by Shears, KT
Undercover Alice
by KT Shears
Copyright © 2015 by KT Shears
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Chapter one
Chapter 2
Chapter three
Chapter four
Chapter five
Chapter six
Chapter seven
Chapter eight
Chapter nine
Chapter ten
Chapter eleven
Chapter twelve
Chapter thirteen
Chapter fourteen
Chapter fifteen
Chapter sixteen
Chapter seventeen
Chapter eighteen
Chapter nineteen
Chapter twenty
Chapter twenty-one
Chapter twenty-two
Chapter twenty-three
Chapter twenty-four
Chapter twenty-five
Chapter twenty-six
Chapter twenty-seven
Chapter twenty-eight
Chapter one
Deadlines, deadlines, deadlines. I never feel more alive than when I am juggling more deadlines than should be humanly possible. I thrive on the fast pace of a newspaper office; the knowledge that, in a split second, my entire day could be transformed from dull to career-making. I am the apple of my chief reporter’s eye, and a rotten apple, as far as the editing staff on the paper are concerned. Sure, my work comes over in good condition; it’s well researched, well written, and even, sometimes, the right length. It’s the time it comes over that’s the problem. Long after the other reporters’ stories were being meticulously combed for errors, and being connected to pictures and laid out on pages, I would be sitting at my desk, hammering away at the keys, polishing, polishing, polishing.
The polite enquiries of ‘Just about there with that, Alice?’ became gruffer and less pleasant as time went by until eventually, the chief sub editor – a perpetually harassed man in his 50s, who wore an ill-fitting suit and constantly had sweat stains under his arms – would bellow ‘We need that fucking story right now or it’s not getting in the fucking paper. Jesus Christ, Alice. Every fucking night’. Only then, when it seemed like the belligerent bellower was about to have a heart attack, would I press the button that whizzed my labour of love off to be checked, laid out and printed.
Last night had been the usual kind of night, ending with the chief sub editor throwing his pencil at the wall after my story came over 20 minutes before deadline, twice as long as the space left for it. I had beat a hasty retreat, scurrying out of the office to my car and escaping to the safety of home before all hell broke loose.
Of course, every day is a new day at a newspaper, and the arguments and rows of yesterday were long forgotten by the time I arrived at work the next day. It has to be like that, or in just a few weeks, no one would be speaking to each other and the paper would have ceased to print.
As I walked into the office, I saw my editor, Dave Barry, stick his head out of his door.
‘Alice! Get in here, would you?’
Ah Christ, I thought. That bloody chief sub has finally complained to the editor about me. Sighing, I crossed the office, noting my colleagues’ sympathetic stares. A trip to the editor’s office was rarely a good thing. No one had ever come out of those doors with a payrise, or a well done, or even smiling.
I nodded to the editor’s secretary as I passed – a friendly woman in her early 50s whose lot in life was to deal with the temperamental, and sometimes completely unreasonable, man in the office next to her. They were like an old married couple sometimes, having worked beside each other for years.
As I entered the office, Dave Barry was shouting down the phone. From his side of the conversation, I could tell there had been some sort of problem with the printing of the papers the night before.
‘Jesus fucking Christ, are you all fucking morons down there? Is it fucking hard to print a newspaper? They’ve been doing it for hundreds of fucking years.’
There was a pause while the unfortunate press manager tried to explain. To no avail.
‘What you’ve just said is fucking gobblydegook, mate. Meaningless gobblydegook. If I get another call at 4am telling me there’s no fucking papers, I’ll drive down there and ram the press up your arse.’
With that, Dave Barry slammed the phone down. I wondered briefly how one began to ram a press, an absolutely massive piece of machinery, up someone’s arse.
‘Sit down.’ Barry pointed to a chair, and then manoeuvred his large bulk into a seat opposite. ‘You’ve been fucking off the chief sub again, by the way. He says he’s going to stage a walkout.’
I grimaced. That wasn’t good; I was pretty sure the chief sub rated higher than a common reporter in the hierarchy. To my surprise, though, Barry let out a bark of laughter.
‘He’s a fucking twat, as if anywhere else would take the sweaty bastard. Now, I wanted to speak to you about an idea I have. Feel free to say no, but it’ll be the end of your fucking career if you do.’ He let out another bark of laughter, but I wasn’t entirely sure he was joking. I waited for him to continue, feeling anxious. Barry’s ideas were rarely easily achieved. His last one had ended up with a reporter spending a night in jail.
‘As you’ll have read, in my editor’s fucking briefing email that no one even bothers to open, newspapers are in the shit. The internet and all those spotty cyber youths are where it’s at now, apparently. Our circulation is in the toilet, and those acne-ridden kids are shitting all over it.’
I cringed inwardly. I was no prude, but Barry’s language was still hard to get used to. I reflected that this was the longest conversation I’d ever had with him: and about 50% had been the word fuck.
