‘Good of you to join us, JoANNE,’ Leo’s voice boomed from the far end of the table.
Leo had sarcasm down to a martial art. And calling her Joanne was one of his trademark moves, despite the fact Jo had told him repeatedly that it wasn’t her name.
‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ she said, heading for the closest free seat.
‘You look like crap,’ Leo remarked. ‘What happened to you?’
‘Um, I didn’t sleep very well,’ Jo muttered, not meeting any of the eyes she could feel trained on her.
‘Well, you’ve already met Joe, at least we don’t have to go through introductions again.’
‘Met who?’
‘Joe.’
‘Yes?’
‘Yeah, yeah, ha ha,’ Leo said in a monotone. ‘I think it’s a bit early in the day to be playing “Who’s on first”, isn’t it?’
Jo wasn’t following, but then she stopped trying as her eyes were drawn to the man getting up from his seat to the left of Leo. She hadn’t noticed him till now. He had been sitting on the same side of the table as her, but there were four or five others between them, so Jo literally couldn’t see him until he stood up.
‘So we meet again,’ he said a little sheepishly.
Jo’s heart shot up and lodged in her throat. ‘What are you doing here?’ she managed to squeeze out.
‘He’s going to be working here,’ said Leo matter-of-factly. ‘Didn’t you tell her yesterday, Joe?’
‘Tell who?’ Jo was completely confused. ‘I didn’t even know.’
‘What the hell did you two talk about the whole time?’ muttered Leo, shaking his head.
But Jo had just registered. ‘You’re going to work here?’
‘Some coincidence, eh?’ he said lamely.
‘On so many levels,’ Leo muttered, shuffling the papers in front of him.
‘What does that mean?’ Jo frowned.
He looked across his glasses at her. ‘You know, ’cause you’re Jo as well.’
‘As well as what?’ She felt as though she’d fallen down the rabbit hole. Nothing was making any sense.
‘Jo,’ said elevator man, reclaiming her attention. ‘My name is Joe, Joe Bannister. You said “no names, no pack drill” yesterday, remember? So I didn’t get the chance to introduce myself properly, and then later, well, you know, you . . . um . . . you weren’t conscious, exactly.’
Jo glanced around the table at the amused faces of her colleagues. They were clearly enjoying the show. Time to bring down the curtain.
‘Right, okay,’ she said briskly, pulling her chair in closer to the table. ‘So I guess you know by now that I’m Jo Liddell. We’ll have to figure out something about the names, of course,’ she added, taking her notepad out of her bag.
‘What do you mean?’ he frowned.
‘Well obviously we can’t both be called Jo,’ she said simply.
‘But we both are . . . called Joe.’
‘I realise that, but it’s not going to work. We’ll just call you Joseph.’
‘No one calls me Joseph,’ he declared, taking his seat again. ‘Not outside my immediate family, anyway.’
‘Well, bad luck, we have to avoid confusion.’
‘I’m not confused, is anyone else confused?’ asked Joe, scanning the table. Everyone shook their heads. He leaned forward a little so he could see Jo at the end of the table. ‘We have different surnames and, besides, I do have an “e” at the end of my name, and I’m guessing you don’t.’
‘You can’t see the “e” when it’s spoken,’ Jo pointed out. ‘It’s going to be a problem every time someone calls out “Jo”.’
‘I don’t see the problem,’ said Joe.
‘Well, I do.’
‘Then change your name.’
She shrugged dismissively. ‘I was here first.’
‘But it’s not even your real name.’
Jo froze. How did he know that?
‘It’s not her real name?’ said Leo. ‘I knew it.’
She had to change the subject, and quickly. ‘Surely you’ve got more important issues to cover at this meeting, Leo?’
‘Which we were doing, Joanne, or whatever the hell your name is, before you made your grand entrance and interrupted the proceedings,’ he reminded her. ‘I was saying that the plans for the new premises have been approved . . .’
