Ben McAra stared at his shoes, hoping his ordeal would soon end.
He had endured twenty minutes of Juliet Evans’ wrath already and was beginning to wish he’d listened to his hangover this morning and called in sick. A late-night meeting with a civil servant from the Ministry of Education whose tongue famously loosened when given alcohol had led Ben to share a bottle of obscenely expensive single malt last night, in exchange for what turned out to be not very useful gossip. And now his head was shouting at him almost as loudly as his editor.
‘I don’t need your excuses, McAra! I need you to do your job! We need something big – something that will wipe the smug grins off the faces of the Post and the Mail. They’ve beaten us to the punch too many times this year – and our readership knows it.’
‘I’m working on it, Juliet . . .’
‘And I’m not talking about your corruption-in-schools exposé.’
‘I’m almost there. My source is this close to breaking . . .’ Don’t you dare call time on me, Ben silently threatened. I’ve been working my ass off to get this story . . .
‘From what I hear, your source has been happily spilling his guts to the highest bidder for months. Kyle Chambers from the Post was bragging about it in the Members’ Club two weeks ago.’ Juliet Evans ran a hand through her razor-edged blonde bob and paced the office that wasn’t hers. She seemed smaller in the former assistant editor’s office, but her wrath, if anything, was amplified. ‘You’re forgetting why I hired you, McAra. Anyone can write about corruption. Anyone can find a bent MP, a dodgy police chief, a High Court judge with a weekend name. We have to find a story that will capture our readership’s imagination and kick the competition to the kerb. I want you to find me that story.’
I don’t know any other stories, Ben retorted in his head, needing caffeine or, possibly, a full frontal lobotomy to ease the hammering in his brain. Caffeine would be easier to come by, if decidedly more temporary than the latter solution. He promised himself an unscheduled visit to Freya & Georgie’s as soon as the Dragon released him from her temporary lair.
And then he thought of Anna. Of her smile and sense of humour, of her uniquely charming view of life. And those eyes: blue as a summer’s day and sparkling like the sun on the sea. The thought of her commanded his attention as his boss raged on like a hurricane around him. He was falling for Anna – had been for some time – and now they had established a level of trust, he was ready for the next step. His plan to move closer to her was working perfectly, despite almost blowing everything a few days ago in the coffee house . . .
Wait. That’s it!
A way to get what he wanted, both professionally and personally. A way to capitalise on his efforts of the past two months and get Juliet off his back for the time being. She’d been banging on about human-interest stories for months, ‘good news’ tales that might capture their dwindling readership’s attention and persuade them to hang around a bit longer. Now the perfect candidate was staring him in the face. It wasn’t a huge story, but it was brilliant – even with his brain’s current delicate state, he had to congratulate himself on his genius.
‘Actually, I might have a lead on something,’ he said, cutting Dragon Evans off in the middle of her torrent. ‘But I’ll need four weeks.’
‘You have a fortnight,’ Juliet snapped. ‘Make it happen.’
‘So, I said to him, “I don’t care if Gary Lineker said you were the Dalai Lama, you’re a rubbish boyfriend!” And then I got his chauffeur to drive me home.’
‘But he could be the next Rooney,’ Rea insisted, her superior knowledge of the football Premiership something she liked to show off, even if it was lost on Sheniece Wilson.
‘Exactly – and look what that poor Coleen has to put up with! Emile is about as useful as a fart in a hurricane when it comes to women. Good luck to whoever gets saddled with that as a partner.’ She turned to Anna, who was trying her best to disguise her amusement. ‘See, what I need is a star journalist, like Anna has.’
Rea gasped at Anna. ‘Are you going out with Ben McAra?’
‘No, I’m not. We’re just friends.’
‘Not what I hear,’ Sheniece smirked, filing a chip from her fingernail. ‘We saw you with him, remember. And my mate Megan works in Freya & Georgie’s and she said you two were all over each other last week – in a body-language sense.’ She winked at Rea. ‘If she isn’t shagging him yet, it’s only a matter of time before she jumps his bones.’
Horrified, Anna hurried to her own defence. ‘It’s not like that. Ben’s a friend.’
