A Parcel for Anna Browne

by Miranda Dickinson

  Secretly, Anna was impressed by Tish’s forthrightness. Today, she found herself wondering if one day she would ever muster the courage to be like that.

  The magic of the silk scarf was still working when she arrived home, her smile as broad as it had been all day. She remembered Laurel, a friend from her college days who believed new shoes were magical. Whenever she bought new shoes, she said, people noticed her. She would excitedly share tales of encounters and conversations brought about by the effect of her latest purchase, as if stardust was sewn into the seams of the leather. Until her scarf arrived, Anna hadn’t really understood what this meant. But now she knew exactly what Laurel was talking about. It had been an unusual day, as if she had been allowed to live someone else’s life for twenty-four hours. She had been given a glimpse of what life could be – of how differently she could live. It reminded her of a Mr Men story that her grandmother Morwenna had read to her, in which the character who lived in a permanently snow-covered land and sneezed all the time was granted one day of summer.

  What a difference one length of printed silk had made to her day! Anna was certain that when the garment was back in her wardrobe, things would return to normal. But today had been a rare gift: a chance to be different in her everyday ordinariness.

  That night Anna slept deeper and more contentedly than she could remember. Her dreams were filled with smiling faces and the sensation of being as light as a feather.

  When I wake up, this will be over, she told herself in the dreamlike half-awake moments before her alarm, as daylight began to filter through her closed eyelids.

  But Anna was wrong.

  Six

  In her thirty years at the coalface of the British media, Juliet Evans had rarely been wrong-footed. She prided herself on her ability to weather any storm – from the two failed marriages that had rocked her life in her early twenties and late thirties, to attempted coups, professional scandals and the best attempts of her rivals to sully her name.

  But then something had happened, unexpectedly tearing the ground from beneath her feet. And her own heart was responsible for the earthquake. Her mother died – and it was only then that Juliet realised how deeply she’d loved her.

  Her mother’s death wasn’t a surprise. The human body didn’t encounter such an all-consuming blow as Alzheimer’s without eventually succumbing to it. But when the end came, it ripped a hole in Juliet’s steel defences.

  She wasn’t expecting to grieve.

  She’d lost plenty of other people over the years, all of them dearer to her heart than her rigid, unemotional mother had ever been, yet the weight of loss didn’t come close to the hollowing, empty ache she now felt. Was she grieving for a relationship she had never known, or for the definite end to any possibility of future reconciliation? She didn’t know. But the pain was the keenest, most unforgiving sensation – and it refused to go away.

  Had she had children, she would have turned to them now, seeking comfort there, where with her mother she’d had none. Had she still a constant partner in her life, she could have shared her pain. But the overwhelming feeling Juliet had was one of true loneliness. People had been polite, of course, even overstepping the usual boundaries of their acquaintance to offer condolences. But something was missing – something their kind words couldn’t give her.

  That was, until a chance remark in a lift journey three weeks ago had brought unexpected comfort.

  Juliet had returned from a week’s leave, aware that her staff had been given sketchy details of her recent bereavement. Piers, her faithful PA, had tentatively offered a hug in addition to his usual air-kiss greeting, and she could see sympathy in her colleagues’ eyes as they attended that morning’s editorial meeting. But by mid-morning she was feeling decidedly shaky, heading out of the building for a walk to calm her nerves. That was most unlike her, she knew, but she needed space to think. When she returned, she sprinted for the lift as the doors were closing, meeting the startled expression of Anna Browne, the pretty woman from reception.

  ‘Thank you,’ she’d managed as the lift began to rise. ‘Anna, isn’t it?’

  The woman had nodded and immediately offered her hand. ‘Yes. Anna Browne. I work on the reception team.’

  What a sweet accent she had – Juliet recognised it immediately. Cornish. After her second divorce she had rented a house on the cliffs overlooking the sea near Padstow for a four-month sabbatical to lick her wounds, and had pottered down to the local village every day to buy a newspaper and essentials. She remembered the soothing nature of her new neighbours’ conversation, its soft, lilting tones like the gentle undulation of the sea.

