“Take your shield,” Lizzie advises. “I told her you had to leave because your boyfriend was in the hospital, and she nearly lost it. Anyway, her cubicle is over in the corner.” She waves an arm to the far right of the newsroom.
“Thanks.” I haul myself to my feet again, exhaustion dragging at my body. God, after everything that’s happened, it feels like it should be the middle of the night.
Helen’s hunched over her desk, hammering the keyboard with two fingers. I watch for a minute, awed by her expert hunting and pecking, then turn my gaze to the photos plastering the cubicle walls. She’s posing in each alongside an icon of the twentieth century: Ronald Regan; that Russian dude with the big birthmark; even Madonna! God, Helen is a legend. Or she was, anyway, before Seven Days started focusing more on puff pieces than politics.
“Helen?”
She whips around, face set in an expression that would terrify Jack the Ripper.
“There you are. You won’t believe what’s happened. I rang up to confirm the CEO interview this afternoon, and the bloody PR told me they’d have to reschedule.”
“Really?” Oh, thank God. I almost collapse in a heap on the dirty beige carpet.
Helen nods so hard her head just about launches off her neck. “No-one reschedules an interview with me, Serenity. Not even bloody Nelson Mandela! And when I insisted we keep to our time, the PR hung up on me.” Her face is practically puce.
“Wow.” I can’t believe Tanya hung up on Helen! Things must really be in lock-down mode.
“God knows what’s going on over there,” Helen continues, “but whatever it is, it won’t stop us. Good stories always face obstacles, but great reporters overcome them. We’ve got your quotes from the earlier interview you did with the CEO, anyway. I’ll be speaking to this Ryan Johnson in a few hours, and our photographer’s on his way to the site now. That will be more than enough for the story.”
“Fantastic.” I force enthusiasm into my voice, commanding my lips to smile. Where the hell are Julia’s lawyers when you need them?
“Have you finished the research on building codes?” Helen asks, looking up at me over her glasses.
I shake my head miserably. “Not yet.”
“Well, you’d better get on with it, hadn’t you?” She stares pointedly towards the cubicle exit, and I turn away. So much for impressing the Great One, I think, plodding back to Fact Check Row. Helen’s barely taken any more notice of me than the wilting spider plant in her cubicle. I guess I should be grateful – after all, I have been trying to sabotage the article, not that it’s worked so far. But inside, a tiny bit of disappointment nips at my heart.
Sinking onto the chair, I rub my throbbing temples. Panic washes over me as I think of all the little tentacles this story has sprouted; tentacles I’ll need to cut to prevent it spreading. I can’t teleport myself to Surrey to stop a photographer; pull the plug on the phone system so Helen can’t reach Ryan; or hack into the newsroom network to make my research vanish. Even if I did delete my folder, I remember Gregor droning on about multiple back-up servers to ensure the magazine never loses material.
Maybe the Shut Your Mouth policy shouldn’t apply to work issues, either? If only Jeremy and I had talked about our jobs – even if it did involve Her Royal Bitchiness – none of this would have happened.
As the afternoon ticks by, I train my ears anxiously in the direction of Jonas’s office, twitching every time his phone rings and praying it’s Top Class’s lawyers. God, you know it’s bad when your last hope depends on the legal department.
When my own phone rings, I jump so high I nearly land in Gregor’s lap (horror!).
“Hello?”
“Come to my office.” It’s Jonas, and his tone is unreadable.
“On my way.” My heart pounds as I replace the receiver. Has Top Class been in touch? Please, God, please, I chant as I march down the corridor, crossing my fingers so tightly they turn white.
I pause outside the door. “Hi.”
“Serenity, come in.” Jonas points to a chair beside Helen. “About the Top Class story.”
Breathe through the nose, I remind myself, before I pass out from the stress. Oxygenate!
“I’ve had a call from Top Class’s legal department,” he continues. “They’ve somehow got wind of the allegations and are coming on strong, threatening legal action if we print anything to do with the situation over at Rose Care Home.”
Helen laughs. “Like that’s going to stop us. You know as well as I do the best defence for libel is the truth. We’ve got solid quotes from a source, and the photog should be back any second.”
