Maximum Exposure: The Heartlands Series

by Harper, Jenny

  ‘Ya beauty!’ she shouted, a smile splitting her face.

  ‘What?’ Daisy demanded.

  ‘Hey Shar, what are you on?’ called Dave.

  She pumped her fist in the air and crowed, ‘Yesss! He’s resigned!’

  ‘Fucking hell.’

  ‘Christ!’

  ‘Porter? Really?’

  Jay, emerging from his office at the commotion, was as delighted as the rest of them. ‘Well done, team. Great result!’ He shook hands, caught Sharon as she jumped down from her desk, hugged her, hugged Daisy, and even hugged Ma Ruby, who had abandoned her position in Reception and come in to see what all the noise was about. Then he disappeared and came back ten minutes later with half a dozen bottles of Cava and Sir Cosmo.

  ‘Spot on, Cossers,’ Murdoch thumped him on the back. ‘You said Taurus’s week would be “tumultuous and full of change”.’

  ‘Is Provost Porter a Taurean then?’ Sir Cosmo, looking as rumpled as ever, his tousled hair windblown and a twig hanging from the sleeve of his rough tweed jacket, was shyly pleased.

  ‘Sure is. The tosser even had the nerve to throw himself a little birthday party last week, though for the first time in living memory he had it at The George and not in the Town Hall like he usually does. Even he wouldn’t have dared wangle that one on taxpayers’ money, not this year.’

  ‘Did the missus turn up?’

  ‘Nope. Nor La Carlton.’

  Sharon giggled. ‘Someone sent him a strippogram though. The girl leapt out of a cake, appropriately, wearing a brassiere designed to look like cup cakes, with cherry nipples. He claimed he knew nothing about it.’

  ‘Wish you’d been there to record the happy scene, Dais,’ Murdoch chuckled. ‘Whoever thought up that wheeze deserves a medal.’

  Cosmo tucked himself into a corner and joined the celebrations from the edge of the room, happily surveying everyone and beaming. After his third glass, Daisy noticed, he seemed to find some Dutch courage because he moved over to Sharon and started talking to her. And she, clearly in a benign mood, didn’t ignore him as usual.

  Everyone, thought Daisy slightly dismally despite the general air of euphoria, had someone special. Except her. But she would soon. Jack just needed a bit of a nudge.

  Jay raised his glass in a toast. ‘To The Hailesbank Herald!’

  ‘The Herald,’ said Sharon.

  ‘The Herald,’ they all chorused.

  The door into the office swung to with a crash that made heads turn. Chantelle Richardson, the Herald’s head of advertising, came in looking decidedly uncelebratory. Her long, thin face was normally dour but there was something about her expression now that made them lapse into an uneasy silence. She took two steps into the room and said, ‘I don’t know what everyone’s so happy about.’

  Dave, irrepressible as usual, broke the silence. ‘Haven’t you heard, Chantelle? Provost Porter has resigned.’

  ‘Haven’t you heard?’ She turned on him, her voice brittle. Dave’s smile faded and he took a step backwards. Chantelle reached into her bag and slapped a paper down on the table. They all stared at it, puzzled. ‘We’ve got competition starting up.’

  Her words fell into a silence so profound that it was almost tangible. Then Jay took two long strides across the room, picked up the paper, and asked curiously, ‘What is this?’ He unfolded the paper and stared at it. From where she was standing, Daisy could see the masthead. The Hailesbank Messenger. Her mouth dropped slightly open and her eyes widened. The Hailesbank Messenger?

  Chantelle’s face, always angular and usually rather sour, looked positively funereal. ‘I got it from Valerie Patterson. You remember? She used to work here till she went on maternity leave and decided not to come back. Well, she’s taken another job. This is a mock up. A sample. As you see, it’s a newspaper. A freesheet, in fact. And it’s being launched in a fortnight.’

  A freesheet. Daisy chewed anxiously at her bottom lip. A freesheet. My God. They’d lose all the advantage they’d managed to build up over recent weeks. How would a freesheet work? Would they have their own journalists? Their own photographer? Maybe the quality wouldn’t be so good, she thought hopefully. But at the end of the day, Daisy realised, that wasn’t what would dictate the future of The Herald. That would be decided by whether they could sell enough advertising to keep the Board of the Havering Group happy. Looking at Chantelle’s face, she had a horrible feeling that doom was in the air.

