by Kiley Dunbar
Chapter Four
‘Tis best to weigh the enemy more mighty than he seems’
(Henry V)
There was a buzz in the Edinburgh Broadsheet office, not because it was almost the weekend – most of the junior staff would end up working over the weekend so it was no kind of break really – but because Friday was bacon roll day and they were due to arrive in half an hour, all floury bread and smoky, salty, ketchupy deliciousness, to be devoured greedily over today’s copy.
Reporters, Mirren had learned long ago, lived for this kind of pick-me-up in their busy working lives. Mr Angus, the paper’s Editor in Chief, and Mirren’s boss, would eat his later at his desk, as he signed off the upcoming feature allocations before leaving early for a weekend on the golf course at St Andrews. Mirren could tell this was on his mind as he tried to hurry along the Friday meeting, shuffling the agenda papers in his hand.
‘Any other business? Oh yes. Rae’s off on leave, so I’ve got a double-pager for one of you. Who wants it?’ He surveyed the assembled reporters around the table.
‘A feature? I’ll take it.’ Mirren said, having forced her mouthful of coffee down in the race to beat Jamesey, her nemesis in the news pool, to the claim.
Both Jamesey and Mr Angus responded with pointedly blank stares at her audacity.
‘No need to bite my hand off, Mirren. Do you think you’re up to feature-writing? Aren’t you better off sticking with your magistrates’ court reports?’ said the boss.
‘I’m sure I’m up to it, and you’ve promised me a crack at writing a feature more times than I can count. So, umm, what’s it about?’ She was struck with a sudden panic that in her haste she’d pushed herself forwards to write her first ever feature on one of Jamesey’s specialist subjects. He was the go-to staffer for motoring stories, technology, and consumer rights stuff.
Mr Angus exhaled through flaring nostrils, not with anger but with something that looked like impatience. ‘I want the low-down on the theatre season across the country for the first November weekend supplement women’s pages. Theatre mini-breaks, where to see the stars of the stage this winter, who’s wheeling out their Widow Twankey for the twentieth year running, that sort of thing. But remember to…’
‘Put a kilt on it,’ pre-empted everyone around the table in an obedient chorus, Jamesey’s voice booming louder than the others.
This was well rehearsed. Every Friday pitch meeting saw this scene repeated at least once. Put a kilt on it: the newsroom’s mantra. It meant making sure there was a Scottish slant to every piece.
Mirren tried not to wriggle in her seat. The conversation that would take place over the next few minutes felt suddenly vital to her future here at the newspaper. She’d never had the chance at feature-writing before, though in every appraisal meeting she’d ever had she’d explained her ambitions of moving out of courtroom reporting to writing weekend features.
She gripped the arms of the chair and gulped down her nerves. Could she get a by-line over a weekend feature, or would she lose out to Jamesey again, a humiliating, maddening occurrence she was well used to by now?
Mirren glanced at Jamesey across the overly large oval desk which had the kind of frustratingly outsized proportions that meant if the meeting’s pastries were placed at its centre, which they usually were, no one could actually reach for one. Mirren had sat through many a meeting as her stomach growled audibly, prompting Jamesey to throw her a smirk over the vast wasteland of mahogany and leather.
It was all right for him. She’d heard him boasting proudly that his wife made him porridge with maple syrup every morning and sent him off to work with a packed lunch every day. God knows how, but he’d managed to convince some poor, confused woman into catering to his every whim. Mirren shuddered at the thought. It sharpened her mind and her focus returned.
‘Pitch me, then,’ said Mr Angus.
Mirren jumped in first, even though she could hear Jamesey’s, ‘Well, actually…’ from across the table.
‘I’d look at festive staycations across the UK, places where you can combine a stay in a nice B&B or a boutique hotel with a Christmassy evening show, or a matinee.’ A little flash of inspiration hit her. ‘Like Stratford-upon-Avon, for instance, where you can mix Christmas shopping with a bit of culture and a champagne cream tea. Our readers will like that.’
Mr Angus turned his head to Jamesey, eyebrows raised in expectation.
‘You were saying, Jamesey?’
Mirren watched as the disgruntled flash of anger that had seconds before lit her colleague’s face was hastily wiped away under their boss’s gaze.
