Nodding, Jeremy gets to his feet and takes our glasses to the rubbish bin. His gait is sure and steady – that damn whisky hasn’t affected him at all!
Next time, I’m definitely sticking with wine therapy.
A few hours later, we’re back at Jeremy’s, and I’m putting the finishing touches on the Waitrose ready meal I picked up after work yesterday. Despite the earlier whisky fail, we’re still on track for Operation Heart-to-Heart. I’m sure after Jeremy consumes this dinner – combined with a little bedroom action – he’ll be singing like a canary.
He pads into the kitchen, wearing a faded pair of jeans and an old sweater his grandmother knit for him. “Smells great, Ser. What is it?”
“Um . . .” My mind strains as I try to remember what the packet said. “It’s a chicken thingamajig”—that’s a technical cooking term, right? – “and potatoes. And once we’re finished eating, it will be time for dessert.” I accompany the last few words with some hip swivels so he gets the message, but I’m standing too close to the table, and my butt knocks his mobile onto the floor. The battery detaches and skims across the hardwood.
“Whoops.” I crouch to pick up the pieces. When I’m upright again, Jeremy’s stretching, his tan stomach peeping out from under the sweater. Ha! I knew the promise of dessert would get him going.
The buzzer dings, and I click off the oven.
“Want me to set the table?” he asks.
I love that Jeremy always offers to help. “No, it’s all right. Why don’t you go relax in the lounge, and I’ll call you when everything’s ready.” Poor guy, he looks as if he’s about to keel over, and I don’t want a little thing like sleep to interfere with my plans.
“Okay.” Jeremy yawns. “Sounds good.”
Ten minutes later, the food has cooked to perfection in its tidy tin, and the wine is open. If ever there were perfect conditions to share disappointments and dismays of the past, it’s now.
“Dinner!” I call.
Jeremy slides into place on the wide wooden bench. I take the chicken and potatoes from the oven and artistically arrange the food onto two plates, setting them down with a flourish.
“So!” I slice through the meat, praying it’s cooked. Ah, thank God. The last thing we need to bring us closer is a little gastric action. “Top Class sure is getting pounded by the media. I wonder how Julia’s holding up?” There. I said it. The dreaded J-word is out of the bag, and all Jeremy needs to do is take up the thread.
“Do you mind if we don’t talk about that right now?” he asks, pushing a bit of food around his plate. In the dim light, his face is an unreadable mask.
“Sure!” I chirp, furiously chomping my chicken. Actually, I do mind. But he did say ‘right now’, so maybe that means we’ll chat about it later? Après sex?
“I’ve got some brownies heating up, and then we can get onto the real dessert.” I leer over with what I hope is a come-hither look, but Jeremy’s eyes are distant.
“Is it okay if I just hit the sack?” he says. “I’m sorry, but I’m exhausted.”
“Oh.” My face sinks into its normal expression, my heart plummeting so fast I feel light-headed. He doesn’t want to talk now. He doesn’t want to talk later! Why the hell not? Staring into my wine glass, I swear Julia’s perfect visage sneers up at me.
Jeremy puts down his cutlery, even though he’s barely touched the chicken or wine. “That was fantastic, Ser. Thanks.” Leaning over, he places his lips lightly on mine. “Night.”
“Night,” I say softly as he climbs the stairs. The creak of the floorboards above me fills the air, then silence falls.
So much for creating the ideal atmosphere, I sigh, clanking and clanging the dishes to make some noise. I’ve been in this house many times on my own, but I’ve never felt as alone as I do right now, with Jeremy sleeping and so much unsaid.
My mobile bleeps and I race towards it, desperate for a connection with the outside world. It’s Kirsty! I haven’t heard from her since she took off for New York.
Found the perfect house! Offer accepted – staying on here and moving in next week. Miss you. xx
I stare at the words, trying to absorb them. Kirsty bought a place already? Moving in next week? God, she doesn’t waste time, does she? The knowledge my best friend is miles away – and staying that way – makes me even lonelier and at sea.
