No such luck.
Groaning, he lifted his head to peer across the newsroom over the annoyingly positive red desk partition. Journalists milled around, some deep in conversation, some hard at work, while others were staring wide-eyed back at him, equally lost. Ben McAra was at his desk as usual, head bowed, tapping furiously on his computer keyboard. Smug git, Murray thought, wishing a sudden, unfathomable fault to occur that would render the star journalist’s Mac useless for the rest of the week. Give some of us poor beggars a chance. McAra was the kind of person whose feet were seemingly gilded by the gods; he was guaranteed to land on them, no matter what occurred. Murray, on the other hand, was an old-fashioned hack through and through: destined to trudge unaccredited through the dross of fifth-, sixth- and seventh-page stories while blue-eyed boys like Ben McAra took all the plaudits.
If only he could find a story worthy of the front page. Or even the second – he didn’t mind. To see his name under the headline, and the smirk wiped off McAra’s irritatingly chiselled face, would be all of his Christmases come at once. Just one major scoop to send him on his way. It wasn’t much to ask, was it?
Claire Connors from Features passed his desk, looking as if she hadn’t slept in a month. That’s what you get for being cited in divorce papers, Murray chuckled to himself, looking over to the empty Obituaries desk, where her erstwhile lover should have been. If the Messenger could mine its own office scandals for news stories, its fortunes would be reversed in seconds. The meeting with Juliet Evans and the stony-faced shareholders last week had not been pretty. Bring the Messenger into the Big Three national tabloid titles and you have a hope of keeping your job, they’d stated. A six-month deadline now cast a dark, impenetrable shadow across the newsroom and everyone was feeling the pressure. Even Sanjay and Claire’s indiscretions weren’t enough to lift it.
‘Did you hear?’ Ali, the perennially sunny junior reporter, chirped, handing Murray a steaming mug of newsroom rocket-fuel.
‘Hear what?’ He accepted it. At least she’d brought him coffee. Perhaps today was looking up . . .
‘Anna Browne in reception’s just received another parcel.’
Now this was something. Not that Murray had thought so initially, even after Ted the security officer’s frequent updates for anyone who would listen. So the receptionist had a secret admirer. So what? That was, until Murray had mentioned it to his wife last week, just after Anna’s third parcel had arrived. That was when he realised the potential.
His wife had cried. Actually shed real tears. The way he’d only seen her cry on the day they got married, and a year later when their son Kieran was born. To Murray’s shock, Leah Henderson-Vitt had stood in their too-expensive new kitchen and sobbed over parcels sent to a woman she neither knew nor cared about.
‘That’s . . . so . . . lovely,’ she had struggled, wiping her eyes on her sleeve. ‘You never hear about selfless things like that happening nowadays. It’s straight out of a classic novel.’
Fast on his feet, Murray had declared he would do something like that for her in a heartbeat. And although Leah’s tears had then become uncontrollable laughter, it had still earned him a place in her good books and a night of really quite decent lovemaking. In that sense, he already had much to thank Anna Browne for . . .
‘That’s four parcels now,’ Ali said. ‘They seem to be arriving pretty regularly. And still no indication of who is sending them – or why.’
‘Interesting. Has she said anything about it, do you know?’
‘Not to me, but I don’t really know her that well. Ted Blaskiewicz is all over it, of course.’
‘No surprise there.’ A thought occurred to him. ‘I might – you know – pop down to reception and . . . er . . .’
‘Check if we’ve had any deliveries?’ Ali’s smile was the picture of conspiracy.
‘Exactly.’ Murray cast a cursory glance towards Ben McAra’s desk. There was a chance McAra was too wrapped up in whatever glory-seeking news item he was beavering away at to have heard yet about the receptionist’s latest mystery parcel. If he was quick, he might just be able to get the jump on him.
Grabbing his Dictaphone, Murray headed for the lift.
‘Sign here,’ the courier said, handing his electronic device to Anna. It was the same courier who had delivered the previous two parcels – a man with a cheeky smile and an impressive arsenal of flirty one-liners. Only the first had come via UPS, the subsequent parcels being delivered by a local company. The courier’s name badge read: NARINDER RANA. ‘Looks like you’re a lady in demand.’
