Maximum Exposure: The Heartlands Series

by Harper, Jenny

  ‘Sure?’

  She turned the contents out onto the table. A crumpled tissue, a lip salve, a few coins. ‘Nothing. No keys.’

  ‘OK. Left hand pocket.’

  Sweeteners. A Werther’s Original, still wrapped. A wrapper from a Kit Kat, contents eaten. Tiny Ted. No keys.

  ‘Jeans’ pockets?’

  Daisy looked at him and shook her head, unwilling to admit that her jeans were too tight to allow her to put anything in the pockets. ‘I’ve lost them! And I’m late! What am I going to do, Jack?’ She turned to him helplessly, as she always had, for answers.

  He thought for a second. ‘What was your locker number? Perhaps they fell out there?’

  ‘How do I know?’ Panic was rising to a dangerous level. ‘No wait, I remember, 608.’ She’d chosen it particularly. Sixth of August of course. Jack’s birthday. ‘I’ll run and look.’

  The gods were smiling on her. No one had taken her locker and the keys, which must have fallen out of her pocket when she’d thrown the coat in, lay glistening on the wood at the back corner. She grabbed them and ran.

  ‘Got them! Jack, you’re a genius.’ She reached up and kissed his cheek, her stomach flipping at the familiar touch of him, the never-to-be-forgotten smell, the way his hair grew in a fine down in front of his ears. ‘Must run. See you soon.’

  As she fled the brasserie, she was already planning her next visit. Knowing she could get Jack to herself made the thought of doing the ghastly fitness routine just slightly less painful.

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘Handsome is as handsome does, runs the old saying. Listen to the wisdom of times past and don’t allow yourself to be seduced by the false gods of youth, good looks, and flashy attire. Your destiny lies elsewhere.’

  ‘Huh!’ Sharon, reading the Cancer predictions that Cosmo Fleming had just handed in for the new edition, shoved the sheets of paper back in the envelope and tossed it on the desk in front of her. ‘He never did know what he was talking about.’

  Her eyes followed Jay Bond as he walked past her into his office and closed the door. Good looks and flashy attire, thought Daisy, amused, though Sharon’s look was more of desire unfulfilled than love requited. She checked her camera batteries, pushed the camera safely into its case, then reached for the horoscope envelope Sharon had discarded. Pisces. ‘ Never look back. Look for the better self within you and remember the commandment, Thou shalt not steal.’ What did that mean, for heaven’s sake?

  ‘Got your investigative masterpiece sorted out yet, Sharon?’ Murdoch asked disingenuously, as his fingers pattered across his keyboard. He pushed his half-moon specs up onto his forehead and blinked at his screen, then replaced them on the end of his nose and continued to type.

  ‘Of course.’ The pertness of Sharon’s little upturned nose, Murdoch always maintained when out of the chief reporter’s earshot and the possibility of a sexual harassment suit, could only be matched by the cuteness of her backside.

  ‘Good for a front page?’ Ben asked from his desk in the corner.

  Daisy glanced across at him. He’s turned rather quiet in his old age, she thought. The Ben Gillies she remembered had been livelier, more fun. What had happened to him in all the years he’d been away?

  ‘Sure, Ben,’ Sharon was saying. ‘I’ve been looking at the failure rate of the surgeons in Hailesbank Hospital. I’m going to name and shame.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Shar,’ said Murdoch.

  ‘What?’ She rounded on him.

  ‘What do you think that’ll achieve?’

  ‘It’ll get them to pull up their socks.’

  ‘It’ll get excrement dumped through their letter boxes. Then they’ll move away and we’ll be left with no surgical facilities in Hailesbank and you’ll end up having to run a campaign to get the NHS to send some raw junior surgeon down here, with the end result that our surgical records will be poorer than ever. People are too well known here for that kind of exposure. Not unless they really warrant it. And you can’t say whether an operation should have been successful unless you have all the facts of the case at your fingertips. Which you don’t.’

  ‘Rubbish, Murdoch,’ Sharon retorted, but with less than the usual conviction in her tone. ‘I’ll check it out thoroughly. Anyway, what are you working on, Mr Feature Writer Superior?’

  ‘Rubbish,’ said Murdoch curtly, returning to his tapping. ‘Or to be more precise, wheelie bins.’

