Not that I am, of course, I remind myself, pushing back the rising excitement when I imagine uncovering a killer story.
“Sounds like you’re off to a solid start there, Ser. I knew you would be.” Yawning, Jeremy pulls me even closer. “I think I’ll have a quick nap until the food gets here, if that’s all right. I’m knackered.”
“Okay.” I might close my eyes for a second, too. I hardly slept a wink last night, and the adrenaline of the day (well, at the beginning, anyway) has tired me out.
It’s funny; in my previous relationship, I’d have been bored out of my mind lying on the sofa with my boyfriend, doing nothing. But at this moment, with the perfect person beside me, it’s not dull at all. With the drama in our past – from Jeremy’s cheating ex-girlfriend and his operation gone wrong to my ex chucking me out – taking things easy feels right . . . a smooth pace, rather than a panicky roller-coaster.
Now Jeremy just needs to stay healthy so we can keep going this way.
CHAPTER THREE
I hurry into the newsroom at the stroke of nine the next morning, happy Jeremy and I didn’t indulge in our regular bout of wine therapy last night. If I want to make a start on becoming Fact-Checker Extraordinaire, I need a clear head to nail all those finicky details.
“Morning!” I swing into the battered chair, careful not to catch the fabric of my trousers on the jutting prongs. See, polyester does have its advantages! Not only does it never wrinkle, but plastic bits can’t penetrate into places where the sun don’t shine.
“Morning.” Lizzie smiles up from her computer, and I can’t help grinning as I take in today’s outfit: dip-dyed harem trousers and a bright orange poncho. If I wore that I’d be mistaken for a Mexican psycho, but somehow on Lizzie the ensemble comes off as cutting-edge fashion.
Gregor releases a giant sniff, grabs his foul-smelling mug, and heads down the corridor.
Okay then, I think, as he scurries away. Good morning to you, too.
“Don’t mind him,” Lizzie says, tapping furiously at the keyboard. “He needs to snort his nasal spray at least ten times before he can communicate.”
I laugh, pleased one of my colleagues can chat without the aid of cold medication. In fact, Lizzie’s tell-it-like-it-is attitude reminds me of my best friend, Kirsty. Even when Kirsty was in the throes of labour with baby Jane, she didn’t hesitate to inform the midwife gas and air is not a replacement for an epidural, and if she was home in the States, she’d have had eight by now! Jane was more than worth the pain and the germ-ridden NHS Hospital, Kirsty says, and nine months on, she and her husband Tim make parenting seem easy. I think I’m finding it harder to adjust to their baby than they are!
“So where do I start this morning?” I ask, gearing up for today’s fact-checking challenge.
“Take a look at your folder on the system – Gregor’s edits from yesterday should be there. See if he’s flagged anything needing more work. Once you’re finished, there’ll be another article to start in on.”
“Okay, thanks.” After navigating the maze of network folders, I finally come to mine and double-click on the vitamin water/ Ben Nevis story. Surely there can’t be too many edits? God knows I spent enough time on it yesterday. Lips curving in a smile, I await the sparkly clean copy.
But . . . Oh. My. God. My jaw drops as I take in the bloodied battleground before me. Almost every line is highlighted, with angry little comments scattered throughout in fluorescent colours. How many springs? What spring is the water from? What’s the mineral content? How much does the water contribute to one’s daily intake of vitamins? For a second, I stare dumbfounded at the screen.
Lizzie glances over. “He slaughtered you, hey?”
I sneak a peek at her monitor, noting there’s only one comment asking for clarification. God. Becoming Fact-Checker Extraordinaire might take a little longer than anticipated.
“Don’t worry.” Lizzie’s voice is kind. “G did the same thing to me when I started. Reckon he gets his jollies from it, even though he always says the magazine can’t risk another lawsuit.” She rolls her eyes.
“Another lawsuit?” My ears perk up. I don’t remember hearing anything about Seven Days being sued.
“Yeah. A couple years ago, we ran an investigative piece accusing a member of the House of Lords of meeting with a terrorist in Pakistan. Big story, right?”
I nod. Sounds exactly like the kind of report the magazine is famous for.
