The door opened and immediately the room fell silent. Juliet Evans, flanked by her ever-present PA, Piers Langley, breezed into the room, taking her seat at the head of the table.
‘Good morning, all.’
Mumbled greetings sounded from around the boardroom.
‘So, what do you have for me?’
One by one, the senior journalists ran through their current projects, the bones of the week’s papers taking shape as each column, section and department added their contributions. The editor listened dispassionately, nodding her approval and making notes. Occasionally she would interject with questions, quickly dismissing points she didn’t agree with. Some of the reporters challenged her, and Anna saw the younger staff writers shrinking back when Juliet disagreed. She could feel tides of respect and resentment in the air, rising and falling as the meeting progressed. Ben had told her that morning that most of the senior writers enjoyed the verbal sparring with their editor, in their own way.
‘It gives them ulcers, but it’s addictive. You fight for your words and, occasionally, you win.’
‘McAra,’ Juliet barked. ‘How about you?’
‘A few leads I’m working on, but the oil story, the government report on the Stafford case and my interview with the Deputy PM are all ready to rock.’
‘So, we’re expecting standard politician answers?’
Ben chuckled. ‘As ever. But I’ll make it work.’
‘Boring!’
The eyes of the boardroom lifted as one.
Ben stared back. ‘Sorry?’
‘We need an angle the other titles don’t have.’ Frowning, Juliet slapped her hand on the pale wood of the boardroom table. ‘Come on, people! This is a crucial time for the Messenger, as you have no doubt all been speculating. We need to approach our stories from a different perspective – appeal to readers who are looking for a fresh approach. Standard interviews with politicians are old. They know exactly which questions we’ll ask, and they’ve been media-trained into avoiding giving us anything. People are sick of reading it. I’m sick of reading it. So, how do we avoid it?’
Uniform silence met her question.
‘Seriously? The greatest talent gathered on Fleet Street, and yet not one of you can offer anything different?’ Her sharp green stare swivelled without warning to Anna. ‘Anna Browne. What do you think?’
Juliet Evans was not a woman to notice anyone, being more inclined to expect the whole world to notice her. Wherever she walked in the Messenger building, people parted like the Red Sea under Moses’ outstretched arm, clearing a path for the woman Time magazine listed as One of the Most Influential Women in Business Today. A posse of hangers-on scurried behind her – security, assistants, associate editors and anyone who dared request an audience with her in her busy day. Outside editorial gatherings such as this, Juliet rarely entertained Messenger staff in her office, preferring instead to have them stutter their requests at breakneck pace as she swept from one department to the next. ‘Walk with me!’ was her favourite order, barked at cowering employees as they hurried alongside her. She was, in short, terrifying.
And now she was fixing Anna with her stare, demanding a reply . . .
It was as if the air had suddenly been sucked from the room. Anna’s mouth dried in an instant, her body shrinking into the uncomfortable chair. Everyone was looking at her now, expecting her to answer. She looked over at Ben for reassurance – or even a look of friendly solidarity – but he was staring a hole into his lap.
‘I . . .’ Think, Anna, think! Her heart beat so quickly she thought she might faint, all rational thought leaving her.
‘Well?’
The bark of the Messenger’s powerful editor hooked the flailing words in her mouth, dragging them forth in panic, like a fish struggling from the water on the end of a fly line. Anna closed her eyes and heard her voice speaking words she hadn’t formed.
‘Ask them different questions . . . Things the politicians aren’t expecting.’
When she dared to look, something approaching a smile had taken residence on Juliet’s lips.
‘Good. Such as?’
Anna’s mind whirred into action. ‘Personal things. I read political interviews and I never feel I’m getting an insight into real people, just rhetoric. If you met someone for the first time, you wouldn’t only talk about their job. You’d ask questions about their lives, their likes and dislikes – all of which would inform your opinion of them.’
‘Go on.’
