‘Marie Vann.’
This was as bad as it got. Marie Vann was the British Herald’s shock-hack, her speciality eviscerating the vulnerable. People with mental illnesses she scorned as self-pitying attention-seekers so she was hardly likely to go easy on Premilla. Asking her to kill the story would only escalate things – like all bullies, Marie Vann had the great gift of manipulating people’s attempts at self-defence into own-goals. If I didn’t step carefully, Premilla and I would end up being painted as the aggressors in Marie’s doubtless vitriolic piece.
My only option – and I’d learnt this from Tim – was to go over Marie Vann’s head and throw myself on the mercy of her boss. (Tim, though he seemed colourless and low-key, was a remarkably able publicist.)
But the editor of the Herald was a remote figure. It would have been easier to swing an audience with Beyoncé. All I had in my arsenal was a flimsy online link to Marie’s immediate superior, the features editor. Josh Rowan was his name and, annoyingly, we hadn’t met – I’d extended a few lunch invitations, but he hadn’t accepted. We followed each other on Twitter and that was my only in.
‘Leave it with me, Premilla,’ I said. ‘Try not to worry.’
‘Thank you, Amy,’ she choked. ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you.’
Thanks were a bit premature. I’d no idea if I could do this, I rarely did – not unless the journalist was a close personal friend (never) and I had a massive exclusive hidden in my back pocket to use as a bargaining chip (hardly ever).
I gathered up my denim jacket, my satchel, my enormous handbag, headed out into the heat of the streets and straight into a taxi. En route to the Herald’s offices in Canary Wharf, I direct-messaged Josh Rowan, asking if he could meet me for a quick coffee. Then I rang the Herald switchboard because journalists were among the few people left on the planet who still answered their phones even if they didn’t recognize the number. Nothing doing, just his voicemail. So I texted Tim and Alastair, looking for a mobile number.
My stomach started to burn with a familiar mix of adrenalin and anxiety and I rummaged in my bag, found my Gaviscon and took a swig – it was nearly all gone: I got through the stuff as if it was water.
This part of my job, killing a negative story, was like going to war – the strategizing, the anticipation of my opponent’s battle-plans, the fear of failure … Every time I was plunged into the thick of it, I’d think, I hate having to do this, but funnily enough as soon as a big drama had resolved itself I missed the excitement.
What made this situation all the more important was that Premilla had right on her side – she’d become addicted to benzos when she was given them by a clueless doctor to calm a nervous facial tic. Over the preceding twenty months, she’d been determinedly trying to break free, but the withdrawals were so brutal she kept relapsing. Her livelihood depended on me getting this right.
After twelve tense minutes in the taxi, with me checking my phone every ten seconds, a direct message popped up: Josh Rowan saying he was available for a phoner. But with a request as delicate as this, only a face-to-facer would swing it. This Josh Rowan had to be made to like me and, by extension, Premilla. I pinged back, saying I’d be in the lobby of his building in half an hour. Seven minutes later came a terse message: he’d be in a pub called the Black Friar at four thirty.
The taxi deposited me at the pub at four thirty-three. It was dim, lined with dark wood and almost empty – there were a couple of small huddles of people in corners but no Josh Rowan.
Worrying, but assuming he did show, I was pulling off a territorial power grab.
A quick scan of the pub revealed the ideal spot for our chat – an upholstered booth, far enough from the huddles that we could speak openly but not so hidden that it looked like we were up to something unsavoury. A few desultory tables were scattered outside the pub, but I didn’t want us distracted by the sun bouncing off their zinc tops and half blinding us – one or both of us might have needed sunglasses and eye contact was vital here.
Then I waited.
I didn’t order a drink, because it wouldn’t look good to be swilling down a large vodka if he ordered a prim cup of tea. Frankly my hopes were high that he’d order a drink-drink, but if he didn’t, neither would I. All about the mirroring, in these situations. Saying, I’m just like you. See how alike we are. Yes, you can trust me.
As I waited, I worried, and there was plenty to worry about but, as always, my appearance got the worst of my criticism – perhaps because it was one of the few things under my control.
My clothes were the problem and it was my own fault for not reading the weather forecast. Yesterday morning in Dublin it had been pleasantly mild, but today in London the sun was splitting the stones. And my dress – a 1950s cotton-poplin skater, with elbow-length sleeves and patterned with splashy red and pink roses – looked way too lady-like. It needed my denim jacket to toughen it up. But I would die of heat in it. My blue nail varnish and my shoes – chunky silver sandals – might mitigate somewhat, but there was a strong chance this Josh Rowan would see me as a Doris Day-style sap-lady.
(In its defence, I loved that dress. It was one of the best things Bronagh had ever found me – the cotton was so crisp the dress could almost stand up by itself.)
I didn’t dare go to the loo to check my make-up in case I missed him, so I slid my handbag mirror out and took a quick look. Christ, the hair. I was working an ambitious twisty-wavy artful-undone thing that had been achieved that morning with a heated wand and tons of texturizing spray, but during the cross-town dash it had mutated from artful-undone to plain messy.
I rummaged in my giant bag for my comb, and couldn’t find it. More systematically I delved a second time, and I was getting nervy because I needed it.
On the third go-round, when I’d practically climbed inside the bag, I realized, with rising rage, that my comb was never going to turn up. It had been stolen – probably by Neeve, but it could have been any one of the girls.
‘Bitches,’ I muttered.
‘Who?’
I froze in my hunched searching and looked up to see a man with an intelligent, slightly hangdog face. He looked busy and harassed, his shirt-sleeves pushed up his forearms. I knew it was him, Josh Rowan. And he knew it was me.
‘I …’
‘Who?’ he repeated.
There was no choice but to style this out. I sat up straight. ‘My daughters. They’ve stolen my comb.’
‘And you need it why?’
‘I’m meeting a journalist. I need to look pulled-together so he’ll take me seriously.’
He gave me a once-over, then said, ‘You look fine. Pulled together. He’ll take you seriously.’
And there was a moment. Eye contact. Stillness. Something.
‘Okay. Good.’ But that tension stayed.
He sounded like he came from Newcastle or thereabouts.
An awful thought hit me. ‘You are Josh Rowan?’
‘No, pet, you’ve just been telling your secrets to some random man.’ At my shock, he relented. ‘You’re okay. I’m Josh.’
Relief flooded me. ‘It is you. You look like your Twitter photo. Mind you,’ I said, ‘experience has taught me that people usually look like older, much more unlucky versions of those photos.’
He made a half-hearted attempt at a smile.
‘Now let’s get you a drink.’ I was working a motherly vibe even though we were around the same age.
‘I don’t have time –’