by Carmen Reid
Jo fumbled in her bag and didn’t even look at the number before switching it off. No matter if Spikey himself was on the line, he would have to wait.
Once Savannah had taken another drink and wiped at her face again, Jo asked about the years that followed. Savannah talked about how she had managed to survive, although her relationship with Philippe hadn’t. ‘It was too tough,’ Savannah tried to explain. ‘I felt as if I had a right to grieve for longer than him, to grieve more than him because I’d lost more people.
‘Of course I blamed myself and I thought Philippe blamed me. I couldn’t comfort him and he couldn’t begin to comfort me. I’d lost my child and I’d lost my parents. I lost my past and I lost my future all at the same time. I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say I was out of my mind with grief.’ Something of a challenging look came with this explanation. Jo read it as ‘but don’t you even dare to suggest in any way at all that I’m out of my mind now’.
‘In the end, part of getting better was to move on from each other. Move on from the daily reminder of what we could have had . . . and didn’t,’ Savannah explained.
‘Is that when you came to Britain?’ Jo asked, wondering how long it must take after this kind of grief, before a person could even begin to function normally again.
‘I got here eventually. A sort of roundabout way . . . over years,’ Savannah said with a little smile. ‘Lots of different jobs and some interesting people on the way. It was quite hard to be taken seriously again. After you’ve been out of the business for some time, you’ve been treated for – big surprise – depression.
‘I think I was perceived as too fragile to work, even when I wasn’t any more. I was finally ready to go back, take on something new and really absorbing. Give my life a new focus. People do recover. They don’t “get over it” but there’s room in a head for all this. It just needs to find its place. I did finally come to terms with my new world order.’
Savannah’s phone began to ring, as it had done every so often throughout the afternoon, but this time the answering machine in her bedroom didn’t click on automatically, so she apologized and went through to the other room to answer.
When she returned, they were both conscious of the time. It was approaching four o’clock. Jo had to get back, although she hated to break this talk off now.
‘You probably need to go, don’t you?’ Savannah asked her.
‘Well, you know, yes I do probably, but I don’t want to rush off from you like this. It’s really important to me to know how you’d like me to play this interview.’
‘Ha,’ Savannah smiled. ‘I don’t suppose I can get you not to mention Felix at all though, can I?’
Jo shook her head.
‘I’d rather you’d not known anything about this. That was the way I wanted to play it, that’s why I’ve avoided interviews, so I haven’t had to deny anything or lie to anyone . . . In fact I feel a bit as if I’ve been hijacked by you.’
There was a prickle in her voice that Jo was immediately alert to.
‘Savannah,’ Jo began, ‘you’re standing for election, you’re probably going to win and become Britain’s first Green MP, every news editor in London is digging about in your past, inviting old Ecology Party pals out for drinks, trying to squeeze some little nugget out about you. This was going to come out, believe me. I’m really glad it’s me who’s found out about this first. And I hope you’ll be glad too.’
But Savannah sighed and added: ‘I just know what you’re going to write. The whole, secret heartbreak/ tragedy of Green Queen . . . Goddess . . . whatever,’ she snorted at the thought. ‘What I actually stand for, the changes I’d like to see, the revolution in the way we live, will be squeezed down to two paragraphs right at the bottom of the page.’
‘It won’t. I absolutely promise you, it won’t,’ Jo insisted. ‘In fact, I’ll use those very words: that you didn’t want people to know about Felix because you thought it would only take away from the important message you’re trying to get across. That you only spoke about it because we found out.’
‘And you know what,’ Savannah added, ‘I think it’s kind of sexist. That somehow what I do, what I stand for isn’t nearly as important to your paper as the fact that I’ve lost a child. I mean, obviously that’s hugely important for me . . . but for people who don’t know me, how is it relevant? Why should it matter? Would you put such emphasis on this if I’d been a man? Felix’s father?’
There was no doubt about it: this was a fair question. A good question. Most papers were sexist, some less so, some more so. But they were reflective of a society that was still pretty sexist. Jo and Bella had once done a survey of two newspapers for a month to find out how many negative stories there were about modern mothers versus fathers. It had come out as 28 to three.