Scrunching up the tea towel, I grab a brownie and flop onto the bench. Despite chewing mouthful after mouthful of gooey chocolate, my heart is heavier than ever. I’ve done everything I can short of torture to get Jeremy to open up and explain Julia’s involvement with the charity. And while I tried to make excuses, it’s obvious now he’s not keen.
Kirsty would be screaming at me to just tell him already; to put everything out on the table. But after this failed attempt, I’m not sure I want to discover why he’s kept his contact with Julia quiet. What if it’s something I’d rather not know?
I sigh, munching the moist brownie methodically. I can’t keep turning stuff over in my mind like this, trying to figure out what’s happening in my boyfriend’s head.
There are plenty of things I’ve kept secret recently, for the good of our relationship.
Maybe I need to convince myself Jeremy’s doing the same.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
As March morphs into April, I do manage to convince myself Jeremy’s silence is a good thing, and it’s better if we just move ahead. I will time to pass quickly, burying the article and everything it represents with layer upon layer of cement to build up a protective coating, so it can’t invade our present. But our relationship, once happy and light, feels weighed down, as if it’s straining to move.
Jeremy appears weighted, too. Despite my constant attempts to jolly him into going out to Providores or Primrose Hill, he seems to have more interest in becoming one with the sofa than anything I offer. I’ve resorted to ringing up Karen and asking her to fabricate excuses to drag him into the charity. But – most worryingly of all – even that doesn’t get him moving.
Thankfully, work at the magazine is its usual self. One World hasn’t scooped us again but Helen won’t let up, claiming it just proves the leak got scared by Jonas’s investigations. Apart from that drama, I’m slowly becoming efficient at pinning down information. Gregor’s queries on my articles are sparser every day, and even Helen’s thrown me a kind word or two whenever I’ve worked on her stories.
Despite Gregor’s huffs and puffs and the tight work schedule, Lizzie and I have managed to escape the newsroom for lunch a few times, heading to a nearby café for greasy paninis. The more time we spend together, the more I respect her strength of purpose, not to mention her fashion chutzpah. After failing to find me something suitable at the stall to wear (aka, an item befitting my growing butt), she’s offered to design me a one-off original piece.
It’s the start of a new week and I flop into my chair, psyching myself up for an article on chin warts. Without looking over, Gregor releases his customary ‘good morning’ sniff. I snuffle in response, giggling when his furry eyebrows rise half a millimetre. Ha! Two can play at the sniffing game, my Kleenex-challenged friend. The phone interrupts my morning entertainment, and I lift the receiver.
“Hello?”
“Come see me.” As usual, Jonas’s tone is unreadable.
“Um, okay.” Hmm, I wonder what he wants? We’ve barely spoken since he killed the Top Class feature.
I trudge to his office, noting with surprise Helen’s there, too.
“Take a seat.” Jonas points to the torn vinyl chair. “As you know, Helen has suspected stories of being leaked to our competitors – One World, in particular.”
I tilt my head, wondering what this has to do with me. “Yes.”
“We’ve been investigating for a while, but it’s a hard thing to pin down. Although the stories have been similar, the quotes were different enough to throw us off. Until that Top Class article.” Jonas shakes his head. “The quotes from the care-home manag
er were word for word what you had written. It’s a little much to be a coincidence.”
All right, fine, but what am I doing here? My heart starts beating fast as a thought enters my mind. They don’t think I’m the leak, do they?
“The fact-checking team is one of the only departments with access to almost every story we run.” Jonas leans back, his eyes locked on mine. “We have a good idea the leak is coming from there.”
“Okay,” I croak. They can’t seriously think I have anything to do with this. But . . . as Jonas just said, the quotes in One World are exactly like those in my notes. My head starts spinning and I struggle to breathe.
Jonas’s lips tighten. “Look, all of this started well before your arrival, so you’re in the clear. However, there is someone we’d like you to keep close watch of.”
Oh, thank God they don’t think I’m involved. Tension drains from my body, and I flop against the chair. But if they don’t suspect me, just who on Fact Check Row are they talking about? There’s no way it’s Lizzie, so . . .