“Anyway, I’m not sure how it went wrong, but the Lord wasn’t meeting a terrorist at all. He was hooking up with his gay lover.” Lizzie shakes her head. “The Lord was furious – first, to be accused of liaising with terrorists, and secondly, to be outed. He sued for a massive amount.”
“Shiiiit.” That’s every media outlet’s worst nightmare.
“The editor at the time was fired, and they settled out of court for a huge sum. Jonas came on board, and since then, well . . . let’s just say the magazine is a lot more cautious.” Lizzie pulls a face.
“Wow.” No wonder they still employ fact-checkers.
“Anyway, don’t worry. Once you’ve been doing this for a while, it does get easier.”
I nod, praying she’s right – how am I ever going to move up if I can’t even fact-check vitamin water? Can you force yourself to be detail-oriented? Grimacing, I remember my disastrous stint as cosmetic surgery receptionist where, despite my efforts to keep records neatly organised, I once gave the doctor the wrong patient file. Sounds minor, right? I thought so, too, until Mrs Vasser ran screaming from the consultation room clutching her bloodied lips. Turned out she’d got lip fillers instead of the laser treatment she’d booked. Whoops.
This job is my route to the big-leagues, I remind myself. If it takes beating the devil in the details into submission, that’s what I’ll do – all the while keeping a beady eye open for a killer story.
The morning passes slowly as I attempt to answer Gregor’s insanely pedantic questions. Finally, after lunch (or lunch hour, anyway, given that none of us eats) I email him the finished copy and click onto the next article in my folder. My heart flutters when I see it’s from the features department – Seven Days is famous for in-depth, hard-hitting reports on everything from politics to social issues. Whatever this story is, it has to be more exciting than vitamin water.
Holding my breath, I open the file.
Oh. Disappointment seeps in as I scan the text, focusing on a construction company that’s made a name for itself in the past year. This is worthy of a feature? Well, at least the piece is only a few hundred words. It won’t take me long to verify everything. Hopefully.
My eyes flick over to the by-line, and I nearly fall off the chair. Helen Goodall! This story is by Helen Goodall! Wow. I’m actually checking an article by one of the nation’s greatest reporters. No, scratch that, one of the world’s greatest reporters! I knew this job could only get better. If Helen’s on the feature, there must be more to it than a company doing well. Perhaps it’s one of those investigative reports she’s renowned for – or used to be, anyway. My brow furrows as I try to recall some of her recent ones.
“When’s this due in?” I ask Lizzie, who’s now sporting a giant pair of horn-rimmed glasses circa nineteen-sixties. On anyone else they’d be geek-o supreme, but on her they’re cute.
“Hmm?” She lifts her head from the screen. “Oh, you’ve got a couple days, depending on length and topic. They usually give us longer for features, and Jonas doesn’t like to rush newbies. Gregor will let you know, don’t worry.”
“Thanks.” Okay, cool. Plenty of time to do a scrupulous comb-through, proving I can be a valuable member of the fact-checking team. After the earlier article carnage, the only way is up.
CONSTRUCTION FIRM THRIVES IN CHALLENGING MARKET
In this cut-throat market – with many construction firms taking a hit as the economy slows – it can be a struggle to even survive. But in the past year, one company hasn’t just survived, it’s flourished. How h
as Top Class Construction become a leader in so little time? Seven Days investigates.
Bet this is one of those big companies who pay Eastern European workers peanuts to throw up ugly concrete skyscrapers. A flash of pride goes through me as I think of Jeremy and the charity, and all the people they’re helping. He couldn’t be further from those heartless corporations if he tried.
Market leader Top Class Construction has swiftly made a name for itself since being founded a year ago. With extremely competitive bidding in a crowded sector, the company has managed to secure multiple contracts, expanding rapidly.
Okay, Helen must be setting us up for the fall; letting us see how successful Top Class is before cutting them down to size. Clever!
I skim the rest of the article, scanning every line for scandal. Corruption. Something! When I reach the end, I read the whole thing again, barely able to believe my eyes. It’s basically a puff piece, for goodness’ sake. There’s only a quote from the company’s PR – not even the CEO – and nothing from clients or competitors . . . no hint of negativity towards Top Class. Whatever happened to Helen’s razor-sharp style? This would put an insomniac to sleep in ten seconds.
