Vintage Babes (13 page)

The Siren
occupies a rambling, pebble-dashed villa on a road off the High Street. The Advertising Department is downstairs and the Editorial upstairs. The general office is two rooms knocked into one and is open-plan, with screens to give privacy placed between each of the three work stations. The editor’s office is out along the corridor, with a small interview room beyond it.

I was jotting down questions to ask an eighty-six year old ‘fearless great-grandmother’ who had sky-dived ten thousand feet to raise money for charity, when Steve Lingard came in.

‘Would it be all right if I took an hour off on Tuesday and Thursday mornings to do a fitness class?’ I heard myself ask, and could have kicked myself.

I had decided to say nothing, but inside me runs a seam of honesty which stubbornly, maybe stupidly, insists on playing fair. It’s an honesty which has had me returning a hundred pounds to a bank clerk when he’d miscalculated and handed over too much, which means I take a taxi, rather than use my car, if I suspect I could be over the drink-drive limit, which demands I tell people in queues if they are ahead of me. My mother is to blame. She could spot a fib a mile off and never let me, or my brother, get away with one.

‘I’m out on average two evenings a week for
The Siren
,’ I continued, mustering my case, ‘and –’

‘No problem.’

‘You don’t object?’ I said, in surprise.

Steve shook his head. ‘I’ve been going through the back copies and you’ve contributed a hell of a lot of stuff. The greater proportion by far. And, whatever Eric may’ve claimed, I suspect it’s been like that for years?’

‘The cock croweth, but the hen delivereth the goods,’ I quoted.

The back copies are the last three months’ worth of original reports which are routinely filed and kept in case of complaints or if legal factors should come into play.

‘I’ve also taken a look at the wages bill,’ he continued, ‘and it seems that you don’t get paid overtime for the evenings nor for any weekend work.’

‘Never have been.’

‘So go ahead.’

‘You’re sure?’ While I was grateful for his agreement, I hadn’t expected it to come so easily.

‘I’m sure. Are the fitness classes at Garth House?’

‘No, at Tina Kincaid’s with her personal trainer. She’s asked me if I’d like to join her.’

‘Maybe you’ll be inspired to write about the craze for aerobics?’ he suggested.

‘Maybe. And –’ I shone a sweet smile of entreaty ‘– maybe you’ll allow me to use my own judgement on whether or not to follow up a story, without asking for your permission?’

‘No can do,’ he said. ‘You must ask. We need to discuss.’

My smile switched to a glare. Who did he think I was, some thoughtless, careless two-bit junior?

‘You may be
le grand fromage,
’ I began, ‘but –’

‘Submission’s not your strong point, is it? Look, Eric may not have given a damn, but for me –’ Steve starfished a hand on his chest ‘– it’s important to consider the content of each page and the issue as a whole, and to strike the right balance. Hence, before you rush hither and thither gathering stories, we must discuss.’ He was all sweet reason. ‘And I’m sure that nine times out of ten, we’ll agree.’

‘Huh!’

I could see the sense in what he said and knew that consulting him was good manners, but I resented it all the same. Resented it deeply.

‘Did you hope to take over as editor when Eric departed?’ he enquired.

‘Yes, and I’d do a damned good job, but the powers-that-be were not in favour. Are you happy to be saddled with
The Siren?
’ I retaliated. ‘To be running yet another provincial paper, which may not necessarily respond to your loving touch? Don’t you yearn for greater things?’

‘Are you hoping I’ll lose heart and quit, then you can take over?’

‘You bet I am,’ I said, being honest again.

‘Tough shit, I’m here for the duration.’

I scowled. He sounded as though he meant it.

‘When you’ve got the hang of things are you planning to get rid of Tony, Melanie and me, and replace us with favoured underlings from
The Bugle?
’ I demanded.

‘You think I have 666 tattooed on my scalp?’

‘I thought I caught a glimpse above your left ear.’

‘Thanks, but I’m not planning to get rid of anyone. Not yet. What I do plan is to put fire into bellies, Tony’s and Melanie’s. Though not yours, you’re combustible enough. As for yearning for greater things, I happen to like running a provincial paper. In my younger days I worked on a national–’

‘Which one?’ He told me. ‘I worked for the competitor,’ I said.

‘I know. I’ve read your c.v. But –’

‘What about your c.v.?’ I cut in.

‘My first job was with a free daily London paper, then I went to the national. After eight years or so, I moved to Bristol and became deputy editor, later editor, for a local paper. I was settled there, until someone in the business suggested to Mr P-J that I’d make a good editor for
The Bugle
. The job offered a challenge and I like challenges.’ He shrugged. ‘But I’ve never regretted opting for a quieter life. Slightly quieter, with fewer late nights. More hands-on, which appeals. And one big advantage was that a couple of years ago when my wife and I split up, I could be around for my kids.’

‘You’re divorced?’
The Bugle
reporter had not mentioned this and I had simply assumed he was married.

‘Same as you, again.’

‘How many children do you have?’

‘Two. A girl, Debbie, who’s fourteen, and Paul, who is twelve. They come and stay over in my flat sometimes and actually –’

He broke off at the sound of high heels clattering up the stairs. A moment later, the office door swung open and Tina Kincaid came in. She looked around and saw me.