‘Hmm, I like your thinking, Maureen,’ Jamesey began, and no one round the table, including Mirren, dared to point out he’d got her name wrong, again. He was still talking anyway. ‘But I’m not sure about the overall thrust of the piece. Who’s got money for expensive Christmas trips in the current climate?’ A smiling shake of his head accompanied this final, fatal blow as Mirren’s idea was dismissed. Jamesey turned to Mr Angus. ‘No, I’d give you the low-down on all the local shows happening across Scotland, low budget stuff, as well as listing what the big regional theatres are offering.’
Mr Angus was already nodding his approval, so Jamesey carried on, eyes glinting now.
‘I’ll interview a few local heroes, the blokes who make am-dram productions happen in venues all across the country every year without fail. I might go in search of an island community’s Crimbo production, Orkney or some backwater, get pictures of the rehearsals, mad artsy types in the bottom half of a donkey costume, that kind of thing.’
A ripple of laughter went round the table, and Mirren found herself forcing a smile. She’d learned long ago not to court the disapproval of Mr Angus, who inexplicably seemed to like Jamesey Wallace. Actually, it wasn’t that inexplicable, Mirren reminded herself. They’d both gone to the same school, albeit two decades apart, and they were in the same golf club, so they had a lot in common, a priceless connection that she couldn’t ever hope to replicate.
She looked around the table at the other women present, all graduates from different universities across the globe. What united them? Right at this second, a combined adoration for Jamesey Wallace seemed to unite them, judging by the tipped heads and smiles as they listened. These are smart women, Mirren raged internally. They ought to know better than lust after the vile slime that is Jamesey Wallace. Then again, she’d seen no evidence that Jamesey was in direct competition with any of them, in fact, he was as affable to them as he was with everyone else. Jamesey reserved his vitriol for only one person: Mirren.
Mirren and Jamesey’s dislike for one another had been born at their very first meeting when they were both applying for the same job as the paper’s magistrate court reporter, five years ago now.
He’d initiated the whispered conversation as they’d sat outside Mr Angus’s office door, gripping CVs and notepads, and rehearsing answers to common interview questions in their heads. Mirren had them all planned. ‘What would you say is your greatest weakness at work?’ ‘Oh well, let’s see’ – pause for effect – ‘I’d have to say it’s not being better at saying no, so I end up taking on too many jobs and working extra hard to get them done, and I do get them done.’ That’s always a good one, Mirren was thinking, as the man in the blue suit leaned closer and she was treated to a whiff of his overpowering, expensive aftershave.
‘James Wallace, pleased to meet you.’
‘Mirren Imrie. Hello.’
‘Feeling hopeful?’
Mirren had sniffed a dismissive laugh. No, she didn’t feel hopeful but she didn’t want to voice her self-doubt moments before walking in to face an interview panel. ‘Quietly confident,’ she’d said, hoping it didn’t sound too cocky.
‘Oh. Well, good for you! So are you a reporter?’
‘Uh-huh, I’m a news-gatherer for my local weekly.’
‘Big circulation?’
‘Not bad.’ There was something in his tone that seemed
hopeful for a low number, something she wasn’t prepared to give him, because it was indeed low. Nothing compared to the huge reach of the Edinburgh Broadsheet. ‘You?’ she deflected.
‘I’m at the Chronic. Lead reporter.’
Mirren nodded, smiling in recognition at the East Coast Chronicle’s nickname amongst its reporters, and possibly many of its readers. But it was a big paper, as big as the Broadsheet.
‘Why do you want to leave there, if you’re lead reporter?’
James Wallace shrugged casually. ‘A change is as good as a rest.’ He looked around the corridor, suddenly unwilling to meet Mirren’s eyes.
She’d been told many times that her thoughts showed themselves on her face, and she remembered this unwelcome trait in that moment. He no doubt saw her mind working, wondering what had happened to make him want to apply for an inferior position at a very slightly inferior paper.
‘It’s all right for you girls, you have the upper hand in these situations,’ he said, with a sniff, pulling his suit trousers up at the knees and slouching in the chair. Mirren in contrast was sitting bolt upright, knees together in her black pencil skirt, anticipating the door to the interview room being flung open at any minute.
