How could the person who sent this have known what it would mean to me?
If it was a guess, it was a remarkable one. The daisy-chain necklace sparkled and gleamed at her neck as she wiped her tears away. It was as if her perfect summer memory had been captured and cast in white-gold and diamonds – a permanent reminder of someone she had loved with all her heart.
How had the parcel-sender known to send this? Nobody knew much about her life. Had she mentioned it to Jonah? Anna couldn’t remember. Tish barely knew where Anna had grown up, let alone was aware of the finer details of her childhood. Ruari certainly didn’t have the disposable income to buy such a gift, either. If Morwenna hadn’t been long dead, Anna could almost have believed her grandmother had sent the daisy chain. A shiver passed across her shoulders.
I can’t think like that, she decided. It must be a coincidence.
Sixteen
Walking through the huge chrome-and-glass doors of the Messenger building the following Monday, Anna touched the daisy-chain necklace and smiled. Its arrival had brought back many happy memories of her grandmother over the weekend, and its cool presence on her skin now made her feel as if Morwenna was beside her, keeping step with her favourite granddaughter through the city streets. What would her grandmother have made of Anna’s new life, she wondered? Would she have gazed up at the many-windowed buildings rising above her and been impressed? Morwenna had once lived in Chicago, back in her late teens, working as a nanny for a wealthy Plymouth family who moved there on a six-month secondment and took her with them. Anna remembered her grandmother talking about the ‘grand buildings and elegant streets’. As a child, she had found it hard to imagine Grandma Morwenna living anywhere but her small white cottage in St Agnes, but now she understood the lure of city-living after a rural upbringing. Morwenna was a fan of life – as large and as exciting as possible; the constant noise and bustle of the city would have suited her down to the ground.
Babs Braithwaite was rubbing at a stubborn stain on the smooth wood of the reception desk, tutting loudly, when Anna arrived.
‘Bloomin’ city types,’ she muttered, not looking up. ‘Stick their too-expensive coffee cups anywhere they damn well please, without so much as a thought for the poor beggar who’ll be cleaning up their mess.’
‘Anything I can do to help?’ Anna offered.
Babs blinked at her. ‘Not unless you’re willing to bump a few of ’em off for me, to lessen the load?’
‘I can’t promise that, sorry. I could always make you a cuppa, if that would help?’
‘No need, flower. Coffee’s what got us into this mess in the first place, ain’t it?’ Her pale-grey eyes narrowed. ‘Nice necklace. New, is it?’
‘Yes. It—’
‘Another gift from your secret admirer, I s’pose?’
‘Ah, I see you’ve heard.’ Ted Blaskiewicz was certainly getting his money’s worth out of Anna’s parcels.
‘Whole of the building’s heard, more like! We’ve not had anything as exciting as this happen for a long time.’ Babs grinned, her gold teeth glinting. ‘Now don’t you look so worried, pet. It’s just human curiosity. We don’t get much that isn’t staged or faked these days, so it’s nice when something real comes along. Mind if I take a closer look?’
She didn’t wait for an answer, hurrying up to Anna and inspecting the silver daisies with nicotine-stained fingers. Anna giggled at the inappropriate closeness, turning her face away slightly to avoid the smell of stale tobacco on Babs’ breath.
‘Well, I’ll say this for him: he’s got a good eye for quality. And a large wallet, too, by the looks of it.’
This assumption intrigued Anna. ‘What makes you think it’s a “him”?’
Babs stared up at her. ‘Well, it has to be, don’t it? I can’t see a woman going to that kind of trouble, not unless she’s – you know – the other way inclined.’ A frown furrowed her brow. ‘Not that it’s a bad thing if she were . . . If it was all right with you . . .’
In a brave new world of political correctness, it was touching to see a woman of her years attempting such inclusivity. Anna was quick to save her. ‘I’d be flattered if a woman had sent it to me as an admirer, but I wouldn’t take her up on the offer.’
Babs’ relief was palpable. ‘That’s all well and good, then. But I still say a fella bought this for you. And, if you’ll pardon my saying so, he might well be worth taking up, if he’s offering that good a gift.’