‘We need something special, something to shit right back at them.’ Barry paused for a second, even he realising that sentence didn’t make much sense. ‘We need an exposé.’
He glared at me, his eyes boring into my face so harshly that I felt obliged to say something.
‘Well, I’ve been working on something about the city bypass. There’s been some disagreement between –’
‘Oh fuck the fucking bypass, who gives a fuck?’ He exploded, banging his fist on the table.
I resisted the urge to reply that, probably, most of the city cared, as it would reduce travelling times for almost every driver.
‘We need something special. Not a story about some city council twat bodging his sums. I’ve had an idea, and I think it’s a fucking good one. What do you say to going undercover?’
I smirked, but quickly rearranged my face into an expression of puzzled interest when Barry scowled at me.
‘Undercover? What, like an undercover policeman? Pretending to be someone I’m not to get a story?’
‘Hey top marks, Barbie, you’ve been watching The Bill!’ He leaned back in his chair, which creaked ominously under his weight. ‘That’s exactly what I mean. I’ve had a tip off.’
I felt he should wink and tap his nose.
‘From a pal of mine out in Spain. It’s about the boss of that big new IT company that’s just opened those fucking horrendous-looking offices at the b
usiness park. Matt something, I forget his name. Anyway, my pal says he heard from one of his pals – it’s like a fucking retirement park for sad old British bastards out there – that this Matt guy has done jail time. For assault, no less. He doesn’t know where or the story behind it, but it’s a fucking good story if it’s true. Mysterious Matt, the new face of information technology or whatever the fuck it’s called, is actually a fucking criminal. It’d be brilliant.’
He glowered at me; apparently it was my turn to speak.
‘Is he reliable, this pal of a pal? It seems quite convoluted and –’ I began. Barry erupted in his chair, leaping to his feet (as much as a man of his size can leap) and sending it clattering across the room. I glanced through the doorway; the editor’s secretary hadn’t even blinked. Evidently she was used to these kind of theatrics.
‘Of course he’s fucking reliable. I’ve edited this paper for 20 years, I know a fucking good source when one bites me on the arse.’
I hastened to apologise, realising there was nothing to be gained from asking any further questions about this pal of his. In fact, there was probably everything to lose.
‘Ok, ok, sorry. So, you want me to go undercover at this firm, somehow, and find out what this guy did? Why not just do some research out there?’
I though this sounded like an eminently more sensible option, and more ethical, too. I was pretty sure that sneaking around someone’s company like a thief in the night, rummaging in desk drawers and grilling employees for information wasn’t entirely in line with most people’s moral code.
Barry sighed and spoke slowly, like he was speaking to a child.
‘Because an undercover exposé will sell more papers. It’ll put us up there with the big boys. The Daily Chronicle, it’ll go diseased, or whatever the phrase is.’
‘Er, I think you mean viral,’ I said. Although diseased was probably appropriate too.
Barry shrugged. Evidently it didn’t matter either way to him.
‘Is it ethical, though?’ I asked, instantly regretting it when his face turned a getching shade of puce.
‘Ethics? We can’t afford to have fucking ethics at a time like this, love. Jesus Christ. “Is it ethical?” Fucking hell. Where do you think you are? This isn’t a church newsletter.’
I sighed. I should have known better than to mention such a dirty word around Barry. Now he’d be even more determined.
‘How am I going to get inside a massive IT company when I know nothing about IT?’
Beaming, Barry reached across his desk and picked up today’s paper, his stubby finger pointing at an advert on the jobs page. I picked it up and read the following:
Personal Assistant to the CEO – Westwall IT Solutions
We are seeking an efficient, friendly and experienced PA to work with company CEO Matt Westwall to arrange his schedule, deal with telephone calls, and assist with the day-to-day running of his office. Applicants should contact [email protected] for an application form and further information.
‘It’s fucking perfect!’
I didn’t think so. A PA? What did I know about arranging schedules? I couldn’t even arrange for my own schedule to be on time, let alone someone else’s. And day-to-day running of an office? What was that? I groaned inwardly. On the other hand, this could be my chance to escape this place and join one of the bigger papers, maybe even win an award. That was all I’d ever wanted. Still, I wasn’t sure this was the right away to go about things.
‘Maybe one of the other reporters might like the opportunity?’ I said, carefully.
Barry scoffed. ‘Oh, who? Hairy Harry?’
He had a point, I thought. I couldn’t imagine any of my fellow reporters, all men, becoming a PA.
‘But I don’t have any experience. And won’t he recognise my name from the papers?’
Barry beamed again, with the air of the cat who had not only got the cream, but taken great delight in parading around with it in front of all the other cats in the neighbourhood.
‘I’ve thought of everything. Tell him I’m a fucking nightmare to work for and you want a new career. He’s not to know you’re still working for me. It’s genius.’
