By the end of the day, I’m practically patting myself on the back, that’s how pleased I am. Despite Gregor’s constant glare, I’ve managed to talk to all but one client on the list Tanya sent over. The remaining client is off-site right now, and the receptionist assured me he’ll be available first thing in the morning.
I smile proudly, reviewing the super-neat printing in my notebook. Given the magazine’s legal worries, I’ve been extra careful to get the quotes word for word. All I need to do tomorrow is call the final number, then type up everything in a tidy little package before handing it over to Jonas. That will show him how much initiative I have! I can’t wait until Helen sees my additions to her article. It’s meatier now, and even though it’s still a puff piece, at least it has quotes.
I wonder if she’s in the newsroom, back from her undercover work or wherever? Maybe I can swing by her desk, bring her coffee, and show her my handiwork . . . I drift into a daydream where she stares at the article, complete with shiny new sources, then says: “You know, Serenity, your spirit and quest for the journalistic truth remind me of when I was young. Would you do me the honour of becoming your mentor? I’d love to pass down my skills and knowledge to the next generation . . .”
“Where is Helen Goodall’s cubicle?” I ask Lizzie now. “I haven’t seen her around. Is she off on assignment somewhere?”
“Off on assignment?” Lizzie snorts. “As if. The magazine doesn’t have the budget anymore to send reporters beyond the M25. And after what happened, they like to make sure everyone’s on a tight leash. Anyway, Helen keeps mostly to herself. She’s super paranoid someone will steal her stories.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, with all the legal issues we’ve had, Seven Days is meticulous about checking everything.”
I make a face. “Yeah, I know.”
“Because of that, we’re often scooped by other papers – One World, in particular. They’re a daily, so it’s to be expected. But Helen’s always ranting there’s something fishy about them getting the jump on us. She has a theory there’s a newsroom leak.”
Wow! My eyes pop at the thought of someone stealthily slipping stories to the competition. Here I was, thinking this was such a tame place, when underneath it all there’s intrigue befitting a Hollywood movie.
“Do you really think there’s a leak?” My voice sounds a bit too excited, and I try to put on a serious expression.
“I reckon Helen’s old age is finally setting in,” Lizzie says, tapping her head. “That, or she’s making excuses because she’s no longer able to get out the stories she wants. Jonas tries to keep her happy by saying he’s investigating, but so far there isn’t any evidence.” Lizzie glances at the clock. “Oh, bollocks, it’s five. I’ve got to run. See you tomorrow!”
She grabs a sequinned backpack and dashes down the corridor. I watch her go, turning her words over in my head. No wonder Helen’s annoyed and looking for someone to blame. Imagine, being reduced from the nation’s most feared reporter to someone hamstrung by a now-timid magazine. Guess that’s why her copy was a bit . . . lacklustre. One day you’re giving Tony Blair the finger, the next you’re shoved in a cubicle writing about boring construction companies.
God, I hope Helen doesn’t think I’m trying to steal her story. Not that there’s much of a story to steal. Stupid Julia and her stupid company doing so well. Damn her and her perfect hair! Hmm, might be best if I talk to Jonas first – just in case.
“Bye, Gregor.” He grunts in return, and I retrace Lizzie’s steps towards the lift. I can’t wait to tell Jeremy of my tiny tiptoe forward!
I’m seconds from dialling his number when a question floats into my mind. What will I say if he asks what the article’s about? Actually, it features your ex’s successful company! Did you know she’s raking in the dough? Yeah, I don’t think so. Guess who I spoke to today? You remember the woman who betrayed you, right? Um . . . maybe not.
The thing is, Jeremy and I have never spoken much about Julia. Sure, I know the basics: how she cheated on him with David; how Jeremy sold his half of the business and lay low for a while, turning up at the cosmetic surgery clinic where I worked and requesting a full makeover after discovering Julia and David got married. But that’s all behind us, and Jeremy hasn’t mentioned her name even once. Why would he? Julia has nothing to do with our relationship now – and I’d prefer it stays that way.