It seemed that the Messenger’s Head of Clean Team was not alone in her assumptions.
Ted, his eyes wider than saucers, took great delight in profiling the personality of the potential parcel-sending suspect: ‘White, male, early forties, good job, own home, shrine to Anna Browne in his kinky punishment dungeon . . .’
Joe Adams heartily agreed: ‘I’d send you jewellery if I wanted to get your attention, Anna. But I’d always go for gold.’
When Rea Sinfield from the newsroom saw the necklace, her advice was straight to the point. ‘As soon as he tells you who he is, marry him. I’ve been dating in this city for four years and, until your parcels arrived, I’d all but given up on the possibility of generous, genuine men existing.’
Sheniece was very excited when she discovered that Orin Wallasey, wealthy business tycoon and a regular on the Most Eligible Bachelor lists, had visited the Messenger building three times, each visit occurring a day before Anna’s parcels had arrived. ‘It’s like kismet, karma and fate all rolled into one, Anna!’ she yelled, brandishing the sign-in book as irrefutable evidence of her theory.
‘But I don’t think I even spoke to him,’ Anna protested. ‘Why would he send me gifts?’
‘He’s a multi-millionaire! Why wouldn’t he?’
While Anna’s curiosity over the sender of her gifts was growing, the question of their gender had hardly arisen. As far as she was concerned, the thought was what mattered: if or when the sender revealed their identity, she would discover that detail. But she was taken aback by the interest everyone at the Messenger had in her gifts. It seemed that everyone who passed by reception made a beeline for Anna Browne, unwilling to leave until they had gleaned the details of her latest delivery. Anna found their attention flattering, even if several of them were intent on declaring her the target of a sinister campaign. In the past she would have shied away from being the centre of attention, but she was surprised to discover she was enjoying it. Perhaps it was because the delicate daisies around her neck were a tangible reminder of her feisty grandmother and the unshakeable love she had lavished on Anna.
So, when the much-revered editor of the Daily Messenger, Juliet Evans, made a point of chatting with Anna, the miracle of the gift was confirmed to her colleagues.
‘Good morning, Anna,’ Juliet said, resting the pile of papers she carried on the reception desk. ‘I hope you had a good weekend?’
‘I did, thank you,’ Anna replied, the memory of Juliet’s singling her out in the editorial meeting a few weeks back still sitting uncomfortably. ‘Did you?’
Sheniece’s ruby-lined lips pressed together as if suppressing a squeal, her eyes alive with scandal.
‘Can’t complain,’ Juliet replied. Was that a smile she was attempting? The gesture was so alien, when applied to her steely expression, that Anna couldn’t be sure. And then, as quickly as it had materialised, it vanished. ‘There is an important meeting in the boardroom this afternoon. I will have one of my team bring you a list of attendees, to save signing them all in. Time is of the essence, as I’m sure you’ll appreciate.’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Good. Pandora,’ she turned to an impossibly young, reed-thin intern who had scuttled to her side and looked as if she was permanently on the edge of throwing up, ‘have the list drawn up and on Anna’s desk by ten. Yes?’
‘Yes-Ms-Evans,’ Pandora rushed, as if an invisible force had sucker-punched the air out of her.
Juliet leaned a little way over the reception desk. ‘If you haven’t receiv
ed it by 10.05 a.m., Anna, call my office and I will find someone capable instead.’ Her emphasis was not lost on her young assistant, who paled.
And with that, Juliet was gone, the sound of her scurrying entourage fading from earshot.
Anna turned to Ted, whose jaw was hanging open. ‘It’s okay, Ted, you can breathe now.’
‘She spoke to you! Again! You had an actual conversation this time! I saw it with my own eyes, but I don’t think I believe it. That woman never talks to anyone, girl. You’d better hope she isn’t adding you to the list of redundancies.’
Sheniece gripped Ted’s sleeve. ‘Redundancies? What redundancies?’
‘I told you. That memo I – found.’ He smiled innocently at Anna. ‘The shareholders are baying for her blood, I heard. If this paper doesn’t turn around soon, Dragon Evans’ll be out on her designer bum, you’ll see.’
