I looked around. For someone. Anyone. ‘NURSE! NURSE!’ I shouted while I panic-pressed the red button for help. God, I’d even call Hannah over here if I saw her! But there was nobody. Nobody else at all. Just me. Me and Mr fading-fast Clark. ‘EMERGENCY! Over here! MAJOR HUGE EMERGENCY RIGHT THIS SECOND HERE!!’
Squeaky plastic soles thudded down the ward, and a broad, starched nurse elbowed me out of the way, checking Mr Clark’s pulse, listening in to his breathing, his chest, then studying his chart. She straightened up and nodded with a satisfied, tight-lipped smile. ‘Nothing to worry about, painkillers have kicked in, that’s all. He’ll be able to rest now.’ She drew the curtains around his bed.
‘But I was going to get an exclusive statement for the Newbridge Gazette. It’s not just a local story, it’s national interest, even international interest. Once this story breaks beyond Newbridge, everyone will want to know all about Mr Clark. Who is he? Where did he buy his winning ticket? What’s he going to do with all this new-found wealth? Mr Clark is ninety-eight. I imagine he’s the oldest lottery winner and multi-millionaire there’s ever been. That’s HUGE! And I had the perfect headline.’
This is the biggest local story we’ve had in ages. This kind of breaking news is exactly what the Gazette needs to boost our ever-falling figures. And morale.
She continued to pull at the curtain, her face unmoving.
‘I really need a statement, Nurse. He is my headline story, page ten! Couldn’t you just wake him up again? Just for five minutes? Two minutes? Give him a quick shot of something just to perk him up temporarily? I can’t take a photo either now, not while he’s asleep like that.’
We both looked down at him, a few bubbles of spittle on his bottom lip, oblivious to us, to everything, whistling away with every deep, peaceful breath.
She shook her head and blinked at me slowly. ‘Yes, well I very much doubt that gracing the local rag in his gown and slippers is on Mr Clark’s bucket list now, do you?’
I looked down at the scrap of paper he’d handed to me just before he turned into Rip Van Winkle. His handwritten name and address, evidence of our little deal he dozily reneged on. By the sound of his heavy snoring, this was no catnap and I had to admit, I was disappointed. I couldn’t wait to hear what Mr Clark had to say as a lottery winner. What was the first thing he was going to do? Eat an amazing meal at a famous restaurant, go on a round-the-world cruise, throw a huge party for all his friends and family? Imagine suddenly having the means and the freedom to do anything you wanted.
I ran my fingers through my hair. I’d harboured a vague hope that this story would give the Newbridge Gazette the lifeline it needed. That maybe even Gareth would lift his head from his keyboard and say ‘Well done, Lily, nice one.’ Being the first to report on a major local story would have made us the talk of the town, surely it would’ve seen our paper fly off the shelves, lifting our spirits. Even for just an instant.
The nurse cleared her throat and yanked the curtain over. ‘I suggest you call back later when he wakes up.’
If he wakes up more like.
This was the biggest story that could happen in our town and I’d failed to get it.
* * *
What a morning and I haven’t even made it in to the office yet. A little deflated, I make my way back to my car, humming the tune of Alanis Morrisette’s ‘Ironic’ and glancing at my phone to check the time. It’s after nine. I should have clocked in well over an hour ago now. I sit in the driver’s seat and smooth out the scrap of paper Mr Clark gave me, folding it carefully and tucking it into a special pocket of my wallet. Maybe he will wake up and give me that story. I can’t see any sign of other reporters here so maybe all is not lost on our exclusive just yet.
But I can’t face going in to the office, especially without a story. I’m already late, so I may as well take a detour to check on Charlie Chaplin. Yes! Why not? If Gareth wants to bollock me, he’ll do so no matter how late I am, so what difference will another half hour make?
I’m off to find a kitten and save a stew. In that order. Stomach rumbling, I turn my key and hit the road to Mr Clark’s cottage, the thought of my little detour giving me a much-needed something to look forward to.
Three
‘Morning Mary! So, what have I missed?’
