You Had Me at Hello

by Mhairi McFarlane

  Ken pauses to let the slug-sized bulging vein in his neck shrink slightly.

  ‘You’re going to go back to Shale and ask for an interview about the latest twist in the saga, and use all your persuasive powers, knowing that you’re not likely to be getting entered for any awards here for a good long time, or so much as invited to the Christmas party, without doing some mop and bucket work on this massive fucking mess. Do you understand me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then get out of my sight.’

  I spin round and open the door to face a newsroom that lip-read every word as it was enunciated clearly on the other side of a glass partition. Once they’ve ascertained I’m not crying, they look away again and pretend not to notice me. As unpleasant as being put on school report is, that could’ve been worse. Asking to interview Natalie is futile, Ken knows that and he knows I can’t say so. I have about as much chance of success as I would in winning the Burghley Horse Trials on a Shopmobility scooter. I will pretend I tried when everything has calmed down. Or, I’ll ask Simon.

  As I’m about to win my freedom, Vicky beckons me over: ‘Rachel!’

  I have less than no desire to talk to her but I can’t afford to make any more enemies.

  ‘What did Ken say?’ she says, casting a glance to make sure he hasn’t emerged from his office.

  ‘He’s not pleased,’ I say, flatly. ‘He’s not the only one.’

  ‘I told him Zoe Clarke might do something like this,’ she says.

  Of course you did, you Zara-clad Nostradamus. ‘Did you?’

  ‘Yeah. There was all that hassle where she told some weekly paper she was a senior, when she hadn’t even done her NCTJ. They sent us a letter about her and she denied it.’ I open my mouth to ask more, but the story’s pretty much all there, and Vicky’s on a roll. ‘And then there was what she did to you over that cosmetic surgery thing.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That lipo case. She covered the verdict for you, didn’t she? She sent it through with her name on it. I saw it and said to Ken “how’s she written something this size in an hour?” and we realised she’d put her name on your backgrounder. He gave her a rollocking and took her name off it completely. Didn’t you know?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No, I suppose not, why would you? Not like she was going to tell you.’

  ‘I wish you’d told me,’ I say, stiffly. ‘I would’ve been more on my guard around her.’

  ‘Oh, yeah … well, like I said, Ken sorted it. I didn’t want to bitch.’

  I stifle a mirthless laugh at this. For a crazy moment I think Vicky’s going to say something authentically supportive, then she checks the time on Sky News and says, ‘Doesn’t that drugs five-hander start this morning?’

  Meaning: you can’t afford to drop even one more ball.

  Don’t I know it.

  She turns away to her screen, to indicate my audience is over.

  ‘Yeah, I’m on my way,’ I say, to her back.

  I had forgotten about it, and break into an undignified run once I’m out of sight of the office.

  51

  After a morning of taking notes in shorthand so shaky and fractured it looks as if I’m recovering from a stroke, I dodge Gretton and edge my way out of the court and into the fresh air. I head towards St Ann’s Square with my stomach on spin cycle.

  Every step I take, my apprehension mounts. Now Simon’s at the top of my in-tray, as it were, I have more time to consider his feelings, and my conclusions aren’t good. Belatedly, I’m remembering how wary he was of journalists, how badly this must have blown up in his face as well as mine. I start to wonder whether the urbane, unruffled Simon persona will remain intact, as I’d hoped. I got scant clues from our exchange on the phone.

  I have my answer as soon as I spot Simon pacing up and down by the fountain, craning to see me in the crowd. His homicidal intentions are plain.

  ‘Hi.’ My attempt at a confident tone quavers and Simon almost bares his teeth at me. It’s only then I see Ben next to him, frowning. This is too much. In fact, Simon’s more than enough by himself. I can’t deal with Ben lambasting me as well. I couldn’t deal with that on its own.

  ‘Are you here to hold his coat?’ I blurt.

  ‘I’m here to make sure he doesn’t go over the top,’ Ben says, looking wounded. ‘How are you?’

  I’m so surprised at him asking the question that’s been on the tip of nobody’s tongue, I don’t know what to say.

  ‘Is it true that one of the people involved in the Mail story is a colleague of yours in court?’ Simon says.