  ‘I know who you are,’ Juliet had replied, her smile beginning to fade as the conversation died between them.

  And then Anna Browne spoke.

  ‘Forgive me, but I was really sorry to hear about your mum.’

  In the week since Juliet’s return from compassionate leave, the young woman was the first person to actually refer to her loss. Taken aback, Juliet had shaken her head. ‘Thank you. But we weren’t close.’

  For anyone else, her curtness would have been a warning sign. But not for Anna. ‘I understand. I’m not close to mine, either. But still, your mum’s your mum.’

  It was a casual observation, but in that lift, that day, a young woman spoke to Juliet Evans’ life in a way that few others had. And she realised that the ache weighing within her was guilt – for wanting to grieve for someone who had done nothing in her life to deserve it. The receptionist’s words had finally given her the permission she needed to grieve, regardless of whether her mother merited it or not.

  So, when her company-wide work-shadowing scheme was finally given the go-ahead by the senior management team, Juliet remembered the kindness and took a particular interest in Anna Browne’s placement. Now, looking at the completed list of work-shadowing placements on her desk as last-minute preparations were signed off, her finger momentarily rested against two names: Ben McAra and Anna Browne. Smiling, she leaned back into her expensive white leather executive chair. If she said so herself, the resulting pairing was perfect.

  In all the excitement surrounding the arrival of Anna’s mysterious gift, she had temporarily forgotten her fear of the work-shadowing placement. But, as the week continued, the looming spectre of it returned, growing darker and more ominous. All weekend her nerves increased, until the waiting ended and the day she had been dreading arrived.

  On the pavement outside the Daily Messenger building, Anna looked up involuntarily, her eyes fixing on the windows of the third floor, which housed the newsroom – the beating heart of the newspaper, and the place she was destined to be for the next two weeks. She had tried her best not to be apprehensive about this, but today nerves were getting the better of her. Last night her dreams had been filled with blunders and mishaps, always returning to an image of her facing a crowd of mocking faces. If she made a mistake here, not knowing what she was meant to do, everyone would see it. What happened if she became a laughing stock on her first day shadowing Ben?

  And that was another problem entirely. Despite admiring the handsome journalist for months, from the safety and anonymity of the reception desk, she hadn’t exchanged more than five words with him – and even when, on occasion, he’d wished her a good morning, she had been so befuddled with embarrassment that she’d hardly managed to reply before he’d walked away. She couldn’t explain her reaction. She was usually confident around men, if a little self-conscious (which was her initial reaction to everyone new she met). Nearly two years ago she had been in what she’d assumed to be a long-term relationship with a young architect, Tom, until he’d left her to take a job in New York. With other men at work – Ted, Ashraf and the assorted male journalists she occasionally met from the newsroom – she could hold her own in conversation. But Ben McAra was a different prospect entirely. And now she was stuck with him for two weeks. What if she couldn’t find the courage to string a sentence together?

 
Tish had dismissed her concern immediately, of course. They had walked from Walton Tower the day before to a small, antiquarian bookshop a few streets away, where Tish had an ongoing flirtation with the silver-haired bookseller. In a brief moment when the object of Tish’s affection was otherwise engaged with a genuine customer, Anna had confided her fears.

  ‘I just don’t know what I’ll say to him,’ she admitted, selecting a dusty volume of First World War poetry from the shelves and inhaling the vintage scent of paper and ink.

  ‘You’ll say whatever comes up at the time, honey.’

  ‘But what if nothing comes?’

  Tish discarded a cloth-bound copy of Rossetti poems on the top of a row of books and tutted when Anna replaced it in line with the others. ‘You have a problem with neatness, you know? Relax. This is just because you’re in unfamiliar territory. After tomorrow, you won’t be.’

  ‘I really don’t want to do it.’

  ‘I know you don’t. But life is full of things we don’t want to do. I don’t like monthly sales meetings with my creepy boss, but it’s in my job description. At least you get to do something exciting. You do want to do exciting things, don’t you?’

