Mhairi McFarlane 3-Book Collection: You Had Me at Hello, Here’s Looking at You and It’s Not Me, It’s You. Mhairi McFarlane
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and someone we have in court full time hasn’t fucking brought it to us, I’ll want to know what we’re paying you for.’
Ken pauses to let the slug-sized bulging vein in his neck shrink slightly.
‘You’re going to go back to Shale and ask for an interview about the latest twist in the saga, and use all your persuasive powers, knowing that you’re not likely to be getting entered for any awards here for a good long time, or so much as invited to the Christmas party, without doing some mop and bucket work on this massive fucking mess. Do you understand me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then get out of my sight.’
I spin round and open the door to face a newsroom that lip-read every word as it was enunciated clearly on the other side of a glass partition. Once they’ve ascertained I’m not crying, they look away again and pretend not to notice me. As unpleasant as being put on school report is, that could’ve been worse. Asking to interview Natalie is futile, Ken knows that and he knows I can’t say so. I have about as much chance of success as I would in winning the Burghley Horse Trials on a Shopmobility scooter. I will pretend I tried when everything has calmed down. Or, I’ll ask Simon.
As I’m about to win my freedom, Vicky beckons me over: ‘Rachel!’
I have less than no desire to talk to her but I can’t afford to make any more enemies.
‘What did Ken say?’ she says, casting a glance to make sure he hasn’t emerged from his office.
‘He’s not pleased,’ I say, flatly. ‘He’s not the only one.’
‘I told him Zoe Clarke might do something like this,’ she says.
Of course you did, you Zara-clad Nostradamus. ‘Did you?’
‘Yeah. There was all that hassle where she told some weekly paper she was a senior, when she hadn’t even done her NCTJ. They sent us a letter about her and she denied it.’ I open my mouth to ask more, but the story’s pretty much all there, and Vicky’s on a roll. ‘And then there was what she did to you over that cosmetic surgery thing.’
‘What?’
‘That lipo case. She covered the verdict for you, didn’t she? She sent it through with her name on it. I saw it and said to Ken “how’s she written something this size in an hour?” and we realised she’d put her name on your backgrounder. He gave her a rollocking and took her name off it completely. Didn’t you know?’
‘No.’
‘No, I suppose not, why would you? Not like she was going to tell you.’
‘I wish you’d told me,’ I say, stiffly. ‘I would’ve been more on my guard around her.’
‘Oh, yeah … well, like I said, Ken sorted it. I didn’t want to bitch.’
I stifle a mirthless laugh at this. For a crazy moment I think Vicky’s going to say something authentically supportive, then she checks the time on Sky News and says, ‘Doesn’t that drugs five-hander start this morning?’
Meaning: you can’t afford to drop even one more ball.
Don’t I know it.
She turns away to her screen, to indicate my audience is over.
‘Yeah, I’m on my way,’ I say, to her back.
I had forgotten about it, and break into an undignified run once I’m out of sight of the office.
51
After a morning of taking notes in shorthand so shaky and fractured it looks as if I’m recovering from a stroke, I dodge Gretton and edge my way out of the court and into the fresh air. I head towards St Ann’s Square with my stomach on spin cycle.
Every step I take, my apprehension mounts. Now Simon’s at the top of my in-tray, as it were, I have more time to consider his feelings, and my conclusions aren’t good. Belatedly, I’m remembering how wary he was of journalists, how badly this must have blown up in his face as well as mine. I start to wonder whether the urbane, unruffled Simon persona will remain intact, as I’d hoped. I got scant clues from our exchange on the phone.
I have my answer as soon as I spot Simon pacing up and down by the fountain, craning to see me in the crowd. His homicidal intentions are plain.
‘Hi.’ My attempt at a confident tone quavers and Simon almost bares his teeth at me. It’s only then I see Ben next to him, frowning. This is too much. In fact, Simon’s more than enough by himself. I can’t deal with Ben lambasting me as well. I couldn’t deal with that on its own.
‘Are you here to hold his coat?’ I blurt.
‘I’m here to make sure he doesn’t go over the top,’ Ben says, looking wounded. ‘How are you?’
I’m so surprised at him asking the question that’s been on the tip of nobody’s tongue, I don’t know what to say.
‘Is it true that one of the people involved in the Mail story is a colleague of yours in court?’ Simon says.
‘Yes. Zoe. Was a colleague, she’s at the Mail now.’
‘What happened?’
‘I don’t know, Simon. Honestly, I’m as shocked as you are.’
‘That’s the best you can do? What’s that, your Out of Office Autodenial? Rachel’s taken annual leave of her senses?’
I try to look like I’m coping. Panic rises up through my chest and throat.
‘It’s not an excuse, it’s the truth. This has ruined our interview …’
‘Oh, you reckon?’
‘… Why would I destroy my own story?’
‘A bluff. You probably gave her the tip-off and you’re splitting the money while you keep your job here and your hands clean. How am I doing, eh? Bit more like it?’
An elderly couple sitting nearby eating messy egg mayonnaise sandwiches start listening in.
‘I wouldn’t do that,’ I say. ‘Does this seem anything like a plan going as planned to you? How brazen do you think I am?’
‘You don’t want me to answer that. How did your colleague know about this affair?’
I squirm.
‘I don’t know.’ Pause. ‘Did you know about it?’
Simon’s face twists. ‘That’s irrelevant.’
‘If it was a rumour, lots of people could’ve passed it to Zoe.’
‘Do you honestly think I’m a big enough spazz to believe you had nothing to do with this?’
I appeal for mercy, knowing it’s pointless. ‘Simon, I’m as upset as you are and I’m in a heap of shit at work.’
‘You’re in shit?!’
Egg sandwich couple are dropping cress all over themselves, eyes wide. Ben shushes Simon, which is like trying to put out a house fire with handfuls of mist.
‘… Jonathan Grant has been suspended. I’m being blamed for the bright idea of getting the media involved and, guess what, I’m not going to be made partner any time soon. The appeal could be fucked. Natalie Shale and her kids are in hiding because of the scumbags camped on her drive. Tell me, who gives a shit what kind of day you’re having?’
‘This looks terrible, I can see that, but I can’t control what my colleagues do.’
‘I had doubts about you from the start. Ben vouched for you,’ he casts an accusing look at Ben, ‘but I should’ve trusted my instincts.’