  Sharon looked aghast. ‘But that’s just the sort of trivia that Jay doesn’t want in the paper. I thought we’d agreed on a feature on that retired professor living out at The Hazels, the one who played a key role at Bletchley Park during the war.’

  ‘Done it,’ said Murdoch without looking up. Actually, as Daisy well knew, he’d done the interview three times over the past twenty years and had simply telephoned The Hazels to ensure that the old professor was still alive. She was booked in to visit the old folks’ home that afternoon to take the photograph.

  ‘So what’s with the wheelie bins then?’

  ‘There’s a protest on this morning. The good citizens of Hailesbank are furious with their Council for moving to fortnightly collections. They’ve all painted protest slogans on their wheelie bins and are going to march through the town. Daisy’s off there now.’

  Sharon would have remembered, thought Daisy, if Jay hadn’t distracted her.

  ‘Well I guess you’d better cover it, Daisy, but I can guarantee that it won’t get space, or not much, anyway. After all, people’s lives sacrificed on the altar of our aging surgeons’ golf handicaps are much more important than wheelie bins.’

  Ben raised an eyebrow. Murdoch grunted softly and swivelled his chair fractionally away from Sharon. Daisy hoisted her gear onto her shoulder and started limping stiffly towards the door. The session at the gym had left a crippling legacy. Tiny Ted, evacuated from her pocket when she checked for some change, lay sadly on her desk.

  She remembered him half way to the car and turning, hobbled back. Going on a photo shoot without TT was unthinkable.

  Jack, Jack, you must come back.

  This was the third time this week at the gym and she hadn’t seen Jack again. Daisy finished her cycling and moved on to the abductor machine. At least the stiffness had worn off and an odd side effect she’d noticed was that her appetite seemed to have dropped. Simply by making herself drink lots of water after her sweaty exertions, she felt quite full and having done all that work, it did seem a pity to undo it all by chomping on chocolate.

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Oh, hi Jack.’

  Yes! He was there. He’d seen her. He was talking to her. He’d come because he’d known she’d be there. Daisy finished her last few exercises slowly and watched him. God, he was just as gorgeous as he’d been the day she met him. He didn’t look a day older and his body was fantastic. She watched as he took to the treadmill. He was fit, a natural athlete. She went to the treadmill next to him and started the machine. He turned and smiled and her day lit up.

  ‘Not given up yet then?’ His arms were pumping as he jogged, but he was barely out of breath.

  ‘Me? Give up? Never.’ Daisy’s treadmill was picking up pace. She hated this machine. It seemed to have a life of its own. Her legs were moving faster. They had to or she’d fall off. Her breath began to get ragged. ‘Fancy a coffee?’

  Jack was running now, not jogging, but still he looked comfortable.

  ‘Just started my routine, Daisy.’

  ‘Oh. Me too.’

  He looked at her and grinned. Daisy was sweating so much she had to wipe the back of her arm across her eyes to clear them. The move unbalanced her and she wobbled and yelped. ‘Aargh! Help!’

  Quickly, Jack jumped off his treadmill and hit the red emergency button on her console, steadying her with strong hands. ‘Take it easy, kitten.’

  Kitten. His old loving name for her. A sense of foolishness mixed with delight. He called me kitten!

  ‘I’m OK. Thanks. So you will ha
ve a coffee?’

  He glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘I’ll be another forty-five minutes in here.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘OK. Catch up later then.’

  Forty-five minutes. Bloody hell. She’d be crippled, but she’d do it. To see Jack at the end of it all, be with him, alone, she’d pay any price for that. Walking heavily, she went back to the cycling machine, set it on its lowest level, plugged her iPod into her ears, and started her routine all over again.

  ‘What the hell’s happening at the Herald then, Daisy?’

  Jack, showered and fresh-smelling, accepted his coffee and sat down opposite her. She’d lasted twenty minutes before conceding defeat and retiring to the pool. A dozen slow, laboured lengths later, she called it a day and took her time in the changing room.

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘It’s crashingly obvious that the new guy’s got ambitions. Doesn’t like local news, that’s clear. It seems a bit odd for a local paper. Is he trying to drive it into the ground?’

