A Parcel for Anna Browne

by Miranda Dickinson

  ‘Here she is!’ Babs called. ‘And doesn’t she look the belle of the ball?’

  Ashraf’s jaw made a bid for the pavement. ‘Bloody hell, Anna, look at you!’

  Sheniece rolled her eyes heavenwards. ‘Stop dribbling and let’s get into this party. We have celebs to rub shoulders with.’

  ‘If Sheniece has her way, it won’t just be her shoulders she’s rubbing . . .’ Ted offered Anna his arm.

  The evening was warmer than expected, although a stiff breeze had sprung up, shivering through hanging purple and silver banners that marked the way through the gardens and catching the hems of dresses and suit jackets, billowing skirts out as the crowd entered. Large hurricane lanterns illuminated the path, throwing horizontal stripes of light and shade across the gravel. A gaggle of strategically placed paparazzi jostled for position on either side, held back from the arriving party guests by flimsy-looking rope barriers, as grim-faced security guards in bright-yellow jackets prevented any opportunistic journalists from ducking underneath. They were here for the celebrities, of course; rumours of A-list guests had been circulating in the press for several days and speculation was rife. The Daily Messenger employees passed by without drawing the flashbulbs of the cameras, but even the act of walking through a bank of photographers made each one feel privileged to be there.

  Anna, Sheniece, Ashraf and Babs giggled as they passed the press section, Anna glad that none of the cameras were trained on her. Being old news had its benefits. Wearing the dress from the parcel, she felt like a star – and the prospect of what awaited her at the party put a spring in her step. Sheniece caused passing Messenger staff to laugh as she threw dramatic poses for the disinterested journalists. ‘I don’t care if they’re not taking my photo. I’ll never get a chance like this again!’

  Ashraf stood alongside her. ‘I’m her manager,’ he called. ‘She’s the next big thing.’

  ‘Dream on, love,’ a photographer shouted back.

  ‘Move along, please.’ An unsmiling security man took a step towards Anna’s colleagues, who quickly fell back in line with the arriving guests.

  Babs linked arms with Sheniece. ‘Better do as he says, flower. He’s scary.’

  ‘He’s hot,’ Sheniece grinned, waving over her shoulder as they walked on.

  Tall, square hedges hid the Orangery from view as they passed through the security cordon. The sounds of piano and strings drifted on the night air, drawing them onwards.

  To Anna, it was like stepping into a movie scene, moving in a soft scarlet blur as the full skirt of her dress danced around her. The music, the beautiful gardens and the happy company of her colleagues played out all around and she was aware of heads turning as she passed. Where before she would have lowered her gaze and tried to hide, she now accepted their approval, her head held high. Tonight she had chosen to stand out, to be noticed. It was an extraordinarily freeing experience and Anna felt her skin tingle as she passed through the crowd.

  They rounded the corner of the hedges and the Orangery came into view. The elegant eighteenth-century red-brick building looked like a miniature palace. Its tall windows glowed warmly against the night sky, throwing light across a cream canopy draped out along its length. Huge crystal chandeliers glittered from the canopy roof, while underneath black-and-white-suited waiters milled between guests, carrying flutes of expensive champagne on silver trays. A string quartet and a grand piano played on the lawn beneath a draped silver-silk gazebo lined with sparkling white lights, watched by an appreciative group of partygoers who applauded politely after each piece.

  Everything about the party was designed to impress. Anna wondered how much money had been spent tonight – but the message was clear: the Daily Messenger was very much in business and wanted the world to know it. Juliet Evans stood on the Orangery’s stone steps in the middle of her creation, draped magnificently in a shimmering purple evening dress, expensive diamonds glittering at her neck and wrist. She received the congratulations of her guests with the poise of Grace Kelly, throwing her head back to laugh at their jokes like a woman without a care in the world. She was the queen of all she surveyed, and every guest at the party knew it.

  ‘Have you seen the Dragon?’ Ted asked, joining them. It was strange to see the usually uniformed security chief in black-tie attire. ‘Scrubs up well, for an older bird.’

