“Fantastic, Ser,” Jeremy’s saying, just like I knew he would. “You’ll be a reporter soon, I’m sure.”
I nod, meeting my boyfriend’s admiring eyes.
“That’s the plan!” And even though it might take longer than originally thought, I’m definitely on the right track.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The next morning, anticipation swirls through me as I urge my newly polished ballet shoes faster and faster towards the newsroom. Today, I’m going to be working alongside one of the best reporters ever. I’ll be her right-hand man (okay, woman), and I’ll be so efficient, so indispensable, she can’t help but admire my skills. Watch out, world: twenty-first century Lois Lane is on her way!
Would Lois Lane ever keep something from Superman? Probably, if it would bring back bad memories – and if he was as exhausted as Jeremy. Worry flutters inside as I recall how sluggish he was this morning, like he was moving through slurry. Gnawing my lip, I wonder if the Shut Your Mouth policy should apply to situations dealing with your partner’s health?
I’ll work on theory development later, I tell myself, pushing away the niggling thoughts as I cross the newsroom to my station. It’s almost eight and Gregor’s taken up position already, but for once, I don’t mind. It’s easy to be gracious when you’re making progress like I am.
I’ve only just booted up my computer when the phone rings.
“Serenity, we’re ready to discuss the article now,” Jonas says.
“Coming!” I sing out. Nerves shoot through me as I grab my notebook. This is it: time to meet Helen.
“Where are you going?” Gregor asks, a sour smell drifting from his mouth.
“Oh, Jonas and Helen want to talk about the Top Class feature.” I feign a casual tone, as if this kind of thing happens all the time – even though the dampness of my armpits makes me wish I sprayed on an extra layer of deodorant this morning.
Gregor’s face morphs into such an angry expression I almost expect his eyes to glow red. “You may think you’re special, finding this story, but I wouldn’t count your chickens before they hatch.”
I clench my lips together to stop a snort from escaping. Count my chickens before they hatch? What is he, stuck in the nineteen-fifties? For a split second, I can’t help feeling sorry for the guy. Trapped here, year after year despite his obvious reporting ambitions . . . it’s no wonder he’s a little twisted.
Without responding, I hurry down the hallway to Jonas’s office. Glancing through the open door, I catch sight of the Queen of Journalism herself, perched regally on a torn vinyl chair.
Before I know what I’m doing, I drop a curtsy, cheeks tingeing red at my stupidity. She’s not the Queen of England, I tell myself, although her hair is vaguely Elizabeth-like: tight curls coil off her head in an almost perfect sphere, and thickly framed glasses perch on the end of a patrician nose.
“It’s nice to meet you,” I say, holding out a hand. Oh God, my fingers are trembling.
Helen nods, ignoring my hand, and my face flames redder as I let it fall to my side. So much for buddy-buddy journalists working together.
“Let’s get started,” she says in a business-like voice to Jonas, as if I’m not even here. “It’s a good story, but we’ll have to work hard to pull this together for Sunday.”
Coughing, Jonas shifts his bulk in the creaking chair. “Send me your text by the end of the day. I’ll do the fact-checking and copy editing myself before passing it to Legal. They’ll need to review everything. On a story this big – with serious claims of negligence – we can’t afford to take chances.”
“I’ve already lined up an appointment to interview the CEO in person this afternoon. I can’t wait to see her reaction to the allegations first-hand.” Helen’s eyes glitter, and she turns to face me. “Make sure you log your notes on the system so I can take a look before I go.”
I nod eagerly. “It’s all there!”
“Great. Then I need you to research the building codes for care homes.”
“Building codes?” The words fly out before I can stop them, and my tone isn’t exactly enthusiastic. “Maybe I could come along with you to the interview? I could take notes, watch your technique. . . .” My voice trails off as Helen fixes me with a killer stare, her face coldly blank. God, no wonder Saddam Hussein labelled her ‘the scary British woman’.
“Look – Serenity, is it? – you did a good job finding this story,” she says in an icy tone. “But I don’t have time to play babysitter right now. Just get me the building code info.”