Jonas shakes his head. “I’ve spoken with the photographer. He says Top Class builders turned up just as he arrived. They’re doing a complete overhaul on the home, and they won’t let him through for a shot of the previous poor workmanship.”
“Which proves Top Class has something to cover,” Helen points out. “They wouldn’t send great numbers of workmen there unless they did.”
Jonas nods. “That may well be the case. But look, I read through the interview notes from this source, Ryan . . .”
“Johnson,” I say, before I can stop myself.
“Yes, Ryan Johnson. He seems to have a legitimate grievance, but Top Class’s lawyers are claiming he didn’t follow the proper complaints procedure. Johnson himself says the contract states he can take Top Class to arbitration.”
“You’ll also see he couldn’t reach anyone to even speak about that option.” Helen’s voice is so cold it makes me shiver, and my gaze darts back and forth between the two of them like I’m watching a tennis match.
“Have you been able to get in touch with Johnson today?” Jonas asks.
Helen is silent for a minute. “Not yet,” she answers in a tight voice. “But I will.”
Jonas sighs. “Helen, it’s a brilliant story, but with the legal implications, I think we need to sit on it until we can verify all the information.”
Oh, thank God! I almost release a little whoop of joy, but somehow, I sense it wouldn’t go down so well.
“Sit on it, my arse,” Helen responds. “We’ve a better chance of Prince Charles streaking naked at Wimbledon than that story getting printed.”
“You know as well as I do management is extremely nervous after last time around. And as editor, ultimately I’m responsible for the accuracy of any copy.” Jonas crosses his plump arms – or he tries to, anyway. “I’m not willing to put my neck on the line until we’re one-hundred percent sure we’ve got everything right.”
“You’re a coward.” Helen jerks to her feet, stabbing a finger at Jonas. “We’ll never be ‘one-hundred percent sure’ about any serious news story, will we? That’s bloody journalism! We get the facts we can and go with the info we have. No wonder we’ve descended into regurgitating press releases.” She turns and stomps out.
I watch her leave, slumping back against the chair as relief filters into every cell. I knew I could count on Julia’s lawyers! The story won’t appear in Sunday’s magazine, and – if Helen’s diatribe is anything to go by – it’ll never see the light of day. The more time Top Class has, the more they’ll do to cover their tracks, I’m sure. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if they built Ryan a whole new care home. At least something good might come from this fiasco.
“Unfortunately, Serenity, sometimes you need to balance the publication’s business interests with the story,” Jonas says, his tone solemn. “Tough lesson to learn, but it’s more and more relevant these days.”
I nod. So much for good stories always overcoming obstacles, like Helen said – here’s Jonas telling me business must come first. And in light of what’s just happened, it’s pretty obvious who’s right. Guess I still have a lot to learn about the dynamics of a serious news organisation.
“Now get back to your desk and check if Gregor needs any help for Sunday’s issue.” Jonas waves me out the door.
“Okay.” Mustering up my last bit of energy, I stagger
to Fact Check Row, barely able to believe this whole ordeal is over. The charity will get its donation, Top Class will carry on being a successful company, and Jeremy will recover without any extra stress. Oh, thank God.
“Heard you talking to Jonas,” Gregor wheezes. “Shame about your breaking news story.”
“Yeah, looks like you feel really bad.” I don’t want the Kleenex King to get the better of me, but I’ve had it with his holier-than-thou attitude. “You know, I think the fact that I had enough initiative to hunt down the story counts for a lot. That’s reporter’s intuition. It can’t be taught, not like fact-checking. You either have it . . . or you don’t.” I raise my eyebrows, making sure to get across that Gregor’s on the ‘don’t’ side.
Instead of his usual comeback sniff, he stares with an insufferably smug expression. Turning away, I flick off my computer and stretch, trying to ease the tension of the day. It’s just after five, Lizzie’s already gone, and I’m not going to stick around here while Gregor gloats. Anyway, I’m desperate to make sure Jeremy’s okay and to reassure myself the nightmare is safely behind us.