‘Hello,’ she said, then her gaze went to Steve. ‘Hello,’ she said again, but this time the word was lower, throatier, breathier. Soignée in a cream trouser suit worn with a jazzy cream, brown and purple top and cream skyscraper stilettos, she steered her way across the room towards us. ‘You asked for a photograph to go with Duncan’s obituary and I’ve brought a selection so that you can choose.’

Although the words should have been meant for me, she was smiling at Steve. Not just smiling, she was looking at him as if he was the most desirable hunk in the world. And he was smiling back, widely. The sap.

‘This is Mrs Kincaid,’ I told him.

‘Call me Tina,’ she said.

‘Pleased to meet you, Tina. I’m Steve Lingard, the editor. New editor.’

She stepped closer to him. ‘The man in charge,’ she purred.

‘May I say how sorry I was to hear about your loss.’

‘Thank you.’ There was the tragic bite of a lower lip. ‘I’m not very good at being alone.’

‘It can be hard at first,’ he said.

‘You’re on your own, too?’ she enquired, and made big eyes. Big brown eyes. Funny, I could’ve sworn her eyes were blue.

Steve nodded. ‘Divorced.’

‘Perhaps you should decide which photograph you think is suitable. There’s one of me and Duncan on our wedding day which is good.’ She giggled. ‘At least, I think it is.’

‘Let’s have a look,’ he said.

Tina glanced at the cream suede bag which she was holding, a lozenge shaped affair with a cane handle. ‘There are rather a lot. If I could spread them out somewhere? Perhaps on your desk?’

‘Good idea. Excuse us, Carol, will you? It’s this way,’ Steve said, and ushered her out to his office.

Great! It was me who had spoken to the woman and written the obituary, but I was not to be included in the photo choosing process. Normally, I wouldn’t care. It was a minor decision which I’d be happy to leave to the editor. But today I felt rattled and now I began to understand why the wives of Duncan Kincaid’s friends were not too keen on Tina. If there was a man around, did she always ignore the women? As for Steve; he was so pathetically predictable. Couldn’t he recognise that her purring, the big eyes etc., was a well-rehearsed act?

I had returned to compiling my ‘fearless great-gran’ questions when footsteps sounded again on the stairs. This time, when the door opened, a young girl came in. She was clad in a denim jacket and the baggy, pocketed cargo pants which so many teenagers wear these days, wear at half mast. She had long dark hair and carried a sports bag.

‘I’m looking for Mr Lingard. My father,’ she said shyly.

‘Come in.’ I beckoned her forward. ‘You must be Debbie.’

‘That’s right.’ She grinned. ‘Dad’s told you about me?’

‘He’s mentioned you. And your brother. Your father’s in his office, but there’s someone with him so, if you’d like to wait a few minutes.’ I indicated a chair beside me. ‘Take a seat.’

‘Thanks.’ She sat down.

‘I’m Carol, by the way. Carol Webb. I write for the paper.’

‘I like to write, too,’ the girl said. ‘I write stories. Just for myself, though maybe some day I’ll send one to a magazine.’

‘You should. It’s always worth a try. I started by writing stories when I was fourteen.’

‘Did you?’ She was full of interest. ‘What kind of stories?’

‘I remember one was about a girl singer in a pop group, called Natasha, who was madly beautiful with long blonde hair and who had all the boys fighting over her. She rescued a kidnapped baby while fighting off thugs, exploding tennis balls and a wicked ghost along the way. Of course, Natasha was me. Or how I would’ve liked to be.’

Debbie laughed. ‘I write things like that sometimes, thought mostly I write about animals, pets of various sorts. Was your Natasha story published?’

‘No, but it was good practice because eventually I did sell another one, then another. In time I had articles, usually humorous ones, accepted by newspapers and magazines and I decided I wanted to be a journalist.’

‘Next time I come in here, if I brought one of my stories would you read it and tell me what you think about it? If it’s any good?’

‘With pleasure. And I’ll be honest.’

‘Thanks. I’m here because Mum has a fair meeting which could last until late, so Paul and I are spending the night at Dad’s. Paul’s at football practice, so he’s going straight on from there, but I said I’d meet Dad here. Then he’ll drive me over. And he’ll take us to school in the morning.’

‘What’s a fair meeting?’ I asked.

‘Mum runs a stall selling New Age stuff and promoting crystal therapy at psychic fairs, and tonight the organisers are fixing next year’s programme. The fairs are held all over the south of England. A few years ago, Mum ‘saw the light’ and became interested in astrology and the spiritual and crystals. She reckons crystals have healing properties and are a conduit for energy.’ Debbie grinned. ‘Dad thinks she’s wacky. Mum’s also become a vegan which is a real pain, so Paul and I love it when we stay with Dad. Tonight he’s promised to do us bacon, egg and sausages. Yummy!’

‘Your mother doesn’t object to you eating that kind of food?’

‘No. She knows Dad has different ideas to her and accepts that what he does in his own place is up to him. Dad’s nifty at cooking. He used to cook sometimes when we all lived together and, if Mum was busy, he’d do the ironing.’

I thought of how, in over twenty years of marriage, Tom had never wielded an iron – and how Bruce probably wouldn’t even know where the iron was kept. As for either of them making meals – big joke.