“Okay,” I croak, scurrying from the office and over to Fact Check Row. Hmm, the conversation didn’t exactly go according to plan. Well, at least Helen knows my name. That’s something, right? And it is still my first week, I remind myself. I’ve plenty of time to reach Al-levels of glory.
I squeeze past Lizzie – who lifts a hand and grunts good morning as she peruses something on the screen – then settle into my chair, clicking open Google. I’ve only just started scanning government regulations for operating care homes when my mobile rings. The tinny sound of One Direction’s latest cuts through the deadened air, and I cringe (what can I say? I like them more than a woman in her early twenties should). Kicking my bag under the table to muffle the sound, I pray it’ll stop before Jonas makes an appearance.
Silence falls, thank God. One minute later, though, the phone starts up again.
“Can you do something about that?” Gregor asks through gritted teeth. “And remember, no personal calls at work.”
I make a face, leaning down to grab my bag as Lizzie starts humming along to the tune. By the time I’ve rummaged in the dark depths of my purse, the mobile has gone silent. I stare at the screen proclaiming two missed calls – I don’t recognise the number. One Direction starts up again in my hand, and I jump.
God! Whoever this is, they’re certainly persistent. If it’s a telemarketer wanting to sell insurance or something, then today is so not their lucky day. Don’t they know I’m on deadline, busy setting the world to rights?
“Er, maybe you should get that?” Lizzie asks with raised eyebrows.
I’m going to kill whoever’s on the other end.
“I don’t want any!” I answer loudly.
There’s a pause, then a voice says, “Serenity?”
The tone is that of an older woman, posh and uncertain – nothing like the slick professional patter of someone trying to sell me a cheese grater.
My brow furrows. “Yes, speaking.”
“Karen Cotter, from Pick Up Sticks.”
“Oh, hi, Karen!” Strange, in all the time Jeremy’s run the charity, Karen’s never called.
“Serenity, Jeremy collapsed in the office this morning. He came through the door . . . and he blacked out, right in front of me.”
Oh my God. Jeremy collapsed? My fingers grip the mobile as everything fades away; everything but Karen’s voice on the other end of the line.
“I called 999 and the paramedics took him up to the Royal Free in Hampstead. That’s where I’m at now.”
“Is he okay?” I can barely get the words past the lump in my throat.
“The doctors say he’s run down and dehydrated. Given his medical history, they want to keep him here for the next few days to make sure he’s stable.”
“I’ll be there as fast as I can,” I say, then click off the phone. My stomach is like one giant pasta ball – all glumped together – and my heart races. Jeremy will be fine, I tell myself, taking in a lungful of air. We’ve been through this before. He just got overtired working so hard, and he needs a little rest and relaxation. I shove away memories of last Christmas, and how fatigue segued into a serious bout of pneumonia.
“All right?” Lizzie asks, a concerned expression on her face.
I shake my head, tears of stress and worry pushing at my eyes. “No. My boyfriend’s been taken to hospital. I’ve got to get over there.” I know from previous experience Jeremy will sleep most of the day, but I have to see
him; to hold his hand and be by his side. I scoot back my chair, standing on shaky legs.
“You need to inform me before you leave the premises during working hours,” Gregor says imperiously.
“Give it a rest, G, for God’s sake,” Lizzie spits in his direction. “Serenity, I can cover your work today if you need me to.”
I shoot her a grateful look as I gather my things.
“That won’t be necessary, Lizzie.” Gregor wipes his nose. “You focus on your own work. Serenity, are all the interview notes logged on the system?”
I nod in a daze, his words swirling around my head.
“Fine. Come back as fast as you can. I’ll inform Jonas of your whereabouts.”
I don’t even bother responding; I just grab my bag and rush down the lift. Out on the street, I raise a trembling arm to hail a taxi. The ride to north London will cost a fortune, but I don’t care. I need to get to Jeremy as quickly as possible.
“Royal Free Hospital in Hampstead,” I puff as I climb in the back of the cab, so flustered I forget you’re not supposed to enter until you say where you’re going.
