by Ros Reines
‘Of course,’ I said, slightly overwhelmed with how much trust he was placing in me when it came to this. ‘But you’re not staying here at the resort?’ I asked, fascinated by what he had just revealed.
He shook his head. ‘No, the Evanses have access to a home nearby and a few of us are staying there. We have our own security detail to ensure that no one can get close enough to try to bug any of the rooms or take photographs of people coming in and out.’
I was shocked by the lengths they were going to in order to ensure their privacy.
‘But I thought you were here working on some sort of new development?’
‘That was the original plan,’ he acknowledged, ‘but once the cash-flow problems hit, it was decided that a remote destination like this was an ideal place to hold a crisis meeting.’
‘I can’t believe you invited me here while all this was going on,’ I said, amazed that he would have thought of having me anywhere near a situation as critical as this one.
‘Well, to be honest, Savannah, it wasn’t until you were in the air that I had an inkling of how much shit we were in. No one wanted to discuss it until we were all face-to-face. When I invited you here, I fully expected we would have a lovely, relaxed time together and that I could show you the sights—not just the inside of this hotel room.’
It all made perfect sense now and I felt embarrassed that I had been self-obsessed, but Gertie’s warning had made me extra paranoid. Nevertheless, I was still disappointed that my dream weekend had ended this way. It was only natural. So much for the Red Centre, I thought as the car pulled into a parking spot just in front of the airport’s departures area. It would have been nice if Daniel had taken me himself but he had to go back into the crisis talks. There had only been time for a tender kiss and a hug. If I was not mistaken he had left a trace of his strong, woody cologne on my T-shirt when he pressed against it.
‘See you in Sydney,’ he said. ‘I’ll call you as soon as I’m back.’
And then he was off and I had been left to schlep my bags to reception myself and await the car he’d booked for me.
I checked in and sat by the departure gate with a putrid cup of coffee, wondering whether I had blown it with Daniel by being too needy.
It had definitely been a mistake to have followed him here too readily in the first place. The trouble was that I had been chasing a man who was very different to the one whom I’d encountered this morning. The man who I thought I was involved with was free and easy, not driven by ambition, money or social status. But it turned out that Daniel was as much of a corporate warrior as all the boring men in suits who regularly lunched at Emerald Ville and tried to one up each other on the stock market.
And if that was the case, I shouldn’t have any trouble at all discarding him from my life, should I? The only problem was that Daniel was an outstanding, caring lover and as much as the brain might had closed off on him being unsuitable, he had somehow got a free pass through to my emotional centre and I couldn’t wait to see him again.
Thirteen
Gossip columnists are terrible at keeping secrets because they know the true value of information. Romantically, I had little to show for my weekend away other than a slightly bruised heart, but I did have a major story that would have thrilled Tim so much he probably would have given me a raise on the spot. It wasn’t very fair of Daniel to burden me with such a secret, I grumbled to myself. It was like putting a three-course meal in front of a starving man and then telling him that he wasn’t allowed to touch it.
Still, on the plane back to Sydney I wrote down everything Daniel had told me, and on Monday morning I started researching the Evanses’ businesses; that way, if something did happen, then at least I would have a head start. But as I pored over the relevant press clippings, I was surprised to find very few references to Daniel. I made a note to get hold of a company prospectus to see how firmly entrenched he was there.
I decided to say nothing about my trip to anyone at work because it would be difficult to explain it away without mentioning Daniel. I mean, who went all the way to Ayers Rock just for the weekend, especially on the money I was being paid? It would certainly raise a few eyebrows. I wasn’t concerned about my colleagues finding out, as the only people who knew about my weekend away were Rachael and my parents. Or so I thought . . .
I had been at my desk for most of the morning, dealing with the fallout from the poison-pen letter (I was still getting requests to come on various television shows to talk about it) and sifting through the week’s invitations, when Janet appeared, resplendent in a turquoise knitted suit and emerald green pumps.