  ‘Right.’ Jay said decisively, snapping into leadership mode, ‘back to work, everyone. We’re not going to be browbeaten by an upstart freesheet. I’m proud of you all and what we’ve achieved here in the last few weeks. Really proud. So get back to your jobs and let me worry about this. Chantelle –’ he nodded towards his office, ‘– would you mind? A few minutes?’

  As Chantelle followed him into his office and the door swung to behind them, there was dead silence in the office. Daisy became conscious of the peeling paintwork above the row of filing cabinets on the far wall. How had the Havering Group allowed the place to become so shabby? They’d been starving the Herald of investment for years. How had they not seen it? How had Angus MacMorrow not seen it? Why hadn’t he done anything about it? The computers were antiquated and they struggled to meet deadlines with the dodgy technology. Even her camera equipment was well out of date and she’d been too stupid to insist on having it regularly updated. The camera Hammy MacBride had been carrying at the rugby match had been one of the latest models.

  Pay rise? She thought back to the modest sum she’d been planning to ask Angus for when he’d dropped dead. She could kiss that goodbye. Was her job safe? The anxiety she’d felt way back when they’d first discovered the threat to The Herald resurfaced. She wanted to chew everything over with Lizzie. She longed to ask Ben what he thought. He had more experience than the lot of them.

  Jack. She needed Jack. She really needed Jack. Daisy’s hand stole into her pocket and she felt the absence of Tiny Ted like an ache. Her fingers, so long accustomed to the comfort of his fur, his tiny nose, his soft contours, twitched and itched and curled round empty space. She felt adrift, alone. Worry had gripped them all. Even Murdoch looked sober as they drained their glasses, leaving the last two bottles standing unopened and forlorn on the draining board next to the sink.

  ‘What’re your predictions this week, Cosmo?’ he muttered moodily as he slumped back in his chair and clicked his mouse.

  Cosmo looked as shattered as the rest of them. He fiddled with a loose thread hanging from the cuffs of his worn checked shirt, just visible under the thick brown tweed of his jacket.

  ‘Here.’ Sharon fished a pair of scissors out from her drawer and handed them to him. Then, as he held them clumsily in his left hand and attempted ineffectually to cut the thread on the right cuff she said, more tolerantly than Daisy would have expected, ‘Oh, give them here,’ and cut the thread for him.

  ‘Let me guess,’ she said. ‘Astral fucking chaos. Right Cosmo?’ she laid a hand briefly on his arm and looked up at him.

  Daisy had never seen their two heads so close together, Sharon’s bright blonde and Cosmo’s autumn-brown mop. She watched as the colour rose from Cosmo’s neck up to his face. It suffused his cheeks and spread to his ears and finally migrated to his hairline. He looked, thought Daisy, rather sweet, like a small boy.

  ‘C-c-chaos?’ he stuttered. ‘I don’t know, I’m sure.’

  Daisy sneaked a look at Ben. He’d said nothing since Chantelle had slapped the paper down on the desk. Not a word. In fact, she thought, he seemed to be with them more in body than in spirit. Since he’d started seeing Lizzie he’d become more distant. He didn’t josh and laugh with everyone as much. He didn’t join them for drinks in The Duke of Atholl. It was as though he was withdrawing. Worst of all, it seemed to her that she really had lost a friend.

  Together with the constant ache of anxiety about her future and the future of the Herald, thoughts of how she could win Jack back now dominated Daisy’s
every waking moment.

  Life went on, of course. Saturday was filled with football matches that needed to be covered and, in the evening, a Council reception that would normally have seen Provost Archie Porter and his dumpy wife smugly lording it over everyone. That, at least, was a welcome change, thought Daisy as she photographed his deputy. The mood all round seemed to have lightened in the Town Hall. Even members of the former Provost’s own party looked cheerful. Afterwards, she went to the office to download all the images of the day. Normally, she would have watched the clock impatiently as the files moved across to the computer. Tonight, instead, she spent some time filing and sorting, checking the images and deleting the least satisfactory. She did everything she could, in other words, to put off going back to the cottage, in the knowledge that Ben and Lizzie would be there. Even if they were closeted in Lizzie’s room, she’d be conscious of their presence.

  She felt like a gooseberry.