  ‘I’m here with you, chasing good-looking bookshop owners, aren’t I?’ Her joke had been a deflection: the truth was, Anna didn’t relish the prospect of excitement – not the kind that might shine an unwanted spotlight on her, anyway. She had grown up with the uncertainty that a life of drama brought, and had fought hard to leave it behind. Her job, her trusted circle of friends and her careful life in the city suited her. She knew where she was with it all, with no room for nasty surprises or uncertainty to ambush her.

  But today, all that could change . . .

  Steeling herself, she walked through the entrance doors and across the polished floor of the atrium, her shoulders back and her head as high as she could manage. It was only when the lift doors parted and the flood of newsroom noise hit her that she felt herself sagging. Panicking, she reached for the Door Close button, but a friendly face appeared in the doorway before she got there, grabbing her sleeve and pulling her into the hubbub of the unfamiliar floor.

  ‘Hey, Anna! It’s so cool that you’re going to be here for a while.’ Rea Sinfield clamped a friendly arm about Anna’s shoulders, propelling them both through the frenzied mass of journalists. ‘It’s a little crazy in here this morning – big news just broke about a well-respected BBC news anchor having illicit meetings with a rent-boy.’ She grinned. ‘We have his exclusive story, and the other rags are murderous about it! Don’t look so worried; it’s not always like this. Let me get you a coffee and then I’ll introduce you to Mr Wonderful.’

  Paling, Anna let herself be manoeuvred between desks and dodging bodies, the shouts and activity of the newsroom dizzying to her unaccustomed senses. She was used to dealing with busy periods in reception, but this was a different kind of busyness. Tension hung almost visibly above the heads of the journalists, its presence squeezing the corners of the space and raising the volume of conversations. Even people collecting paper cups of water from the large coolers at one end of the newsroom appeared to be doing so as if their livelihoods depended upon it. Anna knew she was staring, but couldn’t stop. It was claustrophobic and thrilling, a contradictive experience that awed her.

  ‘How does anyone work here without having a heart attack?’ she asked.

  ‘You get used to it.’ Rea smiled as she handed Anna a mug of dark, smoky coffee. When Anna tasted it, the caffeine nearly knocked her off her feet. ‘This stuff helps. Come on.’

  Trailing like a bewildered child behind her colleague, Anna followed her through the newsroom to a row of desks that appeared to be made of better-quality wood-effect laminate than the rest.

  ‘Senior editorial team,’ Rea explained. ‘They get better chairs than us minions, too. Ah, here’s the man of the hour! McAra, you have a visitor.’

  The dark-haired man swung his office chair around and suddenly Anna was face-to-face with the object of her anonymous affection. She forced a smile, and prayed to all that was good that her cheeks weren’t matching the scarlet upholstery of Ben’s chair. ‘Hey. You must be Anna Browne.’ He held out his hand as he stood. ‘I’m Ben.’

  ‘Our star reporter,’ Rea mocked.

  ‘Hardly. Thanks, Sinfield. I’ll take it from here.’

  With a final encouraging smile, Rea returned to her desk in the middle of the newsroom scrum, leaving Anna feeling self-consciously on show by Ben’s desk.

  He was smiling at her and she couldn’t work out whether this was friendliness or fascination for an unfamiliar face. Remembering his manners, he grabbed a grey office chair and wheeled it beside his. ‘Please, have a seat. I’m just firming up my appointments for this morning, so give me five minutes and then we’ll get cracking.’

  Without waiting for her answer, he turned back to his computer screen and began to make a phone call. Anna sat on the slightly uneven seat of the chair, which seemed to possess the loudest squeak known to man, feeling completely conspicuous. It was as she’d feared: her confidence had evaporated and she was stuck here for what already felt like hours, unable to do anything until Ben returned his attention to her.

  Two weeks of this was going to be hell . . .

