Construct a Couple (6 page)

As the Muzak version of ‘The Wiggle Song’ blares through the receiver, Gregor’s claws scratch at my arm.

“What are you doing?” he hisses. “We don’t conduct interviews.”

I wave him off, pressing the phone against my ear.
I’m sexy and I know it
, a flute warbles, and I think how strange it is that in seconds, I’m going to be talking to a nemesis from Jeremy’s past; someone who’s affected him hugely. Until now, Julia seemed more like a ghost than a real human being.

“I’ve got Julia Adams on the line,” the PR says. “Julia, the reporter from
Seven Days
needs to ask a few questions for the article on Sunday, if that’s all right?”

“Of course.” Julia’s cool, calm tone echoes down the line. “What would you like to know?”

How come you’re such a giant bitch?
“I’d love to hear how you grew the company to become a big success in a short period of time,” I say finally, struggling to get the words out in a neutral tone. Beside me, Gregor edges ever closer.

“A lot of hard work and dedication,” Julia replies in a pious voice that makes me want to puke. “I worked with my husband, David, in his growing estate agency. Seeing how many of our clients wanted new developments, we discovered potential for growth on the construction side of things.”

“Um hm.” I move my chair towards Lizzie.

“After we developed a foothold in the housing market, we began expanding into other markets, too – even those with lower profit potential but more social relevance. We like to say we’re construction with heart, building a solid future.” Her voice is low and warm now, and she pauses as if expecting me to clap.

“Fantastic.” I scribble down her quote in my notebook, but I’m doing one giant eye roll internally. Construction with heart? Right. “Do you think you could send me the names of some clients and their contact info? I’d love to include quotes from them in the article.”

“Of course,” Julia responds glibly. “Absolutely no problem.”

“Perfect.” We carry on for a few more minutes, Julia expounding on future financial projections and plans.

“Well, I think I have everything I need,” I interrupt, when I can’t bear listening to her overconfident voice any longer. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure. Please do call if you require anything else. Tanya will email a few clients’ details straight away.”

“Straight away!” Tanya repeats.

I give her my address and say goodbye. No sooner have I hung up than Gregor’s leaning over me, breathing stale coffee fumes in my face. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

I jerk as far away from him as I can. “Talking to a source, Gregor. Fact-checking. Isn’t that our job?” This guy is driving me bonkers.

“Didn’t look to me like fact-checking. Instead” – he casts a glance at my open notebook – “it rather sounded like you were conducting an interview.”

I shrug, feigning nonchalance. What the hell is his problem? I swear if he invades my personal space again, his sniffer won’t be able to sniff.

“Listen, don’t mind G,” Lizzie says loudly, obviously not caring he’s right beside us. “He’s just bitter ‘coz he’s still stuck here.”

Gregor’s lips tighten. “I won’t be stuck here for long,” he spits out. “You wait and see.”

Lizzie rolls her eyes at me. “Yes, another twenty years, G, and then you can retire.”

He turns back to the screen with a snuffle, and Lizzie shakes her head. Pushing stuffy Gregor from my mind, I glance down at the notes.  Time to focus on taking my first step away from Fact Check Row and into the real newsroom, even if it does mean glorifying Jeremy’s bitch of an ex-girlfriend.

By the end of the day, I’m practically patting myself on the back, that’s how pleased I am. Despite Gregor’s constant glare, I’ve managed to talk to all but one client on the list Tanya sent over. The remaining client is off-site right now, and the receptionist assured me he’ll be available first thing in the morning.

I smile proudly, reviewing the super-neat printing in my notebook. Given the magazine’s legal worries, I’ve been extra careful to get the quotes word for word. All I need to do tomorrow is call the final number, then type up everything in a tidy little package before handing it over to Jonas. That will show him how much initiative I have! I can’t wait until Helen sees my additions to her article. It’s meatier now, and even though it’s still a puff piece, at least it has quotes.

I wonder if she’s in the newsroom, back from her undercover work or wherever? Maybe I can swing by her desk, bring her coffee, and show her my handiwork . . . I drift into a daydream where she stares at the article, complete with shiny new sources, then says: “You know, Serenity, your spirit and quest for the journalistic truth remind me of when I was young. Would you do me the honour of becoming your mentor? I’d love to pass down my skills and knowledge to the next generation . . .”

