My flat, Monday, 9 April, 6.30 p.m.
He hasn’t phoned.
It’s now 6.30 p.m. on the day we were supposed to be going out together, and as far as I can tell, I have two choices. I can sit here moping all evening about the destitute life of spinsterhood I have in front of me. Or I can phone Jack and risk looking like the sort of woman who likes making bunny stew in her spare time.
Not very appealing either way.
It has taken me nearly twenty-four hours of contemplation, but I decide, finally, to go for the second choice. It’s a risky strategy but at least I’ll know where I stand.
I go to the contacts book on my phone, scroll down to his name and quickly press Call before I get the chance to whip myself up into a nervous frenzy.
But the phone doesn’t even ring; it just goes straight to his messages, indicating he’s either on the phone to someone else (probably someone significantly thinner, bigger-breasted and more attractive than me), or he’s switched off (probably because he’s with someone significantly
thinner, bigger-breasted and more attractive than me).
‘
Hi, you’ve reached Jack’s mobile
…’
Oh God, do I leave a message?
‘…
but I’m not available at the moment
.’
Yes, I’ll leave one.
‘
Just leave a message after the tone
…’
No, I won’t.
‘…
and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can
.’
Oh bugger.
‘Er, hi Jack, it’s Evie,’ I splutter. ‘Just thought I’d give you a ring because, well, you know–to see how you are. And because we were supposed to go out, if you remember. And, well, I didn’t hear from you. I don’t want you to think I’m a stalker or anything–that wasn’t why I phoned. Er, so why
did
I phone? Well, just to say that if you don’t want to go out with me, then that’s just fine. But if you do, then that’d be great–even better, in fact. And in that case, well–here I am! But, well, clearly you don’t, otherwise you would have phoned. So, I’ll go now.’
I go to put the phone down, but hesitate.
‘Whatever happens,’ I add, ‘I had a nice time this weekend. Just thought I should say. Bye.’
I put the phone down.
I’ve been stood up. I don’t believe it.
That’s it for me and Jack, then. Over before it even began.
But what I don’t understand is that he seemed so keen.
Until you saw him flirting with another woman, Evie.
But all the signs seemed to point to him really liking me.
Apart from him giving his phone number to someone else.
But didn’t he kiss me and tell me we’d get together today?
Yes, but how many other women has he done that with?
I’m simply going to have to pull myself together. This is not worth wasting another thought over. I’m just going to forget it right now. Not mention it to anyone, not allow myself to even think about it.
There, I feel better already.
My flat, Monday, 9 April, 7.30 p.m.
I feel terrible.
I can’t believe I even considered phoning my mother to confide in her about this.
But after almost twenty-four hours of thinking about nothing else, I’ve just got to get a few things off my chest. Problem is, Grace has a deadline and, according to Patrick, she has told him not to call her to the phone unless it’s God on the line to say He’s decided to make her a millionaire.
Charlotte, meanwhile, appears to have been at the gym all night, Georgia has very inconsiderately buggered off on her honeymoon, and as for Valentina…well, not even if I plummeted to the depths of despair would I consider confiding in her about something like this.
‘I really got the impression that he liked me,’ I tell my mum, aware that I’m whining a bit, but deciding that listening to this sort of thing is all part of a mother’s job description.
‘There is always the possibility that something’s come up,’ she says.
‘He still could have phoned, couldn’t he?’
‘Well, maybe he’s been in an accident,’ she says cheerfully. ‘You never know what sort of state he could be in. It does happen.’
‘So, let me get this straight,’ I say. ‘You’re trying to make me feel better about him not going on a date with me by telling me he might be injured or dead.’
‘Oh, okay,’ she says. ‘I’m not much good at this, Evie. You’ve never asked me about these sorts of things before.’
I sigh. That’s because it’s never really happened before.