I stare down at the phone’s blank screen, my fingers hovering over ‘call’. With whatever’s happening at the charity, I’m not going to ring up Jeremy and say how well his ex is doing – the same ex it took him ages to get over. Anyway, this feature is just a stupid puff piece. Hardly worthy of a Pulitzer Prize.
I merge with the pedestrian traffic on the busy street, still gripping the mobile. Okay, so I can’t talk to Jeremy. My parents would love to hear I’m working on an article by Helen Goodall, though!
Thank God they’ve stopped asking when I’m coming home, I think, listening to the tinny ring of the transatlantic call. In my first year here, they seemed to believe every conversation was the one I’d say I’m packing it in, ready to return to the fertilizer-scented air of Harris, Maine. Even if I wanted to head home, there’s nothing to do but listen to mooing cows, crossing your fingers you’re lucky enough to score a coveted cashier position at the local Walmart. Since speaking to Jeremy (whose down-home Welsh accent Mum heartily approved of, not to mention his charity), though, they’ve finally accepted I’m settling into life here.
“Hello?” Dad’s deep voice echoes through the phone.
“Hi, Dad! Guess what?” The words burst out loudly, and a man passing by throws me a disapproving look. Sorry for speaking above the acceptable 1.5 decibels, I want to say, but I content myself with scrunching up my nose at him.
“Oh, dear, hang on a moment while I grab your mother. I’m sure she’ll want to hear your news. Lesley!” I hold the mobile from my ear as he bellows. Guess that’s where I get my loud voice from.
There’s a click as Mom picks up the extension. “Hello?” Her calm, measured tone is a sharp contrast to Dad’s earlier shout.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Serenity! How are you? How’s that man of yours? Is he taking care of his health these days? Tell him I can send another batch of herbal remedy, you know, the one that—”
“It’s all right, Mom. He’s fine.” I make a face, remembering the slimy green drink Mom’s ‘natural remedy’ powder produced. Jeremy gamely forced it down, but he’s certainly not in a hurry for more. “Anyway! Guess what? I’m working on a story with Helen Goodall!” Okay, so ‘working with’ is a bit of an exaggeration, given I haven’t actually met the woman. But we are collaborating, right?
“Oooh!” Mom makes an impressed sound. “What’s she like?”
“Well . . . yeah. She’s great. Exactly what I imagined.” God, how lame can I get? After all the fact-checking, my imagination has packed up and left.
“That’s just groovy,” Dad says, and I grimace at his favourite word. “We knew you’d be alongside those big reporters one day. Wait until I put this in the alumni newsletter!” I envision him rubbing his hands with glee. “So when will the story be in print? I can’t wait to see your name up with Helen’s!”
“Um, it’ll just be her name.” Even as I say the words, though, a bubble of hope is growing inside. With the quotes I’ve added, will my name be on there, too?
“Well, that’s not fair,” Dad says in his let’s-start-a-revolution voice. “Serenity, you need to stand up for your rights! Tell them you’ve played a part in this article. You deserve a by-line.”
My mouth twitches as I picture Dad holding a hand-painted sign and marching through the newsroom.
“I’d better get going,” I say, before they ask about the story I’m working on – a huge corporation raking in money is hardly their idea of journalistic glory. Bet Dad wouldn’t protest on my behalf if he knew that.
“Okay, dear, thanks for calling,�
� Mom says. “Before you go, we’re heading to a retreat in California for the next couple weeks, over the Easter weekend. We’re going to learn age-old fertility rituals.”
“Not that we want a baby at this age,” Dad laughs. “But your mother and I can still practise.”
Oh my God. “Great, great!” I say hastily, before they reveal more details. “Well, you two have fun!”
“We will, dear.” Cringe. “We’ll call once we’re back home.”
I hang up, shaking my head to banish all lingering thoughts of my parents engaged in fertility rituals. Ugh. I’ve just pushed through the tube station turnstile when my mobile pings.
Home now. Can’t wait to see you. Xx
Oh, yay! Jeremy’s back already – it’s been ages since he finished work this early. One blessedly quick tube ride later, I round the corner to his house. Lights blaze from behind the cheerful white facade and in the cool dampness of the London spring, it looks inviting and warm. A smile spreads on my face as I hurry down the street, fit my key in the door, and yank it open.