Anna considered her own experience of meeting and greeting strangers as they entered the building. ‘I find, in my job, that establishing common ground is a good way to get the measure of someone in a short time. When people are waiting in reception, they usually like it when you put them at their ease with a little chat. I’ve often discovered surprising things about people during short conversations.’
Juliet clapped her hands, making her audience jump. ‘And that, people, is why the work-shadowing project is going to be so valuable to this paper. People from different departments, offering a fresh perspective. That is what will give us the edge. McAra, make sure you give Miss Browne more to do than photocopying and fetching coffee, yes?’
Ben nodded dumbly as Anna stared at her lap, feeling relief flood her frame as she was released from the weight of the editorial team’s stares.
‘Well, weren’t you the star of the show?’ Murray Henderson-Vitt jibed as Anna and Ben returned to the newsroom.
‘I don’t know about that. Just common sense, I think,’ Anna said quickly, noticing Ben’s amusement at her reply.
‘Yeah, you know, H-V – that thing we’re supposed to have?’
‘I’ve read about it. So, what challenging assignment are you going to set the Teacher’s Pet today, McAra?’
Ben’s smile faded a little. ‘Riveting research for the oil-company story.’ He mouthed Sorry to Anna.
‘Welcome to the wonderful adventure of a national newspaper,’ Murray chuckled. ‘One minute you’re dining with stars, the next you’re shovelling the—’
‘Quite. Well, we must be getting on, H-V. I’m sure your headlines are screaming for you.’
Anna heard the older journalist mumble something unprintable as he turned back to his computer screen. She was becoming accustomed to the banter in the newsroom and was growing to like it, despite its ferocity.
‘Sorry about the Internet-trawling,’ Ben said, once Murray was hunched over his work. ‘I need background on three of the biggest oil companies. Bit of a boring job, but it needs to be done.’
‘I don’t mind,’ Anna replied, happy to have a quiet, steady task to focus on after her experience in the editorial meeting. Why had the editor singled her out like that? They had barely spoken in the past, apart from saying hello, and one brief conversation in the lift a while ago; aside from that, they were as good as strangers. Anna hadn’t liked Juliet’s condescending tone, either. If she wanted a poster-girl for her precious work-shadowing programme, Anna didn’t want the job.
‘You did well, though, in the meeting,’ Ben said, as if reading her thoughts. ‘Juliet can be terrifying when she jumps on you like that.’
‘It was a bit of a shock. I don’t know why she picked on me.’
‘You’re new. And she has a point to prove with this scheme. Don’t worry, she’ll have forgotten about you tomorrow.’
Anna hoped Ben was right.
Her feelings about the experience in the editorial meeting remained conflicted for the next few days as she accompanied Ben to several interviews and completed hours of background research for the assignment he was working on. She had spoken up in the middle of a packed room full of people she didn’t know: that was new. And they listened to her suggestion and didn’t shoot her down in flames (as she’d seen several of them do to one another on the newsroom floor), which was even more surprising. She’d hated all eyes turning to her when Juliet barked her name, but had emerged unscathed from a situation that, even a week ago,
she couldn’t have coped with.
Her work-shadowing task was turning out to be a place for unusual happenings and Anna was quietly satisfied by her reaction to it all. That said, she was glad her remaining days in the newsroom were fast dwindling now. It would be good to return to reception and her usual routine. She would miss working alongside Ben, though. Despite his unremitting questions and questionable sense of humour, she felt at ease in his company and was even beginning to sense a chemistry growing between them. She was certain she would never quite reach the banter levels of his closest colleagues, but she enjoyed the jovial conversations and good-natured jibes they had shared.
As the end of her time with Ben approached, Anna marvelled at how much had happened to her since the arrival of her surprise parcel. She had started to feel a little differently about herself recently, and the scarf’s appearance in her life was the only thing she could pinpoint as being responsible for it. Intriguingly, her most challenging and surprising experiences in the newsroom seemed to happen on the days she wore her scarf. Deciding to test the theory one last time, she wrapped the scarf around her neck as she left her apartment for her final day in the newsroom.