Anna smiled brightly as she signed her name. For the first time since the parcels began arriving she’d dared to hope that the daisy-chain necklace was not the last gift she would receive. Now, in her hands, was evidence of that wish granted. ‘It’s definitely making work more exciting.’
‘I’ll bet. Nice gifts, are they?’
Anna nodded, patting the silver daisies at her neck. ‘This was in last week’s parcel.’
Narinder leaned a little closer. ‘Very impressive. Your boyfriend has good taste.’
‘But I don’t – oh, no, it isn’t from my boyfriend. I don’t have one.’
‘Oh, really?’ The courier’s eyebrow made a bid for the glass ceiling.
‘I don’t know who they’re from.’ Anna watched as Narinder added a check to the device screen. ‘Do you have any record of the sender there?’
‘Not on this, mate. There might be paperwork back at the depot, but I just get a delivery code. Maybe there’s a note inside the parcel?’
‘Maybe. There’s only ever been one note before, but that didn’t mention a name.’
‘Very mysterious. Enjoy it, anyway. I guess I’ll be seeing you next week?’
Anna hugged her latest delivery. ‘Hope so.’
The parcel was around six inches square and made no sound when Anna shook it. She turned it over, to find only the depot number in the sender details. Was she hoping to see something different there this time? Her curiosity had grown with the arrival of each new parcel and, while the possibility of each one being the last was always at the back of her mind, she wondered who had singled her out for such generosity – and why.
‘Seems to be getting keener, your chap.’ Ted Blaskiewicz was on top form as usual. ‘Couldn’t even wait till Friday this week.’
‘If it is a guy – and I’m not saying it is – he’s definitely not mine,’ Anna returned, slipping the parcel into her usual hiding place beneath the reception desk and locking it, before her colleague could get a closer look.
‘Ah, but I’m betting he will be, if he carries on at this rate. Be daft not to take him up on his offer.’
‘Ted, you’re impossible. And whoever sent my parcels hasn’t offered me anything.’
‘Yet.’
Anna groaned. ‘Don’t you have things to do, places to be, rumours to start?’
Ted clamped a hand to his heart. ‘Less of your filthy accusations, girl! Any information I may or may not disclose to other members of staff is merely in the course of my job.’
It seemed that news of Anna’s parcels was spreading throughout the Messenger building. Now, when journalists arrived to sign in and collect their post, their first question was, ‘What did you get this week, Anna?’ And so when Ben’s competitive colleague arrived in reception later that morning, Anna anticipated his question as he was still lolloping across the polished marble floor towards her.
‘Anna Browne, how the devil are you?’ Murray Henderson-Vitt was all smiles and winks.
‘Very good, thank you. And you?’
‘Me? Always happy.’ Murray laughed a little too loudly and rested an arm on the reception desk. ‘So – anything interesting arrive today?’
‘I take it you’ve heard.’
‘Everyone’s heard, Anna. You, my dear, are the talk of the newsroom. My wife thinks you should marry him.’
Anna shook her head. Why did everyone in the building now assume tha
t her gifts had come from a man? ‘I have no idea who is sending the parcels – male or female.’
‘Really?’ Murray seemed to be fiddling with something in his suit-jacket pocket. After a few seconds he was leering at her again. ‘So, you have no clue as to the sender’s identity?’ His question appeared to be louder than before.
‘No – I just said that.’
‘Still no notes? No indication of their address? Did you ask the courier?’
Anna stared back. ‘Not that it’s any of your business, but I did actually.’
Murray’s fingers left sweaty smudges on the polished mahogany as he leaned closer. ‘And?’
‘He didn’t have any details, either.’
Murray frowned. ‘Do you think he might know more than he’s letting on? Is he trying to protect someone? Could there be a sinister motive behind your parcels?’
Not this again. Murray was talking in print-worthy headlines now. Which could only mean . . . Anna glanced down at his pocket, her suspicions confirmed by a badly concealed bulge that was the wrong shape for a cigarette packet. ‘You’re recording this, aren’t you?’
