Maximum Exposure: The Heartlands Series

by Harper, Jenny

  ‘Look! Get your fucking camera ready Daisy, for God’s sake.’

  Daisy fumbled on her lap, lifted her camera to her eye, watched as the curtain flipped back and a hand pushed the window open. A hand, followed by a naked arm.

  ‘Told you. He farted.’

  ‘Shhh. Just snap.’

  She snapped. And snapped, and then snapped again as two very naked bodies very closely entwined came briefly into view before another arm flipped the curtain shut again.

  ‘Did you get it? Jeez, Daisy, did you get it?’

  Daisy’s hands were shaking as she flipped the camera to Review and looked back at what she’d got. The hand and arm. The window position changing. And then, for four extremely clear frames, the heads, shoulders, two naked breasts and one bare and rather large belly. All with Provost Archie Porter’s and Mrs Joyce Carlton’s faces clearly visible. She stared at them numbly. Sharon whooped.

  ‘You did it, Daisy. You fucking did it! Have we got a story! Hallelujah! Come on, let’s get it to bed.’ She switched on the ignition and slid the car out of the parking space. ‘Way to go, Daisy. This could save the paper.’

  ‘Provost in sleazy sex romp.’

  The banner headline on the front page, accompanied by an image showing a hand, an arm and the two heads, ensured that The Hailesbank Herald sold out its first edition within a couple of hours of hitting the newsagents. Daisy had had to spend some time with Photoshop to dim and blur the naked bodies, as Jay – and the paper’s lawyers – had deemed them too explicit to print on the front. They had the originals though, along with the ones of the two cars as further ammunition, stored on the office computer and on a CD lodged with the lawyer.

  Sharon’s story had been checked and rechecked and then checked again. It was cleared for publication. The sex scandal in itself was enough to sell the paper in thousands, but add it to the mention of ‘Cookiegate’ as they dubbed it, and a whole series of wheels were set in motion that ensured they could keep the pot bubbling for weeks to come. Jay had ordered a large run for the second edition before ten in the morning and, uniquely so far as anyone – even Ma Ruby – could remember, they printed a third edition before the end of the day.

  The elated Herald staff regrouped in The Duke of Atholl at six.

  ‘Here’s tae us,’ Murdoch lifted his glass.

  ‘Wha’s like us?’ said Dave.

  Daisy said, ‘Cheers Angus MacMorrow, may your paper live for ever.’

  They all clinked glasses.

  ‘To us.’

  The following Monday, Ruby was seen ushering in a distinguished looking visitor to Jay’s office. Tall, grey-haired, and handsome in the kind of way that Jay was handsome, though much older. Smart navy coat. Good suit underneath it, with the whitest of cuffs just visible, secured by gleaming gold cuff links. Sharon lifted a questioning eyebrow at Murdoch, who shrugged. Daisy shook her head. She’d never seen him before.

  ‘Who’s that, Ruby?’ Sharon hissed when the door closed behind the man.

  ‘Sir Oliver Wyndham, he said his name was. Posh, isn’t he?’

  ‘Why do I know that name?’ Sharon wrinkled her nose.

  ‘Because he’s only the fucking Chairman of the Board of the Havering Group of Newspapers,’ said Murdoch.

  They all stared at each other. What did it mean? A visit from the Chairman? Could be good news or bad.

  ‘You will be only too aware of the falling circulation of The Hailesbank Herald … concern … unless the circulation and advertising figures are back to their previous levels … forced to close … obvious consequences ...’ There probably wasn’t a person in the room who didn’t have the words imprinted on their brain.

  ‘He’s Jay Bond’s uncle,’ Daisy said into the silence.

  ‘Jeez.’

  ‘Fucking hell, he isn’t, is he?’

  ‘How do you …?’

  ‘Shhhh.’

  Jay’s door was opening. The two men were emerging. Pretending to be busy at their computers, everyone was straining to gauge the expression on their faces. Daisy was the first to catch Jay’s eye. Behind his uncle he looked at her and winked. Definitely winked. Was that a good sign or a bad one?

  ‘Team,’ he started, ‘Gather round, will you?’

  They mustered in the only place in the office that was big enough, round the water cooler.

