“You complained to Top Class about all this?”
“You could say that.” Ryan’s tone is grim. “Every day, over and over again. Emails. Faxes. Phone calls. The thing is, it’s affecting our business. When people come to see the facilities, they’re never going to let their loved ones stay in a place like this. And to think, we were trying to improve.”
“Can’t you pursue legal action?” I’d love Julia to be dragged into court.
“I could, but I made the mistake of paying up front.” Ryan sighs. “It was stupid, I know. They seemed so trustworthy. There’s something in our contract about arbitration, but I can’t reach anyone at Top Class beyond the receptionist, let alone get them to meet us. And I don’t have the money to hire a lawyer – or to pay other builders to fix anything. I’ve been living day to day, hoping a solution will come from somewhere.”
“That’s terrible.” As excited as I am at this new angle on Top Class (and a not-so-complimentary one, to say the least!), I feel for the poor man and all those residents living in unsafe conditions. I straighten my spine as determination sweeps over me. This is why I wanted to be a journalist! Setting the world to rights, one story at a time. Shaking my head, I think how ironic it is that my first big break also means Julia will finally get what she deserves. The universe definitely has a sense of humour!
We talk for a few more minutes as I scrawl notes. When I have all the information I need, I tell Ryan we’ll be in touch again today or tomorrow, and hang up. Pushing back from the table, my heart flips in my chest like a fish out of water.
I’ve done it. Forget adding a couple quotes here and there – I’ve found a story! I can see the headline now: Corrupt Construction Company Cheats Britain’s Elderly. If we get photos of those old people living in dilapidated conditions, this article will tug the nation’s heartstrings, for sure. It’s not an exposé on a famous footballer, but it’s still pretty great.
I glance through my notebook, reviewing the quotes from Julia, the other clients, and all the incriminating details at Rose House. Yes, I’ve got enough here now to talk to Jonas. Wiping sweaty palms on my trousers, I stride to his office, taking deep breaths to calm my excitement. Will he ask me to visit the site? Maybe interview some of the residents, too? I’m really good with old people! Well, as long as they have all their own teeth – the clicking of dentures freaks me out.
I rap on the half-open door, so hard my knuckles smart.
“Yes?” Jonas barks, jowls jiggling as he lifts his head. God, he looks like that nodding Churchill dog in the TV ads.
“Can I talk to you about the Top Class Construction feature?” I make my voice smooth and confident.
He beckons me in. “You’ve got one minute. Remember, you need to have that piece to Gregor by five at the latest.”
“Well.” I clear my throat, flipping open the notebook. “The angle of the original story was Top Class bucking the market trend, growing at a phenomenal rate. But through additional research, I’ve uncovered an angle with much more impact.” I watch Jonas’s face for a response, but he isn’t wearing the intrigued expression I’d anticipated. Instead, he just looks . . . bored.
He makes an impatient noise. “Come on. Spit it out.”
I quickly explain Top Class’s negligence at Rose House and how, despite repeated phone calls, they still haven’t fixed the problem. Jonas’s log-like tongue protrudes to lick his lips, as if he’s savouring my words.
“Well, well,” he says, when I come to the end of my notes. “That is an interesting angle. And you managed to find it your first week here? Good work, Serenity.”
My heart leaps. I knew he’d agree! Maybe a modern-day Lois Lane isn’t such a long shot. I smile brightly, awaiting further instructions.
“Who is the reporter on the original piece?” Jonas asks.
“Helen Goodall.” Wow, maybe we’ll even conduct an interview together!
“Okay. Send her all your notes and she’ll run with it from here. We need a senior reporter to verify everything – we can’t take any chances with these allegations.”
What? My mouth drops open. Forget co-interviews or visiting the site, I’m not even going to be involved?
Guess I can kiss that by-line goodbye.
“Don’t worry,” Jonas says, catching the look on my face. “You’ll still work on the piece, assisting Helen with background information. She’s out on an interview this afternoon, so we’ll meet first thing tomorrow to review your notes and sources. I’m extending the deadline on this to get as much information as we can.” He motions towards the door, and I trudge out.
