Having It All (34 page)

Halfway across the lobby he caught sight of a newsstand and instinctively headed for it to get a copy of today’s
Daily News
. To his irritation there didn’t seem to be any
left. And then he saw the last copy poking out from behind the
Daily Mail
.

So it wasn’t till he picked it up that he noticed that the whole front page was plastered with enormous close-ups, blurred but horribly recognizable, of an emaciated man lying in a
hospital bed with more of the same promised inside. And he realized that with impeccable timing Jim Johnson had chosen Christmas Day to give up his months-long fight against the deadly virus of
Aids.

‘Long time, no see,’ Logan Greene drawled dangerously as he arrived at his office the next morning, for once not shadowed by the ubiquitous Mick Norman, and found
David perched aggressively on the corner of his vast desk.

‘Where’s Mick?’ David’s eyes, alert and sharp as a hunting bird’s and showing remarkably little sign of the excesses of the last three days, held Logan’s.
‘Gone to pick up your dry cleaning?’

Logan smiled. ‘As a matter of fact I have sent him out on a little errand.’ Logan sat down without inviting David to do the same. ‘A little market research. You see, I happened
to notice that my newsagent sold out of copies of yesterday’s
News
by ten a.m. and I wondered how widespread that was.’ He looked at David, knowing instinctively why he was
here. ‘Not a reliable way of measuring sales, of course, but revealing, don’t you think? Doesn’t quite back up your touching belief in the high moral standards of the great
British public. Interesting all the same.’

‘That’s hardly the point. It was still a disgusting thing to do.’

‘Come, come, David. We’ve been through all that. Johnson’s death changed everything. And since you weren’t around to convince us of the justice of your case I gave my
personal permission to print. And Bingo. A sell-out.’

David winced. Did Jim Johnson’s death justify printing those humiliating and degrading pictures of his last dying weeks? Not to David it didn’t. The man’s family were still
trying to say it was cancer, but with those photographs on every news-stand it would be hard to keep that up.

‘As a matter of fact, we tried to contact you, but no one seemed to know where you were.’

‘Nobody did.’

Logan looked at him curiously. ‘David, if you’re having a mid-life crisis that’s your affair. But I’d rather you didn’t have it on the paper’s time.’
His voice was friendly, the kindly uncle giving good advice.

But David wasn’t listening. He was thinking how less than six months ago he had accused Liz of the same thing, simply because her values had changed and she was trying to act on them. And
now, too late, he finally understood what she’d been fighting for. Now he could see as clearly as she had that working for shits like Conrad Marks or Logan Greene tainted you too, and that
the moment you started compromising your values with theirs, you were finished.

For a moment he thought about trying to convince Logan that newspapers should show compassion. But it would be like talking a cheetah into turning vegetarian.

Looking up, David saw that Logan was watching him and his instincts, as well as years of reading Logan’s mind, warned him to be alert. Logan did not throw sympathy about. He was working up
to something. And suddenly David realized why Mick Norman wasn’t there. Logan had wanted to be alone because he was going to fire him. He probably wanted him out so that he could bring in
some other sharp-suited yob with the moral sense of a property developer. The only real surprise was that he hadn’t seen it coming.

‘Fine.’ David was surprised how calm he felt. ‘I’m sure I can find someone who has a use for a burnt-out thirty-five-year-old.’

‘That would be a pity.’

David scanned Logan’s face. He was such a devious bastard. What was he up to now?

‘Why would that be, Logan?’

‘Because I was about to offer you a job.’

‘What as? Splash Sub on
Farmers Weekly
?’

Logan smiled unnervingly. ‘As editor of my new tabloid.’

David narrowed his eyes. ‘Is this some kind of joke? You hired Norman for that job.’

‘I know, but I’ve got to know that young man very well over the last few months.’ Logan stood up and came round to David’s side of the desk. ‘He isn’t up to
it. He’s talented, certainly. But he’s like a fucking cocker spaniel always tearing off into the distance after some wild idea or other. Mick’ll be fine at picking up the game but
I need someone with judgement and experience to fire the bloody gun. Look, David, I’m investing ten million in this paper and that’s just for starters. I need someone who knows what
they’re doing.’

