Construct A Couple Page 2

  Hmm. Well, it is only eight on a Monday morning, so I guess that’s to be expected. Jonas Lawrence, the magazine’s editor, asked me to come in early to get settled before the real work begins.

  I suck in a deep breath to quell rising nerves. I can’t believe I’m actually here. The very air smells like ink, I think, before noticing I’m standing next to the printer. My nose wrinkles as the sharp tang of toner fills my nostrils.

  “Are you all right, Serenity?” Jonas emerges from a row of cubicles. God, I’d forgotten he was so . . . large. He’s bundled into a rumpled dress shirt set to pop at any second. A cracked leather belt makes a valiant effort to hold up cotton trousers, hitched over his mountain of a belly. He’s like Philip Seymour Hoffman meets Family Guy.

  Underneath the untidy exterior, though, is a hard-core newsman who’s been in the industry for over twenty-five years; won several awards; has a reputation as one of Britain’s toughest editors; and owns a pet iguana named Georges. (Thank you, Google.) My job interview only lasted about ten minutes, during which Jonas barked questions at me interrogation-style while I quaked in the chair. I swear, give the man one of those shiny lamps – maybe a waterboard or three – and he could work for the Taliban.

  “I’m fine, thanks, Jonas,” I chirp, cursing my cheery voice. I need to be a sombre journalist now, not some happy-clappy peon. “I’m ready to get started,” I intone, trying to sound more Barbara Walters than Disney.

  Jonas nods, motioning me to follow him. As we walk down the narrow corridor, I try not to giggle at the ripple effect created when his bulk grazes the cubicles on either side. Panting, he stops at the far end of the room beside a long, battered table. Three computers perch precariously on its flimsy top, with barely enough space for the dirty grey phones squeezed between them.

  “Here you are. This is where you’ll be stationed.” Jonas draws out a dingy handkerchief and wipes his face.

  “Great!” Miss Happy-Clappy bursts from me again as I attempt to cover my disappointment. I’m going to be working here? In practically Siberia – a lone corner, far from the likes of Helen Goodall; away from the action? I glance over at the still-empty cubes on the distant side of the newsroom. Where I hope there’ll be action, at least. My interview was in the pleasantly neutral HR office, and I never got to see the actual workspace. Somehow, I had the impression reporters worked around the clock chasing stories, a bottle of gin in one hand with pen and pencil in the other. Well, I never liked gin, anyway.

  “Take a seat.” Jonas points to a scuffed swivel chair. Quite honestly, I’ve spotted better chairs abandoned on street corners, but that’s okay. Shabby chic is in right now. “Your colleagues Gregor and Lizzie should be able to answer any questions.”

  “Only two others?” The words pop from my mouth before I can stop them, and Jonas stiffens.

  “It’s rare these days a publication even employs fact-checkers,” he says sternly. “Most newsrooms are experiencing falling circulation due to readers migrating online, and fact-checkers are always the first to go. Seven Days prides itself on journalistic integrity, so we’ve managed to hang onto them.”

  I gulp. Fact-checkers are the first to go? When I interviewed for this role, Jonas made a big deal how the job was a gateway to more senior positions on staff, reeling off a whole spiel of famous reporters who’d begun their illustrious careers as researchers. It’s what got me so excited. Yikes, I’d better show him I’m God’s gift to fact-checking – fast.

  “Get settled in. Gregor, your most experienced colleague and acting subeditor, is around somewhere. He’ll give you a rundown of procedures and methods we use to verify information.”

  “Hey, as long as there’s Wikipedia, I’ll be fine!” I laugh to show I’m joking, but Jonas shoots me a suspicious look and thuds off.

  “Note to self: don’t joke with Jonas,” I mumble, easing into the chair and trying not to catch my trousers on the sharp plastic bits sticking out. Lois Lane wouldn’t walk around with torn pants. I won’t, either.

  “Are you Serenity?” A rail-thin man with wire-rimmed glasses perched on a pointy nose stands over me, holding a steaming cup of what smells like rotten coffee. He gives me a disapproving look – God knows why, because I haven’t done anything (yet). Then I realise I’m swivelling back and forth on the plastic chair, a high-pitched squeal coming from its straining mechanisms. Oh. Well, they shouldn’t give you swivel chairs if you aren’t supposed to swivel!

