Construct a Couple (10 page)

When I’ve finished coughing up a lung, Jeremy asks: “Big story, Ser? Tell me!”

 “Oh, you know, just that I finally managed to get through fact-checking an article without Gregor second-guessing every little thing,” I fib, cheeks flushing as an uncomfortable feeling circles my belly. It’s for the best, I remind my troublesome gut. We don’t need unwelcome guests invading our refuge.

Beside me, Kirsty’s eyebrows have flown up so high they’re buried under a waterfall of curls, and she’s eyeing me with disapproval. Well, whatever. Jeremy can talk to me about this whole thing when the article’s out – if he wants to. Tenet number one of the Shut Your Mouth guide: loving someone means never forcing them to discuss difficult issues.

 “Fantastic, Ser,” Jeremy’s saying, just like I knew he would. “You’ll be a reporter soon, I’m sure.”

I nod, meeting my boyfriend’s admiring eyes.

“That’s the plan!” And even though it might take longer than originally thought, I’m definitely on the right track.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The next morning, anticipation swirls through me as I urge my newly polished ballet shoes faster and faster towards the newsroom. Today, I’m going to be working alongside one of the best reporters ever. I’ll be her right-hand man (okay, woman), and I’ll be so efficient, so indispensable, she can’t help but admire my skills. Watch out, world: twenty-first century Lois Lane is on her way!

Would Lois Lane ever keep something from Superman? Probably, if it would bring back bad memories – and if he was as exhausted as Jeremy. Worry flutters inside as I recall how sluggish he was this morning, like he was moving through slurry. Gnawing my lip, I wonder if the Shut Your Mouth policy should apply to situations dealing with your partner’s health?

I’ll work on theory development later, I tell myself, pushing away the niggling thoughts as I cross the newsroom to my station. It’s almost eight and Gregor’s taken up position already, but for once, I don’t mind. It’s easy to be gracious when you’re making progress like I am.

I’ve only just booted up my computer when the phone rings.

“Serenity, we’re ready to discuss the article now,” Jonas says.

“Coming!” I sing out. Nerves shoot through me as I grab my notebook. This is it: time to meet Helen.

“Where are you going?” Gregor asks, a sour smell drifting from his mouth.

“Oh, Jonas and Helen want to talk about the Top Class feature.” I feign a casual tone, as if this kind of thing happens all the time – even though the dampness of my armpits makes me wish I sprayed on an extra layer of deodorant this morning.

Gregor’s face morphs into such an angry expression I almost expect his eyes to glow red. “You may think you’re special, finding this story, but I wouldn’t count your chickens before they hatch.”

I clench my lips together to stop a snort from escaping.
Count my chickens before they hatch?
What is he, stuck in the nineteen-fifties? For a split second, I can’t help feeling sorry for the guy. Trapped here, year after year despite his obvious reporting ambitions . . . it’s no wonder he’s a little twisted.

Without responding, I hurry down the hallway to Jonas’s office. Glancing through the open door, I catch sight of the Queen of Journalism herself, perched regally on a torn vinyl chair.

Before I know what I’m doing, I drop a curtsy, cheeks tingeing red at my stupidity. She’s not the Queen of England, I tell myself, although her hair is vaguely Elizabeth-like: tight curls coil off her head in an almost perfect sphere, and thickly framed glasses perch on the end of a patrician nose.

“It’s nice to meet you,” I say, holding out a hand. Oh God, my fingers are trembling.

Helen nods, ignoring my hand, and my face flames redder as I let it fall to my side. So much for buddy-buddy journalists working together.

“Let’s get started,” she says in a business-like voice to Jonas, as if I’m not even here. “It’s a good story, but we’ll have to work hard to pull this together for Sunday.”

Coughing, Jonas shifts his bulk in the creaking chair. “Send me your text by the end of the day. I’ll do the fact-checking and copy editing myself before passing it to Legal. They’ll need to review everything. On a story this big – with serious claims of negligence – we can’t afford to take chances.”

 “I’ve already lined up an appointment to interview the CEO in person this afternoon. I can’t wait to see her reaction to the allegations first-hand.” Helen’s eyes glitter, and she turns to face me. “Make sure you log your notes on the system so I can take a look before I go.”

I nod eagerly. “It’s all there!”

“Great. Then I need you to research the building codes for care homes.”