  ‘You fancy your chances then, Ted?’ Sheniece playfully dug him in the ribs.

  ‘She might fancy a real man for a change,’ he sniffed, straightening his tie. ‘Not like those media moguls she insists on dating. That woman wants a bit of Ted Blaskiewicz in her life.’

  Anna scanned the party guests, but couldn’t see Ben. She had planned everything she would say to him and had made a promise to herself that she wouldn’t leave the party until she’d said it all. Last night she had added the dress to the parcel gifts, laid out across her bed. Before her she could see the past six months of her life, each object representing a step on her journey. This time she had included Jonah’s rogue gift, because it had played its own part, in a way its sender could never have intended. The dress seemed to be a final chapter in her incredible adventure.

  Ted waited until their colleagues were walking towards the Orangery, before tapping Anna’s elbow. ‘I . . . um . . . wanted to say something, girl. Without them lot hearing.’ He rubbed the back of his neck nervously, the exchange of personal comments something he was unaccustomed to. ‘Thing is, I was wrong. About those parcels of yours. And I don’t often admit I’m wrong. I mean, that dress looks like it was made for you. Whoever sent it knew what he was doing – he wanted to treat you like a princess and, well, I admire him for that. I’m sorry I suggested he was a serial killer.’

  Touched by his words, Anna smiled. ‘That’s lovely of you, Ted, thank you.’ She held out her arm and nodded in the direction of the Orangery. ‘Shall we?’

  The security chief flushed and linked his arm through hers. ‘My pleasure, girl.’

  The interior of the Orangery had been transformed into an autumnal forest, planters with real red-leaved maple trees lining both sides, each branch picked out with tiny white lights. Fallen leaves, hand-cut from copies of the Daily Messenger, were piled beneath and strewn across the white marble floor, while newsprint birds balanced between the tree branches and on every windowsill. The air was filled with the scent of apple Martinis being served at a frosted glass bar in the centre of the Orangery. At the far end of the room a table groaned under the weight of a sumptuous buffet, styled as if it were the centrepiece of a luxury magazine shoot. Every angle of the room and each fine detail was a carefully stage-managed photo opportunity, attested to by the constant burst of flashbulbs from a select group of invited photographers from rival publications. Tomorrow morning, news columns, blogs and society pages would be filled with exquisite images – and the Daily Messenger would assume centre-stage.

  The delights of the buffet called Ted away as Anna accepted compliments on her dress from a group of journalists.

  ‘You walked in here like a movie star,’ Joe Adams remarked, clearly surprised.

  ‘I feel like one,’ Anna replied.

  ‘If you don’t pull tonight, there’s no justice in the world,’ Murray Henderson-Vitt leered, paying far too much attention to the swooping neckline of Anna’s dress.

  She laughed off his attention. ‘I think that was a compliment, so thank you.’ She lifted her head as she took a sip of apple Martini – and saw Ben. He was standing by the bar, a half-empty champagne flute in one hand, looking out across the crowd. The change in him was remarkable from the removed, silent figure Anna had seen at the company meeting. Gone were the dark circles from his eyes, his clean-shaven skin no longer pale. He looked a little uncomfortable in his dinner jacket, his black tie already hanging loosely from the collar of his shirt, but he possessed an energy Anna hadn’t witnessed since their mornings together in Freya & Georgie’s. Butterflies beset her stomach as she downed the remainder of Martini in her gla
ss and began to weave through the party guests towards him.

  ‘Anna – you look incredible,’ Rea said, stepping back to block her path. ‘That colour is amazing.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘So, what’s the latest gossip? And have you seen Sheniece?’

  Anna could see Ben moving away from the bar. ‘I think I saw her outside near the steps. Sorry, Rea, there’s someone I need to speak to . . .’

  ‘Ah. McAra’s looking good tonight, eh?’ Rea grinned and tapped a finger against the side of her nose. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t tell a soul.’

  Blushing, Anna moved past her colleague, raising her head above the shoulders of the crowd to find Ben. She was determined not to lose this opportunity, as she had on the day of the company meeting. Finally she spotted him by one of the planted red maple trees and pushed her way over.

