this whole trial has been humiliating. She's had to lie under oath fame. And now she'll have to keep up that lie for the rest of her life. Hey, I'm Ryan Reynolds. Recently, I asked Mint Mobile's legal team if big wireless companies are allowed to raise prices due to inflation. They said yes. And then when I asked if raising prices technically violates those onerous two-year contracts, they said, what the f*** are you talking about, you insane Hollywood a**hole?

So to recap, we're cutting the price of Mint Unlimited from $30 a month to just $15 a month. Give it a try at mintmobile.com slash switch. $45 upfront for three months plus taxes and fees. Promote it for new customers for a limited time. Unlimited more than 40 gigabytes per month. Slows. Full terms at mintmobile.com.

Make this new school year an opportunity for your kids to learn important life skills with Greenlight. Greenlight is a debit card and money app for families where kids learn how to save, invest, and spend wisely while parents keep an eye on kids' money habits. Greenlight also helps families get into their fall routine with a chores feature that lets parents assign chores and pay kids allowance when they check them off. Get your first month free at greenlight.com slash wondery. greenlight.com slash wondery. ♪

Six weeks later, St. James' Club, Mayfair, London. Daily Star editor Lloyd Turner picks at his T-bone steak. He's having lunch with Lord Stevens, the owner of Express Newspapers. Normally, they'd talk about editorials or share Fleet Street gossip. But this isn't an ordinary business lunch. This time, Lloyd Turner's fighting for his career. He glances round at the oak-panelled walls and gilt-framed paintings. He knows most of the people sitting round these tables.

But everyone is ignoring him, avoiding eye contact. It's no better at the office. Even the lowest paid journalist looks embarrassed when he walks into the room. The past few weeks have been the toughest of his life. His reputation is shot. He's lost his authority. But this morning, he promised his wife, Jill, he'll do everything he can to keep his job. And he's not going to let her down. He hasn't really eaten properly since the trial. His round, jovial face has shrunk.

But he can't face his food. He pushes away his plate, lights a cigarette, looks over at Stephens. Give me the next six months. I can turn this round. I've got teams out there now looking for new witnesses. We can appeal this case. We can win.

Stevens picks up his napkin and wipes gravy from his dimpled chin. The lawyers have been over it, Lloyd. Even if we did have grounds for appeal, Monica Coughlin refuses to testify again. Turner sits forward. We don't need her. He's been with two prostitutes we know of. There'll be more. We'll find them. Stevens puts a large chunk of steak in his mouth and chews slowly. Come on, David. Help me fight this.

Stevens glares at him. I have just paid £700,000 in legal costs, not to mention the half a million in damages. Why, Lloyd? Because you printed a story without adequate proof. Which isn't completely fair, is it? Because he sort of did do his due diligence. He had two sources, the eyewitness and Monica. If Archer hadn't paid off alibis, that would have been enough in another situation.

Turner glances round, embarrassed. People on the other tables look away. Stevens cuts at his steak. It's over, Lloyd. I've already asked Mike Gabbert to take over from you. Turner slumps back. He's worked in newspapers since he was a teenager. Chasing the story is all he knows. And now he's finished. Nobody will touch him after this.

An hour later, he's in his office packing his things in a cardboard box. The new editor, Mike Gabbett, has already moved in. He sits at Lloyd's desk, taps a pen against his long, thin face. "Sorry it had to be this way, Lloyd." Turner holds out his hand. Gabbett shakes it. "Jeffrey Archer is a liar, a cheat and a chancer. And one day he'll slip up. Make sure you get him, Mike. Nail him for me, will ya?"

Five months later, a bingo hall, Bradford. Number five, Man Alive. Monica glances around the busy bingo hall. Tables of pensioners stare down at their cards. The air is thick with cigarette smoke. The artificial light and multicoloured carpet hurts her eyes. Her legs ache with standing so long. She's on a double shift today. She needs the money for her son's school trip. 46, up to tricks.

62, turn the screw. It's very on the nose. A man jumps up, but he doesn't call house. Instead, he rushes towards her. Monica instinctively recoils. Smile, darling! She's sick of the press. It's the third time they've ambushed her this week. They keep running stories on how she's cashing in on her fame. It's all rubbish.

A few weeks ago, her photo had been used on a record sleeve. The Stranglers had released a cover version of All Day and All of the Night. She didn't know anything about it. It got withdrawn after Archer's lawyers made a complaint. She apologises now for the disturbance. But the punters are angry. Their game's been ruined. A frail, grey-haired woman is on her feet. This is your fault, you cheap tart! Or fill out a complaints form at the desk. A few minutes later, she's in her manager's office.