The only positive thing I can possibly say about the fact that it is now late on Monday and Jack still hasn’t phoned, is that my taps are now gleaming. I’ve spent four hours scrubbing limescale off them with a bit of old potato and some washing-up liquid, and to Kim and Aggie’s credit, they really have come up a treat.
I’m starting to worry for my mental health though.
My flat, Tuesday, 10 April
I really can’t leave another message on his answer machine. I’m just going to have to forget him. I mean, what’s the big deal? It was only a kiss. And he’s only a man. So what if he’s got gorgeous eyes and a body to die for and is generally lovely in every way? I wish I’d slept with him now.
Argghhh! No, I don’t.
Oh, for God’s sake.
My flat, Wednesday, 11 April
Wednesday and still no call. What I can’t understand is why Jack would have bothered saying he’d phone me, and then not do so. I mean, why didn’t he just not say anything?
Valentina’s wisdom on this issue isn’t exactly what I want to hear.
‘Some men just seem to think it’s impolite not to say they’ll call after they’ve snogged you,’ she shrugs. ‘They just say it to fill a gap in conversation when they’ve got no intention of actually going through with it. Not that I’ve ever experienced anything like this personally, of course.’
Café Tabac, Bold Street, Liverpool, Wednesday, 11 April
I am getting over my failed romance by plunging myself into my career.
What’s more, I have realised that there is only one way I’m going to get a front-page splash–and that’s by going out and getting it myself. Because it is now perfectly clear that Simon is about as likely to feed me a decent story as he is to offer me a pedicure.
So, in between knocking out nibs about the quarter-finals of an OAP crown green bowling competition and the fact that the gas supply in Skelmersdale is going to be switched off for an hour on Friday, I have been doing something else. Phoning my contacts.
Okay, so not all of them have been fruitful. No, that’s an understatement. The only thing which has even approximated a story was a tip about some theft allegations at the distribution depot of a toilet roll firm–which turned out to be completely and utterly false.
But, now, as I sit in my favourite Liverpool café, opposite Detective Inspector Gregg ‘Benno’ Benson, things are looking up.
‘I’ve got a belter for you,’ he tells me confidently, polishing off one of the three muffins I’ve just bought for him.
‘
Really
?’ I am trying to retain an air of professionalism–rather than just looking so pathetically grateful that I’m on the verge of offering to have his babies.
‘Yep,’ he says, reaching for muffin number two.
I haven’t exactly specialised in crime reporting, but I’ve met enough police officers since I started this job to know that Benno is not what you’d call typical of the breed. He scoffs at the graduate trainee schemes that send recruits on media training, would never dream of dealing with the Press Office and, despite a continual stream of internal memos instructing officers to the contrary, prefers to deal with journalists directly. At least, he prefers to deal with journalists he likes and trusts. What put me in that category, I’m not entirely sure, but he claims I’m the only journalist to have
ever
spelled his name correctly in print (Gregg with two gs, not one) and that might have something to do with it.
Anyway, the story he’s got goes like this: Pete Gibson, the Liverpool-born pop star with a squeaky-clean image and a string of Top Ten hits under his belt, has been arrested and bailed on suspicion of supplying cocaine.
Not just that, but he was caught at it during a drug-fuelled orgy involving several other celebrities–models and footballers. A
belter
it undoubtedly is. However, there is a problem.
‘You can’t run the story yet,’ says Benno.
‘What?’ My eyes widen as I can feel the first decent story I’ve had a sniff of, slipping out of my hands. ‘That’s like Father Christmas telling someone they can’t open their presents until Easter. What’s the problem?’
‘The problem is,’ he says, ‘that we suspect Gibson isn’t the only one up to no good.’
‘I don’t follow you,’ I say.
Benno has reason to believe that Gibson has been attempting to bribe a police officer to ‘lose’ some of the evidence that will be used against him in court. If that is the case–and he succeeds–then there is a seriously dodgy copper to deal with too.
‘So why can’t you just arrest them both?’ I ask.