‘Mr Shaw wants to see you,’ she declared pompously. ‘Whenever you have a moment.’ Clearly she was determined to get it right this time. ‘But I would go there now if I was you,’ she added, giving me a meaningful look.
‘Okay, thanks,’ I said, looking up briefly before going back to what I was doing. I presumed Tim just wanted an update on the stories I was working on. The good news was that I had finally made contact with Wes Heart’s bashing victim but, despite a promising start, he had declined to speak on the record and had indicated that he would not be pressing charges. But at least the communication lines were open and I hoped that it was just a matter of time before he agreed to an interview.
I had a little spring in my step as I walked without an escort to Tim’s office and I was pleased to notice that this time my transit did not seem to generate any undue attention from my colleagues.
The editor, who was on the phone, was sitting with his cowboy boots on the desk. He saw me before I had a chance to knock on the door and beckoned me inside. I glanced at Janet, who was pretending not to have noticed the exchange and was busily arranging some folders into a neat pile. The woman was a total perfectionist!
Seating myself at Tim’s desk—it didn’t seem like the morning for the couch—I waited patiently for him to finish on the phone while he made elaborate hand gestures to indicate that he was nearly done. Whoever was on the other end of the line was copping a bucketful.
‘I don’t care what your advertising spend is with us,’ he shouted down the phone. ‘It doesn’t automatically result in editorial coverage. If we think there’s a viable story to tell, we’ll tell it, but if it’s just a bit of fluff, we won’t bother our readers with it, okay? If you think there’s a story, you can take out the space for an advertorial—but it will be clearly marked as such so that there’s no mistaking it for editorial opinion.’
I could hear squawking at the other end of the line, which seemed to imply that the other person was not impressed with Tim’s argument.
‘Look,’ Tim said finally, ‘I don’t give a rat’s arse if you take it to the board: I will not have my editorial standards compromised by a soft-drink company. Now I have a meeting to go to and as far as I am concerned this is the end of the matter.’ He slammed the receiver down so hard that the entire desk shook. ‘Bloody dickheads,’ he said. ‘They think they own the fucking paper because they take out a few full-page ads. Well, I don’t care if they sponsor an entire colour wraparound—it doesn’t buy them even an inch of editorial space.’
He had been madly scribbling away on a pad as he said this, which looked to be some kind of stress release. Now he stared at me, as if waiting for confirmation.
‘It’s absolutely ridiculous,’ I agreed readily. ‘Who do they think they are? Do they think that we work for them?’ I thought that this last line was sheer genius and that he might even want to borrow it for his next argument.
But he just said, ‘What?’, looking at me as though I really might have a screw loose.
He turned over a fresh leaf of his pad. ‘So, Savannah, how are you coping with that stupid poison-pen campaign?’ he asked, settling back in his chair, which automatically had me mimicking him by easing back in my seat as well. As I’d thought, this was just a regular catch-up, nothing to worry about.
‘Pretty good, actually. This morning, I was asked to
appear on another two television shows—The Water Cooler and First Up. Looks like people are still interested in the story.’
‘No wonder,’ he said. ‘It’s got all the key elements—A-list society, a gossip columnist and a letter dripping with malice. By the way, do you know who was behind it?’
‘I’ve got a pretty good idea who it is, but I don’t have any proof yet.’
‘Well, as soon as you’ve got some hard evidence, let me know,’ he said. ‘And then we’ll name and shame.’
I nodded vigorously. It was clear my editor was not in the mood for half-hearted reactions.
‘Well, I’ll cut to the chase now, Savannah. You were spotted on a flight to Ayers Rock last weekend and you were picked up at the airport by a limo.’
I stared at him in disbelief. How could he possibly know that? There had been no one I recognised on the plane. Who had been watching me?
‘Now as I’m sure you’re aware,’ he continued gravely, leaning forward in his chair and resting his chin on his hands to fix me with a stern gaze, ‘it’s company policy not to accept freebies.’
‘But—’ I began, but he signalled for me to shut it.