Did she run out of time? Or perhaps she’s working on a more important feature? That must be why I haven’t seen her around the newsroom: she’s off on assignment somewhere without the resources to develop this story.
Maybe I can help? I stare at the words on the screen as my mind ticks. I’m supposed to just fact-check, but if I finish that today, I’ll have tomorrow to pump up the article with a quote from the CEO – or at least a source other than the public relations flack. Perhaps I can even speak to some clients, if the PR gives me a few names.
Okay, so I haven’t uncovered an amazing article like Al – yet. But by adding new sources, Jonas will see I’m not just a fact-checker; I can work professionally to round out a story. And Helen might be impressed, too.
The afternoon passes in a blur as I double-check everything from Top Class’s client roster to how many people they employ. The company is relatively new, and according to their website, they’ve quadrupled in size since setting up shop. Their success is hard not to admire, and from the client quotes on the site, everyone seems pleased with their work.
“Lizzie, are you finished your article?” Gregor’s thin voice cuts through the silence of Fact Check Row. “It’s almost five and I’m still waiting.”
Lizzie pushes back from the computer, jabbing a red pen into her beehived hair.
“Don’t you worry, G,” she says in a patronising voice. “I wouldn’t dream of leaving without completing my work. I’ve just emailed it to you.” She grabs an oversized neon blue clutch, then grins at me. “I’m outta here. See you tomorrow, Serenity.”
Gregor sniffs loudly, muttering as he turns back to his monitor. God, the man looks set to explode. For a second, I can’t help imagining snot erupting from the top of his head, and the corners of my mouth twitch.
“And you, Serenity?” he asks over the clacking of his keyboard. “How’s your article coming along?”
I’d love to respond like Lizzie, but it’s a little early to antagonise my subeditor. Although I’m sure Gregor is harmless (if slightly demented), God knows he could make my life here difficult – more difficult – by questioning every single check, not ninety-nine point nine percent like today.
“Fantastic,’ I say firmly. In fact, I’m confident I’ve done everything possible to verify the facts – I’ve gone through the words so many times I can practically recite them. Come tomorrow, my article-fleshing quest will begin!
Anticipation fills me when I think of telling Jeremy what I’m working on (and adding to): an article by the legendary Helen Goodall. I can’t help smiling as I picture his proud expression and approving nod that says ‘I knew you could do it’.
Maybe we’ll even have a little celebration! Head to the high street, down a bottle or two, and . . . a sappy smile crosses my face as I envision his arms circling me. It sounds silly, I know, but one sniff of his lovely musk-scented neck and everything’s right, as if the world has shrunk to the two of us and nothing else matters.
Forget journalism, I should get a job at Hallmark! But despite my super clichés, our relationship really is the stuff those mushy cards are made of: we never argue, we like the same things – heck, I’ve even converted him to Jaffas – and everything flows, without any struggle.
Heading down the lift, I dig out my mobile and fire off a text, telling Jeremy I’ll be there in an hour. I’m just about to push through the turnstile of the Elephant & Castle tube when the phone pings with his return message.
In office until late tonight – see you tomorrow. Xx
Oh. So much for a celebration, I think, joining the wan-looking commuters parading down the corridor and into the waiting carriage. The familiar anxiety floods in as I recall Jeremy’s exhaustion last night, and how difficult it was to rouse him when the pizza arrived. He barely even touched it – nothing like our usual tussle over the remaining piece (I’m always victorious; my food reflexes are highly developed).
The train lurches into action and I grab the nearest pole, struggling to stay upright as thoughts swim through my head. All the late nights and long meetings must mean something’s up at the charity. I bite my lip, thinking how important the organisation is to Jeremy – he’s always saying helping others helps him. It sounds like something off the Cheeseball Channel, but after all he’s been through, there isn’t a whiff of cheddar about it.
