‘You’re making this up so I’ll talk to you. You have no evidence.’
‘I assure you I do. I recorded the entire conversation and will be only too happy to publish that on our website.’
Was Mike Hennessy winding Anna up now? If not, who had he spoken to? Fear clung to her heart as she answered, ‘Then you must have bribed someone – blackmailed them . . .’
‘Spare me the melodramatics, Miss Browne. The Messenger might resort to tactics like that, but the Post doesn’t have to. Fact is, our source came to us.’
‘WHO WAS IT?’ The shout came from deep within her, making her ears buzz with its force.
‘Your own mother, Anna! She walked, bold as brass, into my office and spilled her guts for a nice fat cheque!’
Horrified, Anna slammed her hand down on the Call button. Silence filled the interview room. ‘I’m sorry – I’m so sorry,’ she rushed, as Hennessy’s words seared into her soul: Your own mother, Anna!
And then the grotesque fact hit her full-on: Senara Browne had come to London not for an emotional reunion, but to sell her daughter to the highest bidder. The unaccompanied tours of the city were revealed for what they truly were. How many newspapers had her mother visited, when she was supposed to be treading the tourist trail? Cold, sticky bile rushed up Anna’s throat and a watching journalist thrust a waste-paper bin into her hands in time to catch the torrent, while other hands scrambled to hold back her hair.
Nobody spoke. All eyes remained on the receptionist as she slowly sat back. She was handed a tissue and wiped her mouth, too distraught to care about being violently sick in front of her colleagues. Taking a breath, she stood, the journalists parting as she made her way to the door.
‘Do you want me to come with you?’ Rea offered. ‘We could go and get some fresh air.’
‘No. Thank you . . .’
‘Someone needs to tell Juliet,’ she heard one of them say, as she fled to the waiting lift.
Anna held her tears at bay until the doors closed, then sank heavily against the steel wall as the lift descended, dragging her heart with it.
Forty-Two
Mike Hennessy, it appeared, didn’t need Anna’s words in order to quote her. Next day the Daily Post printed its story, complete with posed photographs of Senara playing the wronged-mother card with thoughtless ease, and Anna holding the fake parcel, trapped in the flashbulb glare, her shocked expression passing well for rumbled guilt. But at its centre, in bold newsprint, was a supposed quote from Anna, bragging about the money paid to her by the Messenger in exchange for her ‘story’.
‘“I’m just a simple Cornish girl and when my employer offered me so much money, what was I supposed to do? I’ve earned more for one story than I would working there for five years!” . . . Oh, Anna, what bollocks!’ Ted shook his head as he pored over the offending double-page spread on the reception desk.
‘It’s such a mess.’ Anna had debated not coming to work today. She hadn’t slept all night, pacing the floor of her home and chastising herself for believing Senara. But in the early hours of the morning her mood had passed through a sea change. Why should she hide at home, as if the lies in the rival rag were true? She had nothing to hide and had done nothing wrong. Ben’s article had been bad enough, but at least it had painted her in a favourable light compared to the vitriol coming her way from the Daily Post. She would not give Mike Hennessy the satisfaction. Holding her head high, she had caught her usual bus and was now standing at her post, determined not to back down.
‘I think you’re so brave for coming in,’ Ashraf soothed, handing Anna a mug of tea. ‘Especially with that lot out there.’ He nodded towards the Messenger building’s entrance, where a line of uniformly disgruntled paparazzi were kicking the pavement.
‘Don’t you worry about that shower,’ Ted replied. ‘Me and the boys are keeping them in check. One wrong move and they’re history.’
‘I’m sorry, Anna, but your mother’s a prize b-i-t-c-h.’ Ashraf pointed at the smirking woman in the centre of the article. ‘Look at that photo: she’s loving it! What kind of a mother sells a story on her kid?’
‘The worst kind, that’s what. Families – load of bother, the lot of them.’ Ted patted Anna’s shoulder. ‘What you need right now is friends like us, girl. We’ll see you right.’