  ‘He’s just got new ideas, that’s all,’ Daisy said loyally. Even to Jack, she didn’t want to run down the Herald. Rumours of the threat of closure didn’t seem to have circulated round Hailesbank yet, but if things went on like this, they wouldn’t need to. It would fold well before the six months were up.

  ‘Everyone at the school’s fizzing.’ Jack blew aside the foam on his coffee. ‘The Local History Society news has been dropped, the Drama Group couldn’t get their announcement of auditions for the Easter show in, the home ec teacher’s complaining because the notice of their next Quilter’s meeting has been returned.’ He picked his cup up. ‘Frankly, Dais, it all seems headed for disaster.’

  Daisy’s eyes filled with tears. She felt deeply torn between wanting to defend her paper, feeling desperate for Jack’s sympathy, but at the same time wanting to show him she could cope on her own.

  ‘Jay’s keen to raise the standards of the paper,’ she tried to hold her ground.

  ‘To what? It’s a local rag.’

  ‘We all want it to be the best local paper around,’ Daisy said staunchly.

  ‘I’ll give it a month, then I bet the advertising will drop and everyone will simply buy The Stoneyford Echo.’

  ‘Oh Jack.’ Daisy put her own cup down. She couldn’t hide her worries any longer. ‘I don’t know what to do. We’re under threat of closure as it is and this just seems to be making it worse. Don’t tell anyone, will you?’ She looked up at him pleadingly. He looked shocked.

  ‘Threat of closure?’

  She nodded. ‘I saw a letter. Angus was reading it when he died. Things haven’t been going well for us recently anyway and they want us to merge with The Echo. And now it seems to be all slipping away.’

  ‘What does the new guy say?’

  Daisy shook her head. ‘He’s not said anything. I’m beginning to wonder if he even knows.’

  ‘Surely he does.’

  Daisy shrugged miserably.

  ‘Then someone has to tell him.’

  Tell him? She thought of Jay Bond and his utter conviction about what he was doing. How could she tell him anything?

  Jack smiled and put his hand on her arm. ‘Don’t worry, Dais. I’m sure it’ll be fine.’

  She felt the touch like a flame. The warmth of his hand burned through her sweater and spread up and down her arm until it seemed to reach her face and she felt herself blush with the intensity of her delight. She willed him to reach down and take her hand as he always used to. She longed to feel his fingers curl round her own, stroking them with the old familiar touch.

  He took his hand away, reached for his sports bag, and stood up. ‘Must go. Iris will have the supper ready. See you, Dais. It’ll be all right.’

  She felt the absence of his hand like a void in her soul. Don’t go, Jack. She willed him to turn but he met a friend near the door, exchanged a few words then left. Kitten. He’d called her kitten. Her heart swelled and glowed as she remembered how he’d come to her aid on the treadmill. Her man. She stood up, picked up her bag, swung it onto her shoulder, took two steps, then came to an abrupt halt.

  ‘Aargh!’

  Heads swung round in alarm. She grinned vaguely at the concerned faces. ‘It’s OK. I’m fine.’

  But she wasn’t fine. The rest had caused her to stiffen up after her double session on the exercise machines and the pain in her legs was excruciating.

  Chapter Twelve

 

  Ben got the text from Martina early one Sunday morning. For the past month, there had been nothing. He’d wondered, daily, how she was doing. Now, out of the blue, this. Shit.

  Ben’s room, at the top of his parents’ house, was essentially an attic conversion. Through a small window he had fine views of the Hailes River. Although it was part of a small new development, the plot was on the edge, giving open access to the river and clear vistas across to fields and woods on the far bank. He liked it, although he didn’t plan on getting too comfortable here. He was thirty, for God’s sake, far too old to be living with his parents, however easy they were to get on with. At the far side of the room, next to the window, Nefertiti stood, mistress of all she surveyed. Kath Gillies had enjoyed the joke and popped in from time to time to change her outfit or add an accessory or two. Currently, Nef was wearing a pair of cropped navy linen trousers, a red and white striped Breton sweater, and a jaunty felt hat – from Nuggets on the High Street made, he’d been told, by one of Daisy Irvine’s friends.

  Daisy Irvine. God, she was ditsy. Ditsy Daisy. It could be frustrating sometimes, but it was also very appealing.

