“I’m still worried about you, you know.” I touch his stubbly cheek. “You’re going to stay home and rest today, right?” See? I’m sharing my feelings already. This honest relationship thing is easier than I thought.
Jeremy stretches, his face crinkling up in that cute way I love. “I’ve got to head to the office this afternoon to finish up some paperwork, but I’ll stick around here this morning.” He gives me a gentle nudge. “Don’t you worry about me. Go get ready for work! I don’t want my star reporter to be late.”
I try not to wince at his words. If only he knew! I push away the thought that maybe with our new policy, I should fill him in on Friday’s happenings. No, I tell myself firmly. I killed the story to ensure Jeremy could still accept the donation; to safeguard the future. If he discovered Top Class’s negligence . . . well, that would make everything much more complicated. It’s best to keep our new honesty policy focused on the present, and leave the past alone.
Shame I can’t consign Julia to the past. As a major donor, she’s managed to insert herself into our here and now. Sliding open the wardrobe door, I can’t help wondering when Jeremy will tell me she’s behind the cheque. He’ll have to soon; the party Karen mentioned is only days away. Give him time, I remind myself. The poor man just got out of the hospital!
Grimacing, I run my eyes over the remaining clean clothes inside the tiny wardrobe: a sweater Mom knit me for Christmas that’s unravelling at the neck, and a pair of black trousers that no longer fits, thanks to the Heathrow Injection – fifteen pounds every expat gains when they move to London.
“I’d better head to my bedsit and find something to wear,” I say, pulling on the jeans and T-shirt I’ve been living in all weekend. Thank God it’s still early.
“Take a tenner from the dish by the door, and grab a cab.” Jeremy yawns.
“Thank you!” I drop a kiss on his lips. “Have a great day. And take it easy!”
Jeremy smiles up at me. “I will, love. You have a great day, too.”
A warm feeling fills me as I grin back at him, and for the millionth time, I thank whoever’s up there that Pick Up Sticks – and Jeremy – is safe. I run down the stairs and over to Marylebone High Street, where I hail a passing taxi.
“Hopefield Avenue,” I say breathlessly to the driver, who nods. I climb in the back, noticing my fly is gaping wide open. Whoops. As I jimmy up the zipper, the cabbie meets my eyes in the mirror and shakes his head, likely thinking I’ve been up to no good.
Well, whatever! Not even being mistaken for a low-class call girl can bother me today. Jeremy’s home, I’ve still got a job at the magazine despite my renegade activities, the charity’s fine . . . and I bet with our new open-air policy, our relationship will be smoother than ever.
We glide through the early-morning streets, finally pulling up in front of the house with my bedsit. In the streaming sun, it looks worse than ever: paint peels from the building’s stucco surface, and pollution has tinged the facade a dingy grey. A light burns above saggy steps, and the windows are covered with a stunning array of mismatched polyester curtains.
Double-checking my zipper, I clamber from the cab then shove a tenner at the driver.
“Don’t worry, love,” he says, taking in the state of my abode. “Reckon you need it more than me.”
And with that, he pulls away, leaving me standing on the street corner with my mouth hanging open. Well, at least there’s one advantage to someone thinking you’re down on your luck.
I dash through the damp-smelling house and into my room, quickly throwing on a pair of clean trousers, a black Primark T-shirt, and a stretched-out cardigan. It’s strange being here: after all my time at Jeremy’s, my little hole in the wall seems more like a changing room than home. An air of disuse makes the space empty and cold, a direct contrast to the warm cosiness of my boyfriend’s place.
After running a brush through my hair, I jam on my shoes, grab a lightweight spring jacket (might be a bit optimistic, oh well), and join the stream of commuters heading to Queen’s Park tube.
Forty-five minutes later, I’ve made it to the newsroom. It’s just after eight – I’m here in record time, thanks to my lack of personal hygiene – and, as usual, Gregor is hunched over his keyboard, steaming cup of noxious coffee on his desk.
“Morning,” I grunt, plopping onto the chair and flicking on my computer.
