‘So I thought I’d give you a heads-up about some changes that are happening,’ said Isaac. As always, he was impossible to read. But she’d heard rumours that the Tribune’s London bureau chief, Jim Keane, was ready to move on. As his number two, she’d be in pole position to take over.
‘How old are you, Ruth?’
Her heart gave a little jump. So he was cutting to the chase before they’d even ordered their first course.
‘An experienced forty-one, Isaac, as well you know,’ she said smoothly.
Ruth held her breath. She had dreamt of this moment her entire career, throughout that time in the Balkans, then stationed in Cape Town – her bag permanently packed as she waited for a call from the foreign desk, day or night, dispatching her to Namibia, Mozambique or Angola. And now finally London, covering all those dreary weddings, openings and parties that passed for news stories, hoping against hope that one day it would all be worthwhile and she would finally get the position she deserved: bureau chief of one of the most important territories in the world.
‘I won’t bullshit you, Ruth,’ said Isaac. ‘There’s talk about shutting the bureau down.’
For a moment she couldn’t take in what he had just said.
‘You’re closing us down?’ she croaked.
Isaac looked apologetic.
‘We’re not the Herald Tribune or the BBC. We’re smaller, leaner, and to be frank, we’re struggling financially. We can’t afford to keep a team out here.’
Ruth couldn’t believe what she was hearing. ‘But this is London. The financial capital of the world. America’s ally . . .’
‘Which is exactly why we’ve kept it going so long.’
She was still shaking her head. ‘I don’t believe this. I thought it was going so well. The Bernard story . . .’
‘Ruth, one great story does not pay the rent on an office in Victoria. You know it’s all about the bottom line these days, and the London bureau doesn’t generate anything that we can’t get from local stringers and freelancers.’
‘Local stringers?’
She had worked with them many times before – fixers, interpreters, hacks from the native newspapers. They were often difficult and unreliable; he couldn’t seriously be thinking of handing the Tribune over to them?
‘Isaac, local reporters have their place,’ she said, trying to keep calm. ‘But they are never going to be as impartial as a Tribune journalist. Remember Kosovo?’ She had been shortlisted for a press award for her balanced reporting. ‘Local journalists are more likely to be biased because of their politics, their allegiances.’
‘London isn’t Kosovo, Ruth.’
He put his hand on the tablecloth.
‘The view from upstairs is that we don’t need Tribune journalists out in the field any more. Not in English-speaking territories anyway.’
‘This is just cost-cutting.’
‘To an extent, yes it is. I’ll be honest, we’re not getting enough from you to justify the upkeep of the goddamn photocopier. Ruth, the media is changing. It’s the new way, kiddo: they want blogs and as-it-happens tickertape crap. Citizen journalism – stories phoned in seconds after the thing has happened. No one wants investigative journalism any more.’
‘Bullshit,’ snapped Ruth, before she could stop herself. She’d been up since six and she was in no mood to mince her words. And what did she have to lose anyway? ‘Don’t try and dress it up as the fallout from the digital revolution. You’re just cutting corners, pure and simple. You’re taking away the real journalists and bringing in interns to write cuts jobs from the internet and press releases. And relying on the general public to send in their cell-phone videos isn’t reporting. I can’t believe you don’t agree with me, Isaac.’
‘It’s not me you’ve got to convince, Ruth. I answer to the goddamn management consultants right now, just like everyone else.’
Another time that comment might have gained some sympathy from her – but not today.
‘So what about opportunities in Washington?’
Isaac shifted uncomfortably.
‘We’re downsizing over there too, not recruiting newbies.’
‘Newbies! I’ve got nearly twenty years’ hard news experience.’
She closed her eyes for a moment, considering the alternatives. Freelancing? Writing about relationships for the women’s glossies? She’d come here expecting a promotion. Instead, she was being retired. Washed up at forty-one. She had devoted everything to her career at the expense of other areas of her life – most women her age were married, settled, they had kids. She knew the window of opportunity for motherhood was closing quickly, and while that thought occasionally saddened her, she consoled herself that she had her career. But no. After all her hard work, twenty years of dodging bullets, pounding the pavements, her reward was going to be – nothing?
‘Listen, nothing has been decided yet,’ said Isaac. ‘As I said, I’m just giving you a heads-up. There is a possibility that we might keep a bureau chief in London if we can show it’s worthwhile.’
‘But that’s Jim’s job.’
‘Not necessarily.’
She raised her eyebrows. Was he suggesting her?
‘I want the best person for the job in that role. If you can prove to me that that person is you, then I will move Jim on. There’s possibly an opening coming up soon in Shanghai that I think he’d be perfect for.’
It was a tiny chink of light, but it was something.
‘So when will you be making a decision?’ Ruth asked, trying to keep her excitement in check.
Isaac closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead with one finger.
‘I don’t know. Within a few weeks. Half the publishers are on vacation until Labor Day.’
Ruth began to speak, but Isaac silenced her with a shake of his head.