As her colleagues continued their uninvited autopsy of the life Anna thought she knew, she did her best to keep busy. What she couldn’t fathom was how her life – the quiet, happy existence she had safely cultivated, away from scandal, disappointment and hurt – had become this.
I never asked for any of this: not the parcels, not my mother, not Ben. So how has it all happened to me?
An hour later news reached reception of a follow-up story on the Post’s website, with Anna allegedly slating the Daily Messenger – criticising DayBreak Corp and accusing Juliet Evans of company fraud.
And then discontented rumours began to seep through the building . . .
Ashraf was the first to hear them, having overheard a conversation in the post room. His uncharacteristic silence when he returned to reception was followed by hushed conversations with Ted and Sheniece. When others in the atrium followed suit, Anna cornered Ted.
‘What’s going on?’
‘Nothing.’
Anna folded her arms. ‘You’re a pathetic actor, Ted. I’ve seen everyone looking this way. I know that if anyone in this place knows what’s happening, it’s you.’
Ted flushed from the compliment. ‘I like to think I do.’
‘So?’
Resignation spread across his face. ‘I’m sorry, girl. It ain’t good. People – some people – are saying the Post has reason for printing that stuff about you.’
‘They think I made this all up? Why would they think that?’
‘Well, what your ma said . . .’
How could anyone believe Senara’s lies – in a tabloid headquarters, too? Surely everyone knew how these stories worked? Or did they know Anna so little they couldn’t see how ridiculous the rival paper’s claims were? ‘They don’t know my mother – they don’t know what she’s capable of.’
‘You and I know that, but . . .’ Ted let out a long breath. ‘Look, all the uncertainty there’s been about the paper lately has rattled everyone. They’re ready to think anything’s possible – and not the good stuff, either. Plus, McAra’s been shouting his mouth off upstairs and they’re saying he’s protesting too much.’
What was Anna meant to do? She couldn’t stop opinion any more than she could halt the tide, yet her inability to answer the accusations levelled at her made her feel a failure. ‘Then I can’t win.’
The internal line lit up on the switchboard and Anna answered.
‘Anna? Piers Langley. Juliet wishes to see you in her office. Immediately, please.’
The call ended abruptly. Anna turned to Ted, the blood rushing from her head. ‘This day really can’t get any worse.’
The sympathetic smile of Juliet’s PA did nothing to reassure her when she arrived in the editor’s office.
‘Go right in,’ Piers said, his perfectly honed professional calm reminding Anna of the secretary at her primary school, who sent naughty children to their punishment in the headmistress’ office with a chillingly placid smile.
Juliet didn’t smile when Anna sat opposite, her green eyes unblinking as they bore into her.
‘This is unfortunate,’ she said, her choice of word designed to instil fear.
‘I never asked for any of this—’ Anna began, halted by the sudden rise of Juliet’s hand.
‘Frankly, I don’t care. What I want to know is how the hell your mother got involved? I’ve been told she was staying with you recently?’
‘I didn’t know she was selling her story.’
‘Blatantly. And you had no idea of her true intention?’
A crushing weight dropped in Anna’s stomach. Of all the people in the world, she should have been the first to suspect Senara Browne
’s real reason for getting on her good side. How had she been so stupid? ‘No, I didn’t.’ More fool me.
‘I have to say, I’m not happy about this. Your mother is making us look like complete idiots. Whatever possessed the woman?’
Anna’s hands clenched in her lap. Why should she be made liable for Senara’s actions? ‘If I could answer that, I could have saved myself years of heartache.’
‘Don’t be cute, Anna.’
‘I wasn’t trying to be.’
Juliet pushed her chair from the desk and walked to the window. ‘I should have expected it, of course. The Post and the Mercury are hopping mad that we found a story with such appeal. Despite their lame attempts at discrediting us, our online click rates are still high. But the Messenger is in a precarious position, with the new management structure still being finalised – any knock in our fortunes could be catastrophic.’