Her hands shake as she lights a cigarette. She hasn't worked since the trial.

Men have been abusive, calling her a liar, snatching their money back after sex. She needs this job. She begs the bingo manager not to fire her. It must be hellish to be that level of infamous. Yes, without being able to monetize it, without being cynical. And with other people running stories on you constantly, so it seems like you're keeping that fire fueled when you just want a quiet life. We've had too many complaints. There's nothing I can do. There's no point arguing with him.

She picks up her handbag and leaves. At home, she ignores the piles of bills. She's got no chance of paying the mortgage now. But something catches her eye. A calling card from a reporter at The Sun.

He's been knocking on her door for days. She'd ignored him. The star's legal team had warned her not to do any interviews in case she libels Jeffrey Archer. But she needs the money. She turns the card over a few times, then rings the number. Tells him, I'll do a photo shoot, but that's all. He tells her he'll be there tomorrow. Wear a leather miniskirt and high heels. Red if you've got them. 20 minutes later, she picks up her son from school. She lets him know she's got the money for his trip.

The irony of Geoffrey Archer being referred to as a family man as part of his kind of character defence in the court case, and that is literally all she's trying to do is keep her family afloat. Yeah, the contrast is amazing. She's a genuine family woman. Everything she's doing is entirely for her son. Everything Archer was doing was entirely for himself. Next day, she lies on the bed. The son's photographer fusses round her, adjusts the lighting and the angle of her head.

She wants to tell the reporter how much she regrets taking Archer as a client, how she's lost everything, her home, her self-respect, her future. But she can't say any of that. Instead, she tips her chin and looks at the camera and vows that one day she'll make sure everyone knows that Jeffrey Archer is a liar.

While swilling some shepherd's pie. So Archer's shepherd's pie and champagne parties were notorious...

I don't even know if you're serious. I'm absolutely serious. Really? Yeah, it's one of the clichés about archery. He loves his shepherd's pie and champagne party. A few seconds later, Ted introduces himself. Tells her he's been a television producer for many years.

that he's a close friend of Geoffrey and a regular at his shepherd's pie and champagne parties. He watches her flick a strand of blonde hair and smile when he says he's always wanted to work with her. A few seconds later, he hears Geoffrey's voice. Susan, darling, can I give you a top-up? Of shepherd's pie or champagne? I definitely want more pie. For the next few minutes, Ted watches Geoffrey flirt with her. The Picasso and the Matisse are originals. Don't ask me what they're worth.

Ted glances around and smiles at Geoffrey's awestruck guests. A few gaze out of the ceiling-to-floor windows and admire the Thames below. Everyone is impressed. Ted's known him since 1971, way before he had all this wealth and fame. He's proud of the way his friend has overcome every obstacle and made his life a success.

One of those, totally fine. The other one, highly sus.

told him the court papers had cited two dates: 8th and 9th of September. Jeffrey had begged him for an alibi for the evening of the 9th. Ted had agreed to write to Lord Mishcon, Jeffrey's lawyer. He told Mishcon he was having dinner with Jeffrey that night until the small hours of the next morning. In the end, he wasn't needed in court. He'd been relieved, but also annoyed, because Jeffrey had promised to pay him £20,000. So far, he's only paid £12,000.

That is a risky person to scrimp on when it comes to the payoffs. Jeffrey picks up another bottle of Krug. Ted holds out his glass, but Jeffrey ignores him. Don't be greedy, Ted. Remember your manners. That is not the tone I would be taking. I would be keeping Ted very, very sweet. More champagne, Ted? Yeah, more pie? Extra crispy mashed top? Ted tries to laugh it off.

But Geoffrey turns to Susan, tells her in a loud, booming voice... You want to watch this, fellow Susan? I lent him £20,000 once and I'm still waiting for it back. OK, so you've gone for the humiliating him in front of beautiful women route, which I think very rarely pays off. Ted's face flushes with embarrassment. He hears his own voice utter...

That's not true. But the whole room is now silent and everybody's looking at him. He looks at Susan, opens his mouth to explain, but he doesn't know what to say. She's staring at the floor. She looks almost as embarrassed as he is. She makes an excuse and moves away. Ted is left standing alone, shaking with rage and humiliation.

It hits him now that Geoffrey's never been a true friend, that he's always wanted something in exchange for his company. Whatever their relationship was, it's over. Because right now, all Ted can think about is how he's going to get his revenge on his good friend, Geoffrey Archer. Sunday, May the 12th, 1991. The Simple Truth concert, Wembley Arena. The irony. Mary stands in the wings and watches her husband run onto the stage.