It’s Health and Beauty day, and as I scan my folder, I see Gregor’s stuck me with fact-checking Cindy Crawford’s beauty spot. Funnily enough, though, after Friday’s excitement, I’m actually looking forward to a calm, predictable week.
“Hiya!” Lizzie slides into her chair a few minutes later, and when I raise my head, I’m surprised to see an hour has passed. “How’s your boyfriend? Everything okay?”
I nod. “He’s much better.” I hope.
“Oh, good.” She boots up the computer, kicking her metal-studded leather bag under the table. “Right, best get started. Another fun and exciting day ahead.”
“I wouldn’t worry, ladies.” Gregor’s voice floats around the top of the file he’s holding, thankfully blocking his face from view. “We’ve got a lot of work to get through. I reckon today will be plenty exciting.”
Lizzie rolls her eyes. “I’m sure, Gregor. Just like every other day. If you’re an excitement junkie, this is the place for you!” Her sarcastic tone rings through the small space, but she doesn’t seem worried who overhears. Once again, I can’t help wondering why she’s doing this job. Unlike Gregor and me, Lizzie doesn’t appear keen to advance, and God knows she’s in and out of the newsroom faster than Gregor gulps his Nescafé. Well, whatever her reasons, I’m glad she’s here, even if we don’t have much time to chat. Her what-you-see-is-what-you-get personality immediately puts me at ease.
Minutes tick by as I attempt to verify the exact dimensions of Cindy’s spot. Closing one lid, I squint at the computer screen displaying a magnified image of the mole. If you let your eyes glaze over a little, it almost resembles a happy face . . .
All of a sudden, a shriek rends the dead air of Fact Check Row. My head snaps up, and Lizzie raises her eyebrows.
“What the hell was that?” she asks.
I swivel towards Jonas’s office, where the noise came from. The sharp sound has been replaced by Helen’s loud voice issuing an impressive string of expletives – some I’ve never even heard before! What the hell? Beside me, Gregor continues working like nothing’s happening.
Footsteps stomp towards us. A paper flies past my nose, landing with a thud on the table. I spin in surprise, gulping at Helen’s angry face. It’s so contorted her eyebrows are almost touching.
“Look at this.” She stabs a finger at today’s edition of One World. “Just look! This is what happens when your editor’s too bloody afraid of lawyers!”
What is she talking about? Brow wrinkling in confusion, I try to focus on the paper in front of me.
Construction Company Accused of Serious Negligence, the headline says in bold, black letters. There’s a photo of Julia from the website, and another of the swanky corporate headquarters. Oh . . . shit.
My mind whirls as the text blurs beneath me. How did the paper get this story? Ryan at Rose House never mentioned talking to another journalist, and I know I was the one to warn Julia, not a One World reporter like I claimed. If Julia locked down the company after our little chat, then how the hell did they get this?
I stare at the words again then blink hard, hoping when I open my eyes, they’ll be gone. But when I lift my lids, they’re still there. However it happened, the story is out. Top Class is going to be ruined.
And, by default, so will Jeremy’s charity.
I force myself to read the rest of the article.
London-based Top Class Construction faces a string of allegations by Rose Care Home, ranging from inferior materials to poor building practices. Manager Ryan Johnson claims the company’s negligence could have led to injuries and deaths, had the problem n
ot been discovered in time.
“I called Top Class every day, trying to find out when they’d return to finish the job,” said Johnson. “Anyway, after a month of me pestering them to come back, they finally did. Threw in the windows, did a shoddy job with the plumbing and electrics, and disappeared again.”
That’s almost exactly what Ryan said to me, I think, jerking in surprise. Actually, that is exactly what Ryan said to me. I glance up at Helen, who’s practically vibrating with anger. Gregor and Lizzie are staring at their computer screens, as if they’re afraid to move. I don’t blame them.
“Wow,” I say limply. “I can’t believe One World got the story.”
“I can,” Helen snorts, “and not for the first time, either. It’s obvious they knew what we were working on – they probably sent a reporter to get the CEO’s reaction before we could. That’s why Top Class cancelled my interview.”