At least, I thought, I could tell one part of the story without having to lie.
I considered the matter. While it sounded a bit dubious, it did sound like there might be a cracking story in there somewhere. And I was desperate for a good scoop. One of the reporters I had trained with had just won an award for an article he’d written about hidden child poverty in one of the more upmarket parts of the city. I was seething with jealously – it could have been me, if I worked for a paper whose boss who valued that kind of news. Unfortunately, Barry was tabloid through and through, and his idea of a story was a footballer finding himself in a three-in-a-bed romp with his girlfriend and her dad, or something of that nature.
‘You don’t get to the top without stepping on a few people along the way,’ my best friend Jen had told me once. She’d clambered all over some people with her three-inch heels, and was now an extremely successful public relations consultant, with a portfolio containing many of the great and the good of television and music.
‘Well?’ Barry said, impatiently.
‘I’ll do it,’ I said.
He clapped his hands together, grinning in a not altogether pleasant way.
‘You won’t regret it,’ he said.
I wondered.
Chapter 2
I tugged my skirt down as far as it could go. It was too small for me, and I regretted wearing it. I’d found it languishing at the back of my wardrobe as I frantically tried to find something that screamed ‘I am an efficient personal assistant.’ I usually stuck to smart tops and trousers; skirts made me feel self-conscious and like I was playing at dress-up, and they just seemed a total hassle. I always forgot I was wearing one, too, and ended up flashing my pants as I clambered ungracefully into a car.
I was sitting in the plush reception of Westwall IT Solutions, waiting for my interview. I’d worked hard on my application, using my skill at writing to cleverly gloss over the parts of the job description I was lacking (any kind of experience) and instead sell my personality and extreme enthusiasm. This carefully crafted masterpiece of deception had clearly worked, as I had been invited for interview.
When the letter came through, I was slightly uncomfortable to see that it would be none other than the mysterious Matt himself who would be interviewing me. It made sense, of course, but it hadn’t crossed my mind I would meet him so soon. Barry was beside himself with joy, of course, a stream of ‘fucks’ tumbling from his mouth with reckless abandon.
I wondered what this Matt would be like. Probably a pretty bright cookie, I thought, being head of such a large company. I’d have to play it carefully so as not to arouse suspicion. Barry had wanted me to start poking around right away, if I was offered the job; but I thought it would probably be wise to at least play the part of dutiful PA for a while, before rootling around in desk drawers and bribing disgruntled employees with packs of cigarettes and bottles of whisky.
‘Alice Connelly?’
I was jerked out of my musings by the sound of my name. A tall, ridiculously good-looking man in a perfectly-fitted suit was standing beside a doorway to the right of the reception desk. He must have been in his early 30s, I thought, as I appraised him. Dark hair, big, brown eyes and a face with high cheekbones. He had a bit of stubble too – not enough to look messy, but enough to give him a slightly rugged appearance.
He smiled and crossed over to me as I stood up, offering out his hand. I took it. It wasn’t sweaty, like most of the people whose hands I had to shake in the line of work. I hated going to events and shaking hands with a succession of overweight, greasy men. It was hard to wipe your hand off on your trousers discreetly. I didn’t have to worry about that now, though. This man’s hand was slightly cool, and he gripped my own hand firmly but not painfully.
‘I’m Matt, Matt Westwall.’
‘Hi Mr Westwall, I’m pleased to meet you.’
‘Oh Matt, please. We’re all informal here!’ he said, smiling at me and beckoning me to follow him.
I found that hard to believe, given that he looked like he’d walked off the set of a perfume ad, but nodded my head.
‘Matt it is. And you can call me Alice.’
The room we entered had luxurious, thick-pile carpet and soft lighting. A far cry from the stained, threadbare carpet tiles and luminous green walls of the newspaper office, I thought. This place oozed sophistication and I felt somewhat out of place. Even the chair was white, and I prayed I wouldn’t have some sort of ghastly period leakage.
‘Please, Alice, have a seat. Can I get you a tea or coffee? Or water, maybe?’
‘No, thank you.’ I was terrified I would spill stuff on the immaculate floor.
Matt reached over and poured himself a glass of water, taking a sip before setting it down beside him and smiling broadly at me.
‘I must say, I, I really liked your CV and covering letter. As you can imagine, there was a lot of interest in this position, although I think some applicants just wanted to come and have a nosey at our offices. Anyway, I was impressed. You’ve got quite a way with words, but then, that’s no surprise given your history.’
He paused. Obviously it was my turn and I took a deep breath.
‘Thank you, I’m grateful for the opportunity. I’ve always loved words; even when I was a child, I was always writing nonsense stories or interviewing my parents for pretend newspapers and magazines.’
Matt laughed. It was infectious, and I was surprised to find myself cracking into a smile along with him. So he wasn’t stuffy, afterall.
‘I was the same with technology,’ he said.