  ‘Yes. Zoe. Was a colleague, she’s at the Mail now.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I don’t know, Simon. Honestly, I’m as shocked as you are.’

  ‘That’s the best you can do? What’s that, your Out of Office Autodenial? Rachel’s taken annual leave of her senses?’

  I try to look like I’m coping. Panic rises up through my chest and throat.

  ‘It’s not an excuse, it’s the truth. This has ruined our interview …’

  ‘Oh, you reckon?’

  ‘… Why would I destroy my own story?’

  ‘A bluff. You probably gave her the tip-off and you’re splitting the money while you keep your job here and your hands clean. How am I doing, eh? Bit more like it?’

  An elderly couple sitting nearby eating messy egg mayonnaise sandwiches start listening in.

  ‘I wouldn’t do that,’ I say. ‘Does this seem anything like a plan going as planned to you? How brazen do you think I am?’

  ‘You don’t want me to answer that. How did your colleague know about this affair?’

  I squirm.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Pause. ‘Did you know about it?’

  Simon’s face twists. ‘That’s irrelevant.’

  ‘If it was a rumour, lots of people could’ve passed it to Zoe.’

  ‘Do you honestly think I’m a big enough spazz to believe you had nothing to do with this?’

  I appeal for mercy, knowing it’s pointless. ‘Simon, I’m as upset as you are and I’m in a heap of shit at work.’

  ‘You’re in shit?!’

  Egg sandwich couple are dropping cress all over themselves, eyes wide. Ben shushes Simon, which is like trying to put out a house fire with handfuls of mist.

  ‘… Jonathan Grant has been suspended. I’m being blamed for the bright idea of getting the media involved and, guess what, I’m not going to be made partner any time soon. The appeal could be fucked. Natalie Shale and her kids are in hiding because of the scumbags camped on her drive. Tell me, who gives a shit what kind of day you’re having?’

  ‘This looks terrible, I can see that, but I can’t control what my colleagues do.’

  ‘I had doubts about you from the start. Ben vouched for you,’ he casts an accusing look at Ben, ‘but I should’ve trusted my instincts.’

  If Simon’s pulling no punches, I have to stand up for myself. I look from him to Ben and back.

  ‘Such misgivings that you asked me out on a date?’

  Simon looks as if he wants to grab me by the throat. ‘And what was that about on your side, I wonder? It was research, mentioning Jonathan to see if I’d bite. Then it was job done, all batting eyelashes and “I’m not over my fiancé …”’

  ‘Simon, come on,’ Ben interjects, embarrassed on my behalf.

  ‘Strange that when I called you on the Friday, when the story was in the bag, you couldn’t get me off the phone fast enough,’ Simon continues.

  ‘What do you mean? We talked.’

  ‘For a few minutes, before you said you were home.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Were you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I called your landline and let it ring for a minute to say goodnight and check you got in OK. Thought you’d appreciate the gesture. You never answered.’

  Simon’s nostrils flare, he’s triumphant.

  ‘Oh my God, what is this?’ I splu
tter. ‘The only reason I mentioned Jonathan was because he’s the showy lawyer everyone fancies. It was a coincidence. We talked about loads of people from work that night. And the only reason I remember mentioning him at all is because you went funny. And I said I was home because I was nearly at my block of flats. I hadn’t got the lift and literally put my key in the door and I had no idea you’d care either way.’

  ‘Billy Bullshit. I thought you had some kind of ulterior motive in getting involved with me and, again, I ignored my instincts. Good to see you prove that you can tell a barefaced lie when it’s expedient, though.’

  I make a ‘I give up’ gesture. ‘I don’t know what you want from me or what I can say.’

  My righteous exasperation is entirely play-acting. If Natalie and Jonathan figure out I was there when he sent that text she never received, this is all over. Job, home, professional respect … friendship with Ben. And it’d remove the very small margin of doubt that’s stopping Simon tearing me limb from limb. I’m practically shaking.

  ‘What I want is the truth about what you’ve done, but that’s too much to ask from you, isn’t it?’

  I make a silent pact that at some point I’m going to tell Ben, at least, the truth about this.

  ‘I swear I had nothing to do with Zoe selling this story.’