One gruesome rush-hour tube later, I exit the Northern Line at Belsize Park and trot the short distance to the Royal Free Hospital. Inside, the air is heavy with the familiar faux-lemon scent. I trace my route from this morning towards Jeremy’s room, praying he’s better.
Thank goodness his roommate is fully clothed this time. The elderly man shoots me a lascivious grin as I brush by his bed, and I keep my gaze fixed firmly away from him.
“Hey, hon,” Jeremy says when I reach his side. His face has more colour and his eyes look alert. He’s even sitting up, paging through a tatty magazine.
“Hey, yourself.” I lean down, my lips meeting his warm ones. “How are you feeling?”
He tosses the magazine onto the bedside table. “I’m okay. The doctors say I just need fluids and rest, but they want to keep me in for the weekend, to be sure.”
“Best to be on the safe side,” I say brightly, squeezing onto the bed. Much as I hate him being here, it’s better if he stays and rests, away from the pressures of the outside world.
“I guess so.” Jeremy shrugs. “At least everything’s sorted at the charity. Thank God for Karen.”
I nod, trying to keep my face neutral. Knowing what I do, it’s strange to hear him talk as if I’m not aware Julia’s behind the donation. But now’s not the time to bring up all that stuff. The poor man is in hospital, for goodness’ sake.
“So how was work? Tell me something interesting about your day.” He smiles, his tired eyes meeting mine.
“Oh, the usual deadlines and stuff,” I mumble, glancing down at the starchy sheet. A blobby, faded stain looks like Santa’s hat, and I trace it with my finger. “I’m so sorry I had to leave earlier. You were asleep, and—”
“Ser, it’s fine, really.” Jeremy takes my hand. “I don’t expect you to sit here watching me snooze. Talk about boring.”
Cuddling up beside him, I realise I could watch him sleep for hours. I love the peacefulness of his face; the way his limbs twitch as he dreams. And when he reaches out and tugs me against him, my heart expands so much it almost explodes into a zillion smushy bits.
I lay in the crook of his arm until a nurse rudely informs me visiting hours are over. After kissing my sleeping boyfriend’s cheek, I wander back through the maze of hospital corridors. My head is numb and fatigue pulls at my muscles, but I don’t fancy kicking around Jeremy’s house alone or staring at the four walls of my lonely bedsit. Even though it’s eight p.m. and Kirsty’s busy packing, I make my way to her place. Ringing the buzzer, sadness fills me when I remember that soon, the closest I’ll get to my friend is a long-distance call.
“Hey, Ser!” The door opens and Kirsty’s curly head appears, Jane cooing against her shoulder. “Come on in. I’m just feeding the baby, and Tim’s getting dinner ready.”
“Hope you don’t mind me dropping by.” Clangs and bangs come from the back of the house as Tim prepares food, and I can hear him gently rapping to God knows what hip-hop song.
“Of course not,” Kirsty says as we head towards the kitchen. Easing Jane into the high chair, she attempts to feed her some kind of brown slurry, which Jane promptly spits out. Not that I blame her – it looks about as appetising as the refried beans at the pseudo Tex-Mex place in Soho where Jeremy and I both got food poisoning.
“So Sunday is your big debut?” Kirsty wipes Jane’s face. “I have to remember to buy the magazine.”
I sigh. “Well, it was. But there’s been a bit of a complication.”
Kirsty glances sidelong at me as she scrapes more sludge from Jane’s chin. “Oh, God. What happened?”
“Here you are, ladies.” Tim brings over three plates of steaming pasta, setting them down on the table. We settle into our seats, and I pick up my fork.
“Smells great.” I wind a spaghetti strand around the tongs. “Well, Top Class found out about the story. Their legal department threatened the magazine, so the article’s not going to run.” Probably best if I keep the rest of the day’s disastrous details away from the dinner table. “Anyway, with Jeremy in the hospital, it’s the least of my worries.”
“Jeremy’s in the hospital?” Kirsty looks up from the food, concern on her face. “Not pneumonia again, I hope?”
