Construct a Couple (3 page)

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 everything 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.

Not that I am, of course, I remind myself, pushing back the rising excitement when I imagine uncovering a killer story.  

 “Sounds like you’re off to a solid start there, Ser. I knew you would be.” Yawning, Jeremy pulls me even closer. “I think I’ll have a quick nap until the food gets here, if that’s all right. I’m knackered.”

“Okay.” I might close my eyes for a second, too. I hardly slept a wink last night, and the adrenaline of the day (well, at the beginning, anyway) has tired me out.

It’s funny; in my previous relationship, I’d have been bored out of my mind lying on the sofa with my boyfriend, doing nothing. But at this moment, with the perfect person beside me, it’s not dull at all. With the drama in our past – from Jeremy’s cheating ex-girlfriend and his operation gone wrong to my ex chucking me out – taking things easy feels right . . . a smooth pace, rather than a panicky roller-coaster.

Now Jeremy just needs to stay healthy so we can keep going this way.

CHAPTER THREE

I hurry into the newsroom at the stroke of nine the next morning, happy Jeremy and I didn’t indulge in our regular bout of wine therapy last night. If I want to make a start on becoming Fact-Checker Extraordinaire, I need a clear head to nail all those finicky details.

“Morning!” I swing into the battered chair, careful not to catch the fabric of my trousers on the jutting prongs. See, polyester does have its advantages! Not only does it never wrinkle, but plastic bits can’t penetrate into places where the sun don’t shine.  

 “Morning.” Lizzie smiles up from her computer, and I can’t help grinning as I take in today’s outfit: dip-dyed harem trousers and a bright orange poncho. If I wore that I’d be mistaken for a Mexican psycho, but somehow on Lizzie the ensemble comes off as cutting-edge fashion.

Gregor releases a giant sniff, grabs his foul-smelling mug, and heads down the corridor.

Okay then, I think, as he scurries away. Good morning to you, too.

“Don’t mind him,” Lizzie says, tapping furiously at the keyboard. “He needs to snort his nasal spray at least ten times before he can communicate.”

I laugh, pleased one of my colleagues can chat without the aid of cold medication. In fact, Lizzie’s tell-it-like-it-is attitude reminds me of my best friend, Kirsty.  Even when Kirsty was in the throes of labour with baby Jane, she didn’t hesitate to inform the midwife gas and air is
not
a replacement for an epidural, and if she was home in the States, she’d have had eight by now! Jane was more than worth the pain and the germ-ridden NHS Hospital, Kirsty says, and nine months on, she and her husband Tim make parenting seem easy. I think I’m finding it harder to adjust to their baby than they are!

“So where do I start this morning?” I ask, gearing up for today’s fact-checking challenge.

 “Take a look at your folder on the system – Gregor’s edits from yesterday should be there. See if he’s flagged anything needing more work.  Once you’re finished, there’ll be another article to start in on.”

“Okay, thanks.” After navigating the maze of network folders, I finally come to mine and double-click on the vitamin water/ Ben Nevis story. Surely there can’t be too many edits? God knows I spent enough time on it yesterday. Lips curving in a smile, I await the sparkly clean copy.

But . . . Oh. My. God. My jaw drops as I take in the bloodied battleground before me. Almost every line is highlighted, with angry little comments scattered throughout in fluorescent colours.
How many springs? What spring is the water from? What’s the mineral content? How much does the water contribute to one’s daily intake of vitamins?
For a second, I stare dumbfounded at the screen.

Lizzie glances over. “He slaughtered you, hey?”

I sneak a peek at her monitor, noting there’s only one comment asking for clarification.
God.
Becoming Fact-Checker Extraordinaire might take a little longer than anticipated.

“Don’t worry.” Lizzie’s voice is kind. “G did the same thing to me when I started. Reckon he gets his jollies from it, even though he always says the magazine can’t risk another lawsuit.” She rolls her eyes.

“Another lawsuit?” My ears perk up. I don’t remember hearing anything about
Seven Days
being sued.