  ‘Nothing to do with her selling it, or nothing to do with it?’

  Lawyers. I hesitate.

  ‘Nothing to do with it whatsoever.’

  ‘Alright, she’s answered you,’ Ben says. ‘Let’s call a truce and get back to the office.’

  ‘Stay out of this,’ he barks, rudely.

  ‘No,’ Ben says, and I watch two men fighting over me in a way that’s considerably less enjoyable than it’s made to appear onscreen. ‘Stop using her as a punch bag. It’s not her fault this woman and Jon got involved, and it’s not her fault someone’s written about it.’

  ‘What is it with you two?’ Simon says, looking from Ben to me, feigning amazement. ‘Did she keep the negatives after you broke up, or what?’

  Ben ignores this. ‘I know Rachel well enough to know she wouldn’t stitch you up. If she’d turned you over and didn’t give a shit she wouldn’t be here right now, would she?’

  ‘Maybe it’s for your benefit?’ Simon says, with a very unpleasant curl of the lip.

  ‘When she didn’t know I’d be here?’ Ben says. Thank you, Ben. ‘When you’ve calmed down you might realise she doesn’t deserve this much abuse.’

  The attack-dog glint in Simon’s eyes finally starts to fade. I allow myself to breathe and Simon senses this, drawing himself up to his full height and going in for the kill.

  ‘You’re a liar. A despicable, miserable, weak little liar who’s sold everyone out and doesn’t even have the guts to admit it.’

  ‘Jesus, enough!’ Ben cries.

  Unperturbed, Simon continues: ‘I’d think more of you if you stood here and said you’d done it and you didn’t care. If I ever see you again it will be a lifetime too soon.’

  My shoulders drop, and I know now I couldn’t make many intelligible noises even if I wanted to. I fight the liquid back from my eyes, concentrate on keeping my breathing steady, clench my jaw.

  ‘OK,’ Ben says, possibly seeing this imminent loss of control and stepping between us. ‘Enough, Simon.’

  When he’s satisfied Simon’s verbal onslaught is at an end, he steps out of the way again.

  ‘Come on.’ He puts a hand on Simon’s arm. ‘Let’s go.’

  Simon shakes him off.

  I make a last attempt to steady my voice and gasp out: ‘Tell me if there’s anything I can do to help put this right …’

  ‘Are you joking?’ Simon spits. ‘Because it’s about as funny as being told the cancer’s spread to the bones.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re actually trying to make more for yourself out of this?’

  ‘That’s not what I—’

  Simon looks towards Ben. ‘Whatever she’s got on you, I’d cut her loose.’

  He strides off. I definitely can’t speak. I blink at Ben. He stares back.

  ‘He’s taken this very personally,’ Ben says. ‘As you might’ve picked up.’

  ‘Ben, this has been a total nightmare, I never meant …’ I try to swallow what’s rising up. My next attempt at speech breaks into speaking-sobbing; it could also be described as a kind of adenoidal howling. ‘I never knew this was going to happen. I worked with Zoe and she was my friend, I never thought she’d do something like this …’

  Ben glances left and right, as if we’re in the middle of a drugs deal, and to my total surprise gathers me into a hug. As unexpected as it is, it’s also incredibly welcome, not least as it stops St Ann’s Square’s curious population staring at me. Foremost among them are egg and cress couple, who think they’ve stumbled on some modern guerilla street theatre, a kind of am-dram ‘pop up’. And I’d rather Ben hugged me than looked at me, too; I’m not doing soft-focus Julia-Roberts-esque ‘startled nymph’ crying.

  ‘I know you didn’t mean this to happen,’ he says, shushing me.

  ‘You’re the only one who does,’ I say snottily, into the thick material of his coat.

  ‘Don’t take Simon’s biblical fury too seriously. He’s had a torrid weekend. Journalists called Natalie on Saturday to see if she wanted to “put her side of it” and she completely lost it, rang Simon screaming and crying, a neighbour had to take the kids …’

  Bridie, I think. It would’ve been nice hippy-dippy Bridie with the runaway cat. I feel like utter shit.

  ‘Did he call you?’ I ask, looking up. I don’t know why I want to know.