‘Let me finish. It looks bad for the paper and it compromises our editorial independence just as much as those halfwits thinking that because they buy ads, they can score a spread in the paper. I don’t know about you, but I did not become a journalist in order to write advertorials. I have no interest in being an advertising copywriter and neither should you, okay?’
‘I never set out to do that,’ I started, but he kept talking over the top of me.
‘Now listen, Savannah, I need to know exactly what you were doing at Ayers Rock and who paid for your trip. I’m pretty sure that on your salary you probably can’t afford the bus trip there, let alone flights and a limo pick-up.’
I squirmed in my seat, my mind racing. How could I tell him about Daniel without giving away the whole Evanses-in-crisis aspect? Tim, I suspected, was a pretty fair and honourable man, but even he would have trouble sitting on such a juicy story.
‘Now I put it to you,’ he continued, thrusting his finger in my face (which no doubt would be causing a ripple of excitement in the news room on the other side of the glass partition), ‘that your trip was a little bonus from Wes Heart for not pursuing the story of the assault. Am I correct?’
‘What? No! That is not correct,’ I replied, getting angry now. ‘Tim, before you go any further, may I speak?’
He nodded.
‘I went to Ayers Rock for the weekend because my boyfriend, who was working up there, sent me a ticket so that we could spend some time together. And that is the honest truth.’
‘Boyfriend?’ Tim was clearly puzzled by this alien concept for one of his reporters.
‘Yes, my boyfriend. I am allowed to have a private life, surely? Do I have to declare every expensive dinner that my boyfriend treats me to because it impinges on my editorial independence?’
Tim was looking slightly ashamed now. ‘Don’t try to be smart, Savannah. Of course not.’
‘It was a quiet weekend away and I am definitely not writing it up. And I would never accept a freebie from Wes Heart—he is a horrible man and nothing but a bully.’
‘Well, if you were on a date weekend,’ Tim said evenly, ‘why didn’t he pick you up at the airport himself? Why send a limo?’
‘Because he was in a meeting and couldn’t get away. Though I don’t see why I need to explain all of this. What is this? The Sydney News relationship watchdog going into overdrive?’ I shouldn’t have said it, especially to anyone as testy and quick to fire up as Tim, but I was still a little bruised from the weekend fiasco and I had almost forgotten about the tricky situation that I now found myself in.
For a moment or two we looked across at each other, taking each other’s measure.
‘Who is this guy?’ Tim said finally. ‘He’s obviously not working at the Rock as a guide; he couldn’t afford to fly you around on that kind of salary.’
‘He is no one who I wish to discuss right now,’ I said stiffly. ‘I am allowed to have boyfriends, I assume.’ There it was again—the sarcastic tone that you should never take with your boss. Well, hell, my editor was acting more like my dad now, interrogating me about where I had been and who I had been hanging out with while I was there. As I glared at him, I tried to quash the sickening realisation that if the Evanses’ business did go belly up and it came out that I had knowledge of just how desperate the situation had become, I could lose my job. Surely any gossip columnist worth her wardrobe allowance would at least tip off her boss that something big was happening. To my relief, Tim appeared keen to drop the matter.
‘Okay, Savannah, fair enough. Look, I’m sorry for questioning you about your private life, but you have to understand that not only the integrity of the paper but my own reputation is at stake here. And you know, Sydney is a small town; once you have a profile, almost everything you do here is noticed.’ He paused and grinned at me. ‘And thanks to the author of that poison-pen letter, everyone knows who you are.’
Tim was unfolding his ungainly frame from the other side of the desk now so that he could walk me to the door. Audience over before I had even had the chance to ask who had tipped him off—I had been hoping that he might tell me.
‘Keep up the good work,’ he said, loud enough for everyone in the news room to hear, and gave me a hearty slap on the back.