I stare into my boss’s washed-out eyes, pieces of the puzzle sliding into place: Gregor’s smug look when Jonas stopped the story; his comment how he wouldn’t be stuck here much longer; and his gleeful proclamation that ‘today will be plenty exciting’ . . . not to mention he has access to all the network folders, while Lizzie and I can only open our own. Anger pours into me as I think that the whole time he was gloating about the article being killed, he’d been planning to send my hard-won quotes and research to One World. He’s the reason the story got out.
Bastard!
“I’ll do everything I can to help,” I say, my tone fervent. God, I can’t wait to bring down that weasel.
“Good.” Jonas nods with approval. “You’re right beside her, so you might be able to tell us something valuable.”
Hold on. I’m right beside her? No, no, no.
“We’ll also be asking Gregor if he’s noticed anything suspicious about Lizzie’s behaviour, of course.”
“Maybe it’s not her?” It can’t be! Can it? She does need money – but would she go that far?
No. Lizzie never had access to any of the Top Class information, and to be honest, I don’t think the whole thing even scratched her consciousness. Not to mention she’s in and out of here so fast she wouldn’t have time to be the newsroom leak.
Jonas lifts his eyebrows. “Except for Top Class, she worked on every single one of the leaked stories, so the signs point her way. Do you remember if she read your notes, or if you left the file open on the computer? Gregor keeps an eye on things, but he can’t be there one hundred percent of the time.”
I shake my head, struggling to absorb what’s happening.
“I know it’s hard to believe your colleague could be involved, but give it time to sink in,” Jonas says. “Have a careful think, and let us know if you do come up with something. Please tell Gregor I want to see him.”
“Okay, but—”
“Now,” Jonas interrupts, looking pointedly at the door.
I turn and plod down the corridor. I’ll give it an hour or two, then tell Jonas there’s no way Lizzie could be involved. Bloody Gregor! He must have covered his tracks by picking only articles she’d worked on; pretty clever for a rodent. But he’s screwed up this time, I think grimly. Lizzie didn’t have access to those quotes or anything to do with Top Class, and that’s exactly what I’ll say.
“Jonas wants to see you,” I repeat when I reach Fact Check Row. Gregor unfurls himself from the chair and scuttles off.
“What’s going on?” Lizzie glances up from her monitor, and guilt stabs my gut as I look into her open face. One more year here, and she’ll have enough saved for her shop.
I hope she gets the time she needs.
“Oh, Jonas just wanted to ask me a question,” I respond, pretending to be absorbed in the story on my screen. Given it’s about ‘revolutionary’ press-on nails, my focus is hardly believable. Thankfully, Lizzie turns back to her computer without further questions.
God, I can’t believe Gregor’s the leak. Here we were, thinking he’d jump off a bridge if Jonas told him too. Lizzie’s earlier words about the leak being some desperate schmuck swirl through my mind. I guess being passed over time and again for the coveted reporting spot could drive the sanest person to such measures, and Gregor didn’t exactly start out life in the sanity bin. And who knows what his deal is with One World – maybe they’ve promised him a position eventually.
“I’m going to make a cuppa,” Lizzie says, standing and stretching. “Want one?”
I shake my head, not even capable of meeting her eyes.
A few minutes later, Gregor slides into his chair. “My goodness, a newsroom leak. It’s a terrible thing, isn’t it? Hard to believe someone could stoop so low.”
I turn to face him. He must realise I suspect him; we both know Lizzie couldn’t open my Top Class research documents, and that she had nothing to do with the article, as a leak or otherwise. My mind whirls with what to say, and Gregor bares his teeth in a yellowed smile.
“Didn’t you give Lizzie your interview notes to type up, that day you went to see your boyfriend in the hospital?” His eyes slowly open and close, like a sunbathing lizard.
“What? No.”
“I think I remember you discussing the story with her, back when you first discovered the negligent work at the care home. She knew all the ins and outs from the very beginning, didn’t she?”