Remember, slow and steady, I repeat to myself, trying to swallow back the disappointment. It’s only my first week, after all. Okay, so I’m not interviewing alongside Helen with my name up in lights, but at least I’m making progress – unlike poor Gregor who’d be lucky if he uncovered a fresh handkerchief, let alone a news story.
And tomorrow I’m going to meet Helen! Hmm, I wonder what I should wear? Kirsty’s always telling me if I want to be taken seriously, I need to dress for it. That’s easy for her to say – at five foot nine, clothes just fit. It’s slightly harder when your legs are stumps yet your behind rivals J Lo’s. Any trousers I buy end up wonky from my hemming (if you call duct tape ‘hemming’), and my one attempt to purchase a snazzy Apprentice-style dress made my butt look like it needed a postcode of its own.
Forget the clothes. There’s only one way to impress an icon like her, and that’s by presenting organised, meticulous research. I work hard for the next few hours, typing up interview notes. I’m so absorbed I barely notice Gregor and Lizzie’s barbed exchange over the exact height of Nelson’s Column in Trafalgar Square. When Lizzie says goodbye, I’m shocked it’s five. Lifting my arms to stretch, I notice Gregor giving me the evil eye. Again.
“Can I help you?” I can’t resist feeling a bit smug about my story, even if I am only providing back-up to Helen.
“Are you almost finished with the construction feature?” Gregor sniffs. “Meeting deadlines is an important part of our job, something you need reminding of after all your personal calls this morning.”
“Didn’t Jonas tell you?” I smile sweetly. “I found a great new angle for the story and he gave me an extension. I’ll be working alongside Helen now.” It’s not a lie – technically, I will be working with her.
Anger mixed with an emotion I can’t quite read flashes across Gregor’s face, and he purses his thin lips. “Jonas never communicated that with me. Fill me in, please.”
“All my notes are on the system if you want to take a look,” I say, switching off the computer. “I’ll see you tomorrow!” I gather my things and stand, smirking just a little as Gregor scrambles to click open my folder.
Now that’s what I call a good day at the office.
CHAPTER SIX
I stride to the tube with a happy little grin until two teens in school uniforms swagger by, shooting me a ‘what are you smiling at?’ look. Quickly, I rearrange my features into the neutral mask perfected by all hard-core Londoners, but glee still swirls inside. Despite the disappointment at my back-seat role, if I keep going like this, chances are I won’t be marooned on Fact Check Row for the next year.
Not to mention I get to stick it to Julia. God, when the news breaks, she’ll have a mess on her hands. Any hint of bad practice will definitely throw a spanner into the workings of the business, no matter how much money it has. My mind flips to an item all over the media last year – a company that neglected health and safety codes for an office building up north. Last I’d heard, the business went bankrupt. I don’t want anyone to lose their job, of course, but in a way, it feels like divine retribution.
I can’t wait to tell Jeremy what I’ve found! Forget adding a random quote or three, this is uncovering a whole new story. And what a story, too – he’ll love seeing Julia finally get what she deserves.
Or will he? I tilt my head, trying to picture his reaction. Actually, Jeremy
’s way too nice to be happy about someone else’s misfortune, no matter what they’ve done to him (unlike me – I wouldn’t mind lighting the match for Julia to burn in hell). In fact, knowing him, he might even use the charity’s money to fix up Rose House himself. My lip curls imagining Julia’s sneer as my boyfriend pours his finances into solving her problems. No way could I stand by and watch that happen.
Anyway, I’m supposed to be a safe haven for Jeremy, right? What kind of safe haven willingly brings up ex-girlfriends, especially ones as traumatic as Julia? My earlier pledge to keep the outside world at bay comes to mind, and resolve floods into me. As excited as I am about this article, it isn’t worth bringing into our happy space. Jeremy will discover his ex-girlfriend’s negligence when the news breaks on Sunday, and if he wants to bring it up, he can.
Look at me, putting the good of our relationship above my own excitement. God, maybe I should write the Shut Your Mouth Guide to Great Relationships.
Just because I’m maintaining my safe-haven status for Jeremy doesn’t mean I can’t tell Kirsty, though. She knows the whole sordid story of Julia and Jeremy, and I’m dying to see her face when she hears the latest.