We share our cleaner, Mary, with the rest of the offices in this building, which means she can be hard to catch. She has polished this floor and wiped these railings for nearly thirty years, and I’m still convinced she’s a top-secret spy with a very poor sense of direction, hence why she gathers intelligence in Newbridge, mainly for me. She’s my best ear to the ground and like a morning Twitter feed, she tells me what’s trending in the area. And she is spot on one hundred per cent of the time. She wouldn’t dream of ever telling me her sources, but whoever they are, they’re solid. I’d nearly say she knew Mr Clark won the lottery before he did.
Mary glances over each shoulder to be sure no one else is in earshot and then hands me a Post-it note in her hallmark loopy handwriting. ‘Never a dull moment round here,’ she says. ‘The theatre club are doing an open call for auditions; they want a shake-up, new blood, fresh meat. The new director has taken over, ripped up the Fawlty Towers script and told them they are doing A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Never heard of it. He’s very up himself, this new fella, Julian he’s called. Moved here with his husband Luiz, a sound engineer from Brazil. They have a “vision”.’ Her tongue slides over her top lip. ‘They want everyone who is anyone to access high-quality theatre and not miss out just because they live on the wrong side of the motorway.’
I smile at Mary; she doesn’t half get people to open up. She could teach Piers Morgan a thing or two.
She taps the Post-it note. ‘What else? Ah yes, red bobble hat found in the first pew at the church. Good quality, cashmere I believe. Not cheap, so we’re looking for a stylish Catholic female in upper income bracket, aged sixty-plus. Possibly recently bereaved as one candle was lit near the scene. Suspected time of loss approx. 3.30 p.m. If no one claims it by next Friday, it’ll be redistributed or destroyed.’
This is what I love about this community; a lost bobble hat constitutes a public appeal.
I squint down at the last point. Her penmanship is a little rushed, so it’s hard to work out the letters.
She peers at the Post-it note herself. ‘High importance this one! A reminder from the dog warden – the red disposal box beside the park gates is for dog poo, not for posting letters! He found four small parcels and a postcard in there yesterday. So that’s more of a public service announcement.’
I fold the Post-it note in two and pop it into my top pocket. ‘Thanks, as always, Mary. Come up and see me later for a cup of tea if you like.’
She nods and waves me off. No doubt already on the hunt for the next big story.
I enter the lift to the Newbridge Gazette offices and use the five-second ascent to straighten myself up in the panelled and unflattering elevator mirror. I smell of iodine and I’ve forgotten to wear eye make-up again, so I look like Gollum. But everyone I work with is used to that and they’re used to me, so it’s not like they’ll look up from their screens as I whizz by. I lick a finger and smooth my eyebrows into place, smell my armpits – which are passable – and notice a long ladder in my black tights working from my knee downwards. Typical. I must have nicked it as I knelt down on the gravel to coax Chaplin out from under Mr Clark’s car. This just means I’ll be forced to stay seated most of the day and if the hole expands so much that I look like I’m wearing fishnets, I'll slide them off and go bare-legged, treating my lucky co-workers to a glimpse of my spiky, sunless legs.
The lift slows to a halt and just before the doors open, I sneak a peek into my handbag and smile. Of all the unexpected things that may have tested me and tried to throw me off course this morning, this one has proved a pleasant surprise. So, today of all days, I’m aiming for invisibility and for everyone to ignore me and gloss over my lateness and torn tig
hts and drugged-up-looking eyes and lack of lottery story. Today is a day to just show up, keep my head down, then clock off and get me and the contents of my oversized handbag home.
Stepping out of the lift, I’m relieved and also a little surprised to see our open-plan office is a hive of activity. Something is going on; I hope it’s news, as in real news. Maybe Mr Clark has woken up and wants me to come back for that exclusive!
I turn excitedly towards the huddle by the water cooler.
‘Nice of you to join us this morning, Lily,’ says Gareth, zoning in on the ladder in my tights.
I tighten my grip on the handle of my handbag and purse my lips at him. ‘I was following up a story. Should have something later today. If not, I’ll come up with something else,’ I tell him, thinking about Mary’s tip-offs. None of which really scream at me that they’re going to save the fate of the paper, but it’s this kind of community content that keeps our remaining readership ticking over.