‘Well, she’d better up her game.’ Sheniece picked at her cuticles. ‘I need this job, especially if me and Darren are going to get that house in Hatfield.’
‘Who’s Darren?’ Anna asked.
‘Footballer I met in town, last Saturday night,’ Sheniece informed her, brightening considerably. ‘I think he’s a keeper.’
‘Goalkeeper? Who for?’ Ted asked, missing the point entirely.
If the Botox had allowed it, Sheniece’s forehead would have furrowed. ‘What are you on about, Ted?’
‘Nice necklace.’ A deep, male voice made Anna turn, her stomach performing a small flip when she saw the man standing at her desk. It was the first time Ben had spoken to her since the end of her time in the newsroom with him, and she had been hurt by his radio silence. But he looked good – as he’d always done – and he was here now. Was that enough?
Sheniece, who was well aware of her colleague’s unrequited crush and had mercilessly bombarded her with questions when she’d returned to her normal job, jabbed Anna in the ribs as she passed her, giggling loudly on her way to the work kitchen.
‘Thanks.’ Anna could feel a hot blush prickling across her cheeks. Why haven’t you talked to me lately?
Ben smiled. ‘Ted reckons you have a psycho-stalker.’
‘Yes, well, Ted reckons Babs from Clean Team is a secret agent for MI5. I wouldn’t trust his judgement.’ The joke seemed to warm the air between them.
‘Fair enough. It’s a beautiful gift, though. I hear there have been several gifts now. Any idea who sent them?’
‘No.’ Anna was all too aware of her own awkwardness returning. She thought of the daisy-chain necklace and imagined Grandma Morwenna’s encouraging smiles.
‘Right. Look, Anna, I—’
‘I do hope you enjoyed having our Anna in your newsroom,’ Ted interjected, a little too pointedly, taking care to look down his nose at Ben.
Ben stared back. ‘Yes, of course.’
‘Only I thought it odd you hadn’t come to see her at all, since we got her back. Seeing as I heard the pair of you got on so famously.’
Anna felt the ground undulate a little beneath her feet. Not now, Ted . . .
‘Ah. Well . . . I’ve been busy.’ Ben sounded as if he had yet to convince himself.
‘She did well, though?’
Ben shifted uneasily. ‘Anna was great.’
Ted was now observing Ben like a pushy parent grilling their child’s teacher. ‘I heard she saved your biggest story.’
‘Ted,’ Anna barked, turning quickly to Ben. ‘I never said . . .’
‘Chap I chatted with on your floor reckons you owe her.’ Ted delivered his killer-blow.
Anna saw the accusation register on the journalist’s expression.
‘I offered her billing – did the chap tell you that, too?’ Ben’s mobile phone buzzed in his hand and he seemed relieved by the excuse to leave. ‘Looks like I’m being summoned. Anna, it really is good to see you. You look . . . good.’ Was there a slight reddening across his cheekbones?
Encouraged by the unexpected sight of Ben McAra suddenly on the back foot, Anna smiled back. ‘Thanks. You don’t look bad yourself.’
She could hear Ted’s held breath and feel Sheniece’s surprise. Best of all, she saw the spark reignite in Ben’s stare.
‘Well . . . maybe I’ll see you soon?’
Anna patted the mahogany of the reception desk. ‘You know where to find me.’
Like a mirrored image across the smooth wood, Anna and Ben shared the same smile. ‘I most definitely do.’
Watching him walk away, it was all Anna could do not to squeal out loud. Where had her confidence come from? She wasn’t the only one to notice, either.
‘Ohmygoshohmygosh, Ben-flippin’-McAra was totally chatting you up!’ A woodpecker-like sound of tapping heels echoed around the atrium as Sheniece bobbled by Anna’s side.
Anna groaned, her smile tellingly bright. ‘He was not.’
‘He was, Anna! And get you, all cool and give-as-good-as-you-get with him. What happened? When Ted started his Overprotective Creepy Uncle thing, I thought you were going to die of shock.’
‘Charming!’ Affronted, Ted harrumphed and headed off on an unannounced tour of the ground floor.
‘I was just making polite conversation.’ Anna’s heart pounded. ‘He was being nice – before Ted got on his case. He noticed my necklace . . .’