  Ben rubbed his hair, itched his belly, scratched his balls, and began the process of waking up properly. Daisy was a great photographer and she had the kind of charm that everyone responded to, from tiny tots to crumblies in care homes. She could persuade people to do anything for the camera – so what was it that stopped her from believing in herself? She was like a kid. Except that she was a very attractive young woman.

  ‘What do you think, Nef? Might Daisy Irvine be the girl for me?’ he asked the model. She stared blankly back across the room at him, her eyes wide and unblinking, her perfectly smooth face beautifully framed by her red wig. ‘Thanks. You’re no bloody use at all.’

  His mobile beeped again.

 

  This was a little worrying. He glanced at his watch. It was really early. Six thirty. Christ, he hoped she was all right. If she was up at this hour she must have had a bad night. What could he do? What should he do? Text her back? Phone her for a chat? Let her stew? What was she trying to achieve – did she want to reopen their relationship? He sincerely hoped not. He didn’t feel strong enough to start wading through the thick, sticky treacle of their involvement. But on the other hand, he didn’t like abandoning her if she was really down. He owed her more than that.

  ‘Sod it, Nef, I’m off out.’ He swung out of bed, pulled on his clothes, found his walking boots, and padded downstairs quietly with them in his hand. He opened the front door, sat on the top step, and put them on. It was a great morning, cold but clear. Since his walk along St Cuthbert’s Way he’d found that the exercise was a great way of chilling out, thinking, seeing the countryside, and keeping fit all at the same time. He could shower later.

  ‘Later’ turned out to be much later than he’d anticipated. Barely thinking, he turned onto the path that led to the coast and found himself at the sea before he realised how far he’d walked. Seven miles at least. He stood on the sand dune and felt the wind lift his hair. God, it was great. Scotland was great. There was no way he could get this kind of walk anywhere round London, not without travelling miles out. Maybe he should settle back here – not as a sub with The Hailesbank Herald, though, that was too uncertain and too poorly paid. He was only there because of Daisy. The irony was, she barely seemed to notice him. He should say something. Ask her out. How could he know if she was interested if he didn’t even try?
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  The wind was bitter here, down on the coast. Exhilarating though. Impulsively, Ben threw up his arms and ran down to the edge of the sea, his boots dragging in the sand where it was soft and loose, then moving more easily as it dampened and firmed. At the edge of the water, where the waves lapped in, silver and ephemeral, he stopped, breathing heavily. He felt elated by the exercise, by the clean, fresh air, and the beauty of the scenery on every side. He felt as he had at Lindisfarne, where life had seemed to hold so much potential. All things were possible.

  His route back home took him through one of the small villages that edged this stretch of coast prettily. In one of the roadside cottages, crisply whitewashed and roofed with rust-coloured pantiles, a café was advertising ‘Full Scottish Breakfast’, ‘Coffee and muffins’ and ‘Great home baking’. Ben was ravenous. Half past nine. He pushed at the door more in hope than expectation of it being open so early on a Sunday, but was rewarded with an easy swing, a sensation of warmth, and the smell of freshly brewed coffee. The café was empty. He sat down at a small table in the window and stretched his legs out in front of him luxuriously.

  ‘Hi.’ A young girl appeared from a door at the back. ‘Can I get you something?’

  ‘Please,’ Ben smiled. ‘Coffee? And a cake?’

  ‘We just have filter, is that all right? It’s freshly made.’

  ‘My favourite.’

  She set a cup in front of him. ‘Do you mind if I leave you for a bit? Just call if you need something. You can help yourself to more coffee,’ she indicated the jug on the hotplate, ‘and choose a cake.’

  ‘No problem. Thanks.’

  Bliss was a coffee, some delicious baking, the sun filtering in through the window and the absolute, perfect stillness of the day, broken only by the soft tick tock of an old school room clock on the wall across the room. Outside, a stretch of coarse grass ran down to a pebbly beach. Seaweed had been washed in with the tide and lay in great curving loops along the strand. The sea was a pale, shimmering ribbon that joined seamlessly into the sky somewhere on the far horizon. He could see some large black and white birds dipping and scuttling and busying themselves along the edge of the water, looking for food he presumed. They had red beaks with legs to match.