  ‘I’d like to introduce Sir Oliver Wyndham, Chairman of the Board of the Havering Group. It’s the first time he’s visited the paper, and I hope you’ll all make him feel welcome. Sir Oliver – would you like to say a few words?’

  Had Jay known he was coming today? He’d put a suit on. The two men not only looked alike, they were also dressed alike. Dark suits. White shirts. Striped ties – red on navy in Jay’s case, gold on petrol for Sir Oliver. The old boy network, or nepotism? The world of business, anyway. That’s what it all came down to. Not freedom of speech or upholding democracy or fighting for justice, which is how Daisy liked to think of newspapers – simply making money. If you made it, you were a good proposition. If you lost money, you were history. A hundred and forty years the Herald had been in print, even keeping a skeleton paper running during two world wars – but could they survive now, in the digital age? Daisy could feel the office, collectively, holding its breath.

  ‘… difficult times … credit crunch … inflation … rise of the internet … tablets … standards … competition …’ He’d been speaking for ten minutes and so far Sir Oliver hadn’t said a single thing that had sounded remotely encouraging. ‘… and so at the beginning of the year we gave your dear editor, Mr MacMorrow, due notice.’

  God, it sounded dire. Was this it then? It hadn’t been anything like six months yet. It was early May. Angus got the letter in February. Surely the Board wouldn’t let the axe fall already, just as they were beginning to pick up?

  ‘Naturally, we’ve been monitoring the paper very closely ever since then. We put Jay here –’ he indicated Jay, who was leaning elegantly on the table behind him, legs crossed at the ankles, arms folded, ‘– in charge. I admit to it being somewhat of an experiment and I have to be honest,’ he turned and looked at Jay, ‘we had our doubts in the first month or so about how things might go. But I’m pleased to say that we feel the paper has improved on three counts.’ He held his hands out in front of him and counted on his fingers, ‘One, the appearance of the newspaper. The design and layout have improved considerably.’ Daisy glanced at Ben, who avoided her gaze. That was all down to him, she thought. ‘Two, the quality of the reporting and the photography generally. Well done.’ That was her! ‘And three, there has been a noticeable upturn in the circulation – with last week, of course being quite exceptional.’ He dropped his hands and smiled. ‘I can’t give any definitive judgement yet, of course. We said six months and it’s unlikely we’ll make a decision before that. But I can say we’re pleased. Very pleased.’

  The gaze that swept across them all had definitely warmed as he concluded, ‘It’s looking promising. Keep up the good work.’

  She wanted to celebrate with Lizzie, just as she would have done a few weeks ago. They’d have cracked open a bottle of bubbly, thrown some spaghetti in a pan, and tossed together a quick salad. All the makings of a great evening. They would have gossiped and chewed it all over, had a good go at Jay for being a posh git before affectionately allowing him some credit for turning the paper around. They’d have tried to match make for Ma Ruby and speculated about Dishy Dave’s latest lay, but none of that would happen now, because tonight Ben was taking Lizzie to the cinema.

  They would probably ask her to join them. ‘Keep Daisy happy.’ ‘Don’t upset Diz.’ ‘Friendship …’ … blah, blah blah … But the last thing Daisy wanted to do was play gooseberry to Lizzie Little and Ben Gillies. They were still friends, but the fact was that she felt she could confide in neither of them and was less close to either than she ever had been. She felt – if she was being completely honest – rather lonely.

  Chapter
Twenty-one

  ‘So I’m feeling a bit more cheerful,’ Daisy said bravely to Jack on Wednesday.

  It was only the teeniest lie. In many ways she was feeling rather good. For starters, even though she’d washed her jeans at the weekend (which usually made them a bit tighter for a day or two) she’d noticed that they were almost too loose. She was near having to drop a whole size. Physically, she felt very fit. She was sleeping well, eating well, and, even though she was feeling oddly unsettled about Ben and Lizzie, she had managed to avoid slipping backwards in terms of her healthy diet. Then there was the paper. Sir Oliver’s slightly patronising pep talk had, in the circumstances, been encouraging. Though they couldn’t be sure about things yet, there appeared to be light at the end of the tunnel. If they kept the figures up, surely – surely – they’d keep the Herald going. All she needed was to get Jack back and a rosy glow would be restored to her world.

  ‘That’s great, Daisy. Tell me, is there more to run on the Provost story? The whole town is agog.’