David felt a flicker of excitement. The
News
had already been going five years when he joined it and he’d always wanted to start a paper of his own. It was the highest of
high-risk ventures, but if you got it right, also the most satisfying. And it would be a lasting pleasure to sit on that cocky squirt Norman, the boy genius who thought he knew everything about
newspapers at the age of twenty-nine. For months now, David had seen how Logan’s minions had started to treat Norman as the heir apparent instead of him. He’d noticed them almost
imperceptibly turn towards Norman in conversation, subtly giving David the cold shoulder.

And now Logan was offering him the throne again.

As Logan waited confidently for his answer David glanced down at the copy of yesterday’s
News
, still on the desk next to him, and the anger Logan had so neatly diverted started to
flare up again, stronger this time. In the end it had been Logan’s decision, and Logan’s alone, to print those photographs. And if David thought Logan would leave him alone to follow
his principles, he was as naive as a girl who got into bed with a womanizer and was surprised when he put his hand on her leg.

David had always followed his instincts and he knew what they were telling him now, even if it wasn’t what he wanted to hear.

‘I’m sorry, Logan, but I’m not interested in editing the new paper. I happen to think the world would be a better place without it. Not the ideal philosophy for a founding
editor. So I’ll have to say no.’

Logan put his feet on the desk. He prided himself on getting his way. Being turned down wasn’t on his list of options. ‘Maybe you don’t have much choice.’

‘Oh, but I do.’ Logan watched him steadily. David grinned. ‘You see, Logan, I don’t want to edit the
News
either. So I have all the choices in the world.’
He stood up and offered his hand for Logan to shake. ‘Goodbye, Logan. They have a proverb in China: May you die in your own bed, or in your case, somebody else’s. Good luck.’

Logan, Buddha-like and inscrutable, watched him as he walked out of the room. He had seen it all before, the ploys editors pulled to get more money, more status, more independence, a new BMW. He
knew that David would be back within an hour and he could wait.

But for once he was wrong.

David looked round at the office he’d edited the paper from for the last four years. He was surprised there weren’t more objects of sentimental attachment he wanted
to take with him. He smiled, remembering all Liz’s offices, all monuments to her individuality: packed with snapshots of friends and family, cartoons stuck up that had made her laugh, photos
of the programme team, armfuls of fresh flowers, strange objects that had been used for filming. When you walked into Liz’s office, you walked into her life and felt immediately at home
there. And she’d been the same with hotel rooms, no matter how box-like and anonymous, she’d buy a bunch of flowers, drape a few necklaces around the place, a silk kimono here, a straw
hat there, and the place would look more home-like and welcoming than every one of the other 599 identical boxes in the Holiday Inn, or the Ramada or the Trust House Forte.

For David, collecting his possessions together would be easier. There wasn’t much he even wanted to take. His prized Reporter of the Year Award from his regional days, and two or three
other awards, which David took for granted but most newspaper editors would have killed for, a cartoon that Johnno, the paper’s cartoonist had done of him, the youngest ever editor in Fleet
Street, arriving for his first day in short trousers with a satchel and cap. Then there was his most prized possession: his framed photograph of Jamie and Daisy.

He sat for a moment wondering what he was going to do when he left the building. He knew he could get another job tomorrow, but who for? The tabloids were all racing each other into the gutter
and he’d never wanted to work for one of the posh papers. To David, newspapers meant popular journalism, the kind that sold millions of copies and had the power to move people. Writing
considered articles, full of analysis, for the
Guardian
or
The Times
, or even editing them, held no appeal for him.

As he sat considering his future the phone buzzed one last time. Assuming it would be Logan he answered it brusquely. But it wasn’t. It was Suzan, the young reporter who showed so much
promise.

