You Had Me at Hello (30 page)

Bottom line: what I did is illegal. I struggle to remember my long-ago training in journalism law. I think it goes, you're allowed to look at the top page of a document left near you, but turn the pages to look inside and it constitutes trespass. Picking up a phone and opening a text would certainly qualify, should Natalie want to sue. Loads of reporters have crossed similar lines, I know some of them have pocketed photos. The difference is being caught doing it. Ken Baggaley would have no qualms about hanging me out to dry, I'm sure, as punishment for the real crime of giving the story away.

Blurry with rage, I call Zoe, punching at her number in my address book, marching up and down as I wait for it to connect.
This number is no longer in service
. I recall she kept saying she was going to change it after the personal advert hassle, but hadn't got round to it – what fortunate timing to get organised this weekend.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I scroll through the numbers on my phone and call Simon.

‘Yes?' he says. He sounds haughty and inscrutable, but then Simon generally does. He's with someone, perhaps.

‘Simon, you need to see the
Mail
, the stuff about Natalie. I promise you that I had nothing to do with it—'

‘I've seen it.'

‘You have?' Oh dear God, thank you, he's seen it and it sounds like he's not lost it. ‘Simon, I—'

‘I've talked about work enough this weekend. Meet me in St Ann's Square, one p.m. tomorrow.'

‘Sure, I'll be there.'

I hear the
beep-beep-beep
that indicates he's rung off. Definitely with someone from work, that's why he was so abrupt. I hope.

After some more pacing, hair-pulling and cursing, I call Caroline, which results in an unsatisfactory conversation taking place, at her end, on a golf course with Graeme's parents. It might be distraction due to the game, but she doesn't seem to understand why this makes me look – and feel – so bad.

‘If nobody can prove you told Zoe about it, then it's on her, surely?'

‘They suspect I did.'

‘They can suspect all they want, Rach, they need proof and if you tough it out you'll survive, I'm sure.'

‘What if I they already know and they're testing me to see if I own up?'

‘Then you're screwed either way, so still say nothing.'

‘I suppose.' This thought isn't remotely comforting.

I hear Graeme in the background, calling ‘Cee, hurry up, we're turning to stone here.'

‘I've got to go,' she says. ‘Have you spoken to Simon?'

‘For about three seconds. He wants to meet up tomorrow to talk about it.'

‘Yes,
alright
Gray – I've got to go. Let me know how it goes with your boss.'

When my phone rings an hour later, I practically sprout wings and flap across the room to answer it, hoping Ben's going to give me the inside track on what's gone on. It's Rhys. For the first time since I left, the thought of him provokes annoyance rather than guilt. I haven't got the strength to be made to feel bad about anything else right now. I'm guessing this is more logistics and unfinished house clearance.

‘Hi. What's up?'

‘I wanted to talk to you,' Rhys says.

‘OK, if it's a kicking, I should warn you you're going to have to take a ticket and wait till your number's called.'

‘Jeez, what's up with you? You sound like you're on the brink.'

‘I am.'

A pause while Rhys sounds like he's weighing things up. When he speaks again, his tone is the most conciliatory I've heard in a long time. ‘Actually, I was ringing to see if you'd be up for going for a drink. I've got a gig in town next week, thought we could meet up first. Draw a line under a lot of aggro. Sounds like you're too busy though.'

‘No,' I say, weary. ‘No. I'd like to. I've got to sort a few work things out. Let me know, OK?'

‘Sure. Er … take care of yourself.'

‘I will. Thanks.'

After our goodbyes I find myself missing Rhys, badly. I miss how he would've sworn like a plasterer with a stubbed toe about this, given me a hug and made a crack about how I wouldn't need their poxy job if I fired out babies instead.

He sounded different. Less angry. That was the first exchange where it seemed like he might want to talk like civilised adults rather than entrenched opponents in a never-ending civil war. I'm happy to hear him sounding happier and I'd like very much to be friends, as much as that's realistic. Only I feel like a fraud at the arrangement, as ‘some time next week', when I've weathered the storm tomorrow, only exists as some fantasy CS-Lewis-like land right now, where I may have the legs of a magical goat.

I attempt to stride purposefully through the early morning buzz of the open-plan office, internally repeating the mantra ‘no one's bothered, yesterday's news'. Only ‘yesterday's news' doesn't count when it broke on a Sunday and today is Monday, the first opportunity to discuss it, and it's this juicy.

Everyone looks over, and I could swear an expectant hush falls as I approach Ken, who's busy hectoring a colleague on news desk. I stand and wait, before Vicky nods her head at me and he turns, fixing me with a cockatrice stare.

He heaves himself out of the swivel chair and stalks over to his office as I slope behind him, feeling multiple pairs of eyes bore into my back as I go.

‘Shut the door,' he says, dropping into the chair behind his desk. I push it closed and stay standing.

‘I'm going to allow for having caught you on the hop yesterday. Today, I'd like the truth.'

I open my mouth to reply, and Ken cuts me off: ‘And I strongly advise you think before you speak, if you don't want to see out your journalistic career spellchecking the letters page of Oxfordshire's
Banbury Cake
.'

I teeter on a ledge. On the edge of a ledge. Caroline's words about holding fast ring in my ears. I lick dry lips.

‘Natalie Shale never discussed any affair with me when I interviewed her. The name of that solicitor never even came up and he wasn't my contact. Zoe's worked off her own back and messed my story up. That's all I know and I can't defend or explain something I knew nothing about, even if it looks dodgy because Zoe and I worked together and I interviewed Natalie.'

I expect Ken to start screaming and shouting. Instead he simply nods.

‘That's no more than I expected, unfortunately.'

‘It's the truth.'

‘Is it?'

‘Yes.'

‘All right, let me give you some home truths. There are two reasons you've still got a job, Rachel Woodford. One, I can't sack you without proof you're lying. Believe me, I've looked into it, because I can't stand liars, or reporters who don't have any loyalty to their paper, and you qualify on both fronts from what I can tell. Should I get any proof, things will change. Two, I haven't got anyone to stick in court in your place. For now. In the meantime, you can send me a list at the end of every week telling me what stories you're working on, and that includes ones you can't stand up. So if there's a fanciful rumour doing the rounds that a defendant's wife is shagging her husband's lawyer, I strongly advise you include it. I'll decide what's worth pursuing. And if I see a line like that turn up elsewhere 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.

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?'