  ‘There is,’ she said, privately proud of her role in their achievements. They’d been working hard on it all week. She’d managed to get a great picture of Archie Porter, his head hidden under a coat, running to his car with a savage-looking Doris scowling three paces behind him, brandishing her umbrella at Daisy and her camera. Genius. Joyce Carlton’s husband had approached the paper and said he was demanding a divorce and that he’d always found Archie Porter sleazy. Bald Jimmy Johnston – who was thrilled with the whole business – had been ferreting around in the depths of Procurement in the Council and had come up with a number of irregularities he was trying to lay at the door of the relationship between Porter and his nephew. He was effectively doing Sharon’s work for her and removing the possible threat of a libel suit at the same time. ‘But I can’t say,’ she said mysteriously to Jack. ‘We haven’t finished our legal checks yet and anyway, I don’t want to spoil the excitement.’

  ‘Spoilsport,’ Jack grinned.

  Daisy’s heart pumped a little faster as she basked in the warmth of his smile. She loved the intimacy of these moments, just her and Jack and a cup of coffee. Talking, laughing, smiling, relaxed, just like it used to be.

  ‘You still going to that cookery class?’ she asked, knowing the answer. But she did want to double check whether Iris was still going.

  He shook his head. He was sitting directly under a downlighter and his hair, fresh from the shower, fluffed up around his head like the fuzz on Easter chicks. Daisy longed to reach out and stroke it. Instead, she sat resolutely on her hands. Not yet.

  ‘I stopped ages ago. I thought I’d told you?’ One fair eyebrow arched neatly towards the fluff. ‘Iris is still going though. Every Thursday, seven till nine and then usually a quick trip to the pub with a few of the others in the class.’

  ‘Don’t you mind?’

  ‘Why should I mind? She always comes home with something tasty. Anyway, Iris and I have a pretty easygoing relationship. She likes to do her thing, I like to do mine.’

  There. She was right. They didn’t have much time for each other. The novelty had worn off, definitely. All she had to do was find a time and a place to get Jack on his own and show him how much she still loved him. The glint in his eyes as he looked at her now was enough to tell her he still cared.

  He stood up, leaned forward for his bag, and kissed her cheek. ‘Bye, kitten. Glad things are going well. You’re looking terrific, by the way.’

  ‘Bye, Jack.’

  Terrific. He thought she looked terrific. She watched as he crossed the room, his fluffy head like a beacon in the night, drawing her to his flame as inexorably as a moth is drawn to a candle. She touched her cheek where he had kissed her. The spot felt as though it was burning. She was quite literally glowing with pleasure at his compliment.

  Ben, his arms cradling Lizzie, closed his eyes and thought about how much his life had changed in the last few weeks. He’d spent so much time dreaming about Daisy Irvine, and all for nothing because she hadn’t been in the least bit interested. Then Lizzie Little had fallen right in his lap like a ripe peach, soft, strokeable, and utterly delicious.

  It was too soon after Martina to start a new serious relationship. Anyway, independence was so much better. No rows. No lectures about underpants dropped on the bedroom floor or damp towels on the bathroom tiles. No nagging to wipe the kitchen surfaces. No need to justify himself about coming home late after a night out with the lads. With Lizzie, he had the best of all worlds.

  And yet … Daisy Irvine … dear Diz …

  In the kitchen, not ten yards from where Ben and Lizzie lay, Daisy was foraging in the fridge for supper. Fresh from the gym and Jack’s compliments, she hummed happily as she rooted in the depths of the cluttered and rather disorganised, badly-lit space. The fridge light had blown weeks ago and neither she nor Lizzie ever remembered to get a new bulb.

  There was a bowl with some baked beans in it, thickly crusted at the top. They looked inedible so she shoved them back inside. She took the lid off a small container and peered inside before recoiling hastily. Whatever that was had gone completely mouldy. Another container looked more promising. Tomato sauce? She sniffed it cautiously, then ventured a finger and a lick. It tasted good, rich and garlicky. Daisy hazarded a guess that it was only three or four days old. She set it on the table and continued her search. There was cheese – cheddar, and some parmesan in a small tub, ready grated. They were put on the table too, along with the makings of a salad, which looked as though they’d be fine so long as she picked the brown bits off the lettuce. The cupboard yielded a tin of mince and spaghetti. She stood back and surveyed her findings. It all looked quite manageable. She’d do a quick ready, steady, cook and have it ready for Lizzie when she came in.