  Sod it. On Thursday, she’d make her move. Iris would be at her cookery class. She’d have two whole hours. Maybe three. Jack didn’t go to the gym on Thursdays. He liked having the house to himself. ‘It’s great just to be able to chill.’ She pictured his face as he’d said it. The corner of his mouth had twitched in amusement at his confession and his blue eyes had never looked bluer. ‘Slob out for a couple of hours. Watch inane car chase programmes on Sky. Iris really hates them.’ He’d grinned at her conspiratorially.

  It would be her ideal opportunity. On Monday, her day off, she’d catch the train into Edinburgh and buy herself some new clothes. Jack-catching clothes. Bugger the budget. She’d just use her credit card and splurge for once.

  She glanced at the clock on the wall. It was after midnight. Sighing, Daisy switched off her computer and grabbed her bag.

  She couldn’t put off going home much longer.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Sunday morning. Slob day. Her bed was cosy, she could sense that outside the curtains the day was dull. Daisy would have happily pulled the duvet over her head and slept for longer, except that at half past nine her mobile rang. Bother. Why hadn’t she turned it off last night? She could be excused not answering it. She had Sundays and Mondays off. It was almost certainly her mother, asking her round for lunch. She tried to ignore it for a minute, then gave in and reached out her hand for the phone.

  ‘Dais?’ It wasn’t her mother, it was Sharon.

  ‘What’s up?’ Normally Daisy would have been resentful, anticipating a call-out to some incident eating into her precious time off. But today, she would welcome any diversion.

  ‘You’ll never guess.’

  ‘You’re right, I won’t.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Guess.’

  ‘Erm …’ What was this? Twenty Questions? Sharon’s voice was filled with repressed excitement. ‘You caught Porter shagging La Carlton on top of Tarbert Knoll and snapped it on the mobile?’

  Sharon giggled. ‘Nope. Try again.’

  ‘Your numbers came up on the lottery?’

  ‘I wish.’

  ‘You … no, I can’t think of anything else.’

  ‘Well …’ her voice sank conspiratorially. ‘Promise you won’t tell?’

  Christ, she hadn’t got her hooks into Jay Bond, had she? Despite everything he’d said?

  ‘Guess who I went out with last night?’

  She had gone out with Jay. ‘Not … not Jay?’ she ventured hesitantly.

  ‘Silly. I put him out of my mind when you told me he was still stuck on his wife.’

  ‘Who then?’ Daisy asked, relieved.

  Sharon started humming. ‘Starry, starry nights … Got it?’ she asked.

  ‘Sorry, no,’ said Daisy, wriggling herself into a sitting position.

  Sharon tried again. ‘When you wish upon a star …’ she hummed.

  ‘Erm … am I being dense? I never was much good at pub quizzes.’

  ‘Really Daisy, you are being dozy! Stars.’ She paused.

  ‘Stars?’

  ‘Horoscopes.’

  Horoscopes! ‘Cosmo asked you out?’

  ‘Finally got there. Well done.’

  ‘Wow!’ Daisy, well and truly awake now, shuffled her feet into her slippers and padded across to the window. It was raining. A grey mist had rolled in and she could hardly see the trees at the far side of the garden. ‘At long last.’

  ‘What d’you mean “at long last”?’

  ‘Well Shar, he’s fancied you for donkey’s years.’

  ‘Really? How d’you know?’

  Daisy sighed. ‘Sharon, everyone knows.’

  ‘Well, couldn’t someone bloody well have told me?’

  ‘That was up to Cosmo, surely?’

  ‘Hmm.’ Sharon appeared to consider this before abandoning the effort and skipping from past to present in one excited sentence. ‘He’s so shy, Dais, that’s why I never noticed, but he’s really terribly sweet.’

  ‘Where did you go?’

  ‘He took me down to North Berwick for dinner. I never thought I’d enjoy it so much. When he asked me I was, like, yawn, but I wasn’t doing anything so what the hell? But he was so easy to be with, Dais, you would never have guessed he could be like that. We talked for hours .’

  ‘Great.’ When was the last time someone had taken her out for dinner? Daisy tried to remember, but failed. Unless you counted the meal in Kelso with Jay the night they’d been snowed in.

  ‘Hey, that was why I was ringing you. D’you fancy a trip to Edinburgh this afternoon? Or tomorrow? I kind of feel my wardrobe isn’t quite right, you know? I need something a bit more … I dunno … more country I suppose.’