‘Don’t think you’re getting a free run at this, though,’ he said. ‘I’ll be giving Jim the same pitch: there is only money for one of you – and even then you’ve got to make it pay. I want to see a shitload more stories coming from the London bureau – good stuff, real scoops, none of this red-carpet crap – otherwise I’m going to cut you off at the nuts and I won’t feel the slightest qualm about it. We clear?’
Ruth nodded, her smile leaking through. Stories were what she was good at. ‘We’re clear.’
‘Okay then,’ said Isaac, snapping his fingers for the waiter. ‘Let’s order some steak.’
3
Her hand caught the alarm clock’s off button on the third ring. Sophie stifled a yawn, and reluctantly crawled out of bed. She was not usually a morning person. She had always been a ‘five more minutes under the duvet’ kind of girl, but since the funeral she had felt a renewed sense of purpose. Life seemed more urgent, as if there were so many things to do, and right now was the time to start making them happen. It was either that or curl up into a ball – and Sophie wasn’t prepared to give in to that urge.
Walking into the bathroom, she turned on the shower as hot as she could stand and stepped inside. She let out a high-pitched squeal, but forced herself to stay under the scalding water until her head cleared, then she carefully scrubbed herself with some peach-grain body lather and washed and conditioned her hair. By the time she was dried off and wrapped in her fluffy robe, she felt ready for the day.
Taking the few steps back into the bedroom, she folded up the sofa bed to transform it back into her living room. Her Battersea studio was the tiniest space – but it was her own space, she reminded herself, remembering the day when the For Sale sign had gone up outside her old Chelsea flat. She cried herself to sleep that night, but she had been adamant she was not moving back to her parents’ house. After the financial problems began, the atmosphere at Wade House had become depressing, not to mention that she did not want to be a daily reminder to her father that he could no longer provide for her. Instead, she offloaded her entire designer wardrobe of dresses, bags and shoes to the second-hand dress agency on the King’s Road and the mon
ey was enough to pay for the deposit and twelve months’ rent on this place. Although it was small – no bigger than the dining room in her Flood Street apartment where she had thrown her weekly pre-Raffles dinner parties – it was bright and sunny, which gave the illusion of more space, and it was in a decent spot too – two streets away from the park and a ten-minute bus ride from Chelsea. Her old life might have gone, but with her new address, at least she had a view of it from the other side of the river.
She sat down at her little dressing table and chose a lipstick. Even her make-up had been scaled back, but she’d always had too much of that anyway – too much of everything really. Sophie knew she had always led a privileged life, a safe life. She had always stayed well within the bounds of what was expected of a pretty girl of her class. Her default setting was shy, and for many years she did not have the confidence to do anything but conform. There was never any teenage rebellious phase; she had never done anything unexpected. If everyone was wearing pearls, she would wear pearls. If everyone was learning to ride horses, she signed up. She applied to one of the Sloaney universities, and when everyone started dating men from the City, she found herself a banker boyfriend too. Sophie couldn’t remember a time in her life when she had done anything daring, or even out of the ordinary. She had always just been a leaf bobbing along on the stream.
Leaning forward into the mirror, she stared at her reflection. Well, now it was time to take her own path. The past few days had gone by in slow motion, and her grief still felt raw. But Daddy was gone and one thing was clear. Not only was she going to have to look after herself; in a reversal of the parent–child dynamic she had grown up with, she now felt completely responsible for her mother. For a start, it meant that she had to make some money. For the last few months she’d got by on what a Burlington Arcade jeweller had given her for her diamond stud earrings and Cartier watch – a present from Will two Christmases before – but that money was dwindling and she’d have to start paying more rent soon.
She dabbed her lips and forced a smile, then grabbed her gym bag. She picked up her iPod and phone, zipping them up inside her make-up bag, a hard-won habit she’d developed to keep them safe from wet towels and puddles in the changing room.
Glancing at her bookshelf, she saw the faded spine of I Capture the Castle, the book her father had given her for her last birthday. Smiling sadly, she opened it up to read the inscription Peter had scribbled on the title page.
To my dearest S, read this and think of our castle. Happy birthday. All my love always, Daddy.
It wasn’t a first edition or collectable; just a rather dog-eared second-hand copy with the name of the previous owner scribbled inside. Sophie had loved its faded green cover with its line drawing of a peacock peering down at a creepy castle, because it showed her Dad had been thinking of her. He could have bought her some fancy perfume or something – not that they had any money for luxuries, as her mother was constantly reminding her – but instead he had remembered that I Capture the Castle was her favourite book, and had written a message only they would understand.
Sophie and her father had talked of their castle since she was a little girl and he had told her bedtime stories of sailing off to exotic shores. ‘One day,’ he had said, ‘we will all live in a pink castle on a desert island where no one will ever find us.’ That was never going to happen now she thought grimly, throwing the book in her bag and heading for the bus.
There were closer gyms to Sophie’s flat, but the Red Heart was owned by Sharif Khan, an old friend from the Chelsea nightclub scene, who had offered her free membership in return for helping out behind the reception desk once a week. Sharif was a serial entrepreneur who had gone bankrupt many times before, and he knew more than most that she needed a lifeline.
‘Hi, Mike,’ she said, grabbing a plastic cup of water as she grinned at the short-haired man behind the desk.