‘What I wouldn’t give for a friend that fit! Hang on, look lively.’ Rea grabbed a pile of leaflets from the reception desk and held one out to Anna. ‘So, if you can make sure these are available for people to see, that would be great . . . Oh, hi, Ben.’
She stepped back to reveal the smiling journalist walking towards them. Anna did her best to appear unmoved by the sight of him, but she knew she was fooling nobody. Her colleagues had hit the nail on the head, even if they’d assumed Anna and Ben were further down the road than they were. Anna knew that if Ben asked her out, she would be only too willing to accept.
‘Ladies. I was just passing and wondered what the gossip was.’
Rea frowned. ‘Since when were you interested in girlie gossip, McAra?’
‘I’m an investigative journalist, Sinfield. It comes with the territory. So?’
Anna chuckled. ‘Babs reckons there’s a conspiracy by management to deny her quality cleaning products. You could investigate that.’
The sparkle in the journalist’s eyes made her spine tingle. ‘This could be huge. Clearly we need to talk more, Anna.’
Their shared smile wasn’t missed by Rea and Sheniece.
‘Any excuse,’ Rea muttered, loud enough to make Anna blush. ‘So, Ben, what’s the big breaking story that’s going to save the Daily Messenger?’
‘Apart from Babs’ lack of Flash? Actually, I should make a note . . .’ He grabbed a complimentary pen and sheet of Messenger notepaper from the reception desk. ‘That would be a killer headline.’
‘Well?’
‘There isn’t a big breaking story to save the paper because, ladies, the paper is not in trouble and therefore doesn’t need saving.’
Rea folded her arms. ‘Right. So sleazy Damien Kendal setting up shop in the Dragon’s office is just a coincidence, is it?’
‘Who understands the mind of the Board? They don’t feel they’re doing their job if they aren’t checking up on us minions. You know that, Rea. So don’t go spreading rumours that help nobody. We operate on facts alone here.’
His comment caused Rea to laugh so hard she nearly dropped her armful of papers. ‘We work for a tabloid, Ben. Facts are the least of our concerns!’ She beckoned to Sheniece and they walked towards the exit together.
Ben grimaced. ‘That sounded so much better in my head. So, Miss Browne, what time do you clock off?’
‘Now, actually. I was just closing up the desk. You?’
‘I’m done. The interview I was planning has fallen through. What are you up to when you leave? Anything exciting?’
Anna did her best to look unmoved, despite the rising excitement within her. ‘Not really. I was planning an early night. You?’
‘Forget your early night. I want to take you out for a drink.’
‘You do?’ She couldn’t hide her smile. This was the invitation she had been hoping might follow after their heartfelt exchange earlier that week.
‘Yes, I do. So what do you say? I’ll give you a clue: the answer you’re looking for is “Yes, Ben”.’
Anna was about to answer when she caught sight of a familiar figure approaching. It was strange to see her friend and neighbour in her work environs, but she was delighted to see the scruffily dressed cameraman, with his wonky smile and attitude, completely unfazed by the smart atrium he was strolling through.
‘Ey-up, lass!’ He grinned, his exaggerated Yorkshire pronunciation
a running joke between them. Both had commented that their regional accents became stronger when they were in unfamiliar surroundings.
‘All right, my ’ansum!’ Anna replied, playing along. What brings you here?’
‘I had an interview for a job in White City. Thought I’d look you up and see if you fancied a brew, a bus-ride home and a reet good natter with me?’
Ben was watching the Yorkshireman as if observing a strange and exotic animal in the wild. Anna smiled by way of explanation. ‘Ben, this is Jonah, my neighbour and friend. Jonah, this is . . .’
‘Ben McAra, Senior Correspondent,’ he interjected, his handshake so perfunctory it was almost a sword-thrust. ‘I’m good friends with Anna.’
‘She has many friends,’ Jonah returned, his smile as fleeting as Ben’s handshake.
The temperature in reception seemed to plummet, so much so that Anna looked over to the entrance to see if the mechanism on the automatic doors had stuck open again. Ben and Jonah stared one another down, like lions about to do battle.