Murray threw up his hands, but the colour drained from his face. ‘No . . .’
For a journalist, Murray had all the covert information-gathering skills of a sledgehammer, Anna mused. Staring at him, she held out her hand. ‘Hand it over.’
‘What? No – I’m not . . .’
‘Murray. The recorder, please?’
The journalist’s shoulders drooped and he reluctantly fished his Dictaphone from his pocket, putting it into her hand like a sullen teenager handing over illicit bubble-gum to a teacher. ‘Can’t blame a chap for trying.’
‘I work in a national newspaper building,’ Anna said, inspecting the recorder. ‘I know how journalists work.’ Checking that the device was still recording, she held it to her lips. ‘I am Anna Browne, receptionist at the Daily Messenger, and I have been receiving mystery parcels at work. They are anonymously sent and are simply a lovely, kind gesture that I have no intention of questioning.’ She clicked the Stop button on the recorder and handed it back to the dejected hack. ‘Was there anything else?’
Murray loosened his tie and leaned a little more heavily on the reception desk. ‘OK, I’ll level with you, Anna. I need this story. I’m dying on my ass up there, and if I don’t get something interesting soon I might as well chuck in the towel. Would you just promise me one thing? If you hear anything more, or get any idea of who is sending you the parcels, you’ll talk to me first? And if Ben McAra starts sniffing around, don’t tell him anything.’
Ah, so that was what Murray’s ham-fisted attempt at espionage was about . . . Anna folded her arms and fixed the journalist with what she hoped was a reprimanding stare, secretly feeling sorry for him. It must be awful to be in a job where your reputation hung on how good your most recent story was. She was glad of her chosen profession, where all she had to concern herself with was being polite to everyone who arrived in reception, regardless of how pleasant they were in return. She had seen too many casualties of the cut-throat newspaper business during her time there to ever wish such a career for herself. ‘Ben’s already asked me about it, I’m afraid. And I told him exactly what I told you. That’s the end of the story. I’m sorry, Murray.’
‘Right, then. But if you change your mind . . . ?’
‘You’ll be the first to know.’
‘Blimey, Anna, get you,’ Sheniece remarked, as Anna watched Murray Henderson-Vitt slump back in the lift up to the newsroom.
‘Sorry?’
‘You totally called him out! What’s happened to you?’
Anna shrugged. ‘I didn’t want to be taken advantage of.’
‘You were amazing! I was watching how you spoke to him. It’s like you went to sleep as Minnie Mouse and woke up as Beyoncé! Girl’s got attitude now!’
Anna giggled as Sheniece turned to the reception screen. She had stood up to Murray, hadn’t she? Usually, she would have found a way to accommodate his request, not wanting to hurt his feelings. But the parcels were her gifts, and hers alone. Why should she have to share them with anyone else? She was experiencing a strength of will that she’d often longed to feel; it was only since the parcels began arriving that this had happened. How strange that four neatly wrapped packages had made such change possible! Did the sender know the effect their generosity was having on her? Anna couldn’t tell. But she made a promise to herself that she would thank the parcel-giver, if their identity were ever revealed.
Once again, Anna made herself wait to open the new parcel, taking time to shower and prepare her evening meal, before curling up on the sofa with it. Steeling herself, she began to peel back the perfect folds of brown paper, feeling her excitement build. A black-and-gold-striped box filled with shreds of gold tissue paper held a small canvas on a tiny easel. On it was painted the most exquisite scarlet heart, edged with skilful gold brushstrokes. An aubergine ribbon with scrolled ends stretched across the heart, bearing a single word in gold paint:
HOPE
As Anna lifted the canvas from the box, she discovered a card underneath. Turning it over, she found a typed message:
What do you hope for, Anna?
Her heart skipped a beat. It was a beautiful gift and sentiment – but what did she hope for? Leaning back into the comfort of the sofa cushions, Anna considered the message. Why did the sender want to know about her hopes? Did they really care, or was the question rhetorical? For the first time, she wished she knew who had sent her this gift. There was so much she wanted to express – not just gratitude, but also how changed she felt by the experience. And what that change meant to her. The parcels had already been more than she could ever have hoped for: was this the answer to the question? They had brought her a new confidence, the ability to flirt with the handsome journalist she had admired from a distance, and had made other people notice her. Dare she hope for more?