  The TV anchorman’s exclusive reverberated around the newsroom for most of the day, but as it was the property of Eric Mullins, Ben’s fast-talking, self-assured colleague, the story made little impact on the work Anna and Ben had to do. As she’d expected, Anna quickly learned where the coffee machine, photocopier and stationery cupboard were situated, Ben sending her on mundane errands more to occupy her while he arranged his week’s schedule than because any of it was crucial to his work. As she printed off copies of Ben’s recent research, she took the opportunity to watch the newsroom. She remembered her friend Jonah – a freelance TV cameraman who worked on nature documentaries – telling her that much of his job entailed watching ‘the everyday activity of unfamiliar environments’. Today, she understood what he meant. The flora and fauna of the Daily Messenger’s news hub were most definitely alien: the pallid skin and uniform dark circles beneath eyes hollowed out by lack of sleep at odds with the frenetic activity of all of its inhabitants. Spikes of laughter punctuated the constant din of voices, phones and tapping keyboard keys, but Anna saw few genuine smiles. What she felt, though, was an unseen force driving everything: an urgency that seemed to sweep every person along.

  She watched Ben from this safe distance, too. It was impossible not to – he seemed to be the centre of the action, whether participating or not. Her eyes were drawn to him, noting the way he was aware of everything happening around him, yet able to appear completely absorbed in his own tasks at the same time. It didn’t hurt that he was undeniably pleasant to look at, of course – a fact not lost on several of his female colleagues, who flitted close to him whenever an opportunity presented itself. If Ben knew the effect he had on them, he was careful not to show it, but his satisfied expression made Anna think that he was more than happy with the situation.

  Anna was quickly learning that Ben McAra was a series of contradictions. He moved faster than anyone she’d met before, yet seemed to take his time over every task. He was driven but laconic, a natural comedian but prone to moments of dark seriousness. All of which made him fascinating and frustrating all at once. As the day progressed she found herself more able to talk to him, becoming less concerned with the stark newness of her temporary work surroundings. Procedures and protocols gradually formed coherent lists in her mind and she settled into the strange rhythm of the journalist’s day. There appeared to be much sitting around waiting for interviews, interspersed with frenetic sessions of Internet research and information-gathering. And coffee. A lot of coffee. Fearing she might not sleep again during her entire work-shadowing placement, Anna made a note to herself to bring in peppermint tea tomorrow. One day of newsroom rocket-fuel sludge was enough to bear.

  What did Ben make of
her? Anna couldn’t tell yet, but he certainly seemed to be interested in his temporary work colleague. In the gaps between actual work he bombarded her with questions, from banal to personal, on every topic under the sun:

  ‘That accent isn’t local. Where are you from?’

  ‘Did you go to university?’

  ‘What was the first record you bought?’

  ‘Bourbons or custard creams? Personally, I can never choose. Do you have a favourite biscuit?’

  ‘What’s your five-year plan? What do you mean, you “haven’t got one”?’

  By half-past three that afternoon, Anna felt thoroughly grilled.

  ‘You ask a lot of questions.’

  Ben stared at her, mid-coffee-sip. ‘Occupational hazard. Sorry, I’ve been annoying you, haven’t I?’

  ‘Not annoying as such . . .’

  He shook his head. ‘My apologies. I do this. My friends regularly tell me to shut up. Feel free to do the same.’

  Anna smiled. ‘Shut up, Ben.’

  ‘There. Makes you feel better, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Much.’

  ‘So, why don’t you like answering questions?’

  ‘Shut up, Ben.’

  ‘Oh, come on, just this one question? It’s my best one.’

  ‘Shut up.’

  Groaning, he raised his hands in defeat. ‘Fine. Wish I hadn’t told you that. Let’s mix it up, then. Why don’t you ask me something?’

  Anna thought for a moment. There were many things she wanted to know about Ben McAra, but where to begin? ‘Why all the questions?’

  ‘Because I’m interested. Don’t roll your eyes, Anna – I am. I’m a natural inquisitor. Plus, my own life is never as interesting as other people’s.’

  ‘Why say that? You’re a star reporter, you have the newsroom at your feet . . .’