‘He was being obvious. Men don’t notice jewellery from other men.’ She stared at Anna. ‘Unless . . . oh, that’s perfect! He sent it!’
Anna laughed. ‘No, Shen, he didn’t.’
But Sheniece was already running her new theory to test its legs. ‘Think about it: he doesn’t talk to you for, like, ever and then you happen to get three gifts, and he happens to notice the most expensive, most important one.’
‘But I spent two weeks working with him. I wore my scarf several times. If he bought it for me, why didn’t he tell me then?’
Sheniece waggled a recently tanned finger. ‘Ah, but he didn’t see the work-shadowing coming, did he? I reckon this is what happened: he sent you the scarf, then he was getting ready to ask you out, only he found out who he’d been paired with, so he had to rethink. Instead, what better way to get to know you than work with you for a fortnight and then send the gifts? Hmm? You’ve got to admit, Anna, it’s possible.’
It was a preposterous theory – wasn’t it? Anna tried to recall everything they had talked about, but the sheer volume of questions Ben had fired at her made it impossible. Could she have given clues away that led him to buy the owl, and now the daisy-chain necklace? ‘I don’t know, Shen . . .’
‘Think about it: why would your necklace be the first thing he commented on, if he hadn’t sent it, eh?’ She snapped her fingers. ‘Too obvious. He was trying to find out what you thought about it. Classic male strategy. Send an anonymous gift, then ask so many flippin’ questions it’s blindingly obvious he sent it. My last guy was like that on Valentine’s Day. Sent me a dozen red roses, then asked me if I got anything, if I thought roses were overpriced on Valentine’s, and ended up asking me if I’d heard of the florist’s who delivered it. He might as well have carried a six-foot-high placard with I SENT YOU THE ROSES written on it. That settles it. Ben McAra is your secret admirer!’
Laughing, Anna dismissed her colleague’s wild theory and returned to the list of tasks in the work diary. But Sheniece’s words kept returning to her as the day passed. At five-thirty-five, squeezed into a seat on the bus heading home, Anna finally allowed herself to consider the possibility. Could Ben McAra be sending her parcels? It made no sense: why would he single her out for such a lavish scheme? If the parcels were from him, why not let her see his name on the sender’s details, or claim responsibility when she was working with him? Ben didn’t strike her as the kind of man who hid behind gifts. If he did something, Ben McAra wanted the world to know. Everything he did was designed to draw attention to himself; he had worked hard to establish his name and reputation in Fleet Street and was known for being quick to claim naming rights on breaking news stories. Wou
ld someone who had made a career out of being recognised for his work be likely to send anonymous gifts? Anna didn’t think so.
But if Ben hadn’t sent the parcels, why choose today to comment on her necklace? Anna had to admit Sheniece had a point – it was an intriguing coincidence that he had noticed the most expensive gift Anna had received so far. Plenty of other people had complimented her on the scarf and the owl brooch (although, admittedly, most of these were women). What was it about the necklace that had caught Ben’s attention, where nothing else had?
Perhaps he wanted to make amends for not talking to me recently, she surmised. He needed a conversation-opener and my necklace was there. That was plausible enough. It made her feel good to think this might have been his motivation.
Resolved not to question it any more, Anna hunkered down in the cramped bus seat and allowed herself to simply enjoy the memory of chatting with the handsome journalist. More than just the thrill of his having spoken to her again, she was amazed by her own confidence. Ben’s apparent snub of recent weeks had knocked her and she’d assumed that, if he decided to speak to her again, conversation would be awkward between them. But today her confidence returned – welling up within her, without thought or effort. Had she even been flirty?
Her shock at her own response was as welcome a surprise as the beautiful daisy chain around her neck. The gifts in the parcels were bringing about tiny changes in Anna Browne. And she liked what she saw.
Seventeen
Murray Henderson-Vitt was having a Slow News Day. That it coincided with a Wednesday – and his longest shift of the week – wasn’t helping matters. He stared at the greying dregs of his fifth cup of coffee as if inspiration might be floating there amid the sludge of coffee grounds.
A Parcel for Anna Browne Page 11