Anna was torn: part of her wanted to go for a drink with Ben to see what might happen. His invitation confirmed that he was interested in her, beyond occasional coffee-shop visits before work, and that felt good. But Jonah so rarely visited her at work that she would feel bad if he’d made the journey and she’d accepted Ben’s offer instead. Added to this, the strange behaviour of the two men was making her uneasy. Not wanting to create a scene that might cause further rumour in the building, she made a quick decision.
‘I’m sorry about the drink, Ben. I really could do with an early night. Mind if we make it another time? Maybe next week?’
‘I guess so.’ Ben’s eyes slid from Jonah to Anna. ‘Are you certain I can’t tempt you? I’m happy to throw in a taxi ride to save you from the Friday-evening bus.’
‘I don’t mind us catching a cab.’ When irritation pulled at the journalist’s face, Jonah’s smile said it all. ‘It’s not beyond my means, you know.’
It was definitely time to leave. Anna turned the switchboard to night service and picked up her bag. ‘I’ll see you in Freya & Georgie’s on Monday, Ben. Have a lovely weekend.’
‘Fine by me. Jonah, it was good to meet you. Anna, I’ll call you.’
Anna wished she hadn’t seen the hurt in Ben’s eyes, or the smug expression Jonah now wore. What was wrong with both of them? Ben could hardly call her when she’d never given him her phone number. And why was Jonah trying to out-taxi Ben? The peace she had enjoyed barely half an hour before vanished like sea mist in the sun as Anna left the Messenger building, aware of Jonah’s stare as they walked down the street. After a full five minutes of unwarranted scrutiny, she challenged him.
‘What are you staring at me for?’
‘I’m not.’
Anna stopped abruptly, sending irritated commuters swerving around them to avoid a collision. ‘Yes, you are. And what was all that about, back there?’
‘Back where?’
Anna folded her arms. ‘Come on, Jonah, you know what I’m talking about. You were pretty rude to Ben.’
‘I was not. I shook the man’s hand. What else did you expect me to do: ask him for a dance?’
‘You were staring at him like he had a gun pointed at your head.’
‘Well, he started it.’
With a loud groan, Anna began to walk again. It wasn’t her idea for Jonah to surprise her at work, any more than she’d anticipated Ben asking her for a post-work drink. What should have been a sweet invitation had become World War Three; she’d only agreed to go home with Jonah to stop the animosity escalating further. Now she wished she had accepted Ben’s invitation and let Jonah go home, to sort out his stupid, male head . . .
‘Anna! Don’t be like that! I can’t help it if I don’t like the chap.’
‘I never asked you to like him! I never asked you to meet me today, either.’
‘Oh, so you’d rather I hadn’t?’
He had caught up with her and Anna wished she’d brushed both of them off and done her own thing. ‘Now you’re being pathetic. What’s your problem? Ben’s a work colleague and a friend.’
‘A friend who wants to get into your knickers.’
She halted again, bristling for a fight. ‘And what if he does? What business is it of yours?’
‘Oh. Like that, is it?’
‘No, it isn’t! But what’s the point in me saying anything else? If that’s what you think is happening and you won’t listen to me, why should I tell you any different? You say you’re my friend, but you just embarrassed me in front of my work colleagues. What gives you the right to assume anything about me?’
‘Anna, stop.’ Jonah was holding out his hands, realising his mistake too late. ‘Maybe I overreacted, okay? Is that what you want to hear? I didn’t like the look of him, that’s all. But I know that isn’t your problem. And I shouldn’t have made it appear that way, especially not where you work. I’m sorry. Can we just go somewhere and talk? I don’t want you to be angry with me.’
But Anna had heard enough. Despite his apology, Jonah clearly thought Ben was out to use her and that she was too thick to realise it. He thought she was some innocent country bumpkin who needed protecting. Which was ludicrous. Why couldn’t she make up her own mind? She had always considered Jonah her closest ally – someone unaffected by the pettiness that seemed to obsess so many of her fellow city-dwellers. His no-nonsense attitude to life had been a breath of fresh air and Anna had come to rely on his ability to find humour in everything. But she’d seen a side to him today she didn’t like – and that threw everything else into question.