“Building codes?” The words fly out before I can stop them, and my tone isn’t exactly enthusiastic. “Maybe I could come along with you to the interview? I could take notes, watch your technique. . . .” My voice trails off as Helen fixes me with a killer stare, her face coldly blank. God, no wonder Saddam Hussein labelled her ‘the scary British woman’.

“Look – Serenity, is it? – you did a good job finding this story,” she says in an icy tone. “But I don’t have time to play babysitter right now. Just get me the building code info.”

“Okay,” I croak, scurrying from the office and over to Fact Check Row. Hmm, the conversation didn’t exactly go according to plan. Well, at least Helen knows my name. That’s something, right? And it
is
still my first week, I remind myself. I’ve plenty of time to reach Al-levels of glory.

I squeeze past Lizzie – who lifts a hand and grunts good morning as she peruses something on the screen – then settle into my chair, clicking open Google. I’ve only just started scanning government regulations for operating care homes when my mobile rings. The tinny sound of One Direction’s latest cuts through the deadened air, and I cringe (what can I say? I like them more than a woman in her early twenties should). Kicking my bag under the table to muffle the sound, I pray it’ll stop before Jonas makes an appearance.  

Silence falls, thank God. One minute later, though, the phone starts up again.

“Can you do something about that?” Gregor asks through gritted teeth. “And remember, no personal calls at work.”

I make a face, leaning down to grab my bag as Lizzie starts humming along to the tune. By the time I’ve rummaged in the dark depths of my purse, the mobile has gone silent. I stare at the screen proclaiming two missed calls – I don’t recognise the number.  One Direction starts up again in my hand, and I jump.

God! Whoever this is, they’re certainly persistent. If it’s a telemarketer wanting to sell insurance or something, then today is
so
not their lucky day. Don’t they know I’m on deadline, busy setting the world to rights?

“Er, maybe you should get that?” Lizzie asks with raised eyebrows.

I’m going to
kill
whoever’s on the other end.

“I don’t want any!” I answer loudly.

There’s a pause, then a voice says, “Serenity?”

The tone is that of an older woman, posh and uncertain – nothing like the slick professional patter of someone trying to sell me a cheese grater.

My brow furrows. “Yes, speaking.”

“Karen Cotter, from Pick Up Sticks.”

“Oh, hi, Karen!” Strange, in all the time Jeremy’s run the charity, Karen’s never called.

“Serenity, Jeremy collapsed in the office this morning. He came through the door . . . and he blacked out, right in front of me.”

Oh my God. Jeremy collapsed? My fingers grip the mobile as everything fades away; everything but Karen’s voice on the other end of the line.

“I called 999 and the paramedics took him up to the Royal Free in Hampstead. That’s where I’m at now.”

“Is he okay?” I can barely get the words past the lump in my throat.

“The doctors say he’s run down and dehydrated. Given his medical history, they want to keep him here for the next few days to make sure he’s stable.”

“I’ll be there as fast as I can,” I say, then click off the phone. My stomach is like one giant pasta ball – all glumped together – and my heart races. Jeremy will be fine, I tell myself, taking in a lungful of air. We’ve been through this before. He just got overtired working so hard, and he needs a little rest and relaxation. I shove away memories of last Christmas, and how fatigue segued into a serious bout of pneumonia.

“All right?” Lizzie asks, a concerned expression on her face.

I shake my head, tears of stress and worry pushing at my eyes. “No. My boyfriend’s been taken to hospital. I’ve got to get over there.” I know from previous experience Jeremy will sleep most of the day, but I have to see him; to hold his hand and be by his side. I scoot back my chair, standing on shaky legs.

“You need to inform me before you leave the premises during working hours,” Gregor says imperiously.

“Give it a rest, G, for God’s sake,” Lizzie spits in his direction.  “Serenity, I can cover your work today if you need me to.”

I shoot her a grateful look as I gather my things.

“That won’t be necessary, Lizzie.” Gregor wipes his nose. “You focus on your own work. Serenity, are all the interview notes logged on the system?”

I nod in a daze, his words swirling around my head.

 “Fine. Come back as fast as you can. I’ll inform Jonas of your whereabouts.”

I don’t even bother responding; I just grab my bag and rush down the lift. Out on the street, I raise a trembling arm to hail a taxi. The ride to north London will cost a fortune, but I don’t care. I need to get to Jeremy as quickly as possible.