  Emerging from the huddle of partygoers, she took a breath as he saw her, raising her hand, both in greeting and in reassurance that he could approach. He gave a half-smile and moved towards her. Anna could feel herself smiling as he neared her – the words she’d planned to say temporarily leaving her mind. Ben McAra was wonderful. Yes, there were issues to deal with, injustices to right; but beneath it all, regardless of whether he deserved it or not, were feelings deeper than Anna could fathom. Tonight – not long from this moment – she would throw caution to the wind and tell him.

  He was standing in front of her now, his eyes seeking permission to move closer . . .

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, our esteemed editor is about to address us, so please make your way to the stage to welcome her.’ Piers’ sudden announcement made them both turn towards a small white stage beside the bar. Ben said nothing, but his hand momentarily touched the small of Anna’s back as the crowd pressed forward. The tiny gesture had the power of a thunderbolt and Anna snatched a fresh champagne glass from a passing waiter’s tray to steady her nerves.

  Piers announced Juliet and the gathered guests in the Orangery broke into warm applause as she took to the stage. The ovation lasted for almost a minute, the assembled Messenger employees keen to show their appreciation for the woman who had saved their jobs and secured the future of the newspaper. Juliet received their praise with trademark coolness, eventually raising her hand to silence the room.

  ‘You’re all too kind.’ She let her gaze sweep theatrically across the crowd, as if acknowledging every face. ‘Well, here we are. Brighter and stronger, bolder and not going away any time soon. Tonight we join together as the Daily Messenger family, to celebrate what we’ve achieved so far and to express to the world our intentions for the future. I won’t pretend I always knew this day would come, but I believed sufficiently in our resilience and resourcefulness to hope that it would. We are moving into the future, confident that the Daily Messenger has not only earned its place as a leading national daily, but that we can better it. In a year’s time we aim to have increased our readership significantly to become the market leader . . .’

  A murmur of surprised approval passed through the crowd.

  Juliet nodded in appreciation. ‘There will, of course, be those who say it can’t be done. Some of them are even in this room tonight,’ she raised her glass as laughter rang round the Orangery’s white interior, ‘and I welcome each and every one of you. To our detractors – both great and insignificant – I say this: do not underestimate what this newspaper can do. With our renewed sense of purpose, and an exciting team whom I believe represent the most passionate advocates of news media in the country, anything is possible . . .’

  Anna was acutely aware of how close Ben was standing, the warmth from his body registering on the skin of her bare arm. She maintained her focus on the stage, but knew he was looking at her.

  ‘I believe in this publication. I built it up from its humble beginnings and created the magnificent paper you see today. Nobody in the industry has worked harder than me to raise the profile of a national tabloid. I am happy to take credit, naturally, not only for my own sake, but also on your behalf – because every Messenger employee standing in this room tonight has contributed to the vision I have led. We have a wealth of talent, much of which has yet to reach its full potential. With constant belief and top-down encouragement, I believe the Daily Messenger will go from strength to strength . . .’

  ‘Juliet Evans: never knowingly under-promoted,’ Murray Henderson-Vitt chuckled next to Anna and Ben. They laughed and their eyes met – Anna’s breath catching with the intensity of his stare.

  ‘. . . but it will do so without me.’

  Juliet paused, surveying the room from her elevated position as the shockwave of her statement filtered through the party guests. Anna and Ben turned, too, the surprise breaking the moment between them.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Did she just . . . ?’

  ‘She can’t be serious!’

  Pockets of disbelief broke out across the elegant space. Had they heard correctly? Could their editor, who had forged her fame in the crucible of the Daily Messenger, be deserting it? Juliet presided over the bubbling commotion, her head high for the eager flashes from invited photographers. Raising her hand, she brought the room to order.