‘How are you, Soph?’
She guessed his concern was genuine; Mike had filled in for her last week, so no doubt Sharif had told him why she was away.
‘Glad to be back,’ she smiled.
‘I’m so sorry about your dad.’
She nodded. Mike was a nice guy, but she still didn’t feel comfortable discussing it.
‘Thanks,’ she said, then lowered her voice. ‘Listen, Mike, do you think Sharif might give me any more hours here?’ She enjoyed her time at the gym more than anywhere else, and if she needed to get a job, where better?
Mike looked doubtful. ‘He’s been cutting hours the last couple of months. I mean, I’m on my own here this morning. Still – seeing as it’s you, he might sort you out with something.’
‘Well shout me when he’s in,’ she grinned. ‘I can only ask, right?’
Fastening her hair into a ponytail, she limbered up by doing a few stretches on the mats, then headed over to the treadmill. Sophie always felt better, more focused and in control, when she was working out. The gym was the one place in the world where she felt truly good about herself. No one cared about your bank balance here, where you lived or who you were married to. It was all down to how much work you put in. You could have arrived in a Ferrari, but if you were flabby, unfit and bursting out of your cycling shorts, you’d still wish you had the hard pecs and toned arms of the woman with the pushbike next to you.
She tried to empty her mind, enjoy the run as usual, but that nagging problem kept popping back into her head. She needed to make money. But how? Her CV was embarrassingly scant, and six years had gone by since she had dropped out of her English course at Oxford Brookes. After the modelling, and the obligatory stint travelling around Australia and South East Asia, Sophie had pulled another favour and landed a job running the door at one of the Chelsea nightclubs the young royals liked frequenting. Truthfully, it hadn’t gone well. There were some girls who revelled in being a clipboard Nazi, but Sophie wasn’t one of them, feeling too mean to turn anyone away – and had eventually been fired for letting in the ‘wrong sort’. Her next bright idea, working as a gallerist, had also been a professional dead end. The art history course in Florence had been a lovely six months but hadn’t actually led to a job, as the London galleries were all full of beautiful rich girls with MAs from the Courtauld Institute. So once again Sophie had fallen back on Daddy, and she had to admit that hadn’t been a roaring success either. The irony was that she had really enjoyed organising events for his firm – the Christmas dance at Il Bottaccio, a trip for wealthy clients to Cowes Week – but a mishap involving a missing consignment of canapés at the summer garden party on the lawns of Bingley Manor had led to Peter Ellis’s office manager calling her a dippy cow in front of everyone. Sophie had quietly resigned, half thinking the woman had a point. Maybe she wasn’t much good at anything; maybe her mother was right: the only way Sophie would ever get on in life was to find herself a decent husband.
She punched angrily at the treadmill’s buttons, forcing herself into a sprint. No, that kind of negative thinking wasn’t helping, and it certainly wouldn’t pay the rent. And then there was food, gas and electricity, council tax, and there was no way she was giving up her skinny lattes in the morning.
Frustrated, Sophie moved on to the cross-trainer and the weights, pushing herself harder and harder.
She had always been slim and athletic, a member of the netball, tennis and hockey teams at school, but lately she had been spending more time than ever working out. She might be feeling emotionally fragile, but at least her body was strong and healthy. Over the past few months she had seen her shape change too. She was at least a dress size bigger than she had been when she was going out with Will and had starved herself into size eight designer dresses, but now she was leaner and more toned than she had ever been.
Finally Sophie let herself rest, towelling her face and taking a long drink of water. She puffed out her cheeks, and as the endorphins coursed around her body, she could feel her mood lift.
‘Excuse me. You don’t know how to work this, do you?’
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Sophie glanced up to see a glamorous brunette. She was about ten or fifteen years older than Sophie; her hair was immaculate, freshly blow-dried and bouncy, her face unlined but with that suspicious hint of Botox waxiness. She was the stereotypical Chelsea housewife, except there was something exotic about her, an accent that Sophie couldn’t quite place.
‘It’s a bit embarrassing,’ said the woman. ‘I’ve never been on this one before.’
‘Don’t worry, it’s new,’ smiled Sophie.
She knew the equipment backwards. Not just because she worked out here so often – it had been a condition of starting at Red Heart that she take a basic gym instructor’s certificate for occasions just like this.
‘It’s a rowing simulator – not like those old-fashioned straight-pull rowing machines; it works the exact muscles you use sculling or rowing. Here, hop on,’ she said, showing the woman how to operate the machine. ‘Can you feel that stretch along your quads?’ she asked as the woman pulled back on the virtual oars.
‘It’s good,’ she said. ‘I take it you work here?’
‘Yes. Sort of. Part time anyway.’
‘Well that’s perfect, because I’m actually looking for a personal trainer. I don’t suppose you’d be able to squeeze me in?’
‘No, I didn’t mean—’
‘I know, I’m too old to get a body as good as yours, but we can try, huh? How much do you charge?’
Sophie stared at her. She was kidding, right?
‘Two hundred pounds an hour,’ she said. It was meant to come out as a joke, but the woman didn’t even blink.
Perfect Strangers Page 3