‘Because,’ he says, licking some icing sugar off his fingers, ‘we’ve got no hard evidence–yet.’
‘And?’
‘Well,’ he says, ‘we need to catch them at it. So, we’re following Gibson. That guy can’t have a crap without us knowing about it. So if he turns up at our man’s door with a brown envelope in his back pocket, we’ll be in there faster than Lance Armstrong–on a motorbike.’
‘So how long will that take?’ I frown.
He smiles. ‘I promise you, Evie, you will be the first to know about it.’
I have a terrible feeling this just isn’t going to happen. There’s no way this story is going to stay out of the nationals.
‘Definitely?’ I whimper.
‘You can come and take a picture of him being brought in, if you like,’ he says.
My eyes widen again.
‘Benno,’ I say, ‘if this story comes off, you will be–without question–my absolute favourite journalistic contact. Ever.’
‘Good,’ he says. ‘You can go and get another couple of them buns in then.’
I head back into the newsroom with the same spring in my step as the reporters who exposed Watergate must have had.
‘Evie,’ Simon says, chucking a press release onto my keyboard, ‘we need some grouting for page thirty-nine. Bash out a bit of that, will you?’
I pick up the press release and look at the headline:
Blood donor sessions–time change
.
As I dejectedly start to type out a piece about how the planned blood donation sessions at Childwall Library will now take place at twelve noon, and not 12.30 p.m. as initially advertised, I look up and notice the buzz around me. There is clearly a big story breaking.
‘What is the splash?’ I ask Jules, next to me.
He nods over to BBC News 24 on one of the television screens. It’s the story about the hostage crisis that has been on every news bulletin and in every paper for the last couple of days.
‘A load of hostages have just been released in Sudan,’ he says. ‘More importantly, we’ve just found out that one of them is from our patch. Graham’s doing it.’
I look over at Graham, frantically typing out some copy
with his phone perched next to his ear, and feel a stab of jealousy. Graham has been here a year longer than me, but the stories we’re assigned differ so monumentally in quality, it could be twenty years. I look up at the big screen in the newsroom to see what the BBC have got to say about it.
‘One British hostage, who was released this morning, is forty-two-year-old Janet Harper, an aid worker from Lancashire,’ says the correspondent. ‘Her release marks the end of a terrifying ordeal which began three days ago when she was seized outside a camp in Darfur by a gang of militia men.’
It’s a big story, that’s for sure.
The correspondent continues: ‘I have with me Jack Williamson, who runs Future for Africa, the British-based charity Miss Harper was working for when she was seized.’
As the camera pans out, my jaw almost hits the floor.
It’s Jack.
My
Jack. Jack–who I have been cursing for standing me up. Jack–who, it would appear, has a pretty bloody good excuse for standing me up.
‘Mr Williamson, have you been in contact with Janet Harper since she was released?’ asks the BBC correspondent.
Jack is unshaven and looks tired, but he’s still got the sort of looks that would make a nun reconsider her career choices.
‘I have,’ he says. ‘I spoke to her about an hour ago.’
‘And can you confirm what sort of condition she is in?’ asks the correspondent.
‘She’s physically unhurt, but obviously very shocked,’ Jack tells him. ‘She’s receiving treatment in hospital at the moment and is doing very well under the circumstances.’
‘There has been some criticism of your organisation for
not pulling their aid workers out of this area earlier, in the light of the unrest,’ says the correspondent.
‘Yes, I’m aware of that,’ says Jack. ‘We were monitoring the situation carefully back home and, to be honest, we were getting increasingly concerned about it. I spoke to Janet’s project director two days before she was kidnapped, and we agreed that if the situation deteriorated any further, we would pull out of there. Clearly, events overtook that. And I’m just desperately sorry we misjudged the situation.’
As the piece comes to a conclusion, I rush over to the newsdesk.