“Royal Free Hospital in Hampstead,” I puff as I climb in the back of the cab, so flustered I forget you’re not supposed to enter until you say where you’re going.

I sag against the leather seat as the taxi swings into the busy London street. Crossing Waterloo Bridge, the iconic London skyline fills my eyes. To the left, the pods of the London Eye churn while Big Ben and Westminster sit proudly on the riverside. To the right, the Millennium Bridge threads its way across the river, with St Paul’s massive dome spearing the sky beyond.

My gut twists as images of Jeremy opening the city to me fill my head: our trips to Borough Market, a foodie’s paradise; Primrose Hill on a soft summer’s night, with strawberries and champagne; swimming in the murky ponds of Hampstead Heath . . .  In a way, London has become entwined with our relationship, with every corner holding a memory.

The taxi rises up the hill towards Hampstead, stopping in front of the hospital. After shoving some notes at the driver, I hurry inside the building, realising I forgot to ask Karen what ward Jeremy’s in.

“Jeremy Ritchie,” I huff to the front-desk receptionist, tapping my foot on the linoleum floor as she clacks away on her computer.

“He’s in the assessment ward, second floor, room 207,” she says finally.

I nod and head to the lift. I haven’t been in this hospital before – Jeremy’s usually taken to St Mary’s, near Paddington – but the scent of lemon and bleach is the same and, as always, it turns my stomach. Guilt floods into me as the lift rattles its way to the second floor. Maybe the Shut Your Mouth theory
shouldn’t
be applied to health situations. Although only Jeremy can control his actions, I knew he wasn’t well. I might not have been able to stop him going to work today, but at least I could have tried.

I dash down the hushed corridor and push through the door of room 207, jerking back at the sight of an elderly man, legs akimbo, being sponged down by a nurse. That’s not Jeremy. Thank goodness, I think, regarding the rolls of flesh.

“Serenity!” Karen whispers from a chair at the far end of the room. The nurse glances up and gives me a disapproving look – as if I
want
to ogle a man who’s munched too many Jaffas – and draws the curtain. I cross to Jeremy’s side, heart squeezing as I take in his silent form. His eyes are closed, and against the white of his skin, his lashes look darker than ever. A tube runs into his arm as he lies there, still and unmoving.

Karen takes my hand and propels me back out to the corridor.

“He’s been asleep since I rang you,” she says in a low voice, patting my arm. “He asked me not to call – said he didn’t want to worry you – but I had to. I knew you’d want to see him.”

“Thank you,” I croak, my voice clogged with emotion.

 “I told him to take better care of himself.” Karen’s slender shoulders lift in a sigh. “Ever since he fainted in the office last week, I kept saying he’d end up here if he didn’t slow down. But he wouldn’t listen.”

My mouth drops open. Jeremy fainted last week? He never told me that! I knew he was pushing it, but I’d no idea how close to the edge he’d been.

“The same thing happened with my husband,” Karen continues. “William wouldn’t stop, even after the first stroke. And then—” She catches herself mid-sentence, and smiles encouragingly. “Of course Jeremy is young and he can regain his strength. I’ll leave you now and go back to the office. He’ll rest easier knowing someone’s taking care of things and completing the final paperwork for the Top Class donation. Thank goodness they came through. The trustees were getting very nervous.”

Her words float around my ears and for a second, I can’t quite absorb them.

“Top Class?” I repeat dumbly. “Top Class Construction?”

She nods. “Yes. Do you know them? Jeremy had a contact in management, apparently. They must be on quite good terms for the company to give us half a million pounds! We’re throwing a big party next week once we have the cheque in-hand. Are you coming, dear?”

I stare, open-mouthed, trying to get a grip on what Karen’s said.

Top Class is the company that’s going to save the charity.

Top Class, the company headed up by Jeremy’s ex.

The business whose reputation
Seven Days
is about to destroy in Sunday’s article.

Holy
shit
.

Why didn’t Jeremy tell me? Why didn’t he say Julia was behind the donation? Okay, so I didn’t share what I’d found, but a little corporate negligence is hardly in the same league as your ex arranging a half-million-pound injection. God, the charity must have been in dire straits for him to talk to her. Or have they been in touch all along?