 “Where is Helen Goodall’s cubicle?” I ask Lizzie now. “I haven’t seen her around. Is she off on assignment somewhere?”

“Off on assignment?” Lizzie snorts. “As if. The magazine doesn’t have the budget anymore to send reporters beyond the M25. And after what happened, they like to make sure everyone’s on a tight leash. Anyway, Helen keeps mostly to herself. She’s super paranoid someone will steal her stories.”

“What do you mean?”

 “Well, with all the legal issues we’ve had,
Seven Days
is meticulous about checking everything.”

I make a face. “Yeah, I know.”

“Because of that, we’re often scooped by other papers –
One World
, in particular. They’re a daily, so it’s to be expected. But Helen’s always ranting there’s something fishy about them getting the jump on us. She has a theory there’s a newsroom leak.”

Wow! My eyes pop at the thought of someone stealthily slipping stories to the competition. Here I was, thinking this was such a tame place, when underneath it all there’s intrigue befitting a Hollywood movie.

“Do you really think there’s a leak?” My voice sounds a bit too excited, and I try to put on a serious expression.

“I reckon Helen’s old age is finally setting in,” Lizzie says, tapping her head. “That, or she’s making excuses because she’s no longer able to get out the stories she wants. Jonas tries to keep her happy by saying he’s investigating, but so far there isn’t any evidence.” Lizzie glances at the clock. “Oh, bollocks, it’s five. I’ve got to run. See you tomorrow!”

She grabs a sequinned backpack and dashes down the corridor. I watch her go, turning her words over in my head. No wonder Helen’s annoyed and looking for someone to blame. Imagine, being reduced from the nation’s most feared reporter to someone hamstrung by a now-timid magazine. Guess that’s why her copy was a bit . . . lacklustre. One day you’re giving Tony Blair the finger, the next you’re shoved in a cubicle writing about boring construction companies.

God, I hope Helen doesn’t think I’m trying to steal her story. Not that there’s much of a story to steal. Stupid Julia and her stupid company doing so well. Damn her and her perfect hair! Hmm, might be best if I talk to Jonas first – just in case.

 “Bye, Gregor.” He grunts in return, and I retrace Lizzie’s steps towards the lift. I can’t wait to tell Jeremy of my tiny tiptoe forward!

I’m seconds from dialling his number when a question floats into my mind. What will I say if he asks what the article’s about?
Actually, it features your ex’s successful company! Did you know she’s raking in the dough?
Yeah, I don’t think so.
Guess who I spoke to today? You remember the woman who betrayed you, right?
Um . . . maybe not.

The thing is, Jeremy and I have never spoken much about Julia. Sure, I know the basics: how she cheated on him with David; how Jeremy sold his half of the business and lay low for a while, turning up at the cosmetic surgery clinic where I worked and requesting a full makeover after discovering Julia and David got married. But that’s all   behind us, and Jeremy hasn’t mentioned her name even once. Why would he? Julia has nothing to do with our relationship now – and I’d prefer it stays that way.

I stare down at the phone’s blank screen, my fingers hovering over ‘call’. With whatever’s happening at the charity, I’m not going to ring up Jeremy and say how well his ex is doing – the same ex it took him ages to get over. Anyway, this feature is just a stupid puff piece. Hardly worthy of a Pulitzer Prize.

I merge with the pedestrian traffic on the busy street, still gripping the mobile. Okay, so I can’t talk to Jeremy. My parents would love to hear I’m working on an article by Helen Goodall, though!

Thank God they’ve stopped asking when I’m coming home, I think, listening to the tinny ring of the transatlantic call. In my first year here, they seemed to believe every conversation was the one I’d say I’m packing it in, ready to return to the fertilizer-scented air of Harris, Maine. Even if I wanted to head home, there’s nothing to do but listen to mooing cows, crossing your fingers you’re lucky enough to score a coveted cashier position at the local Walmart. Since speaking to Jeremy (whose down-home Welsh accent Mum heartily approved of, not to mention his charity), though, they’ve finally accepted I’m settling into life here.

“Hello?” Dad’s deep voice echoes through the phone.

“Hi, Dad! Guess what?” The words burst out loudly, and a man passing by throws me a disapproving look.
Sorry for speaking above the acceptable 1.5 decibels
, I want to say, but I content myself with scrunching up my nose at him.

“Oh, dear, hang on a moment while I grab your mother. I’m sure she’ll want to hear your news.  Lesley!” I hold the mobile from my ear as he bellows. Guess that’s where I get my loud voice from.