  ‘I have put my heart and soul into this newspaper. I have seen it soaring the heights and nursed it back from the brink. I have done my time and served it well. It is time for a new breed to assume the mantle and take it on. At the end of this year I will step down as editor, bringing a brand-new chapter of Messenger history into being. No doubt this will come as a surprise, not least because I am announcing my intention to leave at the moment of our greatest triumph. But I am more than happy with my decision.’ She granted her rapt audience a beatific smile. ‘Together, we are magnificent! And now is the time to celebrate. I would like to thank you all, for your hard work, your dedication and your faith in me. Tomorrow, we face the future knowing what that will look like. Tonight, we celebrate. Raise your glasses with me: to the Daily Messenger – the best in the business!’

  The guests repeated the toast, shock still rumbling through their ranks. The applause lasted longer than the first, as the employees saluted their outgoing editor – and wondered who could possibly replace her . . .

  ‘Bit of a curveball.’ Ben smiled.

  ‘You didn’t know?’

  ‘Not a clue. Nobody did. As far as we were aware in the newsroom, Juliet had masterminded a coup and was going to milk it for all it was worth. She must have had a better offer.’

  Anna was tempted to ask about Ben’s rumoured career change, but held back. This was not the place for it. ‘Can we talk, somewhere a little less public?’

  Ben raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re not going to shout at me again, are you?’

  ‘I haven’t decided yet. Are you ready to take the risk?’

  The strong wind outside had calmed to an autumnal breeze as Anna and Ben left the Orangery, the last of the light gone from the sky. They walked away from the noise of the party, following the gravel path to a small section of formal gardens behind the tall hedges. Finding an ornate carved stone bench, they sat down and Anna knew her moment had arrived.

  ‘I wanted to thank you—’ she began, but Ben raised his hand, halting her before she could say more.

  ‘First, let me say sorry. A real sorry, not a journalist’s apology. I hurt you, Anna. I hate that I did that. I never set out to write a story on you – okay, that’s a lie, I admit the parcels might have been my initial focus. I might have decided to get to know you first because of them. I liked working with you when you were shadowing me, and I thought that gave me a way in. But you have to believe me, when we started hanging out at Freya & Georgie’s that changed. I like you, Anna. I care what you think of me. But my boss was pressuring me for a new story. It sounds incredibly lame when I say that, but it’s the truth. I needed something to get her off my back for a while. You were the only trump card I had. I’m not proud of that.’

  ‘There was no need to engineer a friendship with me.
You could have just asked . . .’

  He rubbed his eyes. ‘I know. Of course I could. But I was involved before I could back out, and then – well, then it was too late to tell you. My editor sent the story to print, and you know the rest. But I am sorry.’

  ‘I think I know why you did what you did, Ben. And it came from a good place. That’s what I wanted to say. The parcels have made such a difference to my life. I didn’t understand it in the beginning, but I think I do now. You wanted me to feel special, to be noticed by other people. I’ve never had that before, so when it happened I didn’t know what to do at first. But then I liked people noticing me. What I never explained to you before is that for most of my life I wanted to be invisible. My mother was the kind of person who preferred to be the centre of attention and, as you can guess from the story she sold, her nearest and dearest were often collateral damage. When I came to London it was a relief to be one face in a crowd of thousands. But I never realised I could be noticed in a good way. Your parcels unlocked that discovery.’

  Ben was staring at her, a growing frown across his brow. Anna chided herself for not sharing this before; if she had, maybe Ben’s article wouldn’t have existed.

  ‘Anna, I think you—’

  ‘Please, let me say this. If I don’t tell you now, I might lose my nerve. I don’t know why you chose to send the parcels to me – whether it was to manufacture a story or because you saw in me something I’ve only just recognised – but thank you. Thank you for giving me a reason to want more in life; for daring to find my own confidence and make my own choices. Without your gifts, I might never have given myself permission to explore those things. But you don’t need to send any more. I know who I am now and—’

  ‘Wait, Anna . . . Stop! You think I sent the parcels?’

  ‘Ben, you really don’t have to pretend. I’m pleased you did.’

  He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, but I didn’t. I wish I did, seeing the way you’ve blossomed since I got to know you. Without the parcels, I might never have had an excuse to speak to you . . .’