I sag against the leather seat as the taxi swings into the busy London street. Crossing Waterloo Bridge, the iconic London skyline fills my eyes. To the left, the pods of the London Eye churn while Big Ben and Westminster sit proudly on the riverside. To the right, the Millennium Bridge threads its way across the river, with St Paul’s massive dome spearing the sky beyond.
My gut twists as images of Jeremy opening the city to me fill my head: our trips to Borough Market, a foodie’s paradise; Primrose Hill on a soft summer’s night, with strawberries and champagne; swimming in the murky ponds of Hampstead Heath . . . In a way, London has become entwined with our relationship, with every corner holding a memory.
The taxi rises up the hill towards Hampstead, stopping in front of the hospital. After shoving some notes at the driver, I hurry inside the building, realising I forgot to ask Karen what ward Jeremy’s in.
“Jeremy Ritchie,” I huff to the front-desk receptionist, tapping my foot on the linoleum floor as she clacks away on her computer.
“He’s in the assessment ward, second floor, room 207,” she says finally.
I nod and head to the lift. I haven’t been in this hospital before – Jeremy’s usually taken to St Mary’s, near Paddington – but the scent of lemon and bleach is the same and, as always, it turns my stomach. Guilt floods into me as the lift rattles its way to the second floor. Maybe the Shut Your Mouth theory shouldn’t be applied to health situations. Although only Jeremy can control his actions, I knew he wasn’t well. I might not have been able to stop him going to work today, but at least I could have tried.
I dash down the hushed corridor and push through the door of room 207, jerking back at the sight of an elderly man, legs akimbo, being sponged down by a nurse. That’s not Jeremy. Thank goodness, I think, regarding the rolls of flesh.
“Serenity!” Karen whispers from a chair at the far end of the room. The nurse glances up and gives me a disapproving look – as if I want to ogle a man who’s munched too many Jaffas – and draws the curtain. I cross to Jeremy’s side, heart squeezing as I take in his silent form. His eyes are closed, and against the white of his skin, his lashes look darker than ever. A tube runs into his arm as he lies there, still and unmoving.
Karen takes my hand and propels me back out to the corridor.
“He’s been asleep since I rang you,” she says in a low voice, patting my arm. “He asked me not to call – said he didn’t want to worry you – but I had to. I knew you’d want to see him.”
“Thank you,” I croak, my voice clogged with emotion.
“I told him to take better care of himself.” Karen’s slender shoulders lift in a sigh. “Ever since he fainted in the office last week, I kept saying he’d end up here if he didn’t slow down. But he wouldn’t listen.”
My mouth drops open. Jeremy fainted last week? He never told me that! I knew he was pushing it, but I’d no idea how close to the edge he’d been.
“The same thing happened with my husband,” Karen continues. “William wouldn’t stop, even after the first stroke. And then—” She catches herself mid-sentence, and smiles encouragingly. “Of course Jeremy is young and he can regain his strength. I’ll leave you now and go back to the office. He’ll rest easier knowing someone’s taking care of things and completing the final paperwork for the Top Class donation. Thank goodness they came through. The trustees were getting very nervous.”
Her words float around my ears and for a second, I can’t quite absorb them.
“Top Class?” I repeat dumbly. “Top Class Construction?”
She nods. “Yes. Do you know them? Jeremy had a contact in management, apparently. They must be on quite good terms for the company to give us half a million pounds! We’re throwing a big party next week once we have the cheque in-hand. Are you coming, dear?”
I stare, open-mouthed, trying to get a grip on what Karen’s said.
Top Class is the company that’s going to save the charity.
Top Class, the company headed up by Jeremy’s ex.
The business whose reputation Seven Days is about to destroy in Sunday’s article.
Holy shit.
Why didn’t Jeremy tell me? Why didn’t he say Julia was behind the donation? Okay, so I didn’t share what I’d found, but a little corporate negligence is hardly in the same league as your ex arranging a half-million-pound injection. God, the charity must have been in dire straits for him to talk to her. Or have they been in touch all along?