‘I’m sorry. I’m going home.’
‘Then let me come with you . . .’
‘No. Leave me alone.’
She didn’t take the bus home, concerned that Jonah would use the excuse to travel with her regardless. Instead she headed for the mind-numbing crush of the Friday early-evening Tube, not caring when she was jostled and squashed between impatient commuters. Space was the last thing she was looking for now: space to move and consider might give her too much time to think. Instead she surrendered to the anonymous jam, keen to escape, to think of nothing but finding the smallest space to be in.
An hour later, after taking a meandering route home, she arrived at her front door to find a bouquet of flowers and a note: Sorry. I’m an idiot.
Yes, you are, she agreed, leaving the flowers in the corridor as she shut herself into her flat.
That evening, still rattled, Anna switched off the television and listened to the muted sounds of life from the apartments above and below. Outside a police siren split the distant hum of traffic, a rush of flashing blue lights temporarily illuminating her living room. She wandered into the kitchen to flick the switch on the kettle, leaning against the countertop, her mind a tumbled mess; but when the kettle boiled she ignored it and walked away.
The box of sea-glass beads and drilled shells was still in the middle of her dining table. Taking a seat, she reached for it, letting her fingers pass over the cold glass and rough shells. How dare Jonah think it was his job to choose her friends? And Ben, squaring up to Jonah like an eighteenth-century dueller, had been no better. She might lead what others thought was a quiet life, but this gave no one the right to dictate how she should live it. She’d had more than her fair share of unwanted commentators on her life during her childhood – people who assumed they were more qualified than she to decide her path. Neighbours, supposed friends and pub regulars in Polperro had all taken it upon themselves to publicly pity her as a child, their concern often nothing more than a badly disguised excuse to gossip about the Browne family. She had hoped moving to the city and slowly carving out her own future would have ended that.
Some chance.
Irritated, she lifted the length of thin leather from the white cardboard box and took out a green-blue sea-glass bead. Carefully she threaded the leather through the silver wire hoop, pulling the bead along to the end, where a smal
l double knot had been tied.
Jonah can’t dictate my friends . . .
A tiny scalloped limpet shell followed the bead.
. . . and neither should Ben . . .
A pale-green sea-glass bead reflected the light from the pendant lamp over Anna’s table as it moved along the leather.
Nobody decides that but me . . .
Soap-bubble lustre-lined shells and matt glass beads passed through her hands in an alternating pattern, as Anna mulled over her response. The meditative act renewed her perspective and, as her creation grew, her resolve began to form.
It’s my life.
Sitting back, she looked at the completed length of beads, shells and leather. She draped it over her wrist, tying the two ends together to form a bracelet. It was simple but had its own beauty, reminding her of treasures lying on the Cornish beaches she’d played on years ago: – the message had read. And, at that moment, it began to make sense. What she created was her choice; nobody else’s. The more she considered this, the stronger the notion became. What she decided to do with her life was entirely her responsibility and right. She had two choices: allow others to control her choices or make her own way.
In the stillness of her home Anna made a promise to herself. It was time to stop worrying about what other people thought and follow her heart. She held her future in her own hands: successes and failures might come in equal measure, but she was determined to make the most of every decision, for better or worse.
The bracelet would remind her of that. Maybe the sender of this gift knew what they were doing after all. Peace settled over her, a welcome refreshing of her mind after the hours of frustration.
It’s my life, she told herself again. Whatever happens next is up to me . . .
Thirty-Two
Anna didn’t see Jonah for a week. She ignored his calls and refused to answer the door when he knocked. She would talk to him, of course, eventually. But she had a point to make and he needed to accept it. She wore her handmade bracelet to work, its presence reassuring, and found her fingers subconsciously reaching for it when she had decisions to make or an opinion to give. Like the daisy-chain necklace, brooch and scarf before it, Anna felt stronger when wearing the parcel-sender’s gift. And, as before, people around her began to notice the change.
A Parcel for Anna Browne Page 21