She smiles at the roar that greets him. They're at the end of a five-hour concert to raise money for Kurdish refugees trapped on Iraq's northern border after the Gulf War. It was Jeffrey's idea. She's been backstage all day. She wants to help him raise as much money as possible. They've got a stunning lineup. She's watched 22 acts from different continents, including Whitney Houston, Sting and Paul Simon.

Best of all, she got to meet one of her favourite singers, Tom Jones. OK, sure. She looks at the VIP section of the audience, at John Major and Princess Diana applauding her husband. Her eyes fill with tears of pride. None of this would have happened without his brilliance. She watches him hold up his arms to hush the cheers and applause. I want you all to do something for me. Say you were having dinner with me on the 8th. Reach into your pockets now and take out a £5 note.

That fire could save a child's life. Swarms of volunteers with collection buckets rush to the audience. You want to know how much money we raised? The crowd cheer. 57 million pounds. More than I hate. More than any other charity can cost. Mary has enjoyed helping Geoffrey. It's given her time to think. A few weeks ago, she'd been asked to be head of an Oxford college. Cambridge have made a similar offer. She hasn't decided which one to accept.

With the publicity from this concert, they'll be chasing her even more. A few days later, she's at home getting ready for work when she gets a call from a reporter at the Evening Standard. Mrs Archer, would you like to comment on claims that the Simple Truth concert only raised £3 million and not the £57 million your husband claimed?

Why couldn't he resist calling it the Simple Truth Concert? Why? Call it anything you want, but just why? Paul, so if it's raised three million quid... That's good. Yeah, you'd have to like. Tonight we've raised a hundred billion pounds, more than the total GDP of planet Earth. Don't check. We're still counting the buckets, but it looks like roughly that. She feels her jaw tighten. Don't be ridiculous. Why do you always have to bring him down? But over the next few hours, the calls keep coming.

Another reporter wants to know when the Kurds will get their money. A few weeks later, the Kurdish Disaster Fund write an open letter to Geoffrey, claiming they're yet to receive any funds. Then she gets a call from a friend of hers, a professor at Oxford. Just to warn you, Mary, this publicity about Geoffrey's concert isn't winning you much support here, I'm afraid. Next day, she's at work when she opens a letter from the University of Cambridge. They've withdrawn their offer to her.

So have Oxford. Oh, boy. She leans back, tries to take it in. She's about to pick up the phone and demand an explanation when the door bursts open and Geoffrey runs in. He sweeps her up and hugs her. We've finally done it, darling. John Major's just told me. He's giving me a peerage. You're looking at Baron Archer of Western Superman.

Once again, her achievements are getting sidelined and actually in this case getting sacrificed. Yeah, he's just been elevated to the House of Lords. She's just lost two jobs, essentially. This season, Instacart has your back to school. As in, they've got your back to school lunch favourites like snack packs and fresh fruit. And they've got your back to school supplies like backpacks, binders and pencils. And they've got your back when your kid casually tells you they have a huge school project due tomorrow.

It's September 1999. Methodist Central Hall, Westminster, London. Jeffries Daimler pulls up at the side of the huge Baroque Hall.

He glances up at the high-arched windows. He leans back now as swarms of reporters surround the car. His chauffeur pushes through, opens the door for Mary, then for him. Lord Archer, do you think I'll win the party's backing tonight? He grins at the camera. I have every confidence they'll choose me to run for mayor. He puts his hand on the small of Mary's back and leads her inside.

Everything rests on tonight's debate. He'll have to win over this room of Tory voters if he wants to be the official Conservative candidate. He makes his way onto the stage. Stands in front of a blue Mayor for London backdrop. Shakes hands with his opponent, Stephen Norris. You should know at this point. Do you know Norris' nickname? No. Shagger Norris. No. No.

It's not even a pun or a play on words. That's just putting shag up before someone's name. These are the two men slugging it out to be the first Tory candidate for Mayor of London. Norris's small eyes disappear in a crinkled smile. May the best man win, Geoffrey. He adjusts his red tie and looks out at the 2,000 party members who fill the hall. You need a mayoral candidate with charisma.

Someone who can talk to the people and get the job done. You need me, because I can beat any Labour candidate, hands down, and I will. He looks up at the huge domed ceiling.

takes in the applause that thunders round the room. He's already been acting like the official candidate. He's visited all 32 boroughs already. He's mocked up a mare-mobile to ride him round the streets. He's hired Fred Housego, a taxi driver and former Mastermind winner, to help him charm Londoners and also ferry him around London quickly. And he's become president of the World Professional Billiards and Snooker Association.

