Construct a Couple (13 page)

“Have you been able to get in touch with Johnson today?” Jonas asks.

Helen is silent for a minute. “Not yet,” she answers in a tight voice. “But I will.”

Jonas sighs. “Helen, it’s a brilliant story, but with the legal implications, I think we need to sit on it until we can verify all the information.”

Oh, thank God! I almost release a little whoop of joy, but somehow, I sense it wouldn’t go down so well.

 “Sit on it, my arse,” Helen responds. “We’ve a better chance of Prince Charles streaking naked at Wimbledon than that story getting printed.”

“You know as well as I do management is extremely nervous after last time around. And as editor, ultimately I’m responsible for the accuracy of any copy.” Jonas crosses his plump arms – or he tries to, anyway. “I’m not willing to put my neck on the line until we’re one-hundred percent sure we’ve got everything right.”

“You’re a coward.” Helen jerks to her feet, stabbing a finger at Jonas. “We’ll never be ‘one-hundred percent sure’ about any serious news story, will we? That’s bloody journalism! We get the facts we can and go with the info we have. No wonder we’ve descended into regurgitating press releases.” She turns and stomps out.

I watch her leave, slumping back against the chair as relief filters into every cell. I knew I could count on Julia’s lawyers! The story won’t appear in Sunday’s magazine, and – if Helen’s diatribe is anything to go by – it’ll never see the light of day. The more time Top Class has, the more they’ll do to cover their tracks, I’m sure. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if they built Ryan a whole new care home. At least something good might come from this fiasco.

“Unfortunately, Serenity, sometimes you need to balance the publication’s business interests with the story,” Jonas says, his tone solemn. “Tough lesson to learn, but it’s more and more relevant these days.”

I nod. So much for good stories always overcoming obstacles, like Helen said – here’s Jonas telling me business must come first. And in light of what’s just happened, it’s pretty obvious who’s right. Guess I still have a lot to learn about the dynamics of a serious news organisation.

 “Now get back to your desk and check if Gregor needs any help for Sunday’s issue.” Jonas waves me out the door.

 “Okay.” Mustering up my last bit of energy, I stagger to Fact Check Row, barely able to believe this whole ordeal is over. The charity will get its donation, Top Class will carry on being a successful company, and Jeremy will recover without any extra stress. Oh, thank
God
.

“Heard you talking to Jonas,” Gregor wheezes. “Shame about your breaking news story.”

“Yeah, looks like you feel really bad.” I don’t want the Kleenex King to get the better of me, but I’ve had it with his holier-than-thou attitude. “You know, I think the fact that I had enough initiative to hunt down the story counts for a lot. That’s reporter’s intuition. It can’t be taught, not like fact-checking. You either have it . . . or you don’t.” I raise my eyebrows, making sure to get across that Gregor’s on the ‘don’t’ side.

Instead of his usual comeback sniff, he stares with an insufferably smug expression. Turning away, I flick off my computer and stretch, trying to ease the tension of the day. It’s just after five, Lizzie’s already gone, and I’m not going to stick around here while Gregor gloats. Anyway, I’m desperate to make sure Jeremy’s okay and to reassure myself the nightmare is safely behind us.

One gruesome rush-hour tube later, I exit the Northern Line at Belsize Park and trot the short distance to the Royal Free Hospital. Inside, the air is heavy with the familiar faux-lemon scent. I trace my route from this morning towards Jeremy’s room, praying he’s better.

Thank goodness his roommate is fully clothed this time. The elderly man shoots me a lascivious grin as I brush by his bed, and I keep my gaze fixed firmly away from him.

“Hey, hon,” Jeremy says when I reach his side. His face has more colour and his eyes look alert. He’s even sitting up, paging through a tatty magazine.

“Hey, yourself.” I lean down, my lips meeting his warm ones. “How are you feeling?”

He tosses the magazine onto the bedside table. “I’m okay. The doctors say I just need fluids and rest, but they want to keep me in for the weekend, to be sure.”  

“Best to be on the safe side,” I say brightly, squeezing onto the bed. Much as I hate him being here, it’s better if he stays and rests, away from the pressures of the outside world.

“I guess so.” Jeremy shrugs. “At least everything’s sorted at the charity. Thank God for Karen.”