With this question Jo also understood there was a side to Savannah that was a little bit scary. She wasn’t a cuddly pushover by any means. She was clever, she was determined and she was willing to put everything on the line. Jo realized that Savannah’s strength lay in the loss of Felix and Philippe. She was the type of woman Secret Services all over the world liked to recruit. She had nothing more to lose. She would fight to the end for what she believed in.
‘Savannah,’ Jo spoke slowly, choosing every word with care, ‘the public doesn’t know anything about you. You’re single, you’re childless, you live alone, you’re a scientist politician. It’s hard for people to place you into any sort of context. This is your human side. This is the thing that will help people to really get you. They’ll have great sympathy for what you’ve gone through and respect that you’ve tried to keep it private, haven’t traded on it or tried to use this tragedy in any way. And they’ll understand that your son’s toxic and chemical allergies are an important part of your commitment to make the world a cleaner, safer place. Yes, papers always want the story. Of course. I work for a newspaper, not a party political broadcast sheet. You knew that when you invited me into your home.
‘But you’re worrying about it too much,’ she went on. ‘It’ll be fine . . . well OK, it will probably be overimportant for a few days and then something else will happen, you’ll fall off the news pages and people will remember the story, but back in the right context. The other important things about you will come back into focus. Trust me just a little bit,’ she added with a smile, ‘I’ve been doing this job for a long time. I know how it works. Well, some of it anyway.
‘Besides, don’t you want me to find out about the whooping cough situation? Isn’t that important to you as well?’
Savannah nodded.
‘Well I will find out. It will be in the paper this weekend. But because your story is on the front page, more people will buy it and find out about the whooping cough too.’
Savannah glanced at her wristwatch, then informed Jo: ‘It’s 4 p.m. on Friday afternoon. How the hell are you going to get in a whooping cough investigation between now and tomorrow afternoon?’
‘I have the feeling it’s going to be quite a long day,’ was Jo’s reply.
Chapter Sixteen
Women’s greatest fear, it seems, is being caught wearing a pair of dowdy ‘belly hugger’ big knickers.
Daily Mail
Friday: 5.48 p.m.
As soon as Jo had passed through the double doors into her newsroom, she sensed a strange atmosphere.
There was the slightly hushed, heads down, every desk filled, hard-working Friday evening feeling, but also something else, something bubbling under. Everyone was so smartly dressed, for one thing. The newsdesk were all in white shirts. She recognized the jacket of Jeff’s best suit hanging over the back of his chair.
It wasn’t until the features editor crossed her path, 30 yards ahead in a red silk dress, that she twigged.
‘Director’s drinks . . . 6.30 p.m. onwards, Jo. Something tells me you’ve forgotten,’ came Mike’s voice as she walked past his desk.
‘F-u-c-k,’ she spelled out to him. ‘I’ve go
t to write the whole Tyler interview up now. Then I’m going on to something important tonight. I can’t do director bloody drinks. Why the bloody hell have they picked a Friday anyway? It’s our busiest night.’
‘Number one reason: it’s drinks with the whole group, not just us. Number two reason: you think they give an arse? So long as we’re bringing home the bacon, who cares what our office hours are.’
‘Jo?’ Jeff walked up to his chair, having heard most of this exchange, ‘I know you’re snowed under, but you have to come for half an hour, shake the relevant hands.’
‘Why didn’t you remind me?’
The answer to this question was too obvious: ‘Would you have come back in here if I’d reminded you?’
‘No.’
‘Well then.’
‘Jesus, I’ve not got anything to change into . . .’
‘Go and speak to Tilda. She’ll have something,’ was his suggestion.
‘Tilly! You think I can just slink into something from the fashion rail?!’ But still, the compliment was nice. ‘Go and ask her . . . she did a piece on fat birds last week. There might still be something left from that,’ he teased.
‘Your charm, sir, knows no bounds.’