This week, he posed for photos in a snooker hall in Tottenham, surrounded by local well-wishers. That's the harder appointment to get. He tells the room now. Londoners already think of me as the party's candidate. Your job tonight is to make that official. A short while later, he clenches his hands and stares at the marble columns as the results are read. Norris, 6,350 votes. Archer, 1%.

15,716 votes. He puffs out his tubes. He's done it. Mary runs over to hug him. He kisses her, then rushes off to shake hands with well-wishers. It's the biggest victory of his career. He's one step away from becoming the first ever elected mayor of London. It could give him the power he's searched for his whole life. No prime minister could possibly ignore someone who represents the whole of London.

He's already got a long list of plans for this city and an even longer list of associates who are very keen to do business with him. Now all he has to do is beat Ken Livingstone. November 1999, a small council flat, Surrey. Ted Francis calls out to his client, "Are you alright, Edie, love?" A few minutes later, a stooped grey-haired woman comes out of the bathroom. She leans on her stick and shuffles forward.

Put the kettle on, Ted. I'm parched. Ted lays Edie's pills out for the day in a neat row on the coffee table. He checks his watch. He's already late for his next appointment. But he can't leave Edie until she's taken her morning tablets. The past few years have been tough for Ted. His TV work dried up a long time ago. He's done various jobs to make ends meet. He's been a carer for a few months now. He's grateful for the £5.95 he earns an hour from Surrey Council.

It's a far cry from his champagne-swilling days with Geoffrey Archer, but he likes his clients and he doesn't mind the work. He hands Edie a glass of water, watches her swallow her pills. She's one of his favourites. She always makes him smile, but she also always makes him late. Don't go yet, Ted. Put the telly on at least. He rolls his eyes, pushes the button at the side of the television and stops in his tracks. Geoffrey Archer's face fills the screen.

He's wearing a white cricket jumper and holding a megaphone. If you're looking for a saint, I won't be your first choice. But if you want a mayor who'll get the job done, vote for me. His jaw slackens, but he can't stop watching. A few days ago, Ken Livingstone's lead looked unassailable. But Geoffrey Archer's popularity is growing, and polls show the gap between the two has narrowed significantly. He sinks down on the cracked leather sofa.

"You alright, Ted? You look ill." He looks over at Edie's worried face. He can't explain how he feels. He's still angry that Geoffrey humiliated him at that party all those years ago. And he's angry that he tricked him into giving him a false alibi, then didn't pay.

He's also angry that Geoffrey snubbed him as soon as he was down on his luck. But it isn't anger he feels now, it's guilt. Because ever since he met Geoffrey Archer, he's lied and covered up for him. And now, as he watches the news, he realises Geoffrey is on his way to having real power over millions of Londoners. People like Edie. He can't let that happen. A short while later, he jumps in his battered D-Reg Audi and speeds home.

He rushes over to the phone, dials the news of the world and tells them, my name is Ted Francis. I'm an old friend of Geoffrey Archer. And I've got an exclusive for you. Revenge is a dish best served quite a few years later. Unlike shepherd's pie. This is the second episode in our series, Lord of the Lies. A quick note about our dialogue. In most cases, we can't know exactly what was said, but all our dramatizations are based on historical research.

If you'd like to know more about this story, you can read Geoffrey Archer, Stranger Than Fiction by Michael Crick and In For A Penny by Jonathan Mantle. I'm Alice Levine. And I'm Matt Ford. Karen Laws wrote this episode. Additional writing by Alice Levine and Matt Ford. Our sound design is by Rich Evans. Script editing by James Magniac.

Our associate producer is Francesca Gelardi-Quadriocorsio. Our senior producer is Joe Sykes. Our executive producers are Jenny Beckman, Stephanie Jens, and Marshall Louis for Wondery. This is the emergency broadcast system. A ballistic missile threat has been detected inbound to your area. Your phone buzzes and you look down to find this alert. What do you do next? Maybe you're at the grocery store, or maybe you're with your secret lover, or maybe you're robbing a bank.

Based on the real-life false alarm that terrified Hawaii in 2018, Incoming, a brand-new fiction podcast exclusively on Wondery Plus, follows the journey of a variety of characters as they confront the unimaginable. The missiles are coming. What am I supposed to do? Featuring incredible performances from Tracy Letts, Mary Lou Henner, Mary Elizabeth Ellis, Paul Edelstein, and many, many more, Incoming is a hilariously thrilling podcast that will leave you wondering, how would you spend your last few minutes on Earth?

You can binge incoming exclusively and ad-free on Wondery Plus. Join Wondery Plus in the Wondery app, Apple Podcasts, or Spotify.