‘Hello, David. I’ve just heard the news and I wanted to say we’re all sick as parrots.’ David knew it was impossible to keep secrets on a newspaper but he was startled
all the same at the speed at which the news had travelled. ‘I know I speak for everyone in the newsroom when I say we admire you and what you’ve done with the paper. Not to put too fine
a point on it, we’re scared shitless down here. Is it really definite?’

‘I’m afraid it is.’

Clearly worried that she might be intruding on a private moment, Suzan seemed at a loss what to say next. Finally she added in a rush, shy and breathy, ‘I’d just like to say how much
I’ve enjoyed working for you and to ask that, when you settle into whatever you do next, you could let me know if you need any reporters’ – she paused, embarrassed at sounding
pushy – ‘because I’ve never worked for an editor I’ve had more respect for.’

The undiluted admiration in her voice was almost his undoing. For the first time David found himself almost overcome with emotion. Journalism had been his life and he hated feeling that he might
be throwing it away.

‘Thanks, Suzan. Your call means a lot to me. I’ll certainly let you know where I go next. Goodbye.’

As he put down the phone, David thought about Suzan for a moment. She had been the only young reporter who had understood journalism as he knew and loved it. And she had trained on the
Newcastle Journal
and then worked on the
Northern Echo
. Maybe journalism was alive and well and had moved North of Watford.

He packed up his things into his briefcase, holding the photograph of Jamie and Daisy for a moment. As he looked at it he stretched out one hand and stroked Jamie’s hair. He still felt
angry with Liz, yet he knew that he had come to a turning point in his life.

This afternoon he would drive down and see her and try one, last, final, attempt at reconciliation.

As he drove the last few miles to the cottage, David felt his optimism fade away. Until now the adrenalin had carried him along, the desire to admit to Liz that there were so
many things about which she had been right and he had been wrong.

And he knew once again how much he needed her reassurance, how much he wanted her to tell him that he’d been right to walk out of that building today. And most of all he wanted her
recognition of how much he had changed.

When Liz heard wheels crunching unexpectedly on the gravel of the road she glanced casually out of the window. She was going to the sales in Brighton with Mel, but Mel
wasn’t due for another hour. It couldn’t be her mother because she’d already been to take Jamie and Daisy off for the day.

With a sick feeling to her stomach she saw that it was David. The Daddy-to-be. Was that why he’d come down here? To break the news of his proud fatherhood gently when it was already being
gossiped about at half the dinner tables in London?

He was still halfway up the path when she opened the front door, and stood against it, determined not to give him the chance of telling her. She would get it in first.

‘Hello, David. I hear congratulations are in order.’ She smiled at the astonishment on his face.

She couldn’t be talking about his resignation. He hadn’t even told her about it. Surely news couldn’t travel that fast?

‘What about?’

‘The baby, of course. Yours and Britt’s.’ She pushed herself on through the agony of talking about it. ‘I hear it’s due in the summer.’

David winced. The events of this morning had pushed everything else out of his mind and he had completely forgotten about Britt and the baby. But he knew it was more than just the excitement of
the moment. Somehow, irrational though he knew it to be, ever since he had heard her confess that she had coldbloodedly set out to conceive it, and that the passion they had shared had been simply
a means to an end, her end, he had seen it as Britt’s baby, a baby in which he had had no part.

But he knew that Liz wouldn’t believe this, and she wouldn’t understand why he had left Britt either, that no matter how glad she was she would still feel that he was being selfish
and running away. But he had to at least try and explain.

‘Didn’t you know? Britt and I have split up. I left before Christmas.’

He looked for any telltale sign of pleasure in this news. But there was none. She stood impassively buttoning her coat, not even asking him in.

‘Why for God’s sake?’

‘Because I couldn’t stand it any longer. Britt didn’t want a baby. She saw it as a rather messy inconvenience. She wanted to stop me coming back to you, that was
all.’

If David hoped for any reaction to this piece of news, he was disappointed.

‘Poor little baby. I can’t quite see Britt in the role of single mum. How is she?’

David looked embarrassed. ‘I don’t know. I haven’t seen her since then. I came tearing down here with all the presents for Jamie and Daisy the day I left, but you were away and
I haven’t been back since.’