I glance at my watch as I enter the tube station. Five-thirty, which means there’s plenty of time for a pit stop at Kirsty’s prior to the pub. Before descending to the platform – the only place left in the modern universe where you can’t get a mobile signal – I text Jeremy to say I’ll meet him at the Prince Regent. An hour later, I’m in front of my friend’s house, a smile of anticipation on my face.
“Hey, Ser. Thought we were meeting at the pub?” Kirsty says when she opens the door.
“Yeah, we were. But I’ve got news!”
Kirsty raises an eyebrow. “News, huh? I can’t wait to hear it! Come on in – excuse the mess.”
I follow her into the lounge, noting with chagrin it’s already half empty. Four big boxes sit solemnly in the corner, Excel spreadsheets taped to their sides. An air of transience taints the room and I let out a sigh, picturing the whole place silent and echoey. Until now, it’s been easy to pretend the move wasn’t happening. Faced with physical evidence, though, it’s kind of hard to deny.
Jane coos from the playpen, and I heave her into my arms. God, she’s so big now. Pressing my cheek against her soft skin, I breathe in the wonderfully sweet baby smell. Another wave of sadness washes over me as I realise it’s not just Kirsty I’ll miss. Jane will grow up without me in her life, too.
“Hope you don’t mind if I pack while we chat?” Kirsty’s moving like a whirlwind, clearing CDs and books from the shelves. She pauses for a second and grins over at me, hazel eyes dancing. “I can guess what your news is, anyway.”
My brow crinkles as I set Jane back down. “Really? I don’t think so.”
“Bet I can.” She starts working again like the Road Runner on speed.
“Okay. Go for it.” I shrug, curious to see what she comes up with. There’s no way she could know about Julia and the Rose House fiasco.
“Well . . . you and Jeremy have been together for what, over a year, right? I bet he asked you to move in!” Kirsty rips off a piece of packing tape. “About time, I’d say. Especially since you spend almost every night there.”
“God, no! You couldn’t be further off!” I force a laugh, but her words make me wonder: should we be thinking of the next step in our relationship? It’s funny; the two of us have never had one of those ‘status of the relationship’ talks about where things are going. With Jeremy in and out of the hospital, starting up his charity, and focusing on getting well, we’ve been content to just be together.
There’s nothing wrong with that, is there? We’ll discuss things when we need to. Not every relationship needs to be plotted on one of Kirsty’s many spreadsheets.
“Oh. Okay, then. Sorry.” Kirsty makes a face and turns towards me again. “So what is it?”
“Well, remember the story I was fact-checking for Helen Goodall? I uncovered a whole new angle and I’m going to be working with her on it!” I force enthusiasm into my voice, even though I feel a little deflated now.
“Wow!” She looks impressed.
“Yup,” I say proudly. “I’m meeting Helen tomorrow morning with the editor.”
“So how did you find this new angle? I thought you were stuck on . . . what do you call it? Death Row?” Kirsty’s completely forgotten about packing now and is staring over at me, mouth agape.
“Fact Check Row,” I respond. “Well, the original article was a feature on a construction company. It needed a few more quotes, and when I called up some of their clients, I found out this company did a terrible job refurbishing a care home. The manager tried to reach them, but they went AWOL. The old people are suffering, too.” God, it really is a good story. And wait until Kirsty hears Julia’s involved!
“Christ.” Kirsty shakes her head. “I can definitely see the magazine making the most of that one. It’s a David and Goliath story, big time.”
“That’s not all,” I say, unable to keep it to myself any longer. “Guess who’s the CEO of the construction company?”
“I’ve no idea. Who?”
“Julia!” The word bursts from me. “Jeremy’s ex!”
“Julia?” Kirsty’s jaw drops even more. “Shit. What does Jeremy think of all this?”
“Um . . .” For some reason, I don’t feel like explaining my new Shut Your Mouth policy. My friend subscribes to the opposite theory – brutal frankness – and while Tim’s been conditioned to handle it, not everyone has a built-in Teflon deflector.
I feign a look of horror at my watch. “We’d better head out. Do you need help with Jane?” Not that I’d know how to get a baby ready; I’ve always wondered how moms manoeuvre their offspring’s floppy limbs through arm-holes and trouser legs.