I hope to be happy . . . I hope to keep my job . . . I hope I keep changing . . . None of the hopes Anna listed to herself seemed to quite fit. Holding the hope-heart canvas, she frowned. This was a question she needed more time to consider.
Eighteen
Dear Staff Member
This is a gentle reminder that the annual Messenger Charity Fair and Auction takes place at St Vincent’s Children’s Hospice, Esher, Surrey, this Saturday.
Please remember that your willing participation in this event is required under the terms of your employment. All staff should report for duty at 8 a.m. sharp, dress code CIRCUS PERFORMER. Please also bring your smiles with you.
Yours sincerely
Juliet Evans
Editor
‘It’s a freakin’ joke,’ Sheniece protested, adjusting the plastic bow tie at her neck as the train from Waterloo sped through the Surrey countryside. ‘Never mind that we have to give up a Saturday to “volunteer” for this every year, or get up at the crack of dawn, but to have to do it in ridiculous fancy dress is asking too much. Look at me! No wonder Darren the footballer dumped me! How am I ever going to pull wearing this?’
‘You think you have problems,’ retorted Rea, trying in vain to pull down the hem of her too-short pink ballet tutu. ‘At least you went for the safe clown option. This pony-rider’s costume is practically obscene.’
‘Very much in the spirit of the occasion, if you ask me, girl.’ Ted – dressed as a ringmaster, naturally – was making a too-enthusiastic survey of Rea’s costume. ‘Those legs of yours bring a smile to my face.’
‘Eeurgh, you old letch!’ Rea made a swipe for the lascivious security officer and grabbed her coat to drape modestly over her knees.
Anna patted her baggy charity-shop trousers and congratulated herself for taking Tish’s suggestion of going to the charity event as a down-and-out clown.
‘Think Judy Garland singing “A Couple of Swells” in Easter Parade,’ she’d said, finding a yellow-and-blue-striped T-shirt for Anna to borrow. They had found the gr
ey tweed trousers, several sizes too big for Anna, and a pair of braces in a charity shop down the street from their apartment building; a felt bowler hat from a party-supplies warehouse had been decorated with a huge daisy on a bendy green wire that Seamus, the caretaker of Walton Tower, had inexplicably found in his lost-property box; and the outfit had been completed with Jonah’s ‘one and only’ burgundy tie, which he kept for job interviews and so rarely wore. Anna remembered her old pair of bright-yellow Doc Martens boots stashed at the back of her wardrobe, that she’d practically lived in at university, when the initial boost of being away from home had prompted her to adopt a daringly confident image for a year. To give herself a suitably clownlike look, she’d bought some children’s face paints, drawing white ovals across her eyes, a black-outlined red circle on the end of her nose and a comical, curvy red mouth over her lip-line.
She had attended every Messenger charity day while she’d worked at the newspaper, but this was the first time she felt excited about it. Last year she had hidden her fancy dress (an ill-fitting superhero costume that was the last one available in the costume shop) beneath her raincoat and hoped against hope that nobody in the train noticed her. Today, her coat had been left at home.
‘I’m looking forward to it,’ she said, eliciting the moans of her colleagues. ‘No, I am. It’s a lovely sunny day, we’re going to raise money for an excellent cause and it’s going to be fun.’
‘Speak for yourself,’ Sheniece muttered. ‘You sound like bloody Dragon Evans. “Please bring your smiles with you!” Patronising or what?! Yeah, Ms Evans, I’ll bring my smiles – if you’ll pay me for the Saturday I’m wasting on your event.’
‘Ah, another willing volunteer, I see,’ Murray chuckled from the seat opposite. ‘Don’t worry, Sheniece, I brought a little something to help the day go faster.’ He wiggled a silver hipflask as the junior receptionist’s eyes lit up. ‘Genuine Kentucky Bourbon. The kind of smoothness Jack Daniel’s would kill for.’
A Parcel for Anna Browne Page 12