‘Go away!’ He flapped his arms at her. ‘Sort this out.
We’re both far too busy to even talk about this. But Savannah’s good stuff, is it?’ he asked just once again.
They’d already spoken about it on the train. Top of your list, matey, unless you’ve got anything better.’
‘No. Good, good.’
She had turned to walk away but still caught Rod’s teasing: ‘Jeff! Jeff! There’s a beetle in my drawer . . .
Please can you come over here and stun it with your big strong arms?’ which dissolved most of the newsdesk into giggles.
Oh ha, bloody ha.
Tilly was at her desk in something diaphanous, pale grey, chiffon and perfect.
‘You look fab,’ was Jo’s opener.
‘Oh dear and you look like you’ve just got off the bus,’ Tilly said back.
‘Train, actually. Four-twenty from Oxford. I’ve got a whole interview to write up for the front page tonight plus some late night detective work. Somehow I’m supposed to do cocktails in between . . . and no one reminded me.’
‘Oh dear, oh dear and have you come to me in the hope of a rescue remedy?’
‘Well, I didn’t really think there’d be much hope of anything. I mean, if you had something I could dress this suit up with a bit?’
But she looked down at her boxy navy blue jacket and matching trousers without much hope or inspiration. Even if she took off her shirt, added jewellery, a lacy bra and strappy heels, she wasn’t exactly going to transform into Bianca Jagger.
‘No. No way, no hope, Jo,’ was Tilly’s verdict. ‘But don’t worry, I think there might be something in the storeroom for you. We did “best dresses on the high street” last week, as modelled by our readers, and I don’t think they’ve gone back yet.’
Jo followed Tilly into the little room, kept locked at all times, from which the fashion pages were created.
‘Over here in the bags.’ Tilly summoned Jo to a corner of the room where a pile of carrier bags were taped up and labelled, ready to be returned to the shops who had lent the clothing.
‘Just open them up and take a few things out, we’re bound to find something,’ Tilly instructed.
Everything that Jo got her hands on was hideous: clingy, satiny – there was even a dress in pea-green and mushroom.
‘Look, I don’t know about this,’ she told Tilly. ‘Is it so bad if I turn up in my suit? I’m working, I’m at work, for Christ’s sake. Isn’t it enough that I’m going to be working till God knows when – without any overtime, by the way – without having to dress up in cocktail gear as well?’
‘I agree with what you’re saying,’ Tilly replied. ‘Yes, it is ridiculous, yes, it is a pantomime, yes, they should pay us overtime . . . But . . . it’s a free drinks party, you’re there to meet and be met, to impress everyone with your sociability and charm, plus, you’re single and you should be allowed to enjoy these rare treats to the full. Now what about this? This was my favourite of the whole shoot.’
With a flourish, Tilly raised a shimmery pink and gold number out of its carrier bag resting place and shook it out over her lap.
‘Size 12,’ she added with a degree of practicality.
‘Most of us are paying the nanny so we can stay on for this bloody party for free,’ Tilly threw in. ‘Welcome to free market economics! If our bosses treated us the way most of us treat our nannies, we’d all be a hell of a lot happier. Wouldn’t we?’
‘That’s really very nice,’ Jo went to take a closer look at the dress. She reached out to touch the fabric.
‘Careful,’ Tilly warned. ‘There’s a reason it costs £22.99 and not £222.99.’
‘Ah.’ The pale pink dress was synthetic satin, the kind nighties had been made of when she was a child. The stuff that made your hair stand on end when you whipped it on and off. If you did it in the dark, you could see sparks.
Over the pink was a clever see-through golden layer made of a coarse, striped nylon mesh. It felt horrible but still, the dress looked lovely.
‘And we’ve got the shoes.’ Tilly dangled pale pink strappies from one hand. ‘And somewhere in here, the coat that we photographed with it. Go on, try it on. It looks lovely.’
Jo got out of her suit and shirt, not minding that Tilly would be able to appraise her workmanlike white bra and shorts.
‘At least you’re shaved, that’s all I’m going to say.’