I shake my head before those thoughts go any further. Jeremy was going to tell me this weekend, I’m sure. There’s a party next week, right? He wouldn’t have gone off to that without me.
“Are you all right, dear?” Karen’s staring at me with concern. “You’re a bit pale. Don’t worry, Jeremy will be fine once he’s rested up.”
He won’t be if he sees that article, I think, forcing a small smile. “I’m okay. Thank you so much for everything.”
She pats my arm again, then says: “Ring me if there’s anything you need.”
I nod, watching her straight back as she disappears down the corridor. Turning my head to avoid any chance encounters with the sponge-bathing Jaffa Man, I enter the room and sink into a chair in the corner. Tears fill my eyes as I reach over, grasping Jeremy’s cold hand.
When the news breaks on Sunday, Top Class will likely need every last penny to shore up their damaged business; forget charitable donations. Even if they did still want to donate, could Pick Up Sticks accept cash from a company with a dodgy reputation?
Either way, once that story hits newsstands, there’s a very good chance the charity won’t get the money it so desperately needs.
I glance over at the man I love, lying pale and motionless, and a wave of fear sweeps over me. He’s already worked himself into the hospital trying to get the charity back in order. What’s going to happen to his fragile health if that donation doesn’t come through? If Jeremy loses Pick Up Sticks . . . I wince, picturing how much time and effort he’s spent building it up. Without the charity, I don’t know what he’d do.
I link my fingers with his, liquid spilling down my cheeks. This article was supposed to be a step up; a way to impress the biggies at the magazine. But right now, everything plummets into insignificance compared to making sure Jeremy’s okay. And after last year – where my job at the tabloid practically ruined his life – there’s no way I’m going to let that happen again.
There’s only one thing to do.
I have to stop the story.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Although that conclusion is a no-brainer, I seem to have developed stop-that-story-itis. Thirty minutes later and my mind still spins like a whirling dervish, frantically trying to come up with something – anything – to kill the article. How the hell does someone even do that? Now I’m reverse Lois Lane, on a quest to save my Superman.
I bite my lip,
watching the steady rise and fall of Jeremy’s chest. He couldn’t look less like Superman if he tried. Underneath the washed-out exterior, though, is a man who really is made of steel: he’s recovered from a stroke, set up a charity . . . I wipe away the tears trailing down my face. No matter Jeremy’s reasons for keeping quiet about Julia, I can’t let him down now.
Perhaps I can ambush the printing press? I snort, picturing me creeping into whatever godforsaken place the Seven Days press is located, and— okay, scrap that. I haven’t the foggiest how to sabotage a press! All I recall from our class trip to the Harris Bugle is Jimmy Lewis almost losing a finger after poking it too close to a noisy machine. God, that boy can scream.
Anyway, breaking into a giant printing press is hardly incognito, and I need something a little less obvious. If Helen or Jonas finds out what I’m up to, I can kiss my job goodbye. I glance at my watch – half past ten. Time is ticking, and Helen’s got her interview with Julia sometime later this afternoon. I make a face, picturing Helen’s sure-to-be brutal interrogation of Julia, who hasn’t a clue what’s coming her way.
Wait! Maybe that’s what I can do. If I somehow warn Julia about Seven Days’ upcoming story, I’m sure she’ll go on the defensive, possibly even cancel Helen’s interview. At the very least, Julia will have time to prepare herself for the allegations. At most, Top Class might get their legal team to contact the magazine – and I know how fearful Seven Days is of being sued. It’s not a sure-fire method of stopping the story, but at least it’s a start.
I can carry out my plan from here, too. I’ll call up the publicity department and speak to Tanya, the PR who arranged my previous interview. No need to tell her who’s on the line; I’ll just lower my voice à la Deep Throat (God, what a silly name; surely they could have come up with something better – The Secret Squealer?), notify her about Helen and what we’ve found, hang up fast, then wait for Top Class to spring into action. Knowing Julia, I suspect she’ll take all possible measures to protect her business. Hopefully, my boyfriend will never discover how close his charity came to losing their most critical donation ever.
Construct A Couple Page 8