I nod, trying to keep my face neutral. Knowing what I do, it’s strange to hear him talk as if I’m not aware Julia’s behind the donation. But now’s not the time to bring up all that stuff. The poor man is in hospital, for goodness’ sake.

 “So how was work? Tell me something interesting about your day.” He smiles, his tired eyes meeting mine.

“Oh, the usual deadlines and stuff,” I mumble, glancing down at the starchy sheet. A blobby, faded stain looks like Santa’s hat, and I trace it with my finger. “I’m so sorry I had to leave earlier. You were asleep, and—”

 “Ser, it’s fine, really.” Jeremy takes my hand. “I don’t expect you to sit here watching me snooze. Talk about boring.”

Cuddling up beside him, I realise I
could
watch him sleep for hours. I love the peacefulness of his face; the way his limbs twitch as he dreams. And when he reaches out and tugs me against him, my heart expands so much it almost explodes into a zillion smushy bits.

I lay in the crook of his arm until a nurse rudely informs me visiting hours are over. After kissing my sleeping boyfriend’s cheek, I wander back through the maze of hospital corridors. My head is numb and fatigue pulls at my muscles, but I don’t fancy kicking around Jeremy’s house alone or staring at the four walls of my lonely bedsit. Even though it’s eight p.m. and Kirsty’s busy packing, I make my way to her place. Ringing the buzzer, sadness fills me when I remember that soon, the closest I’ll get to my friend is a long-distance call.

“Hey, Ser!” The door opens and Kirsty’s curly head appears, Jane cooing against her shoulder. “Come on in. I’m just feeding the baby, and Tim’s getting dinner ready.”

“Hope you don’t mind me dropping by.” Clangs and bangs come from the back of the house as Tim prepares food, and I can hear him gently rapping to God knows what hip-hop song.

“Of course not,” Kirsty says as we head towards the kitchen. Easing Jane into the high chair, she attempts to feed her some kind of brown slurry, which Jane promptly spits out. Not that I blame her – it looks about as appetising as the refried beans at the pseudo Tex-Mex place in Soho where Jeremy and I both got food poisoning.

“So Sunday is your big debut?” Kirsty wipes Jane’s face. “I have to remember to buy the magazine.”

I sigh. “Well, it was. But there’s been a bit of a complication.”

Kirsty glances sidelong at me as she scrapes more sludge from Jane’s chin. “Oh, God. What happened?”

“Here you are, ladies.” Tim brings over three plates of steaming pasta, setting them down on the table.  We settle into our seats, and I pick up my fork.

“Smells great.” I wind a spaghetti strand around the tongs. “Well, Top Class found out about the story. Their legal department threatened the magazine, so the article’s not going to run.” Probably best if I keep the rest of the day’s disastrous details away from the dinner table. “Anyway, with Jeremy in the hospital, it’s the least of my worries.”

“Jeremy’s in the hospital?” Kirsty looks up from the food, concern on her face. “Not pneumonia again, I hope?”

I shake my head. “No, he’s just overtired. He’s been working way too hard at the charity lately. But he’ll be fine, thank goodness. So what’s new with you guys?” I jam the pasta into my mouth and try to chew, but my stomach is knotted.

“I booked my flight!” Kirsty grins excitedly. “I’m heading to Westport with Jane on Monday. Hopefully the houses are all still available – with the way the economy is, there are some awesome bargains. The realtor told me people are desperate to sell, and it should be possible to close the deal quickly.”

I nod glumly. If I’m honest, part of me hoped Kirsty wouldn’t find anything this trip out so I could hang onto my friend for a little longer. But it looks as if that’s not going to happen. Once they purchase a house, the move is a done deal.

“Sounds like a good time to buy,” I say, struggling add a more intelligent comment to the conversation. I love watching property shows – mostly down to my mini-crush on Phil Spencer – but I’m clueless about real estate. That’s what you get from ogling the presenter, not the houses.

“It really is.” Kirsty and Tim launch into a discussion of taxes, legal fees, and surveys. I tune them out, thinking how strange it is that they’ll be home owners. My last big purchase was a frying pan, and I don’t even own the furniture in my room. Their lives are moving on – literally.

“Anyway, enough about houses,” Kirsty says, once we’ve cleared our plates and flopped onto sofas in the lounge. “What else is happening with you?”

