A Very Accidental Love Story. Claudia Carroll
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can see, my job here doesn’t exactly allow me to work regular nine to five hours, but if you’ll just hear me out about moving into my home, only for a short time you understand, I’d be happy to pay you far, far more than the agency rates.’
I look at her pleadingly, silently begging her to say yes.
‘Lily’s such a good girl,’ I tack on for good measure, ‘she’s very well behaved, everyone says so and minding her really is a doddle …’
‘It’s a no, I’m afraid,’ Mrs. Patterson replied crisply. ‘There’s no way that I’d just abandon my own husband and grandchildren to move into a stranger’s house, no matter what you paid me. You must understand that there are some things in life that are far, far more important than any job or any amount of money, like family, for one,’ she said, looking pointedly at me.
Then, picking up her handbag and groceries and tossing me a curt nod, she showed herself out of my office and back towards reception. Leaving me feeling like I’d just been cut and dried and left to hang out for dead on a line.
Back to the meeting and it seems Seth Coleman, with his barracuda-like instincts, is onto me.
‘Earth to Eloise? Are you with us or what?’ he says, rapping a pen with bony fingers impatiently off a pile of folders in front of him. ‘We really need to move on this. Some of us have work to do, you know.’
I’m suddenly aware that all eyes are locked on me and that I’m in danger of losing control of the room. It’s gone quiet, scarily quiet; people are coughing and looking in my direction, anxious to get out of here. Which means it’s now over to me and I’m going to have to make it at least look like I’m on the ball.
‘Fine, thank you Seth,’ I manage to say, crisply as I can. ‘In that case, the mock-up of tomorrow’s front page is this. Firstly, we lead with the ECB interest rate hike.’
Cut to groans and moans from the rest of the table, which I have no choice but to swat aside.
‘Jack, you’re on the story and I’ll need hard copy on my desk by four p.m. at the latest. Second lead is Northern, Ruth, but no more than five hundred words on page one, with an opinion piece in domestic, on page four.’
‘Page FOUR? That is so unfair!’ Ruth yells disappointedly, but again, I override her.
Sorry, but in this gig you learn very quickly how to prioritise.
‘As for the US primaries, they’ll stay in Foreign on pages four and five until one month before the election proper and that’s final,’ I say to frosty looks from Robbie Turner, which I instantly tune out.
‘This story may be front page in the States Robbie, but we’re not living in Washington, now are we? The lead US story we go with on page three is Obama’s statement that he’s not ruling out seeking to overthrow rebels in Afghanistan, in spite of the phased withdrawal. There’s a press conference on the situation from the White House at five o’clock Eastern time, which is going to mean a late night for you Robbie; that’ll be eleven tonight our time and I’ll need full copy for the night editor before the late edition hits the presses.’
A deep heartfelt sigh from Robbie, who’s worked late pretty much every night for the past few months and who has probably forgotten what his kids even look like by now. I feel a sudden flash of sympathy at the sight of his exhausted, washed-out face, but I rise above it and move on. Because I have to. Yes, I know, he never gets to see his kids, but then I never get to see Lily either, do I? And it’s not like I’m asking him to do anything I’m not doing myself.
So on I steamroll, undeterred.
‘Also, make a note that I want an opinion piece on Irish Life and Permanent and how it may be sold off as a result of bank stress tests. Seth? Get Miriam Douglas onto it, seven hundred words. Regional, I want to lead with that car crash in Kerry that killed three kids over the weekend, plus photos too. Find out their ages, talk to the school friends and if you can, get the families to talk too. That’s our big human interest story and I want it to be gut-wrenching. Also, I need six hundred words on the search for those two missing teenagers, latest updates in one hour, please. We need recent photos of both of them, get Derek Maguire onto it right away. There’s a press release on its way here and as soon as it lands I want to see it. Courts page, I want three hundred words on how in the name of God a convicted drug dealer got out on appeal yesterday, no photos of him looking shifty with a hood over his head though, too clichéd. To similar to what the Independent will run with, so get me a better shot than that. World news, we open with Japan scrapping four of its stricken reactors, and follow up with an update on the Greek situation, six hundred words each, photos for both, quarter page. But I want to see the proofs first, so Seth you need to tell the picture desk that’s non-negotiable. Mock-ups no later than four p.m. sharp and thank you all for your time.’
And there it is, the old familiar buzz I get from doing what I do best. Feeding me like an adrenaline rush.
Filthy looks all round at me, but there you go. Sometimes you need to have a spine of steel in this job.
Class dismissed. And onto the next problem.
It’s coming up to three o’clock in the afternoon, and as usual, I’m multi-tasking. Or triple-tasking, to be more precise. I’m in my office checking through the rough drafts of tomorrow’s advertising pages while at the same time trying to type out a rough draft for tomorrow’s editorial, both of which I might add are now well behind schedule. And on top of all that, I’m simultaneously holding a meeting with Marc Robinson, editor of the paper’s Arts and Culture section, a magazine-formatted supplement which comes with our Saturday issue, but which is put to bed the previous Monday. Which is today. Which is why Marc is in my office now, arguing and bickering with me. The way absolutely everyone seems to argue and bicker with me these days.
‘I’m really putting my foot down on this Eloise,’ he’s saying, pacing up and down while throwing me the odd scorching look for added dramatic effect. ‘You have to trust me. I absolutely, categorically refuse to give the Culture cover to a kids’ Disney movie … not when Wim Wenders has a new art-house film out. It insults our reader and it’s just … just plain degrading. May I remind you, it’s called the Culture section, not the commercial section, you know. We’re trying to be out-there and edgy. And that bloody kids’ film has all the cutting edge appeal of … of Val Doonican sitting in his rocking chair and wearing a woolly jumper.’
Marc, as you see, is a passionate movie lover in his early thirties and even manages to look exactly like a European art-house director should, with a clever, lugubrious face, eccentric hair and let’s just say difficult glasses. It’s also received wisdom round here that he’s official holder of the title Dossiest Job Ever. He’s forever annoying everyone else by pootling off to art-house cinemas in the middle of the day to review obscure, subtitled films badly dubbed from Finnish, then writing three page dossiers on directors I’ve never heard of. Which it’s my job to then edit down and try to make a bit more, let’s just say, reader-friendly.
I, on the other hand, am in a constant push-pull battle with him to reflect cultural choices that our readers might, perish the thought, have actually heard of. Basically, that’s anathema to someone like Marc, who considers a movie seen by more than a dozen people to be an over-hyped, commercialised Hollywood sell-out. But then Marc is someone who regularly claims that Paul McCartney’s Maxwell’s Silver Hammer is the greatest offence ever perpetrated on mankind, in the history of the planet. Even worse than Cromwell.
‘Too bad Marc,’ I tell him firmly, while at the same time tapping out an editorial about the health service on the computer screen in front of me. ‘It’s coming up to the Easter holidays, parents with kids need to know what family movies are opening and the Disney Pixar one will be a blockbuster. Sorry, but you’ll have to swallow your art-house pride and just get commercial once in a while.’
‘Eloise, please don’t take this personally, but what in the name of God would you know about culture? You never go out anywhere.’
I look up at him in dull surprise;