  “Yes, that’s me,” I say in my best Barbara Walters voice, extending my hand.

  He encloses it in a cold limp grasp, and I try not to shudder. “I’m Gregor, the subeditor. Basically, I’m in charge of everything you do here on Fact Check Row. All your work goes through me before I decide if it’s good enough to send to Jonas.”

  My heart drops as I take in the humourless man before me. He’s the one I need to get past to impress Jonas? Judging by the way Gregor’s eying me, it’d be easier to tackle Attila the Hun.

  “Hi, nice to meet you,” I respond, easing my now-clammy palm from his.

  “You’re American?” I almost expect him to wipe his hand, he’s said that with so much disgust.

  “Yes. I’m from Maine originally, and I’ve been here for two years.” Wow, two years. I’d kind of hoped to acquire a cute British accent by now, but my American one is still going strong. I try sometimes to tone down the twang, but people just squint and ask loudly if I can speak English.

  “Right, well. Let’s get started.” Gregor sniffs, then rummages in his desk and hands me a thick sheaf of papers. “Make sure you review this. It’s Seven Days’ editorial code, and we expect you to follow it to the letter.”

  Peering at the tiny font, I run my eyes over words like ‘staff must not use other material without attribution’ and ‘journalists should not endorse products without consent’ as pride floods through me. This is it: the big leagues; a media outlet so ethical it even has a charter-type thingy. After my stint at the tabloid (the seedier the method, the better) and the medical journal (the only code of conduct was staying awake), I can’t help being impressed by the firm set of rules governing reporters. Reverentially, I place the document on my desk to study later.

  I try not to glaze over as Gregor explains in excruciating detail how to use the phone (I mean, really, I’m from America, not Mars), my password for the network, navigating the expert resource files, and the rolling deadline system which ensures not all content deadlines fall on the same day.

  “You’re lucky you’re starting on a Monday,” Gregor says in his reedy tone, “because the first day after publication is quiet – the only deadline today is for the beauty department, and their articles are quite easy to check. As the week goes on and more deadlines crop up, the newsroom gets busy. A hold-up on our side means the copy won’t get to the editor on time, throwing the whole production off-kilter.” He sniffs, his face deadly serious.

  “So how long have you been doing this?” I ask. Gregor certainly seems to know the role inside out, but they wouldn’t make anyone fact-check longer than a year or two . . . would they? Surely that’s enough time to learn the ropes.

  “Seven years.” He pushes up his glasses, and I try hard to keep the shock off my face. Seven years? God, no wonder he looks like he’s about to sprout mould. Well, maybe Gregor’s not reporter material, or perhaps he actually likes his job? I’m sure I won’t be fact-checking that long.

  “Hey, you lot. Morning!” A woman shorter than me (and that’s saying something), with dark hair tied up in two pigtails, swings into the third chair on our row.

  “You the new girl?” She snaps her chewing gum and sticks out a hand, fingernails slathered in a cool powder-green polish. “Lizzie Watson. Nice to meet you.” The south London accent is so strong it almost knocks me off my chair.

  “Serenity Holland.” I like this girl already, I think, admiring her bright pink dress. By the jut of her chin and the energy vibrating the air around her, I can see she’ll be a welcome co
ntrast to the weedy Gregor, thank goodness. No way could I cope with a Gregorette!

  “Has G given you the rundown?” Lizzie switches on her computer.

  Gregor stiffens at the nickname. “Of course.”

  “And you still want to work on Fact Check Row?” She swivels to look up at me, eyebrows raised. “It’s not exactly excitement central. More like Dullsville.”

  My heart drops. That’s just what I didn’t want to hear. “But it’s a start, right? I mean, they told me at the interview the job is a stepping stone to a reporting position.”

  “Well, yeah, they would say that,” Lizzie responds, twisting a pigtail around her fist. “But G’s been here for ages, and I’m almost into my second year. On the other hand, Al managed to move up within six months. He’s a legend.”

  “Please do not say his name around me.” Gregor’s mouth tightens, lips pursed like he’s sucking a lemon.

  “Who’s Al?” If someone can get promoted in six months, I definitely need to know how.