I stare into the hazel eyes of my best friend. Should I tell her I deliberately sabotaged my big article so it wouldn’t damage Jeremy’s charity? My boyfriend has been in touch with his ex without even mentioning it to me? The ex is providing a half-million-pound donation I didn’t know about? Jeremy collapsed at work and didn’t want to tell me?

God, when you put it like that, it kind of sounds as if we have problems. I know we don’t, but . . . My innovative relationship approach might have been good in theory. In light of recent events, though, I have to admit it’s flawed.

Right, from this point on, I hereby retire the Shut Your Mouth policy. A pang hits as I recall Jeremy saying I’m a safe haven. I want to be a refuge as much as the next girl, but there won’t
be
a refuge if a storm like today blindsides us again. Once Jeremy’s home, we’ll put the mistakes of the past behind us, and be so open and honest we’ll make the Dalai Lama look deceitful. 

“Nothing,” I say, forcing a bright smile. “Is there any wine?”

CHAPTER TEN

The weekend passes in a blur of reading trashy mags at the hospital while Jeremy snoozes (hey, I have to get my celebrity gossip fix somewhere!) and ensuring everything’s perfect at the house for his release Sunday night. I made up the bed with fresh white sheets, stocked the cupboards in readiness for pasta balls, and even bought cheerful daffodils for the kitchen table.

Once at home, I helped Jeremy upstairs and straight to bed. Although he seemed much improved after a few days’ rest – his face had more colour – I could tell by the way he held himself the past weeks had taken their toll. I curled up beside him, listening to his even breathing, and thanking the universe over and over the Top Class story had been axed.

Sure, I’d have loved the feature to appear in this weekend’s edition of
Seven Days
, but not at the expense of Pick Up Sticks. Even without my article, flipping the pages of the magazine and seeing the text I’d fact-checked
was
satisfying, despite my limited role.  I’m just glad that with my recent antics, I still have a job to go to.

Last week’s events have reconfirmed there is no magic bullet – in a job or relationship. I may never run across a one-in-a-million story like Al, I realise now. The best way to move forward is to continue working hard, taking advantage of this chance to familiarise myself with the business of a serious newsroom.

And when it comes to relationships, well . . . Jeremy and I need to learn to share our worries and woes, despite our discomfort. Hell, even Will and Kate have the occasional tiff, right? I bet the two of us will have killer make-up sex, too. Might be worth arguing to find out!

When I crack open my eyes Monday morning, sun streams through the window and I’m filled with optimism and hope. It’s time to embrace the future! Yawning, I wind my arms from the duvet’s cosy cocoon.

Jeremy turns on his side. “Morning.” His voice is husky, and dark hair stands up in sexy little tufts.

“Hey.” I roll into him, relishing the heat from his sleep-warm body. “How are you feeling?”

“Much better, thanks.”

 “I’m still worried about you, you know.” I touch his stubbly cheek. “You’re going to stay home and rest today, right?” See? I’m sharing my feelings already. This honest relationship thing is easier than I thought.

Jeremy stretches, his face crinkling up in that cute way I love. “I’ve got to head to the office this afternoon to finish up some paperwork, but I’ll stick around here this morning.” He gives me a gentle nudge. “Don’t you worry about me. Go get ready for work! I don’t want my star reporter to be late.”

I try not to wince at his words. If only he knew! I push away the thought that maybe with our new policy, I
should
fill him in on Friday’s happenings. No, I tell myself firmly. I killed the story to ensure Jeremy could still accept the donation; to safeguard the future. If he discovered Top Class’s negligence . . . well, that would make everything much more complicated. It’s best to keep our new honesty policy focused on the present, and leave the past alone.

Shame I can’t consign Julia to the past. As a major donor, she’s managed to insert herself into our here and now. Sliding open the wardrobe door, I can’t help wondering when Jeremy will tell me she’s behind the cheque. He’ll have to soon; the party Karen mentioned is only days away. Give him time, I remind myself.  The poor man just got out of the hospital! 

Grimacing, I run my eyes over the remaining clean clothes inside the tiny wardrobe: a sweater Mom knit me for Christmas that’s unravelling at the neck, and a pair of black trousers that no longer fits, thanks to the Heathrow Injection – fifteen pounds every expat gains when they move to London.

 “I’d better head to my bedsit and find something to wear,” I say, pulling on the jeans and T-shirt I’ve been living in all weekend. Thank God it’s still early.

“Take a tenner from the dish by the door, and grab a cab.” Jeremy yawns.