“Jeremy?” I skid down the hallway and into the lounge, not even bothering to take off my shoes or coat.
“Hey!” Jeremy smiles from where he’s relaxing on the sofa. He pulls me down for a kiss, and my heart lifts when I notice the anxious expression of the past couple weeks has vanished. But although his face is more animated, he still looks terrible: dark rings a Panda would envy circle his sockets, and underneath the naturally tan complexion, he’s pale and washed out.
“Brilliant day, Ser. You’ll never guess what happened.” His eyes crinkle up at the corners as his smile widens.
“Um . . . you met the Queen? And she granted your request for Welsh independence?” I joke. Jeremy grew up in Wales, and he’s always going on how it should be a separate country.
He smoothes a strand of hair behind my ear. “I wish. No, this is even better.”
“Okay. So tell me!”
“I will.” Jeremy rests his head on top of mine, and we stay that way for a few seconds. “First, I want to take you out for dinner. I haven’t forgotten I owe you one.”
“Are you sure? It’s pretty horrible outside. Maybe we should stay in.” As much as I’d love to eat something other than pasta balls, given how grey his complexion is, it might be better if he keeps warm and rests.
But Jeremy tugs me to my feet. “Nope. This kind of news definitely calls for a celebration.”
“What kind of news?” He knows I hate waiting! “Is it—” I almost ask if it’s something to do with the charity, but I snap my mouth closed just in time. It’d be terrible if it wasn’t. “Is it about . . . Karen’s birthday?” I finish lamely.
Jeremy shrugs on his coat. “Karen’s birthday? That’s not coming up, is it?”
“Um, yes, I think she’s turning the big six-five.” What am I saying? I’ve no idea how old Karen is, or if it’s anywhere near her birthday. Imagine if Jeremy rocks up next week with a giant ‘Happy 65th!’ card in his hands.
“Anyway, no, it’s not that.” He swings open the door. “Come on, you must be starving.”
Starving is an understatement – I’m positively ravenous. As if on cue, my empty tummy lets out a rumble. “Where are we going?”
“A place in Primrose Hill we haven’t been to yet. It opened a couple months ago with rave reviews.” Jeremy takes my hand as we walk to his Prius.
“What? It’s been open that long and we still haven’t been there?” I put on a mock-horrified expression. Primrose Hill, just a little way from the charity’s office on Mornington Crescent, is one of our favourite parts of London. In fact – a smile creeps onto my face at the memory – it’s where we first said the L-word, a few months after we started dating. We’d huffed and puffed our way up the steep incline, and just as I’d turned to take in the London skyline, Jeremy had swept me into his arms and told me he loved me. Sounds like a scene from Love Actually, I know. But it did feel like a Hollywood movie, and as I echoed the words, I honestly couldn’t recall being happier.
Well, except for the time he made me those homemade Jaffas.
Anyway, before Jeremy started working all hours of the day and night, I’d often meet him at our favourite bench at the crest of the incline, as rush-hour came to a close and the city settled in for the evening. We’d watch the BT Tower blinking and the pods of the London Eye turning, then head down the hill and over to the row of restaurants lining the nearby street. God, we haven’t been there for ages.
We climb into the roomy car and I lean back, satisfaction washing over me. Whatever Jeremy’s news, it looks like it was a good day for both of us. For a split second, I long to share my small accomplishment at work. That would involve bringing up Julia, though, and I’m not going to risk spoiling tonight by dragging her into it. For now, I just want to enjoy being with the man I love.
Giant raindrops splatter on the window as Jeremy navigates his way to Camden Town, parking past the Chalk Farm tube station. Although it’s still light, dark clouds have wrapped the city in a gauzy blanket of grey.
He grimaces at the pouring rain. “What are the chances of you having an umbrella?”
“What do you think?” I grin. One of the first bits of advice Jeremy gave me about living in London was to never, ever leave the house without an umbrella. I’d laughed, thinking he was exaggerating. No city’s weather could change that quickly, right?