“No, Tim has some work he needs to finish, so he’s going to stay here with Jane. It’s probably one of the last times I’ll be able to go out on my own! Once I’m in the States, it’ll be all Mama, all the time.” Kirsty laughs, grabbing the tape. “Just let me finish this box.”
“Why don’t you hire professional movers?” I ask, watching her deftly close the box’s flaps. It’s not like Kirsty and Tim are living on my meagre salary. Together, the two of them could probably get Katie Price to pack up their house if they wanted.
“They never do a good job,” Kirsty responds. “Anyway, I don’t want to waste time. Tim and I have managed to pick our top ten houses in Westport. Now I just need to book viewing appointments with the realtor and see when I can fly out.”
“I still can’t believe you’re going.” My heart pangs as I imagine passing by, another couple inhabiting the space.
“I know.” Kirsty meets my eyes and we trade sad smiles. “I can’t, either. But I think it’s the right thing. For us, as a family.”
“I guess so,” I say, although I can’t fathom how. Wouldn’t it be better for Jane to grow up here, surrounded by culture and history? Doesn’t Kirsty want her baby to have a posh British accent? Instead, Jane’s going to spend her formative years with kids decked out in Baby Dior, and moms who look like they’ve stepped off America’s Next Top Mother.
“Okay, let’s go. I’m dying for a drink.” Kirsty grabs her coat and keys, kisses Jane, and shouts goodbye to Tim.
“So I’m surprised that with the Julia connection, the magazine’s still letting you work on the story,” she says as we hurry across busy Marylebone Road. “Isn’t there some kind of rule about personal interests?”
Oh, crap. Is there something like that in the editorial code? I keep meaning to finish reading the damn thing! I can’t help it if the person I’m writing about happens to be my boyfriend’s ex, can I? Anyway, I’m sure if such a clause exists, it doesn’t apply to former partners. And as a serious journalist, I can be objective, ex or not.
“I haven’t seen anything,” I say vaguely. That much is true.
“Okay.” Kirsty shrugs and pulls open the door of the pub.
“Oh, there’s your man!”
My face breaks into a grin as I spot Jeremy at a corner table, a bottle of wine and four glasses at the ready. Now that’s my boyfriend, I think proudly as we plop onto the bench beside him. And – my heart drops – he still looks pale and tired. It’ll take him a while to get over the stress and strain of the past few days, I guess.
Kirsty kisses him on the cheek. “Sorry, Tim’s tied up with work. And with Jane!”
“That’s a shame.” Jeremy smiles over at her, then starts filling our glasses. “I’m glad you’re here, though. What’s this I hear about you moving back to America? We’re going to miss you!”
I watch them chat, loving that my two best friends get on so well. With Jeremy’s easy-going and friendly personality, I can’t picture him not getting along with anyone, but still. They’re the two people I care about most. I don’t know what I’d do if they clashed.
“How are things going with the charity these days?” Kirsty asks, sipping her wine.
“Good now.” Jeremy leans back in his seat, looking more relaxed than I’ve seen him in ages. “It’s been tough keeping our corporate donations on track, but a large one came through in the nick of time.”
“Awesome! Very impressive in this economic climate.” Kirsty lifts her glass in the air. “To Jeremy’s charity.” We all clink and I take a giant gulp, letting the wine’s tangy taste fill my mouth.
“Oh, and to Serenity’s big story, as well!” I jerk at Kirsty’s words, and a drop of liquid lodges in my windpipe.
When I’ve finished coughing up a lung, Jeremy asks: “Big story, Ser? Tell me!”
“Oh, you know, just that I finally managed to get through fact-checking an article without Gregor second-guessing every little thing,” I fib, cheeks flushing as an uncomfortable feeling circles my belly. It’s for the best, I remind my troublesome gut. We don’t need unwelcome guests invading our refuge.
Beside me, Kirsty’s eyebrows have flown up so high they’re buried under a waterfall of curls, and she’s eyeing me with disapproval. Well, whatever. Jeremy can talk to me about this whole thing when the article’s out – if he wants to. Tenet number one of the Shut Your Mouth guide: loving someone means never forcing them to discuss difficult issues.
Construct A Couple Page 7