‘Can I say something?’ The rush of righteous indignation rising inside Anna forced the words from her lips. It wouldn’t be stopped by anyone – not Juliet Evans and not Anna’s own better judgement. She was sick and tired of being made responsible for the newspaper’s future and angry that nobody seemed to understand her point of view. Juliet was going to hear it, whether it was a good idea in the end or not.
Juliet turned to face her, surprised. ‘It seems you already are.’
A steel-strong resolve fired along Anna’s spine as she faced the editor. ‘I didn’t ask to receive parcels. I certainly didn’t ask to be used by one of your journalists for the sake of a story. I object to my life being sacrificed in order to save this newspaper.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Yes, it is.’ Anna ignored Juliet’s ominously darkening expression, the fire too strong to extinguish. ‘Yesterday I discovered that my mother – the woman who is meant to love me – had sold lies about me to the highest bidder. Do you have any idea how that makes me feel? I am not my mother’s keeper. I have been hurt beyond words by her actions – not that I imagine you care at all . . .’
‘That’s enough, Miss Browne.’
Anna rose to her feet, the pain and frustration tumbling out of her. ‘I will not be accused of something I haven’t done – not by you, not by my mother and certainly not by the Daily Post!’
‘Enough, Anna!’
A sudden urge to cry pushed the air from her lungs as she stared helplessly back.
‘Sit down, Anna. Please.’ When she didn’t move, the editor took a step towards her. ‘You’re not in trouble, you have my word.’
Anna resumed her seat, tears stinging her eyes.
‘I’ve heard the rumblings in the newsroom and I will deal with them. As for the bleatings of our rivals, we will counteract with the threat of legal action, if necessary.’ She picked up a pen and rapped it on the desk. ‘I’m sorry you’ve been hurt. It was never my intention – or that of anyone here. Have you heard from your mother?’
‘No. She went home yesterday and I hope I never see her again.’
Juliet nodded, her stern expression softened by concern in her eyes. ‘Personally I don’t subscribe to the universal sainthood attributed to all mothers. But I would advise that you don’t share any more information with her.’
‘I don’t intend to.’ A heavy weariness descended upon Anna as her adrenaline subsided. ‘I – I didn’t mean to shout.’
‘You didn’t. Compared to the volume this office has witnessed of late, you weren’t even close.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I wonder if perhaps I called you back too soon.’
‘I like working. I have nothing to hide.’
‘I understand. But given the current state of play, I suggest a few more days’ leave would be appropriate. For your peace of mind, as much as anything. It will allow me to handle the situation and keep the press pack at bay.’
Anna was certain that her peace of mind would be better preserved by a return to her normal routine, but she was too brow-beaten by the day’s events to argue. ‘I just want this all to be over.’ She thanked Juliet and made to leave the office.
‘Miss Browne: one more thing . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘It can be easy, at times like these, to lose sight of the good. Not everything you’ve encountered is negative. Try to remember that.’
The editor’s words played on Anna’s mind as she walked along the carpeted corridor towards the lift. It was an odd thing to say; stranger still that it should come from a woman so famously devoid of compassion. She pressed the Call button and waited. Juliet had a point, of course: the gifts in the parcels had meant a great deal to Anna, as had Ben’s attentions. But if the two were linked and therefore part of a plan for a story, what did they mean now?
The lift doors slid open and Anna walked inside. She stared down at the shell and sea-glass bracelet, which she had subconsciously chosen to wear today. Out of all her gifts, this had been the one she understood the least, but her memory of piecing it together gave it a significance its component parts lacked. Maybe that was the point: the parcels had been a starting point, but what she did with them mattered more.
A chime sounded above her head and the lift shuddered to a halt. Jolted from her thoughts, Anna looked up at the display to see that she had reached the third floor. She stepped back as the doors parted, expecting a crowd of people to enter from the newsroom floor, but only one person was revealed.
The worst person it could have been.
‘Anna! I—’
Instinctively she hit the button to close the doors, but Ben’s hand prevented their progress. He jumped into the lift as the doors sealed them inside.
‘No, I’m sorry. Not this time. We need to talk.’