  She sounded a little shy herself now, thought Daisy. Where was the Sharon Eddy she’d known all these years? ‘Funny you should say that,’ she said. ‘I was thinking of getting some new things myself. Not country, though. A bit more kind of …’ she hesitated. ‘… sexy?’ she ventured. Jack-catching was what she really meant, but however much she’d warmed to Sharon she wasn’t about to tell her about her plans.

  Sharon laughed. ‘Oho. Man ahoy?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘What about it then?’

  Daisy looked out again at the rain. No time like the present. ‘You’re on. Station at eleven?’ That would give her time to shower, dress, and have breakfast.

  ‘See you there.’

  Ben still felt uncomfortable about encountering Daisy in the kitchen of the cottage. It felt like an intrusion into her space and she clearly felt the same. She’d hardly shown her face over the last few weeks and if ever she did materialise when he was there, she made herself a quick coffee and a sandwich and disappeared back into her room. He felt guilty.

  Lizzie was sitting on the window seat in her bedroom, dressed only in a luxurious velour dressing gown. She’d just come out of the bath and her hair was wound into a towel and piled high on her head. She was supping the coffee Ben had just made, checking the kitchen surreptitiously for signs of Daisy before he’d ventured forth. When he’d heard her chatting on her mobile in her room, he reckoned he’d have enough time to do the necessary and get back into Lizzie’s room before being seen.

  ‘She’s there now,’ said Lizzie. ‘I can smell toast.’

  ‘Could we …?’ He stopped. Could they what? Persuade her to sit down at the kitchen table with us and eat some breakfast? Join them for a walk? Over the weeks, they’d tried everything, but Daisy had sidestepped every invitation. Politely, sweetly, but declined nevertheless.

  ‘It’s just a shame she hasn’t got someone right now,’ said Lizzie. ‘Poor Dais. I wish I could find someone for her. She’s not really dated anyone since she stopped seeing Jack. It’s not good for her.’

  She unwound the towel from her head with easy, flowing movements and ran her fingers through the thick damp hair, then leaned forwards to reach to her dressing table for a brush. The robe fell away from her body slightly and Ben could see the valley between her breasts, sha
dowy and inviting. It didn’t stir him though. Oddly, he was beginning to realise that a few weeks of Lizzie Little was enough to satisfy his sexual appetites for quite a while. Fully dressed now, he lay back on the bed and propped himself up on his pillows, cradling his coffee in his hands and watching her as she dried her hair. Her head was hanging forward, the long hair falling towards the floor as she brushed it in front of her drier. Now he could see the bones of her spine, delicate as a cat’s. What was not to like?

  Lizzie finished off her hair, sitting up straight and tossing her head backwards so that the gleaming mane caught the light. It settled back round her shoulders, easily, like a gorgeous soft cape. She caught his gaze and smiled, laying her brush down and rising to her feet in one easy movement. ‘I’ll go and see if we can persuade her to have breakfast with us.’

  ‘Good idea.’

  She moved across the room, her stride long, her hips moving easily. Ben watched her thoughtfully. Her walk, like all her other movements, was languorous, lazy, and very sexy. He still loved making love to Lizzie but, he realised with the beginnings of a self-awareness that surprised him, that was it. That was the basis of their relationship and the full extent of it. Sexual adventure. There was no emotional engagement. Lizzie, true to the rules she had laid down at their first encounter, didn’t encourage that. And a relationship that went beyond sex was not what he wanted – or so he had told himself, over and over and over again.

  Daisy, with the puddle-grey eyes to drown in. Daisy, dear ditsy Daisy, who had phoned him in the midst of her mini dramas so that he could rescue her from whatever fix she had got herself into. She didn’t do that any more, not since the day she’d discovered that he’d started seeing Lizzie. He missed that. He missed the way she had sweetly trusted him not to reveal to the others how the silly, simple things of life sometimes defeated her.

  He put his cup on the small table by Lizzie’s bed, swung his feet to the floor, padded across to the window. Lizzie’s room was at the side of the cottage. It faced onto a patch of rough grass, which might once have been a lawn, and across into the protective shelter of a small stand of trees. It looked as though rain had been falling steadily all night. The delicate blooms were saturated, the branches hanging low and heavy. On the grass, hundreds of petals had fallen to their death and lay forlorn and hopeless, early victims to the holocaust that would follow if the winds rose or the rain continued.