There was a collective groan around the table. No one wanted to move in the first place. Sure, the building was in need of a revamp; it was daggy and outdated and inefficient, not least the elevators. But management in its wisdom had brought in a team of consultants to design a vast new office space in a swanky building down in the foreshore development. Which was all well and good, but what they had come up with was a cutting edge, entirely open-plan space, which would supposedly reflect the new multi-platform delivery of news and current affairs. Problem was, no one had bothered to consult the people who had to work there and deliver said news and current affairs. The journos hated the whole concept – no offices, no interviewing rooms, meant no privacy. They were copying every other paper on the eastern seaboard, and they hadn’t met one journalist from those other papers who liked it either.
But Leo could have been talking about moving them into a tree-house for all Jo was taking in. She was having too much trouble dealing with the piece of sky that had just fallen on her head. Elevator man was going to work here? He was a journalist? Why hadn’t he said? Or had he, and she just didn’t remember? No, she would have remembered that. She would have remembered a proper introduction, she would have remembered if he’d told her they weren’t just strangers who were never going to see each other again. Why wouldn’t he have said that he was going to be working with her? What kind of creepy game was he playing? Or was it all just a bit of fun at her expense? Jo felt uneasy and rattled, and she did not like feeling uneasy and rattled.
Lachlan just got a mention, hauling Jo’s attention back into the room.
‘. . . and he said it’s the most boring premiers’ conference in the history of premiers’ conferences, which is really saying something,’ Tim, the picture editor, relayed. ‘So unless there are dramatic developments today, we can’t expect anything from Lachlan for the front page.’
Art for the front page became the focus by Friday. There was only another day and a half to pull the paper together, and the front page had to sell it.
‘We’re keeping an eye on St Alban’s, because they’re about to deliver the 250,000th baby born at the hospital.’
‘Is that really front-page news?’ Leo asked dubiously.
‘It is when the birth rate is only 1.75.’
He shook his head. ‘It’ll do for page three . . .’
‘A few of the league results will be significant,’ said Glen Nicholas, the sports editor.
‘Any chance of some biffo?’ asked Leo.
Glen looked blank for a moment. ‘We are talking rugby league, boss.’
‘Okay, stupid question, but it’s still only a maybe for the front page,’ said Leo. ‘Okay, people, I guess there’s nothing for it but to pray for a major political scandal, or else a natural disaster . . . a tsunami, a Katrina, something.’
The whole assembly groaned in disapproval.
‘For Chrissakes, I’m joking,’ he retorted, though everyone knew that was only half true. ‘Get back to me throughout the day with any developments. I’ll meet the subs at three.’
Jo hovered outside the room after everyone had filed back to their desks. Well, not everyone. She could hear Leo and whatsisname inside still, talking, their matey, jokey voices muffled, punctuated with an occasional hearty guffaw. Things were going to be impossible around here if she didn’t assert her position, it was bad enough he was an old friend of Leo’s. But Jo had seniority. She’d been here more than three years, she was a columnist, she was entitled to some respect. She didn’t know his background, except that he’d been working overseas for a time, she remembered now . . . he’d only just got off a pl
ane . . . that’s why his phone wouldn’t work locally, and why he’d looked like he’d slept in his clothes. Had he been working overseas as a journalist? What was his surname? She didn’t catch it, she had been somewhat distracted when he introduced himself. No matter, she’d find out and Google him later.
The door swung open suddenly and Leo walked out, looking back over his shoulder. ‘So whenever you can make it in, Joe, don’t stress about it. We’ll see you when we see you.’
Jeez, she would have been dragged over the coals if she’d taken more than one day off to move, but golden boy clearly got to call his own shots. He came into the doorway, or rather, filled the doorway, his eyebrows lifting slightly as he spotted Jo.
‘Do you want something, Jo?’ asked Leo, noticing her at the same time.
‘Um,’ she cleared her throat, ‘yes, I was hoping to grab a word with, um, Mr . . . um . . .’
‘Bannister,’ said Joe, ‘but you can call me Joe. I won’t confuse myself with you.’