‘Simon,’ I say breathlessly, ‘put me on this story. You’ve
got
to put me on this story.’
Simon looks at me as if he’s just realised that an irritating bout of piles he thought he’d got rid of has come back.
‘In most newsrooms it’s traditional for the reporters to do what the News Editor tells them,’ he says curtly. ‘Unless, of course, you’ve finished that press release already.’
‘No,’ I say. ‘No, I haven’t. But I know that guy on the telly!’
‘Who?’ he says. ‘Michael Buerk?’
I decide not to tell him that this particular BBC Africa correspondent is about twenty years younger than Michael Buerk and happens to be Asian.
‘No,’ I say. ‘The other one–Jack Williamson–the boss of the aid agency the hostage works for.’
‘So what?’ Simon shrugs. ‘Who’s interested in him? It’s the woman we want.’
‘But—’ I begin.
‘Look,’ he continues, ‘unless you’re telling me you can get an interview with the woman’s family and the first pictures of her in time for the second edition, then please, just don’t bother.’
We both know he’s asking the impossible.
‘Right,’ I say. ‘I’ll do my best.’
He raises an eyebrow and looks down my top.
‘Good,’ he says. ‘Otherwise I’ve got another story here that’s right up your street. It’s about a missing parrot.’
My first port of call is the obvious one: Jack’s mobile. I’m not expecting much, given that every time I’ve tried him previously it’s gone straight onto Messages–and now I know that he’s in the middle of the desert, it’s clear why. I think he’s found the last place in the world where there isn’t a mobile-phone mast in sight.
‘Hi Jack,’ I say, when I get his message service. ‘I’ve known blokes to go to some lengths to avoid going on a date with me, but this is ridiculous.
‘Er, seriously,’ I continue lamely, like I’ve just told a joke no one laughed at, ‘I’ve just seen you on TV and well, believe it or not, I’m covering this story for the
Echo
and I wondered if you’d be prepared to give me a ring about it. I’ll understand if you don’t want to–you’re probably being bombarded with press enquiries at the moment. But if you were able to, I’d be really grateful.’
I’m about to say goodbye, but something makes me hesitate.
‘Just one more thing,’ I say, and wonder how I can best put this. ‘I’m sure you’re more than capable of handling yourself but, well…I just hope you’re okay out there. Do me a favour and take care of yourself, won’t you? Bye.’
I put the phone down and don’t stop to think before I pick it up again.
‘Who are you trying now?’ asks Graham, sitting opposite me.
‘Future for Africa’s head office,’ I say.
‘Don’t bother,’ he replies. ‘I’ve already done it. They’re being completely unhelpful.’
I decide to give it a go anyway. Surely when I tell them I know Jack, it’ll open some doors. When I get through to Future for Africa’s offices, a woman with a youngish-sounding voice answers.
‘Hi,’ I say. ‘I’m phoning from the
Daily Echo
and was just wondering who was handling your press enquiries over the Janet Harper kidnapping?’
‘What is it you want to know?’ she asks.
‘Well,’ I begin, ‘given that Janet is originally from our patch, I was wondering if her family would be prepared to give us an interview.’
‘Right,’ says the voice at the other end. ‘I’ll have to pass it onto our Press Officer–I’m just taking messages. What was your name again?’
‘Evie Hart,’ I say. ‘I’m from the
Daily Echo
.’
‘Okay,’ she says. ‘Got it. I’ll pass the message on.’
There is something about the tone in her voice that makes me think I’d have more success if I directed my press enquiries to Lassie.
‘Hang on,’ I say, ever hopeful. ‘There’s something else.’
‘Yeah?’ she says.
‘I’m a friend of Jack Williamson, your Chief Executive,’ I tell her.
There’s a short silence.
‘And?’ says the woman at the other end of the phone.
‘Er, right,’ I say. ‘Well, if he phones in, will you tell him I’d love to speak to him. My name is Evie Hart.’
‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘You said.’