Trapped, Anna stood her ground. ‘We don’t.’
‘Anna, please – I’ve been going out of my mind . . .’
‘And I haven’t?’
‘I never anticipated this.’
‘I’ll bet you didn’t.’ She rounded on him. ‘I’ll bet you expected it to go without a hitch. Only you didn’t count on my mother turning up and spoiling the party.’
Sheniece’s description of the journalist proved accurate, his pale skin and darkened eyes almost spectral in the blue-white lift lighting. ‘That isn’t fair. I couldn’t have known . . .’
‘No, you couldn’t. Not in the paltry amount of time you spent getting to know me before you printed your story. Because, Ben, if you’d taken the time to find out about my life, you might have found out what my mother was capable of. But that wasn’t important to you, was it?’
The lift reached the second floor, but Ben slammed his hand against the door control button, closing the doors before anyone could enter. ‘I know you’re angry with me, and I’m sorry the story came out when it did. But I didn’t get to know you because of a cheap article. I spent time with you because I wanted to.’
‘I can’t hear this now.’
‘Listen to me! The timing sucked, but it wasn’t my call. Everything I said to you was true, Anna. You trusted me and you were right to – okay, I know you can’t see it like that now, but it’s the truth!’ As the lift continued its steady descent, he spoke again, quieter than before. ‘I made a mistake: a monumental one. I’m not proud of what’s happened. Just – please – don’t hate me. There’s so much more I can give you. I can make this right, Anna . . .’
‘I don’t think you can.’ Her heart broke with the admission; saying it aloud made it horribly real. ‘You hurt me and betrayed my trust. I can’t get past that.’
With nothing more to be said, neither Ben nor Anna spoke again as the lift dropped the final few feet to the ground floor. When the doors opened, Anna hurried out. She didn’t look back – she couldn’t. Ben didn’t follow her or call her name. In silence she collected her belongings and left. Rounding the corner from the obscured service entrance, she could see the press pack still encamped by the front door, Ted distracting them to assist her escape.
It’s over, Anna told herself as s
he hurried away. Ben is out of my life for good.
Forty-Three
The journey home through building afternoon traffic passed in a blur, Anna neither seeing nor caring about the crawling lines of vehicles at either side of the bus, or the blaring horns of impatient drivers that split the air. Time seemed to move frame-by-frame, snapshots of her fellow passengers permeating the fog in her mind as street sounds muted to a distant mumble. Her head hurt, the fury she’d unleashed on Ben leaving bruises where thoughts should have been.
Weary-limbed, she stood as the bus slowed, shuffling behind the small group of alighting passengers onto her street. She paused outside Spill the Beans, debating whether or not to go in; deciding against it, she walked into Walton Tower. Her bed was calling – and Anna suspected that, once in its blissful surrounds, she might remain there for the rest of her enforced leave.
I don’t need to see anyone today. I just want to hide . . .
But someone was waiting for Anna Browne: slumped against her front door, half-empty bottle of Jameson’s whiskey swinging with the silver bangles from her hand.
‘H-h-here, she is! My little A-nna . . .’
There were no words. Anna stared at her mother in numb shock.
‘It’s all gone wrong, An!’ she whined, her nose leaving a slug-trail along the sleeve of her leather jacket as she wiped it. ‘I just needed a little more cash, but they wouldn’t budge. They called me a bad mother – did you see? Written all over their paper this morning, like it was the truth. Shows what they know.’
‘You should be in Cornwall.’
‘Reckon I should now. Thought I could do better, though, didn’t I? More f-f-fool me.’
‘I put you in a taxi to the station – why didn’t you get on the train?’
‘Fancied a stop in that swanky hotel. Should’ve seen their faces when I paid in cash!’ Her shoulders shook with a snot-rattling snigger. ‘I made them bring me champagne and caviar on room service. Like a queen, I was.’
Unbelievable woman! Not content with betraying her daughter and tearing her world apart, Senara Browne had come back to gloat over the damage.
A Parcel for Anna Browne Page 29