I shake my head, trying to make sense of it. I was the one who tipped-off Julia, so Helen’s theory doesn’t hold. But is it just a coincidence Ryan’s quotes are word-for-word like those in my notes? Would someone here send the competition all my research?
“Let me tell you, this won’t happen again,” Helen continues. “I’m going to track down the leak if it’s the last thing I do. If management didn’t take me seriously before, they bloody will now.” She grabs the paper and stalks off.
“Shit,” Lizzie says under her breath. “I’ve never seen her so angry.”
“Do you think Helen’s right?” If there really is a leak, I swear I’ll kill them with my bare hands. Everything was nicely contained until they got involved! My head pounds as I picture Jeremy heading cheerfully into the charity office, then finding out about the article . . . oh, God.
Lizzie shrugs. “Hard to say. One World has been getting a jump on us for the past few weeks, yes, but with them being a daily and our management so hesitant, it’s kind of expected. And newsroom leaks are difficult to prove. Sources do tend to use the same expressions and language. If there is something fishy, it’s likely some schmuck desperate to liven things up a bit. What do you think, G?”
Gregor’s head snaps towards us. “I haven’t a clue, and I don’t care. Now, would you two stop gossiping and get back to work?”
I turn to the computer, but my mind couldn’t be further from Cindy’s mole. Instead, I look up One World’s website on Google, scrolling down until I spot the Top Class article. I skim the damning words again, forcing myself to oxygenate until I reach the end. The story closes with the information Top Class made a multi-million pound profit last year – the final nail in the company’s coffin.
Each word on the screen is like a wrecking ball, destroying Jeremy’s dream. With all this in the open, the charity will have to shun any association with Julia’s company, even if Top Class did still want to donate. And the way the business will be affected, it’s doubtful they’ll be able to, anyway. Pick Up Sticks will be back where it started, with Jeremy’s already fragile health at risk once again.
My heart pinches as I picture his devastated expression, and I vow then and there he’ll never discover the part I played in this. With the charity’s future uncertain, he’ll need someone to talk to, and if I tell him it was me who dug up the dirt . . . well, that’s not going to help, especially after everything last year with the tabloid. Talk about bringing back bad memories! Okay, I didn’t know Top Class was the one donating, and yes, I did my best to stop the story. But . . .
I take a deep breath and try to calm the rising storm inside. The most important thing is that I’m there for the man I love. Right now, he’s going to need me more than ever. I’ll do everything I can to provide a sympathetic ear.
This will be the first test of our new policy, and although it’s a big one, I have a feeling we’ll pass with flying colours. Jeremy was going to tell me Julia was behind the donation at some stage. With the Top Class story now splashed across the media, it’ll provide the perfect segue, making it super-easy for him to bring up.
Although I’m not exactly eager to discuss the woman who broke my boyfriend’s heart, in a way, I can’t wait to get her out in the open. Ever since I started that puff piece on her company, Julia’s presence has been hanging over our relationship, becoming larger as the story grew. Once Jeremy talks to me, she’ll be back in her ice-box, I’m sure.
The next few hours pass in a blur as I attempt to focus on the Cindy article, staring numbly at the screen as the text waves before my eyes. Each time I manage to read a sentence or two, the biting words of One World’s story float through my head. I tried so hard to stop it, remembering it’s public is like a slap in the face. And if I feel this badly, I can only imagine how Jeremy is.
I pick up the phone to try to reach him, but my call clicks through to voicemail – the same way it has the past few zillion times I’ve rung today. He’s probably in crisis talks about the impact this article will have on the charity, but I want to hear his voice and make sure he’s still standing.
As the day progresses, public reaction to One World’s feature gets angrier and angrier. On the website, all one hundred and twenty-one article comments agree Top Class’s executives should be lynched. I can’t help a tiny smile as I picture Julia tarred and feathered, although she’d make even hot tar look good. The story’s been picked up by the BBC, and Sky News has set up shop outside the company headquarters, ambushing any employees coming in or out. By mid-afternoon, Julia has finally released a statement that Top Class is onsite at the care home, doing its utmost to rectify the situation free of charge.