He was a smart-arse as well. Joe Bannister. That sounded familiar.
‘I’ll see you, Joe,’ said Leo, walking away up the corridor. ‘My best to the old guy, yeah?’
‘Will do, Leo.’ He turned to look at Jo. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘I just have a few questions . . .’ she faltered, ‘. . . about yesterday.’
‘Sure.’
He stood watching her expectantly, but Jo felt suddenly self-conscious.
‘We could go into my office if you like,’ he suggested.
‘You have an office?’ Jo exclaimed. ‘You haven’t even started yet and you have an office?’
‘Apparently it was vacant,’ he said, guileless.
Oh it was vacant all right. And just about everyone on staff had been angling for it since Alan Dutton retired and, instead of filling his position, management had done a reshuffle.
Jo turned on her heel and marched down the corridor into the vast maze of partitioned pens, one of which she was proud to call her own. Bloody jobs for the boys, it made her want to spit. She weaved her way across the floor to ‘his’ office, waiting outside for him to catch up.
‘It’s open, go on in,’ he said from behind her.
Jo opened the door and walked inside. He obviously hadn’t moved in yet, the room was still bare but for a standard-issue suite of well-worn furniture.
‘Just so you know,’ she turned around to face him as he closed the door, ‘this is going to put a few noses out of joint.’
He frowned. ‘What is?’
‘You getting this office,’ she said, leaning against the window frame and folding her arms, gazing out. There was a decent view as well.
‘Do you want it?’
‘I’m sorry?’ she said, turning abruptly to look at him.
‘Do you want the office? I don’t want to put anyone’s nose out of joint, so you can have it if you want.’
‘I wasn’t talking about me,’ Jo said archly.
‘Whatever,’ he shrugged, perching on the edge of the desk. ‘You’re welcome to it, I’m not going to be around much anyway.’
‘Oh?’
‘A journalist can’t journalise from a desk in an office,’ he said. ‘Not this one anyway.’
Oh God help us, a self-anointed maverick who coined his own words.
‘I’m really only here on a freelance basis,’ he went on to explain. ‘I’m not even on a salary.’
‘Yet you get an office,’ she said tartly.
‘Oh for . . . Take it,’ he said, standing up and spreading his arms out. ‘It’s yours. Please, I want you to have it.’
‘I don’t want it.’
‘I’m serious, it’s yours.’
‘And I said, I don’t want it!’ Jo repeated through gritted teeth.
He dropped his arms again. ‘Then can you build a bridge?’
‘Pardon?’
‘And get over it.’
She groaned inwardly. He probably thought he was witty.
‘So,’ prompted Joe, ‘did you want to discuss our problem?’
‘Our problem?’ she frowned.
‘Well, I happen to think it’s your problem, but I don’t want to start off on the wrong foot,’ he said. ‘So I was thinking, we could try Big Joe/Little J–’
‘Don’t finish that thought,’ she interrupted, holding up her hand. ‘In fact, don’t even think it, ever again, and especially don’t say it out loud.’
‘Okay, okay,’ he surrendered, but she could see the glint in his eye as he sat back on the desk again. ‘So what did you want to talk about?’
Jo took a breath to compose herself, then looked him straight in the eye, no matter how disconcerting that was proving to be. ‘Look, the thing is, whatever happened in the elevator –’
‘What do you mean?’
She hesitated. ‘I mean, regardless of what might have happened –’
‘I don’t understand what you’re getting at.’
Jo was confused. He was confusing her. ‘I haven’t said anything yet.’
‘Yes you have,’ he insisted. ‘“Whatever happened”, “what might have happened”? What happened happened; there’s nothing more – or less – to it.’
Jo’s heart started to thump uncomfortably against her rib cage. What was with the double-talk? It was unsettling. So was the way he was looking at her. Intently, with those blue, blue eyes. He was clean-shaven today, she just noticed, but his clothes were still on the rumpled side. Not that she could talk, the way she was dressed.
‘Are you okay?’ he was asking. ‘You do remember everything, don’t you, Jo?’