  “He started off a fact-checker, like us,” Lizzie says. “Then a few months ago, Al happened upon a stellar story when he was verifying if that footballer Diego was the eldest of three boys. Turned out the mum was a prostitute who’d actually given birth to four other kids before Diego. It’s not our normal kind of feature, but Al managed to track down the siblings, engineer the whole reunion, and get a great interview with all of them. Anyway, he was promoted to full reporter at the daily.”

  My eyes widen. I remember that article – Diego’s a legend in England, and the tale of his long-lost family was all over the media. Excitement floods into me that it really is possible to move up fast. I mean, I want to experience everything I can on Fact Check Row, of course I do. No other position will give me insight into each department, not to mention the chance to learn something new every day. But to be here for years, like Gregor and Lizzie? An involuntary shudder sweeps over me at the thought.

  “But that kind of stuff doesn’t happen very often,” Lizzie warns. “G is a prime example. He’s been trying to become a reporter forever, but for some reason” – she rolls her eyes – “they keep turning down his request.”

  “How about we all get to work?” Gregor interrupts, a muscle in his cheek twitching. “Beauty has turned in their copy, and I haven’t the foggiest if there’s a spring running off Ben Nevis to make this vitamin water, like they’ve said.” He turns towards me, face set in a comically grave expression. “That will be your article, Serenity. The magazine is relying on you to verify the information.”

  Nodding calmly, I power up the computer as every bit inside quivers with excitement. All I need is to ferret out one fantastic story, and— Calm down, I tell myself firmly, before my thoughts can go any further. If I’ve learned anything from the past, it’s that success has no short-cuts. Hell, even Al had to put in six months here! Sure, this place may be more Death Row than Fact Check Row, but I can handle a little boredom if it gets me to the coveted reporter status. And in the meantime, there’s nothing to stop me keeping an eye out for an Al-like story . . . just in case. It’d be a shame to miss it! First, though, I need to learn who the hell Ben Nevis is, and why he’d have a spring running off him. Wikipedia’s going to come in handy, after all.

  After a full day of rigorous fact-checking (turns out this Ben Nevis guy is a mountain – who the hell names a mountain ‘Ben’?), it’s finally twenty past five and time to head to Jeremy’s. As first days go, today was fine – just really quiet, without the mad sense of urgency I’d expected. The only sound punctuating the dead air is when Gregor sniffs for the millionth time – I’ve never met a man with such nasal-drip issues – or when he peers at my screen to ‘check in’. I swear if he does that one more time, I’m going to take a swing and check him out!

  Lizzie left at five on the dot and Gregor’s nose is plastered to the monitor (I hate to think what it’s stuck with), so I grab my handbag and retrace my path back through the cubicles. I look from left to right in case I see a real, live reporter, but by the time I reach the lift, all I’ve spotted are a variety of hunched backs over computer keyboards. Not even one person glances up to meet my carefully arranged smile. Ah, well. There’s always tomorrow.

  My stomach grumbles as I navigate the packed rush-hour tube back to Bond Street, and I realise I haven’t eaten since seven when I shoved a Jaffa down my throat. As twelve o’clock approached, I’d darted a few hopeful glances at Lizzie, wondering if she might take me under her wing and point out the canteen. Instead, both she and Gregor had kept their heads down, working straight through the day. I don’t want to be a slacker, but in my humble opinion, this no-lunch thing is taking the importance of fact-checking a step too far.

  I wonder what Jeremy’s cooking for dinner tonight, I think, racing through the streets of Marylebone? My mouth waters as I picture his last creation: a roast chicken with crispy golden skin stuffed with onion and sage dressing, alongside herby new potatoes – not a pasta ball in sight, thank God. He’d even baked homemade Jaffas for dessert! The perfect end to the perfect meal; fingers crossed he’s done them again.

  “Honey, I’m home!” I push through the door, the nervous tension of my first day draining away as I take in the familiar surroundings. Sliding my feet from scuffed ballet shoes, I sniff the air. Hmm. No yummy garlic scent, no lovely meat roasting . . . As I pad down the corridor, my heart drops. The house is empty, dark, and silent. Jeremy did say he was going to cook dinner tonight, right? I grab the mobile from my bag and glance at the screen. No texts or missed calls.