There’s a click as Mom picks up the extension. “Hello?” Her calm, measured tone is a sharp contrast to Dad’s earlier shout.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Serenity! How are you? How’s that man of yours? Is he taking care of his health these days? Tell him I can send another batch of herbal remedy, you know, the one that—”

“It’s all right, Mom. He’s fine.” I make a face, remembering the slimy green drink Mom’s ‘natural remedy’ powder produced. Jeremy gamely forced it down, but he’s certainly not in a hurry for more. “Anyway! Guess what? I’m working on a story with Helen Goodall!”  Okay, so ‘working with’ is a bit of an exaggeration, given I haven’t actually met the woman. But we are collaborating, right?

“Oooh!” Mom makes an impressed sound. “What’s she like?”

“Well . . . yeah. She’s great. Exactly what I imagined.” God, how lame can I get? After all the fact-checking, my imagination has packed up and left.

“That’s just groovy,” Dad says, and I grimace at his favourite word. “We knew you’d be alongside those big reporters one day. Wait until I put this in the alumni newsletter!” I envision him rubbing his hands with glee. “So when will the story be in print? I can’t wait to see your name up with Helen’s!”

“Um, it’ll just be her name.” Even as I say the words, though, a bubble of hope is growing inside. With the quotes I’ve added, will my name be on there, too?

“Well, that’s not fair,” Dad says in his let’s-start-a-revolution voice. “Serenity, you need to stand up for your rights! Tell them you’ve played a part in this article. You deserve a by-line.”

My mouth twitches as I picture Dad holding a hand-painted sign and marching through the newsroom.

 “I’d better get going,” I say, before they ask about the story I’m working on – a huge corporation raking in money is hardly their idea of journalistic glory. Bet Dad wouldn’t protest on my behalf if he knew that.

“Okay, dear, thanks for calling,” Mom says. “Before you go, we’re heading to a retreat in California for the next couple weeks, over the Easter weekend. We’re going to learn age-old fertility rituals.”

 “Not that we want a baby at this age,” Dad laughs. “But your mother and I can still practise.”

Oh my God. “Great, great!” I say hastily, before they reveal more details. “Well, you two have fun!”

“We will, dear.”
Cringe.
“We’ll call once we’re back home.”

I hang up, shaking my head to banish all lingering thoughts of my parents engaged in fertility rituals. Ugh. I’ve just pushed through the tube station turnstile when my mobile pings.

Home now. Can’t wait to see you. Xx

Oh, yay! Jeremy’s back already – it’s been ages since he finished work this early. One blessedly quick tube ride later, I round the corner to his house. Lights blaze from behind the cheerful white facade and in the cool dampness of the London spring, it looks inviting and warm. A smile spreads on my face as I hurry down the street, fit my key in the door, and yank it open.

“Jeremy?” I skid down the hallway and into the lounge, not even bothering to take off my shoes or coat.

 “Hey!” Jeremy smiles from where he’s relaxing on the sofa. He pulls me down for a kiss, and my heart lifts when I notice the anxious expression of the past couple weeks has vanished. But although his face is more animated, he still looks terrible: dark rings a Panda would envy circle his sockets, and underneath the naturally tan complexion, he’s pale and washed out.

“Brilliant day, Ser. You’ll never guess what happened.” His eyes crinkle up at the corners as his smile widens.

“Um . . . you met the Queen? And she granted your request for Welsh independence?” I joke. Jeremy grew up in Wales, and he’s always going on how it should be a separate country.

He smoothes a strand of hair behind my ear. “I wish. No, this is even better.” 

“Okay. So tell me!”

“I will.” Jeremy rests his head on top of mine, and we stay that way for a few seconds. “First, I want to take you out for dinner. I haven’t forgotten I owe you one.”

“Are you sure? It’s pretty horrible outside. Maybe we should stay in.” As much as I’d love to eat something other than pasta balls, given how grey his complexion is, it might be better if he keeps warm and rests.

But Jeremy tugs me to my feet. “Nope. This kind of news definitely calls for a celebration.”

 “
What
kind of news?” He knows I hate waiting!  “Is it—” I almost ask if it’s something to do with the charity, but I snap my mouth closed just in time. It’d be terrible if it wasn’t. “Is it about . . . Karen’s birthday?” I finish lamely.