For the first two hours nothing happened. The work they had done during the week was complete and Ben’s calendar was empty until the following Tuesday morning. It seemed that a slow news day was in progress across the news floor, with journalists wandering between the desks and hanging around the coffee machine in an attempt to look busy. Even the phones were strangely silent. Anna could see Ben’s frustration building, the tap-tap-tap of his pen against his notebook a telling sign.
‘I’m sorry, Anna. I thought we’d have more to do for your last day.’
‘Don’t worry, it’s fine,’ she replied, smiling brightly to conceal her disappointment. Next week I’ll return to my everyday life, she told herself sternly, feeling foolish for wanting more.
‘This doesn’t happen often, but when it does it’s a killer.’ He grimaced, absent-mindedly stirring the coffee in his insulated mug with his pen. ‘Drives me insane, to be honest. What do you do downstairs when it goes quiet?’
‘Ted usually entertains us with his latest conspiracy theories.’
Ben laughed, the sound warm and familiar to Anna now. ‘Well, our Teddy B could keep you entertained with that for years. It’s a wonder Channel 5 haven’t done a series on his crazy theories. Maybe we should get him up here, just to kill a few hundred years.’
Anna could just picture Ted Blaskiewicz holding court in the newsroom, spinning tales of covert corruption, devious deeds and shameful secrets. He would be in his element. ‘He should have been a spy. I think he always wanted to be one. He thinks he’s one already, truth be told, but at least if MI5 had actually hired him, he’d have all the surveillance gadgets he lusts over.’ A thought occurred to her. ‘Did you always want to be a journalist?’
‘Actually, no. I wanted to be an explorer when I was a kid. I had dreams of travelling the world and writing about my adventures.’ He laughed and flicked a screwed-up sticky note off his desk, missing the waste-paper basket by millimetres. ‘It’s probably good that I reconsidered. Can’t really picture myself in a pith-helmet, can you?’
‘What made you change your mind?’ Anna was astonished by how easily she could question Ben now, without a hint of nerves. It was another surprise from her time with him.
‘I was offered work experience with the local paper when I was fifteen. And, let me tell you, it was nowhere near as exciting as the things you’ve done this week. But, I don’t know . . . there was something about the buzz of the place that I liked. They printed one of my stories, too – a tiny piece about a sinkhole that had appeared in the High Street overnight. When I saw my words in print, that was it for me.’ He shrugged. ‘Maybe we should run one of the stories you’ve been working on for me, and enchant you into the business.’
‘No, thank you. I mean, it’s been fun, but I’m no writer.’
‘So, did you always want to be a receptionist?’ Mischief danced in his eyes.
‘Oh yes,’ Anna replied, playing along. ‘I used to line my teddies up and sign them in as visitors.’
‘Aw. Did you make little security badges for them, too?’
‘The whole shebang.’ It felt good to laugh at a joke she’d made. ‘I don’t know what I wanted to be, really. I just wanted a job where I could meet people. And I wanted to come to London. When this job came up, I took it and I really enjoy it.’
‘Why did you want to come to London?’
His question took her by surprise: she hadn’t realised she’d offered the information until Ben jumped on it. Why London? In truth it was because it was the one place her mother wouldn’t follow her to.
But there had been another reason – one that even Jonah and Tish didn’t know: she believed her father lived in the city. It had stemmed from a casual remark Senara had made during one of her drunken rants about how sorry her life was. Your dad was the worst of ’em! Running back to his comfy life in London, forgetting all about me – like it was that easy! T’ain’t fair, Anna! Why am I always the one that gets left?
She knew nothing more about her father – not even his name, a detail Senara refused point-blank to share. But even knowing he was somewhere in the city gave Anna a tangible connection to him. London became the object of her ambitions from that moment on: a plan hatching in her early teens that would lead to her leaving everything behind to follow it. Maybe she had already met him; perhaps he had visited the Messenger building and wished her a good morning as he collected his pass. She often thought about him as she travelled to work, visited galleries and bookshops and cafés with Tish and Jonah, or walked through London’s beautiful parks. In her deepest dreams he would emerge from the crowds and take hold of her hand. She would see herself in his eyes and feel, at last, as if she belonged . . .