She flicked her hair back defiantly. ‘Of course I remember,’ she scoffed.
‘Because I was kind of hoping,’ he went on carefully, ‘considering everything, that we were going to be friends, at least.’
What the hell did that mean?
‘Well, um . . .’ Bugger. He didn’t know what she didn’t know, but if she didn’t say something soon, he’d know there were things she didn’t know, and she didn’t want him to know that. All she could do was bluff, and hope he didn’t call her on it. He knew her name, allegedly, that much he’d admitted. ‘Okay, if you wanted to be friends, why did you go blurting my business to everyone at the meeting?’
He was frowning. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘You told everyone my real name.’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘All right, but you told them that Jo isn’t my real name.’
‘Sorry,’ he relented, bowing his head. ‘You were pushing the point, it just came out. But I would never actually tell anyone, I promise. I realise you wouldn’t want to let that get around.’
Jo felt her face burning. Did he really know, had she really told him? If that was the case, she might have said – or done – anything.
‘Why didn’t you tell me you were going to be working here?’ she tried next. She was sure he hadn’t told her that. Pretty sure. He wasn’t denying it, so she must be on solid ground. ‘There was I thinking that we’d never lay eyes on each other again, and you knew perfectly well that we would, so you did everything you could to get as much information as possible on me.’
‘That’s not how it happened,’ he protested. ‘You were the one asking the questions, trying to guess what I did for a job. I was completely honest with you.’
She remembered now. ‘No, you offered to let me guess,’ she said, ‘because you knew I’d never think you had the same job as me.’
‘Look,’ he said, getting to his feet, ‘I’m not going to wear this, Jo, no way. I wanted to introduce myself from the beginning but you did the whole “no names, no pack drill” speech, and if we had just introduced ourselves like normal people it would all have come out and none of this would be happening now.’
Jo just stared at him. He was right. She remembered.
He sighed. ‘What do you want from me, Jo?’
She wanted him to fill in all the gaps, so she had a complete picture
of what had happened in the elevator. So they were both hitting off the same handicap. Knowledge was power, and right now he had all the knowledge, so Jo had to restore the balance of power.
‘I don’t want anything from you,’ she said plainly.
‘Then what’s the problem?’
She took a breath. ‘I’m just not . . . entirely comfortable, with the way things . . . concluded yesterday. As you could probably tell, I’m not very good with drugs, and I don’t know what I might have done while I was under the influence.’ She couldn’t make eye contact with him. ‘I mean, I told you my birth name. I’ve never told anyone that since I changed it. I don’t know what other . . . inhibitions those drugs might have . . . released.’
She finally dared to look at him.
‘What do you think happened?’ he asked, feigning a kind of wide-eyed innocence. He was so enjoying this.
‘Nothing, I don’t think anything happened,’ she returned firmly. ‘In fact, I know nothing happened. I was there, remember?’
‘But you just said you don’t know what you might have done.’
She did, didn’t she. ‘I wasn’t speaking literally.’
He looked vaguely baffled. ‘Then how were you speaking?’
‘Not literally.’ She was getting annoyed now.
‘You’re worried you lost your inhibitions,’ he persisted.
‘No, I’m not.’
‘But that’s what you just said.’
‘Well it’s not what I meant.’
‘Oh, right, you were speaking “not literally” again?’
‘And you’re resorting to sarcasm, the lowest form of humour.’
He raised his eyebrows a little at that. ‘Look, something’s bothering you,’ he said. ‘What is it, what do you remember, or not remember?’
‘Nothing’s bothering me, and I remember everything.’
‘Obviously you don’t,’ he insisted. ‘You said yourself you don’t know what you might have done.’
‘Of course I know what I might have done. I certainly know what I wouldn’t have done, so I’m not worried about that.’
His eyes narrowed as a sly grin formed slowly on his lips. ‘You had a dirty dream about me, didn’t you?’
Jo blinked. ‘What?’
Crossing Paths Page 9