As there’s nothing special or newsworthy happening after all, just the usual boy’s club, I sidestep the water cooler and move towards my desk. But just as I dip my head and step forwards, an uncharacteristically fast-moving temp cuts across me, handing an email print-out to Gareth.
I watch as the blood drains from his face. He reads it twice, turns it over and then raises it up in the air. ‘What the hell? When did you get this?’
‘Yesterday, sir. It was marked urgent – you know with one of those little red exclamation marks in the subject line, so I thought I better bring it to your attention straight away.’
‘Yesterday? Twelve hours later is not STRAIGHT AWAY!’
She shrugs and chews her gum.
‘Right, whatever. There’s no time now. It’s fucking McArthur,’ he says, handing the paper to the nearest of the water-cooler gang. ‘Read that – does it say what I think it says? That she’s actually coming. Here. In person this time?’
All ten fingers scratch at his scalp. Gareth’s neck is now a different colour to his face, darker, purpler. Veinier. Reminds of me of why I don’t eat turkey.
The water-cooler guys pass it around, nod, hands on their hips, all eyes down.
‘Are you sure?’ Gareth tries again, his voice now a high pitch. ‘As in one hundred per cent sure?’
Mark has the letter now, he casts his eye over it, reaches out a hand and places it on Gareth’s dandruff-dusted shoulder. ‘Two hundred per cent. It’s here in black and white. She wants to meet with the Editor in Chief regarding all aspects of business, the current operating model and a scrutiny of all accounts to date. She’s bringing her accountant and a “transformational consultant”. They should be here any minute.’
Transformational Consultant. I see him mouth the words, rubbing his chin hard. I don’t blame him for being worried, consultants don’t drop by with a bouquet and box of chocolates to congratulate you on the fine job you’re doing.
‘Transformational?’ he mouths again, this time with a little volume. I think his throat is shrinking. It sounds like it is.
True, ‘transformational’ is new to me too. Maybe it’s a euphemism for bringing in the heavies to beat you up and leave you disfigured because you’ve cocked up the share value.
‘Sounds to me like the gig is up, Gareth,’ says Mark in a low, slow voice. There’s a glint of excitement in his eye and I can tell he’s already thinking of new ways to spend his imagined redundancy cash, the dilemma of classic deep pan or hot-dog stuffed crust etched across his face.
Gareth, breathing heavily, his chest rising like the Hulk (but more puce in colour), crushes his empty plastic cup in one hand, firing it at the bin that’s positioned in front of him, but still, it falls short and he misses his target. He stares at the crumpled plastic on the carpet, the temper rising from his neck into his jawline and creeping into his cheeks. He throws his hands up in the air as if it was the cup and the bin at fault, like they’ve conspired against him. Like everything is conspiring against him and he is utterly faultless and yet again foiled by the universe, by life, by us. And I don’t pretend to be arty or deep, but I think, yep, that pretty much sums this whole thing up.
Gareth walks over to the bin and kicks it, turning to the lip-biting huddle. ‘I know what you are all thinking, you know. You’re thinking Lily should have got the job over me. That I shouldn’t have been so dynamic, so radical. You just wanted to plod on with your small-minded news for your small-minded paper. Well, it’s easy to stay the same, easy to stay in your comfort zone, in a rut. I took risks, I changed things…’
He changed things all right, just not in a way that that anyone wanted. However, I can’t help but catch what he said about me just then. I never knew that Gareth saw me as a potential contender for the position of Editor in Chief. I think this is the nicest thing he’s ever said to me. Even though he didn’t mean to.
I feel a sudden pang of guilt and sadness for all the trees whose lives have been wasted under Gareth’s editorial direction. Maybe I could be a decent Editor in Chief one day? Lord knows I know what not to do.
He faces me for the first time since being promoted as my boss two and a half years ago, a crazed half-smirk on his lips. ‘Happy now, Lily? Bet you think you’re ready to be Editor in Chief of the shittiest regional paper in the country? Believe me. You’re welcome to it. It’s all yours.’
‘What?’ I ask. ‘You’re quitting? Abandoning ship, just like that?’
He clicks his fingers at me. ‘That’s right. Just like that.’