‘Huh?’ She turned her head sharply to her new acquaintance who scanned the bare wall opposite as he spoke.
‘Well, for a start you can wear make-up and that gives you an advantage, doesn’t it?’
‘In interviews? You think?’ Mirren’s neck stiffened.
‘Obviously. Think about it. I can’t very well slap on loads of lipstick and eyeshadow and swan into an interview looking a million dollars, but all you girls can. And who are they going to hire, me looking… just ordinary, or the woman?’
Mirren suppressed an eye-roll but her tongue was already drawing back ready to unleash its sharp reply. ‘You genuinely believe that?’
He nodded once, still looking away, cautious now they could hear chairs being scraped across the floor and low rumblings of discussion from Mr Angus’s office. The interview panel must almost be ready to begin.
Mirren kept her voice low. ‘Well, first of all, men are more likely than women to exaggerate their skills and experience on job applications so they’re walking into the interview with an automatic advantage. And secondly, I’ve literally never been interviewed by a woman, not when they’re the boss or in charge of the decision. Sure, there have been women in the room, but they were usually from HR. And I have to overcome that every time. You don’t.’
‘Overcome what? Bosses fancying you and wanting to give you a job? Oh, poor you.’
‘No, that’s not what I’m saying. I have to contend with the fact that men tend to hire men, so even if I’m one of five candidates and the other four are blokes, I have to outshine all of them.’
‘By wearing make-up and making yourself look as good as possible. My point exactly. You really painted yourself into a corner there, Maureen.’
‘Mirren.’
‘What?’
‘It’s Mirren.’
‘What did I say?’ But he didn’t pause for an answer. ‘And it’s some men.’
‘What?’
‘Some men tend only to hire men, not all men.’
‘All right,’ Mirren conceded.
‘You should try for a job at the Chronic. Editor’s a woman there, isn’t she? And she hires women all the time. Place is overrun with them.’
The little sneer, barely suppressed, on his thin white lips, said it all. Mirren didn’t need to ask why he was looking for another job; some run-in with the lady-boss or one of his female colleagues most likely had him desperate for work in the industry, any work. Has he been booted out or is he pre-emptively searching for work in a more male dominated environment? Wonder what it was, she thought. Could she put out some feelers? She knew people who worked at the Chronicle, getting the goss would be easy enough. If there was one thing reporters were good at, it was spreading word fast. Jamesey interrupted her thoughts.
‘You’re more likely to get this job than I am, so don’t worry about it.’
Mirren knew this wasn’t coming from a place of consolation or encouragement. It was competitiveness and grievance, and she couldn’t understand it. They’d only just met. Why the animosity?
The door opened. ‘Ms Imrie? Mr Angus is ready for you,’ said the woman from HR. Mirren, not entirely sure why, quickly wiped her red lipstick off with a tissue before stepping inside, smiling, hopeful that she’d at least have the upper hand over this bitter hack from the Chronical with a sudden shady departure from the newsroom to explain away. That wasn’t likely to go down well at the stoic, strait-laced and (dare she admit it?) dour, Broadsheet. Its reputation was as solid and impressive as the great grey building it inhabited on Princes Street with Edinburgh Castle looming over its hunched grey shoulders. The paper’s reputation was timeworn and weathered, having survived for a century in increasingly competitive markets, but it was trusted and true, a Scottish institution. They weren’t likely to hire some dodgy bloke (possibly) fresh from a workplace scandal, were they?
* * *
‘Wonderful, we’ll look forward to seeing you back here first thing on Monday morning.’
Mr Angus was pumping James Wallace’s hand warmly as he showed him from his office, and James had been sure to flash a quick smile at Mirren sitting on the chair by the door as he’d said, ‘Please, Mr Angus, call me Jamesey.’
They’d asked Mirren to stick around after her interview, which hadn’t gone quite as well as she’d hoped. All her answers had been greeted by cool silence and the thrust-out chin of a frowning Mr Angus. In the years since, she’d come to learn this was his ‘thinking face’ but in the interview it had been utterly disconcerting and she’d found herself rambling on, piling on evidence of her skills and experience at the local rag, hoping to get at least one nod of approval from any of the grey-haired men around the table. Only the nice HR woman, Mandy, had smiled enthusiastically as she’d taken her notes, and Mirren increasingly found herself addressing her answers to her, hoping she might have a say in the hiring after all.