Right after the stroke, Jeremy could barely move the left side of his body. Thankfully, a few weeks in a rehabilitation centre helped him regain most of his strength, but his physical abilities aren’t what they used to be. As a former builder and property developer – someone who loved to plunge in and get his hands dirty – the stroke was a real blow. Starting the charity gave him something new to focus on and provided a way of accepting the changes in his life. Witnessing Jeremy’s dedication and determination made me fall in love with him that much more.
Sometimes, if I’m honest, I can’t help feeling a little annoyed he’s pushing himself so hard. In the past, I tried to warn him to ‘take it easy’ and ‘slow down’, but my words fell on deaf ears. I can sort of understand. Would I slow down if something I deeply cared about was in trouble? I shake my head, nearly hitting the man jammed in beside me. No, it’s probably best to keep my mouth shut, make sure Jeremy eats, and gets as much rest as he can. He’ll talk when he’s ready.
So what to do tonight? I shiver, thinking of my dingy cold bedsit in Queen’s Park. It’s the first place I rented in London – and on my limited budget, one of the few I could afford. After crashing with Kirsty and Tim for ages, I was so excited to have my own space that even the damp spots on the ceiling, the musty smell rising from the carpet, and the floppy mattress appeared charming.
Although at first I was slightly confused by the ‘bedsit’ description (what does that mean? You sit on the bed?), the small room overlooking a quiet tree-lined street seemed like the ideal base to build my life in London. I’d eagerly visited IKEA, purchasing all those things a first-time renter needs: a zillion tea-lights, picture frames, brightly coloured mugs, and metallic lanterns.
As time went on and my relationship with Jeremy strengthened, I’d started spending more time at his house. My little bedsit acquired a general air of neglect and disuse – not to mention dust. Now, whenever I go back to grab clean clothes or pick up post, the contrast with Jeremy’s cosy confines comes sharply into focus, and I can’t get in and out fast enough.
The tube rattles into Baker Street, and I make a split-second decision. I don’t want to face the pile of bills awaiting me, not to mention the continuous clunk of my clog-wearing upstairs neighbour. If Jeremy’s not available for neck-smelling duty, I’ll pop into Kirsty’s.
We grew up together in Maine, and the two of us have been inseparable since our elementary school days. When she and her then-boyfriend Tim both got jobs in
London right after university, I decided to hit the big city, too. And despite a rather rocky start, that decision has turned out to be the smartest of my life. Just look at me now! I’m making my way up in the world of serious journalism, not to mention I have the best boyfriend ever.
Out on the busy street, I grab a bottle of wine from an off-license then quicken my pace as I round the corner to Kirsty’s. She and Tim live in a gorgeous Edwardian terraced house just off Regent’s Park, and after Jeremy’s, it’s the place I feel most comfortable. The decor reflects the couple’s warm and down-to-earth personality, all soft beiges and greens, with chunky leather sofas perfect for lounging on.
I ring the buzzer, and the door swings open.
“Oh, hey, Ser!” Kirsty appears, cradling a burbling Jane. With my friend’s rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes alongside the baby’s cherubic face, the two of them look like an advertisement from the Mothercare catalogue.
On the other hand, I’m wearing plastic-poked polyester trousers and a wrinkled top, and my glow is down to sweat from the sauna-like tube. I thought new moms were supposed to be tired and worn out. My friend makes it all seem easy.
“You’ve got wine!” Kirsty grins, spotting the bottle in my hand. “In that case . . .” She motions me into the spacious ground floor. It’s a picture of calm, and apart from the toys and other kid paraphernalia (I don’t know what exactly; baby things are a mystery to me), the place looks the same as ever: funky and cool, like the stylish London family they are.
“Tim,” Kirsty shouts, a notch quieter than her usual brash tone so she’s not yelling into Jane’s ear. “Can you come take Jane?”
Tim pads down the corridor, expertly lifting the baby from Kirsty. Jane doesn’t even protest, her chubby face breaking into a smile as she waves jellyroll arms. I swear, I’ve never seen that kid unhappy. If I didn’t know better, I’d suspect they’ve been feeding her Child Prozac or something. Now there’s an idea! I almost can’t believe a pharmaceutical company hasn’t come up with it yet.
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