As the public response intensifies, so does Helen’s determination to uncover how One World keeps scooping us. At one point, we hear her shrieking she’s “not going to rest until she finds the cowardly Cretan who leaked it,” with Jonas trying to calm her by saying they’ll do everything possible to locate the culprit. Paranoia or not, I’m sure Seven Days doesn’t want to lose its veteran reporter.
At five o’clock on the dot, Jeremy still hasn’t answered his mobile. I fly from the newsroom, down into the smelly depths of the tube, and race through the streets to his house. Pushing open the door, I’m unsure what to expect. Will he be here, or is he tied up at the office?
“Ouf!” I run smack into his solid form at the entrance. “You’re home!” Thank God, I think, looking up into his drawn face.
“Yes, I’m just getting in now.” Jeremy shrugs off his coat, and my heart drops as I take in the charcoal suit he’s wearing. That can only mean one thing: a meeting with the trustees.
“Sorry I didn’t get a chance to call you,” he says, loosening his tie. “It’s been a hell of a day.”
I touch his arm gently and wait for him to elaborate, but silence fills the air. Well, maybe he needs a little nudge. “What happened?”
Jeremy sighs. “Major problem with the company providing the donation.”
“The company?” Okay, now’s the perfect time for him to tell me it’s Top Class – and Julia. He doesn’t know I’m aware she’s the donor, but there’s no way I could have avoided the Top Class news today. We’ll sit down, chat a while, maybe print out her photo and throw darts at it . . . if only he’d told me in the first place, I— No, I won’t think about that. I smile encouragingly into his eyes. Open, honest relationship, here we come!
But Jeremy just shakes his head, yanking off a tie. “It’s a very long story. Anyway, the trustees decided to cut off our involvement with the company.”
My heart drops, even though it’s exactly what I thought might happen. No charity – especially one providing services for the vulnerable – could be associated with a corporation accused of taking advantage of the elderly. But . . . ‘it’s a very long story’? It’s not really – I know, because I’m the one who found it.
Maybe there’s more to it? Something else about Julia he doesn’t want to say? Don’t be silly, I tell myself, shoving those thoughts into a far corner of my mind. Jeremy’s probably tired and needs a little time to abso
rb everything. After all, he’s been through a lot lately.
Perhaps I should tell him Karen filled me in on Top Class, and that I know Julia’s the CEO. But the second I open my mouth, I snap it closed again. What’s the point of having an honest relationship if I have to drag out the information? It kind of defeats the purpose. No, I’ve got to trust my boyfriend; to have faith he’ll talk to me when he’s good and ready.
Jeremy slips off his shoes and pads to the lounge, collapsing on the sofa. “God, I’m exhausted.”
I lean my head on his shoulder. “So what will happen to the charity?”
“I gave the trustees a personal guarantee I’d cover the debt. As for going forward . . . well, we’ll have to figure out other options. I’m kind of hoping for a miracle. That’s about what it will take right now.”
“You’ll think of something, I’m sure!” I say in a cheerful tone. “Hey, why don’t you let me help? We can go through the accounts together, see how much money needs to be raised . . . I’m really good at brainstorming!” I am, too. At my last job, the managing editor said he’d never heard more ‘unique’ ideas to help with the magazine’s circulation. I thought dressing up as doctors’ instruments and parading around Essex was inspired, but the rest of the team weren’t quite so keen.
Jeremy gives me a tired smile. “You know what? I can’t even think about that right now. I’m absolutely knackered.”
“Come on, then. Let’s put you to bed.” I stand, pulling him up. The more rest he has, the better place he’ll be in to get everything – the charity and our relationship – on track.
But as I lie beside him a few minutes later, I sense a creeping sort of distance between us. Knowing he’s holding something back has made our safe haven feel insecure. Sighing, I press my cheek against the cool pillow, attempting to conjure up positive thoughts. We’ve pulled through lots of other crises, from my tabloid deeds to Jeremy’s poor health. Compared to those, this little Julia thing is nothing.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Construct A Couple Page 11