  A stab of worry goes through me, and my mind flashes back to that horrible night Jeremy collapsed, a few weeks before Christmas last year. He’d been working so hard ensuring the charity’s projects finished on time he’d run himself ragged, crumpling to the pavement as we walked to the Prince Regent. I’d grabbed his arm to keep him from falling, feeling helpless as the weight of his body sagged against me and we tumbled to the cold ground. He’d ended up in hospital, where his condition deteriorated and pneumonia took hold.

  Jeremy had been lucky: over the course of the next three weeks, a steady stream of antibiotics cleared the illness from him, and we’d spent a quiet Christmas at his converted barn in Wales. Next time, the doctor had warned, Jeremy might not be so fortunate.

  I bite my lip. He knows he’s got to take it easy. Why is he pushing it? Working on the weekends, the late nights of the past few weeks . . . has Pick Up Sticks taken on too many projects to handle again?

  I punch in a quick text saying I’m at his place, then trot up the stairs and into the bedroom, tugging on comfy jogging bottoms along with one of Jeremy’s old faded sweatshirts. I’m about to grab my mobile and text him again when I hear a key in the door.

  “Hey!” I fly downstairs and into the entrance, skidding as I come to a sudden stop.

  “Hey, yourself.” Jeremy gives me a tired smile and kisses my cheek, as if it’s using his last bit of energy. “How was your first day?”

  “Good, good.” I’m bursting with details, but worry at how slowly he’s moving clogs my throat. “And you? How was your day?”

  He hangs up his jacket, and my eyes widen when I spot his tie. Not only that, he’s clad in a tailored grey suit along with shiny dark shoes. It’s been ages since I’ve seen Jeremy dressed up, and even though he looks handsome, I have to say I prefer the usual jeans and T-shirt (or nothing at all!).

  “Busy.” He sighs. “We had a long meeting with the charity trustees this afternoon.”

  A meeting? I try to hide my surprise – guess that explains the suit. Although Jeremy handles the day-to-day details, Pick Up Sticks has a trustee board consisting of three easy-going businessmen from Jeremy’s former property days, and Karen, a part-time volunteer who helps out in the office each morning and acts as treasurer. The board has only met once since the charity started, and the actual business took about five minutes before they adjourned to the pub. Usually, they just let Jeremy get on with it. “Is every
thing okay?”

  Jeremy tugs at his tie. “It will be. I hope.” His mouth is set in a grim line, and my mind switches back and forth between the desire to probe or wrap my arms around him. Wrapping beats out probing, and I pull his body up against mine. There’s nothing worse than someone asking you a zillion questions when you’re tired. Right now, I want to help my boyfriend relax, not stress him out more. Anyway, whatever’s happened, it can’t be too bad. He’d tell me if it was, I’m sure.

  “Why don’t we head to Providores for wine and tapas?” I say, suddenly craving the warm, happy buzz of our favourite restaurant on nearby Marylebone High Street. That place always perks him up.

  Jeremy trudges into the lounge and I notice his left side slumping, like it does when he’s worn out. “Do you mind if we take a pass on that tonight? I’d rather stay in.” He lowers himself gingerly onto the sofa, as if he might break into a million pieces. “Oh, God. I completely forgot I was meant to be cooking you dinner.”

  “No problem.” I wave a hand, trying to ignore my stomach’s traitorous grumbles.

  “Why don’t we order some pizza, and then you can fill me in on your day? God knows I want to forget mine.” He squeezes my hand, and I congratulate myself on the earlier decision not to probe. Good Girlfriend is in the house!

  “Sounds great.” I’m practically drooling just thinking of the crunchy thin crust slathered with our favourite toppings: mozzarella, black olives, prosciutto, and anchovies. We’re so in tune we even like the same pizza combo! Really, does a relationship get any better than that?

  “Now tell me,” Jeremy says, slinging an arm around me, “is your boss nice? What about your colleagues?”

  I snuggle into his shoulder, happily recounting everything to do with Gregor, Lizzie, and . . . I snap my mouth closed just in time before blabbing how this guy Al managed to work his way up in only six months. Jeremy’s mantra is slow and steady wins the race, and after my ambition got me into so much trouble in the past, I don’t want him to think I’m too eager to charge ahead.