I shake my head. “No, he’s just overtired. He’s been working way too hard at the charity lately. But he’ll be fine, thank goodness. So what’s new with you guys?” I jam the pasta into my mouth and try to chew, but my stomach is knotted.
“I booked my flight!” Kirsty grins excitedly. “I’m heading to Westport with Jane on Monday. Hopefully the houses are all still available – with the way the economy is, there are some awesome bargains. The realtor told me people are desperate to sell, and it should be possible to close the deal quickly.”
I nod glumly. If I’m honest, part of me hoped Kirsty wouldn’t find anything this trip out so I could hang onto my friend for a little longer. But it looks as if that’s not going to happen. Once they purchase a house, the move is a done deal.
“Sounds like a good time to buy,” I say, struggling add a more intelligent comment to the conversation. I love watching property shows – mostly down to my mini-crush on Phil Spencer – but I’m clueless about real estate. That’s what you get from ogling the presenter, not the houses.
“It really is.” Kirsty and Tim launch into a discussion of taxes, legal fees, and surveys. I tune them out, thinking how strange it is that they’ll be home owners. My last big purchase was a frying pan, and I don’t even own the furniture in my room. Their lives are moving on – literally.
“Anyway, enough about houses,” Kirsty says, once we’ve cleared our plates and flopped onto sofas in the lounge. “What else is happening with you?”
I stare into the hazel eyes of my best friend. Should I tell her I deliberately sabotaged my big article so it wouldn’t damage Jeremy’s charity? My boyfriend has been in touch with his ex without even mentioning it to me? The ex is providing a half-million-pound donation I didn’t know about? Jeremy collapsed at work and didn’t want to tell me?
God, when you put it like that, it kind of sounds as if we have problems. I know we don’t, but . . . My innovative relationship approach might have been good in theory. In light of recent events, though, I have to admit it’s flawed.
Right, from this point on, I hereby retire the Shut Your Mouth policy. A pang hits as I recall Jeremy saying I’m a safe haven. I want to be a refuge as much as the next girl, but there won’t be a refuge if a storm like today blindsides us again. Once Jeremy’s home, we’ll put the mistakes of the past behind us, and be so open and honest we’ll make the Dalai Lama look deceitful.
“Nothing,” I say, forcing a bright smile. “Is there any wine?”
CHAPTER TEN
The weekend passes in a blur of reading trashy mags at the hospital while Jeremy snoozes (hey, I have to get my celebrity gossip fix somewhere!) and en
suring everything’s perfect at the house for his release Sunday night. I made up the bed with fresh white sheets, stocked the cupboards in readiness for pasta balls, and even bought cheerful daffodils for the kitchen table.
Once at home, I helped Jeremy upstairs and straight to bed. Although he seemed much improved after a few days’ rest – his face had more colour – I could tell by the way he held himself the past weeks had taken their toll. I curled up beside him, listening to his even breathing, and thanking the universe over and over the Top Class story had been axed.
Sure, I’d have loved the feature to appear in this weekend’s edition of Seven Days, but not at the expense of Pick Up Sticks. Even without my article, flipping the pages of the magazine and seeing the text I’d fact-checked was satisfying, despite my limited role. I’m just glad that with my recent antics, I still have a job to go to.
Last week’s events have reconfirmed there is no magic bullet – in a job or relationship. I may never run across a one-in-a-million story like Al, I realise now. The best way to move forward is to continue working hard, taking advantage of this chance to familiarise myself with the business of a serious newsroom.
And when it comes to relationships, well . . . Jeremy and I need to learn to share our worries and woes, despite our discomfort. Hell, even Will and Kate have the occasional tiff, right? I bet the two of us will have killer make-up sex, too. Might be worth arguing to find out!
When I crack open my eyes Monday morning, sun streams through the window and I’m filled with optimism and hope. It’s time to embrace the future! Yawning, I wind my arms from the duvet’s cosy cocoon.
Jeremy turns on his side. “Morning.” His voice is husky, and dark hair stands up in sexy little tufts.
“Hey.” I roll into him, relishing the heat from his sleep-warm body. “How are you feeling?”
“Much better, thanks.”
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