  ‘He did, actually. I assured him you wouldn’t have had anything to do with it. I was forbidden to call you. I thought it was easier if we didn’t talk so he couldn’t catch us out on it. He doesn’t need more fuel for his conspiracy theories. How bad’s it been at work?’

  ‘As bad as it can be without being sacked.’

  I wipe at my face with my coat sleeve and my head drops onto Ben’s shoulder again. He puts his hand on the back of my head.

  ‘Hush, come on, it’ll be forgotten soon enough …’

  He moves his hand a fraction and I think he’s moving it away. No. Wait. He’s – stroking my hair? I go tense, hold my breath. Perhaps he feels this as, simultaneously, we break apart.

  ‘Sorry, sorry, I’m such a mess,’ I mumble, scouring at my running mascara again with the hem of my sleeve.

  ‘I’m sorry, Rachel. Here I was thinking I was being helpful putting you and Simon in touch,’ Ben says, a notch louder than necessary, returning us to more formality.

  ‘You were!’ I protest. ‘I’m the one who should apologise.’

  ‘I’d suggest a stiff drink,’ Ben says. ‘But I don’t think being seen going to the pub with you today would be – erm – politically astute. You understand?’

  I nod, manage a weak smile.

  ‘Tomorrow’s chip paper. Today’s, in fact. It’s at the bottom of litter trays already. Chin up.’

  I nod again.

  ‘You were let down by someone you trusted. Happens to us all,’ he says.

  52

  We weren’t yet graduates, but the small matter of the graduation ball loomed. The Chem Soc one in the faded grandeur of the Palace Hotel had emerged as the front-runner and we’d bought tickets en masse. Taking a date, if you had one, seemed more important than usual and, after his effusive words at my twenty-first, I’d asked Rhys to come.

  His hired penguin suit was hanging on my wardrobe door in its polythene dry cleaner’s shroud, next to my bell-skirted prom dress. I’d reminded him constantly as the ball drew nearer. Nevertheless, the call I’d somehow expected came the day before. I was in splendid isolation, Caroline and Mindy each having gone home to drop off the first wave of their possessions, Ivor back in halls for his third year, Derek thankfully apparently attending to sociopathic business elsewhere.

  ‘Rach. That thing
, the party—’

  ‘My graduation ball?’

  ‘Yeah. I can’t go. We’ve got a gig and I’ve got to do it.’

  ‘Rhys!’ I cried. ‘When was that booked?’

  ‘Sorry, babe. It’s a last-minute thing. I can’t duck out, Drugs Ed would have my bollocks.’

  I’d lost a competition with Drugs Ed. Unless it was a competition to see who could take the most drugs, this was a poor state of affairs.

  ‘This is really important to me. You promised!’

  ‘Ah come on, there’ll be other parties.’

  His insistence on dismissing it as a ‘party’ riled me. This was a landmark, the last hurrah of studenthood, when I said goodbye to Manchester and the life and friends I’d made here.

  In truth, things had already been slipping, slightly. Ben’s words at my twenty-first had played on my mind too. Doubt had crept in and been allowed to stay. Rhys’s eagerness to run my life started to feel less like support, more like control. His superior knowledge on every subject had become less impressive and more supercilious. His avowed loathing of ‘student nob heads’ increasingly kept him at home at weekends, though I’d pointed out he was coming to Manchester for my company, not the entire undergraduate population’s.

  When I went to Sheffield instead, I landed among his band mates in the same old pub, wondering why I’d not noticed before that they never took an interest in anything I had to say. And as wonderful as the twenty-first speech was, something about it had niggled me. I’d eventually identified it as the ‘greatest girlfriend’ terminology. He liked to tell me his make of shoes and guitar were the greatest in the world too. I was a treasured Rhys possession, evidence of his taste, with about as much of a valued opinion as the Chucks and the Les Paul. Rhys had assumed, without me ever recollecting making a decision, we were moving in together after I left university. Life is about decisions, I thought. Mine were being made for me.

  I’d known Rhys would pull out of the ball because the only reason to do it was to please me. There was no stake in it now: I was coming home, coming back to him. It was a time of endings and new beginnings. I’d started to think treacherous, revolutionary thoughts.