Wrong. I’d learned the hard way when I’d gone to meet Kirsty at Regent’s Park in the bright summer sun. Thirty minutes later, the skies had opened, and both Kirsty and I got drenched to the skin. Bad day not to wear a bra is all I can say.
Ever since, I’ve tried to carry an umbrella everywhere. However, I’ve discovered a unique talent for losing each and every brolly I touch. The longest I kept one is about a month; the shortest, an hour – I bought it at the tube station and left it on the train. Oh well, at least I’m keeping London’s economy buoyant, one umbrella at a time.
Jeremy shakes his head, then reaches into the glove compartment and hands me his own. Aw! The perfect gentleman.
“Ready?” he asks, swinging open the car door. The sound of rain hitting the pavement assaults us, and the smell of wet asphalt drifts in. “One, two, three!”
I heave open my door, pop up the umbrella, and rush through the falling drops behind him. Jeremy grabs my arm as I approach and pulls me under the cheery awning of the restaurant, both of us soaking. His chest heaves and sweat glistens on his brow. We stand still for a minute until the rasp of his breath quietens, and my heart does a little flip with worry. It will be fine, I tell myself. With his big news, hopefully he’ll be able to take it easy again.
Inside the tiny restaurant, it’s like we’ve been transported to another country – a country with sun, filled with happy, chattering people. Narrow tables painted in bright reds and blues fill the small space, and the walls are covered with photos of oceans and vineyards. Waiters dressed in cobalt-blue shirts dart through the room, calling to each other in a language that sounds like Italian. It’s a little piece of Rome, right here in rainy London.
“This is great!” I say as a waiter ushers us to a table in the corner. Jeremy orders a bottle of wine, then scoots around to my side and pulls out my chair. You don’t get that kind of service from men in the States, let me tell you.
“Since we haven’t been to Primrose Hill for a while, I thought it would be the perfect location to share my good news,” he says, settling into his place.
“Okay, enough. You have to tell me now.” I’m practically squirming on my seat.
“All right. I’m dying to, anyway.” Jeremy reaches over and squeezes my hand. “Well, things have been difficult financially at the charity.”
“Difficult?” I tilt my head, trying to understand. I’m not surprised this has to do with Pick Up Sticks, but what does he mean, ‘difficult financially’? Although we don’t talk about it, I know Jeremy has quite a bit of money from selling his half of the property business.
With all that, how could the charity have been in trouble?
“I won’t bore you with the details, but we had a lot of projects underway, relying on a regular corporate donor to cover the costs. The company went bankrupt before we received the donation, and our trustees wanted to ensure we could pay the expenses we’d already incurred. They can be financially liable for the charity’s debts.”
“Wow.” No wonder Jeremy was so stressed. I know how much he cares about Pick Up Sticks, and the loss of a major donor – one on whom they needed to cover costs – would definitely hit hard.
“Everything is fine now, thank goodness.” Jeremy leans back, a relaxed smile on his face. “A major corporation came through with a sizeable donation that will let us start paying down the debt from the projects we were working on, and even look at starting new ones.” He shakes his head. “I still can’t believe it.”
“That’s fantastic!” I breathe a sigh of relief the story has a happy ending. I can’t begin to imagine otherwise.
“I know I’ve been a bit, well . . . preoccupied lately,” Jeremy says. “I didn’t want you to worry. You had a lot on your plate already, what with the new job and everything. And to be honest, the last thing I felt like doing at home was rehashing the whole situation. You’re sort of a safe haven, you know?” His cheeks flush, but he doesn’t look away. “Everything feels right when I’m with you.”
I smile into his green eyes, understanding exactly what he means.
“Anyway.” Jeremy takes my other hand. “Enough about me. Tell me about you! Are you settling in okay at the magazine?”
“It’s great,” I say, keeping Julia tucked away in the corner of my mind. Maybe Jeremy has the right idea. Why stir things up if there’s no need? I’m hardly going to invite Her Royal Bitchiness into our safe haven.
Construct A Couple Page 5