“Are you insane?” I hiss. Either Gregor’s forgotten his anti-psychotic meds this morning, or . . . my jaw drops as it hits. He’s trying to implicate Lizzie to save his own bony bottom. And he wants me to help? He’s definitely got another thing coming.
“You know,” Gregor croons in a low voice, leaning so close I can see the slime on his teeth. “You mentioned reporter intuition a while ago.”
I hold his gaze, almost afraid to move.
“I had an intuition there’s more to you than I thought. So over the past couple weeks, I’ve been doing a little research.” After rummaging in his desk, he pulls out a black and white photo of me and Jeremy from the Camden community newspaper, way back when the charity first opened. That day is imprinted on my mind: Jeremy was so proud, his face shining brighter than the sun as he clasped me to him, cutting the ribbon of the office . . .
“Quite the philanthropist, your boyfriend,” Gregor sneers. “And funnily enough, when I Googled him, turns out he used to go out with Julia Adams. The CEO of Top Class.”
Fuck. I swallow hard. “So?”
Gregor strokes his chin. “So, it’s a direct contravention of the magazine’s editorial code, working on stories where there’s a personal involvement. And aren’t you still on probation?”
A direct contravention? Has he been sniffing glue instead of snot? He’s talking to me about direct contraventions?
“Jeremy broke up with her years ago, Gregor,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “They’ve barely had contact since.” Well, except for arranging a major donation, I think to myself.
“Really?” Gregor raises a flaky eyebrow. “I’m interested in philanthropy, too. So I had a chat a while back with the charity’s treasurer to see if I could donate. She said if I chose to give, I’d be more than welcome to attend a little party they were having. A party to celebrate a rather large donation from Top Class.”
Oh, God. I can just imagine Karen excitedly burbling all about it.
“Shame the article ruined everything,” Gregor says in a mock-sympathetic tone. “Given the pending donation, I’ve no idea why you’d want to pursue such a story in the first place, but I don’t care. What’s important is with your personal connections, you couldn’t be objective. And since you didn’t declare your involvement . . .” He shakes his head sorrowfully. “But don’t worry. I won’t spill your little secret. If you tell Jonas everything you remember about Lizzie, now that I’ve jogged your memory.”
I freeze, staring into his pointy face. My mouth
flaps open and closed, but try as I might, I can’t seem to find any words.
“I’d say the sooner you tell Jonas what you know, the better. Or I’m going to have to do some talking of my own.” Gregor swings back to his screen, pecking away at the keyboard like he hasn’t just tried to blackmail me into accusing my friend.
I gaze blankly at the monitor. What the hell am I going to do? If I don’t turn the blame towards Lizzie, I might lose my job – I’m still on probation, and breaking a rule in the editorial code isn’t the best route to becoming a full-time employee, especially at a magazine as gun-shy as Seven Days. The chance to work my way up at a big-name outlet will be dead in the water. But if I do what Gregor wants . . .
My head pounds and tears fill my eyes. God! No matter how hard I try to make that stupid story go away, it just keeps coming back. It’s not enough to ruin my boyfriend’s charity and give me relationship nightmares, it has to pop up again here, too? This article – so small and insignificant at the start – has taken on a life of its own, threatening to destroy the world I’ve worked to build. And now it’s threatening a friend’s future, too . . . someone who has nothing to do with any of this.
I slump in the chair, rubbing my eyes. I’ve tried to keep it all together; to focus on the future and move on from the past. Jeremy and I have been doing that since the beginning of our relationship, actually. And it seems no matter how fast we run, we can’t escape it.
Well, no more. Whatever happens with the job and my relationship, I can’t carry on like this, wondering what crack will appear next. The only way to be free of this mess is to dismantle the protective layers I’ve built; to face the truth.
And I’m going to start right now.
I straighten my spine, determination seeping in. Gregor may think he’s trumped me, but wait until I tell Jonas I know who the snitch is – because he tried to blackmail me into accusing Lizzie. God, imagine me thinking this place was ever dull.
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