Mr Angus was showing Jamesey towards the newsroom. A private tour for the new hiring? Great! Mirren wanted to slump in the chair in defeat, but Mandy smiled from the door and invited her inside the room again.
Mirren followed her and took the hot seat once more. A dry, tweedy smell now hung in the air with Jamesey’s aftershave, and… were those whisky glasses on the table?
Mirren looked down at her hands clasped on her lap over the closed notebook. Well, they weren’t going to offer her a dram, but at least she might get some feedback about why she hadn’t been hired and what she could improve on for next time. Every cloud.
‘Mr Wallace has accepted the role of principal court reporter,’ Mandy said gently, before adding, ‘but Mr McManus wanted to have a word with you.’
So much for Jamesey Wallace’s cosmetics theory, Mirren thought, but she looked up at the deputy editor, suddenly hopeful.
Mr McManus had been quiet throughout the interview, but now his eyes crinkled into a smile, and Mirren wondered why he hadn’t shown this kindness earlier when she’d been struggling in the face of the four fusty journos.
‘We’d like to offer you a junior position, supporting Mr Wallace. You’ll go to the courts when there are parallel magistrates sitting; you’ll cover the minor cases. Would that be of interest?’
After years at her local paper and dreaming of writing for a bigger one she wasn’t about to turn the offer down. But as she accepted and shook hands over the table, she couldn’t get Jamesey Wallace’s triumphant smile out of her mind.
Mirren tried to block the infuriating memory now as she looked across the pitch meeting table at Jamesey, smiling that same old smile, the cat that always got the cream.
‘Hmm, let’s see,’ Mr Angus was mumbling, his chin thrust out a little more than usual, meaning he really was weighing up the two ideas; Jamesey’s and Mirren’s. Mirren sat bolt up
right in her chair. This really could be her chance. ‘Another impressive pitch, thank you, Mr Wallace. But, you’ve got the “Techy Christmas Gifts for the Discerning Man in Your Life” feature to research for the mid-November women’s pages. And, don’t forget we’ve got the autumn tournament at the club next weekend.’
Mirren felt her heartrate pick up and her cheeks redden as Mr Angus turned to her. ‘You take the feature. Show us what you’re made of. Two thousand words, mind? Centre spread. In my inbox by next Friday. And don’t let it interfere with your court duties, you hear?’
‘I won’t. Thank you, Mr Angus.’ No matter how demeaning his mode of delivery, basking in the light of her boss’s preferment felt wonderful.
Mr Angus’s eyes lit up at the sight of the delivery woman from the deli down the road arriving with the rolls, and he quickly called the meeting to a close and shuffled out the door of the glass meeting room.
Mirren didn’t look at him as she gathered her belongings ready to leave, but she could feel the burning glare of Jamesey Wallace as he smouldered in defeat across the table. She hid her smiles until she was out of his sight.
Chapter Five
‘Be blithe again, and bury all thy fear in my devices’
(Titus Andronicus)
Kelsey knew the downstairs flats in her towering Victorian redbrick were accessed by doors leading off from the cool and spacious tiled hallway with its scent of lavender and beeswax emanating from the polished oak balustrade and the carved wooden owl who, from his perch at the foot of the stairs, had witnessed every visitor passing through Number One, St Ninian’s Close for the last century. What she hadn’t known was who lived in the flats, and it had intrigued her for so long now.
Not once had she seen anyone arrive at or leave the other flats in her building: no Ocado deliveries, no visiting relatives, no one stretching in the tarmacked drive before a morning run, nothing. She had seen mail filed neatly in the rack by the door, and its disappearance every day meant someone was collecting it. The only flats which never received any mail whatsoever were those on her own floor up at the top of the building which she believed to be entirely unoccupied. Maybe the rent and their tiny proportions put people off. She really ought to look for another flat, something slightly cheaper and larger than her own little shoe box, flat 2B, but she loved its compact, pristine white simplicity and the fact that she had access to the building’s roof terrace with its wonderful views across Stratford and the wide Avon valley.
