Mum in the Middle: Feel good, funny and unforgettable. Jane Wenham-Jones
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to me,’ I said eventually, keeping my voice even and smiling at Ingrid.
Ingrid looked cynical. ‘I’m sure she has,’ she said shortly.
‘I’ve got something to tell you,’ she added to Malcolm. ‘But it’s off the record.’
‘Then don’t tell me,’ said Malcolm. ‘Come back when you’ve got something I can actually publish.’
Ingrid grimaced. ‘It’s about the council. If I have my way, I’ll blow the lid off the whole lot of them.’
Malcolm’s tone was dry: ‘I’m surprised they can sleep.’
‘Annoying woman,’ he said, when she’d moved off.
‘Do you want a drink?’ I asked him, disconcerted. Emily and Adrian had disappeared.
‘Not allowed to. Doctor’s a miserable bugger who said I’d got to give it up. Orange juice only.’ He looked woebegone. I laughed.
‘Shall I get you one of those?’
Malcolm peered into his empty glass as if searching for an answer.
‘Why not.’
‘Ingrid seems to be quite a character,’ I said, when I got back.
Malcolm looked at his juice with ill-concealed disgust. ‘Ingrid disapproves of me and the paper.’ This seemed to please him. ‘Calls it a filthy little rag.’
I raised my eyebrows. ‘That’s a bit strong.’
‘She objects to page five and our Busty Barmaids. Though actually last week it was a busty librarian. Very fetching she looked too, glasses, hair up in a bun, pile of books in her hands and a stunning cleavage. Ingrid thinks it is degrading and demeaning to women. They’re queuing up to be in it. And some of them are quite disappointed when I tell them they’re keeping their tops on.’
I looked at him as I sipped my wine. I could imagine he’d been very good-looking when younger and he was handsome now in a craggy, lived-in sort of way. His shrewd eyes were still a piercing blue and he had a sharpness and vigour about him when he talked that was appealing.
He was looking back, intently. ‘Do you disapprove too?’
I shrugged. ‘Seems a bit last-century. But if the women are choosing to–’
‘Sells newspapers.’
He lifted his glass. ‘Nothing much else does – it’s all about “digital content” these days and apps for your iPhone.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m the only regional newspaper that’s still got the nerve. The media has been taken over by the fervent young all wanting to make a difference. Give ‘em a story about a bishop and an actress and all they’re interested in is historical sex abuse in the church and whether the actress is getting the minimum wage.’
I laughed. He shot a look across to where Ingrid was handing out tickets at another table. ‘And it’s a treat for our Pete. Makes up for all the time photographing fetes and sports days.’
‘So how long have you been the editor, then?’
‘Too damn long. Before that I was a sports writer on the Sun.’
‘Ah.’
Whatever his background, his knowledge was staggering. By the time he’d sliced through the questions in current affairs we’d moved into the lead.
‘Haven’t we done well?’ said Emily.
‘You haven’t,’ growled Malcolm.
But she wasn’t listening. I saw her flush and look simultaneously delighted and self-conscious. Across the room a rather beautiful young man – all blonde surfer curls and bright eyes – in a very white t-shirt and denim jacket was making his way towards us. His smile was wide and friendly as he reached the table. ‘Did you win?’
‘Did you get me a story?’ asked Malcolm.
The young man shook his head. ‘Very dull – no in-fighting.’
‘Hmm. In my first newsroom we had a notice. If you don’t come back with a story, don’t come back.’
Malcolm waved a hand at me. ‘This is one of my reporters, Gabriel.’ He said it as if the name were a foreign word he was pronouncing carefully. ‘And this is Tess. Tess has just moved here from Finchley.’
‘Pleased to meet you.’ Gabriel stuck out a hand. Emily was still gazing at him with adoration.
‘And?’ prompted Malcolm.
Gabriel grinned. ‘And I do hope you are well?’
Malcolm rolled his eyes. ‘Don’t try to be clever – it doesn’t suit you.’
Gabriel looked unabashed. ‘I was going to make a bit of polite small talk first.’ He took his jacket off and sat down next to me. ‘I gather my editor thinks I should interview you.’
By end of the quiz, when I’d finally covered myself in glory in the food and drink round as the only one who knew what went into a velouté sauce – even Malcolm looked impressed – I’d learned Gabriel was new to Northstone too. His dream of being a top investigative journalist on the Sunday Times or Panorama was being delayed by the need to get some on-the-ground experience and he’d been told he was lucky to be working for Malcolm, who was old-school, one of a dying breed, who’d been properly trained and knew what was what.
So far it had involved a lot of council meetings – which was where he’d been tonight – and a great deal of turning up at charity events or the bedsides of mothers with the same birth plan as Kate Middleton. But now, finally, Malcolm had given him a feature to do.
‘It’s about the relationships between the locals and the DFLs’ he’d told me. ‘You don’t have to be named, but it would help me if you were …’
A woman on the outside of town had had her tyres slashed and was blaming it on the fact that she was Down from London, and her neighbours didn’t like her buying up run-down cottages to rent out.
‘Find out if it’s fact or paranoia!’ Malcolm had apparently barked and Gabriel was keen to impress him by doing just that. I didn’t see how I could help and said so, but as Gabriel reminded me, with his big smile, of my lovely Ben, and I’ve always been useless at saying no, I’d agreed to him coming round in the week to question me on my experiences of living in the town to date.
‘There is some bad feeling,’ he explained apologetically. ‘House prices have risen so fast that young people here could never buy anywhere here these days unless they had a fantastic job in London and even rentals …
He nodded at Emily, who gave him another adoring smile. ‘Emily still lives with her parents because she can’t afford anything else and I have a really tiny studio flat here. You can see how the locals could get fed up, with all the decent houses being snapped up by outsiders …’
As I hurried along the dark High Street, head bent against the sharp wind, clutching the bottle of cherry brandy that Malcolm had thrust at me as my share of the first prize, I thought about Ingrid and her campaign against Jinni’s project. But slashing tyres? Surely nobody would get that worked up. I shivered, hoping I’d left enough lights on to make the house feel safe.
As I came round the bend, a crowd of youngsters spilled out of the pub, laughing and jostling. ‘You are such a loser, Connor!’ one shouted with glee, pushing another boy along the pavement. The first boy, Connor presumably, responded by taking his friend’s head in an arm lock and attempting to trip him up. There was more laughter, shouts of encouragement from the group and general shoving before one of them stepped back suddenly, nearly knocking me over.
As I gasped and steadied myself against the wall, another figure appeared amongst them.
‘Oi!’ said a loud and familiar voice, ‘watch what you’re doing, can’t you!’