‘I thought it would be great to live here. And it is.’
‘But you don’t miss – where is it you come from?’
‘Cornwall – Polperro. No, not much.’
‘Don’t think I’ve ever been. My family always took us to the Norfolk Broads or Margate—’ He was interrupted by the shrill ringing of his desk phone. ‘Here we go – something to do at last!’
Anna turned away a little to look at the notes she’d made for Ben yesterday. As she did so, she could hear the journalist’s voice rising beside her.
‘You will? Definitely? Perfect! No, don’t bring anyone else – and tell no one you’re meeting me, okay? I’ll text you the location.’ Slamming down the phone, he shook his head. ‘I knew today wasn’t going to be slow. Anna, this is huge!’
With no further explanation offered, she watched as Ben flew into action, the change in him startling. She could almost see the adrenaline coursing through his body as he arranged an interview venue and time, fired off texts and scribbled lines in his notebook. After a full ten minutes of activity he finally turned back to her, his eyes alive.
‘We got it!’
‘Got what?’
‘An exclusive I’ve been working on for months. I’ll explain on the way there. But this is what I do this job for! Come on . . .’
His excitement fired Anna’s own and she hurried after him down to a waiting taxi. She wasn’t sure what to expect, or what lay ahead – the prospect both unnerving and thrilling.
‘This story could bring down a major politician,’ Ben explained, still adding questions to the list in his notebook as their taxi wove through midday traffic. ‘Scratch that: it will bring him down. With an election looming and his party polishing him as the PM’s spotless right-hand man, it’s explosive! Juliet told me to lay off the story last week, but I knew it was coming, you know? I felt it, there.’ He jabbed his thumb at his heart. ‘This doesn’t happen often, but when it does, the rush is incredible! Don’t look so scared, I’ll handle everything.’
‘And what do I do?’ Anna asked, suddenly feeling like a spare part.
�
�Just watch,’ he grinned, ‘and enjoy!’
Nine
Vanessa Milburn was not accustomed to nerves. But today she seemed beset by them. Of course, dishing the dirt on your soon-to-be-former boss was never going to happen completely without jitters, but she hadn’t expected to feel quite as apprehensive as she did. The hotel room hired for the exclusive interview with the Daily Messenger didn’t help, either; it was furnished to look sumptuously comfortable, but was anything but. Even as she wriggled on the painfully rock-hard upholstery of a chaise longue at the bottom of a palatial bed, Vanessa felt out of place.
She couldn’t reconsider. Not now. Alistair had cooked his chips when he denied their long-standing affair and made her out to be a liar and a cheat. She wasn’t the one with the media-friendly, doe-eyed wife and simpering kids. She’d maintained her deliciously single status: the only person she had cheated was herself. Alistair had used her, betrayed both her and his family, and now he expected her to fall on her sword for him? Not likely! Vanessa Milburn was a survivor. Her entire career had been built on weathering storms. Now it was her turn to have her say.
Unfortunately the Daily Messenger’s star reporter was fast revealing himself to be a Class A idiot. Already this morning he had insulted her, wrongly guessed her age (who did that these days, anyway?) and now was trying to insinuate that he was her erstwhile saviour. You’re just a hack, she thought, as he fired a set of increasingly patronising questions at her. Everything within her screamed back at him: I’m not some dim-witted teenager selling a story on a celebrity! What I have to share will undermine the credibility of one of the country’s most respected politicians, the heir-apparent to the Prime Minister himself!
She should have talked to the Post instead. They were crass and devoid of conscience, but at least you got what you expected with them. She should leave, chuck this annoying young man out and rethink her strategy.
A Parcel for Anna Browne Page 6