And even though I want Gareth to leave more than anything, the fact that he’s willing just to walk out and feed us to the lions infuriates me! If it wasn’t for the Newbridge Gazette, I may never have got out of bed again after what happened with Adam. Never faced the world again. It has been an anchor, a refuge. It’s never let me down. So I’m proud to be here, to have stuck around, because I take issue with abandoning things. I can’t bring myself to do it; it goes against everything I believe to be the mark of a decent person, to just give up and run when things get tough. Maybe because I know what that feels like first-hand.
So instead of backing down and biting my tongue and hiding behind my screen like I normally would, I look Gareth straight in the face and say what everyone’s been thinking for the last two years. ‘This is your mess, Gareth! All of it is your mess.’
Carefully, I place my bag down on the desk and walk over to him, feeling the heat rise from the pit of my stomach with every step. This isn’t even a decision about whether to let Gareth have it, it’s coming and I can’t stop it, I won’t be able to swallow this anger back.
I hold out my open palms and twirl on the spot. ‘At least have the decency to face the music and try to make it better! This is not a shitty regional paper! At least it wasn’t before you took charge. This place used to be fantastic. How can you even sleep at night? Knowing you caused all this, that you’ve killed the paper and you’re going to leave everyone in here without a job? And you stand there, shouting at us, telling us all how crap and pathetic we are yet you’re not even brave enough to even stay and meet with McArthur?’
He presses the heels of his hands together, a manic grin on his face. ‘Believe me I sleep just fine. You can’t polish a turd, Lily, this paper is done. You’re on your own, I’ve had as much as I can take of this cultural drip-tray. Not my circus, not my monkeys any more.’
And with that, he snatches his coat and his laptop bag from the desk and storms out the double doors. Ding Dong Gareth is gone.
The doors swing closed behind him and we all wait a second, suspended in disbelief, half expecting him to burst back in, at least to shout at us, blame us, punish us. But the doors settle in place and stay shut.
I realise it’s happened. He’s actually left.
And the mood shifts, the atmosphere lightens.
He really is gone. He’s quit. It’s over. We are on our own.
I hear a nervous laugh break the silence, and realise it’s me. I catch the incredulous smiling
eyes of everyone now sighing their relief, stretching out their arms, unfurling after the long hard winter of Gareth’s reign.
I take a deep breath, blink my eyes and reach into my bag… and lift out my lovely new little buddy Chaplin and introduce him to the Newbridge Gazette. The under-new-leadership-we’re-not-going-out-without-a-fight-Newbridge Gazette. The worst is over. Now we’ve got a chance. There’s still time. Still hope.
I spin my little black and white kitten around to orientate him; much like us, he’s probably relieved to come out of the shadows and feel a sense of freedom again. After all, what else could I do? I couldn’t leave him there underneath the car waiting for Mr Clark to return at some unknown point. He could be in hospital for days, weeks even. No, it was my duty to take in Chaplin and with Gareth gone I don’t need to hide him away for the day.
‘So what now?’ asks Mark, twisting the tuft of his beard and bringing me back to the situation at hand. I wait for someone to answer, but Mark’s looking at me. ‘Lily? What now? McArthur’s going be here any minute. What should we do?’
Oh-kay. It looks like they expect me to know. Everyone’s now turned in my direction, waiting, eyes on me. I guess this is my chance. My chance to save the paper, if it has any chance at all.
I suppose I should be thrilled. Ecstatic. This is my chance to be Editor in Chief. In the footsteps of the great JJ Oakes. That’s what I always wanted, what I always thought would happen one day. But that was before La Shebang Totale and all that followed, when I was full of optimism and confidence and…
I pinch my eyes and try to stem this flow of thought, of memory. My head feels very light all of a sudden. I grab a drink from the water cooler; everything is happening much too fast, everything is changing much too quickly. I gulp down the cool water, trying to focus, to anchor myself, to take a minute to register that this is really happening.
‘We could take a vote?’ I offer, opening my eyes. ‘On who meets with McArthur? On who takes over as editor? So we can at least appear like a professional outfit when she gets here?’
For Once In My Life: An absolutely perfect laugh-out-loud romantic comedy Page 3