‘Ha. Well, I was out on Wednesday night.’
‘And not going to get out much again, if you carry on wearing pre-pubescent underwear.’
1 thought it was back in fashion. I’m sure I’ve read all about “the new modesty” on your bloody pages.’
‘Yes, well, that’s fine if you’re 18. Not if you’re 38.’
‘Thirty-five!’ Jo exclaimed. ‘Just tell me I don’t look 38.’
‘No, whatever that means. Do I?’
‘Yes, darling, of course you look 38. You wrinkled old crone.’
‘I’m thinking of getting a facelift,’ Tilly confided as Jo wriggled her hips, then arms into the dress and carefully pulled up the zip.
‘You cannot get a facelift.’ Jo turned to her, very serious now.
‘Why not?’
‘Because you have a wonderful face, you’re leading a great life, and so what if you’re getting older?’
‘But I don’t want to look older. Especially in this job.’
‘What do you say if you get a facelift? You say younger women are more important than older women. That you choose to remain younger. Don’t you think you’re betraying the sisterhood?’
‘Oh sod the sisterhood,’ was Tilly’s answer, ‘I don’t want my eyelids to droop down like something on a turkey. I don’t want character-filled jowls. I want to look as good as I feel.’
‘Bloody hell. I can’t believe I’m the sort of person who now knows people with facelifts. How did this happen? How did this happen without me getting the matching year-round sunshine with a swimming pool in my back garden?
‘I interviewed Savannah Tyler today,’ Jo added. ‘Don’t think she’s had a facelift and she looks gorgeous.’
‘Did you? I thought she didn’t do interviews,’ Tilly replied.
‘Yup . . . you’ll find out why she doesn’t do interviews when you read my piece on Sunday.’
‘Tell.’
‘No.’
‘Anyway,’ Tilly sniffed, ‘she does all that healthy living, water drinking, organic food, herb tea stuff. And fuck, I can’t be bothered. If I couldn’t smoke any more, I’d have to just lie down and die. My life would be over.’
‘I’m sure your sons must love hearing that. How do I look, by the way?’
‘You look great, your fairy godmother has triumphed again. Now shove your feet into t
hese shoes, let me give you some of my free sample Dior apricot lipstick, since you still insist on wearing that purple gunk, and we shall be off.’
‘What size are these shoes?’ Jo asked, scrunching her toes hard against the unyielding pointed ends.
‘A five, unfortunately, but you can do it for half an hour, can’t you?’
‘Maybe,’ she replied, very uncertain.
The room, spread out over the penthouse of the building with a wall of windows overlooking sparkling city lights and London’s most exclusive marina, was already packed by the time Jo and Tilly arrived.
Jo was trying to squeeze through to the long table laid out with food and drink but she knew almost everyone in the room, so it was impossible not to keep getting drawn into those irritating mini-conversations an event like this was all about.
‘Yes we think the redesign is working really well, ah, there’s Jo. Her pages have a much more unified feel to them now, don’t they, Jo?’
‘Urn, er yes . . . hello Ben, how are you?’
Several minutes of listening to the chief sub, aka most boring man on the planet, and his ideas for the sport pages followed, before she could politely say: ‘Look, I’m just on my way to the bar . . . I’ll catch up with you later.’
But before she made it there, a champagne glass was nudged into her hand, then an arm round her waist began to steer her towards the circle of frighteningly important looking bigwigs in the centre of the room. ‘Nice dress,’ Jeff said.
‘Yeah, watch it though, it’s a bit scratchy . . . and if I get too near a cigarette – whoosh, I’m going to be toast.’
He smiled at this then added: ‘The directors want to be introduced to you.’
‘Oh joy. Let me just have a few sips of this first.’ She gulped at her champagne, despite the difficulty of rapidly swallowing the small, sharp bubbles.
‘I wouldn’t do that,’ Jeff warned, ‘or else you’re going to burp at the Chief Executive.’
‘OK,’ she told him, when her glass was half drained. ‘Lead me to my execution.’