  Then she remembered that Lizzie’s car had been outside when she’d got back from the gym fifteen minutes ago. She’d just check that she wanted to eat tonight. Crossing to the door of Lizzie’s bedroom, she knocked lightly and poked her head round the door.

  ‘Hi Lizzie, you hungry yet … oh!’ Daisy leapt back in embarrassment. ‘Sorry!’ Hastily, she backed out, closing the door rapidly. In the dim light of a dozen candles, she’d seen the broad shoulders and slim, very naked, backside of a man curled up on the bed. Presumably round Lizzie. Presumably Ben. Her face aflame, she hurried back to the kitchen table and started peeling the dry flaky skin of the onion into the sink. Bugger, bugger, bugger. Ben Gillies. Her Ben.

  No Daisy. Not your Ben, she reminded herself. She’d probably never enjoy lying on Ben’s floor listening to Cream again. That was Lizzie’s job now. Cream listener of choice. For a fleeting second, Daisy remembered how it had felt when Ben had kissed her under the railway bridge, then she reminded herself that that had been twelve years ago. What was going on in her head, for goodness sake? She couldn’t be jealous of Lizzie, could she? That would be ridiculous. Lizzie was doing what she did best. She just happened to be doing it with someone Daisy was finding, to her great astonishment, she was rather fond of.

  She started chopping her onions with great vigour. Chop, chop, chop. Her thick dark hair fell in front of her eyes and she used the back of her hand to scrape it back, with the sole effect of getting the juice from the onions in her eyes, which promptly started to stream with tears. She was not upset though. Why should she be upset? Ben wasn’t the man for her, Jack was.

  ‘Hi.’

  A voice behind her made her jump. Ben had emerged from the bedroom and was standing just two feet away.

  ‘Oh. Hi.’ She kept her head down. She didn’t want him to see the tears. He would think she was crying and she was not, she was not . It was just the onions.

  ‘Can I help?’

  She shook her head vigorously and kept chopping.

  ‘Sure? I’m a good cook.’

  ‘No. Thanks. Listen, it’ll be ready in ten minutes.’

  ‘Diz?’ Ben’s voice was very gentle, full of concern.

  ‘Maybe nine minu
tes.’

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Close to eight now. Just go and get ready, will you?’ Her voice, to her own ears, sounded childishly petulant.

  ‘Right.’

  She heard him move and at last she was free to reach out her hand and grab a piece of kitchen roll so that she could blow her nose. She had a horrible feeling that the tears, which had definitely been started by the onion, were now all too real.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  The Provost Porter story ran for four whole weeks. Every week, the circulation of the paper rose. Daisy focused almost wholly on her job. Her visits to the gym were disappointingly intermittent – or at least, she didn’t manage to keep up the routine that saw her workouts coincide with Jack’s. She didn’t stop going though. In fact, because Ben seemed to be spending more and more time at the cottage, she found the gym a convenient excuse for going out.

  ‘That’s a good picture, Dais.’ Murdoch stopped behind her chair on his way to the kettle.

  Daisy scanned the image on her monitor. She was just in from photographing two teenagers who had struggled with drugs, become interested in hip hop dancing thanks to the inspired efforts of a local youth worker, and had been picked to perform at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival in August.

  ‘Front cover?’ she suggested hopefully. The picture showed both boys high in the air, one performing a back flip. It was dynamic, full of motion and fun.

  ‘Unless you get Porter mooning at your camera or Joyce Carlton with her tits out, I’d say it’s got a chance.’

  Daisy grinned. There was little hope of that. Even though both marriages appeared to have failed amid great acrimony, the adulterous couple appeared to have parted. As a serious positive outcome, furthermore, Carlton Catering had been ruled out of the Council contract, which had now been awarded to another company.

  Sharon, talking into her phone with her spare hand over her ear to blot out their conversation, started flapping the spare hand in the air excitedly. Dropping the phone back onto the receiver, she swept a small pile of papers onto the floor, jumped onto her desk, and started dancing. The sight of her legs kicking and hopping on the desk made Murdoch reach for a shorthand notebook to fan himself.