Erica was back in her office at fashion central when I returned to my desk and she favoured me with a scowl while I marvelled at her outfit. She was wearing a tight-fitting black dress with Imelda Marcos shoulders and black patent leather shoes on metallic heels so high that she surely needed a licence to wear them; a stiletto like that had to be classed as a lethal weapon. Whatever else was going on with the paper’s fashion guru, she knew how to make one hell of a style statement in the office. Next to her I looked like the queen of op shop chic.
‘Hi, Erica. Stunning look today,’ I called across to her. ‘How are you this morning? As fabulous as I feel, I hope. By the way, you haven’t seen any television crews running around here, have you? I can’t believe that they still want to interview me about the poison-pen letter.’
Erica frowned, her mouth slightly twitching at the corners. It was the look usually reserved for fashion faux pas—like turning up to the wrong runway show. ‘The last time I checked I had not been appointed your social secretary. How should I know?’
‘Oh my god, you’re so funny,’ I responded, fake laughing. ‘Have a great day!’
I was almost positive that she was behind the poison-pen letters, even though I couldn’t pin it on her just yet. And knowing Erica, she had somehow been able to tip off the editor about my trip to Ayers Rock. Probably one of her trolley dolly mates had seen me at the airport. I had to admit I hadn’t taken much notice of my surrounds; I’d been too excited about seeing Daniel again.
The thought of my lover made my tummy do a little somersault. But I knew that it was dangerous to obsess about him: I had chased him all the way from Sydney to the Red Centre and it had landed me in trouble with Tim. It was also going to get a lot worse if the boss ever found out Daniel’s connections and what was at stake here. If the editor ever did find out that I had been sitting on the scoop of the year, it would be such a career clanger that I could forget about working in newspapers again. I would be the laughing stock of the media industry. I definitely wished that I had said no to the weekend away because at least then I wouldn’t be as compromised as I was now. But, hey, you only get to go around once and I was already starting to understand that a good man in Sydney is really hard to find.
I needed a coffee to clear my head, so I headed to the cafeteria.
Val was behind the counter buttering up a mound of sliced bread when I walked in.
‘Hi, love. How’s it going? Are they still giving you a hard time?’ she asked, resting the knife on the counter for a moment.
‘You better believe
it, Val. I don’t even know where to begin,’ I replied, the sight of all the food around me making me hungry. I had a sudden craving for some raisin toast—something comforting. ‘I went away on the weekend to see my boyfriend but someone spotted me and reported it to my editor, who called me in and accused me of taking kickbacks.’
Val nodded her head sympathetically and resumed buttering the bread, but with so much vigour now it was almost as if she was taking it out on Tim herself. ‘Honestly, what’s wrong with him? What you do in your own time should be your own business. You didn’t agree to a vow of chastity when you started working on the paper. You’re not supposed to be a nun, are you? Anyway, how did the weekend go?’
‘Not that great. He was working most of the time.’ I had to be sparing on details as I couldn’t afford to let anything slip. The only person I had confided in was Rachael, who had advised me to put as much distance between Daniel and myself as I could. She insisted she had a bad feeling about him, and I didn’t want to be implicated in whatever it was that he was doing. Perhaps she was right but Rachael was also a cynic when it came to love. She thought that people should just get over it.
‘That’s a shame,’ said Val. ‘If he had to work, he shouldn’t have organised to see you in the first place.’
‘Tell me about it, but something apparently came up at the last minute, some kind of company emergency.’
‘Well, I hope you still managed to enjoy yourself, Savannah.’
‘Sure did.’ Who didn’t want to spend the weekend flying all the way to the Red Centre to mooch around a pool, go for a ride in a minibus and get pickled in a themed restaurant?
‘That’s all good then. Now what can I get you?’
As I sat munching my raisin toast at my favourite corner table, I wondered again how Tim had known about my weekend jaunt. Had I been followed perhaps? But who would bother chasing me all the way to Ayers Rock and for what reason? I was getting paranoid. But then Wes Heart’s big, red face suddenly entered my consciousness: maybe he’d had me tailed in a bid to find some dirt. But wasn’t that just being a bit too melodramatic?
