Construct a Couple (2 page)

“I knew you’d do it, dear,” Mom had said. “You followed your bliss, and the universe opened back doors for you.” Her voice was low and reverential, and I’d been tempted to ask if she was smoking ‘medicinal’ plants again. The last time Mom trotted out that expression, I ended up at the medical journal. Let me tell you, my ‘bliss’ was hardly reading about digital rectal exams – I don’t think that’s quite the ‘back door’ she was referring to. Still, it’s nice to be doing something they’re proud of. Dad even wanted to put an announcement in the commune alumni newsletter!

“You’re going to make such a difference in the lives of the people,” my father had intoned, like I was some kind of modern-day Mother Theresa. “Just think of the power you’ll have, Serenity. The power to effect change.”

You see, Mom and Dad haven’t exactly grasped the concept of fact-checking. I tried to explain I won’t actually be writing the articles; I’m only responsible for ensuring their accuracy. In all the excitement, though, my feeble attempt went straight over their heads – no mean feat, given they’re usually stuck in the clouds anyway. So they think I’m a reporter, not a peon on the bottom rung. Give it time, though, and I
will
be a full-fledged reporter.

I swing my legs around the side of the bed, glancing over at Jeremy.  He’s still fast asleep, broad chest rising and falling with each breath. God, I love how his long lashes flutter against olive cheeks; the way his dark hair brushes the tops of his ears. I swear, waking up next to him is worth the pain of a transient wardrobe – I can never remember what clothing items are here or at my bedsit.  

Jeremy’s lids lift. He reaches out and pulls me against him, so close I feel the steady rhythm of his heart. “Morning, Miss
Seven Days
, nation’s-most-trusted-magazine employee. Excited?”

“Oh, yeah!”  Excited is an understatement. My hands are shaking, and even though I’ve hardly slept, my head’s buzzing like I’ve gulped ten cups of Jeremy’s favourite Monmouth Coffee. (I know exactly what that’s like, because one day I drank about five double espressos in one sitting then couldn’t sleep properly for a week).

“I’d better get ready,” I say, bouncing off the bed and over to the wardrobe where my twenty-first century Lois Lane outfit hangs in all its perfectly ironed glory. Little drops of rain patter against the window and through the gap in the blinds, I can see grey clouds scudding across the sky. Even London’s notoriously brutal spring weather can’t dampen (ha!) my enthusiasm for the day ahead.  

Ninety minutes later, though, my blouse is crumpled, my once-straight hair frizzes around hot cheeks, and damp patches stain my underarms . . . all courtesy of the London Underground rush-hour slalom. I enjoy a challenge as much as the next girl, but surely the other participants could trouble themselves to wear deodorant? Nothing like a little
eau de B.O.
to get your day going.

I push through the ticket barrier at Elephant & Castle, the closest tube to the newspaper’s headquarters in south London. Images of exotic animals parading towards a towering stone castle drift into my head, but when I exit the packed station, there’s no elephant – statue or otherwise – and no castle, either! Whoever came up with the name was obviously smoking my parents’ medicinal crop. Grimacing, I eye the brown, seventies-style high-rises, looking even grimmer in the slashing rain. This place couldn’t be further from a castle if it tried.

It doesn’t matter, I think, rushing down the busy pavement. The grittier, the better. This is the real world of journalism, where money isn’t thrown around on niceties like, um . . .  I skid to a halt in front of the newspaper. Well, okay. Maybe they could have invested in a better sign. This one resembles a nineteen-fifties leftover, with faded white lettering spelling out
The Daily Herald
on a chipped black background. The structure itself is grey concrete, rising five levels with all the architectural charm of the Harris County Jail back home. But so what? Who has time to notice such banalities when you’re chasing down the nation’s top stories?

Okay, here we go. I take a deep breath and push the door, blushing as I spot the ‘pull’ sign. God, two years in this country, and I still can’t get the push-pull thing right! The security guard in the corner is watching me with amusement, so I paste on my I’m-a-serious-reporter expression and approach him with what I hope is a suitably purposeful stride.

“Everything okay?” He shoots me a funny look, and I realise my solemn face combined with intense gait looks more like I need the bathroom than a committed journalist on a quest.

“Fine, fine,” I manage to get out through the hot flush covering my cheeks. “I’m Serenity Holland, the newest employee at
Seven Days
!” Pride bursts inside, and I can’t help grinning like a clown on uppers when I hear the words.

The guard scans his list, then nods. “Fifth floor. They’ll sort out your security badge and building pass.”

I nod, trotting (minus the intensity) into the battered lift. Security badge! Building pass! I can come and go as I please; be a part of this living, breathing news organisation that never sleeps, where reporters dedicate their lives to stories with significance. At my last job, no-one even wanted a building pass. The faster we were out of there, the better. Then again, writing about pharmacological interactions wasn’t exactly riveting. Not like this will be!

The lift doors part and I fill my eyes with the buzzing – okay, dead – newsroom. The wide, open space is divided into cubicle after cubicle, with narrow passageways cutting between them. The lonely ring of a telephone drifts like tumbleweed through the desert of silence.

Hmm. Well, it
is
only eight on a Monday morning, so I guess that’s to be expected. Jonas Lawrence, the magazine’s editor, asked me to come in early to get settled before the real work begins.

I suck in a deep breath to quell rising nerves. I can’t believe I’m actually here. The very air smells like ink, I think, before noticing I’m standing next to the printer. My nose wrinkles as the sharp tang of toner fills my nostrils.

 “Are you all right, Serenity?” Jonas emerges from a row of cubicles. God, I’d forgotten he was so . . . large. He’s bundled into a rumpled dress shirt set to pop at any second. A cracked leather belt makes a valiant effort to hold up cotton trousers, hitched over his mountain of a belly. He’s like Philip Seymour Hoffman meets
Family Guy
.

Underneath the untidy exterior, though, is a hard-core newsman who’s been in the industry for over twenty-five years; won several awards; has a reputation as one of Britain’s toughest editors; and owns a pet iguana named Georges. (Thank you, Google.) My job interview only lasted about ten minutes, during which Jonas barked questions at me interrogation-style while I quaked in the chair. I swear, give the man one of those shiny lamps – maybe a waterboard or three – and he could work for the Taliban.

“I’m fine, thanks, Jonas,” I chirp, cursing my cheery voice. I need to be a sombre journalist now, not some happy-clappy peon. “I’m ready to get started,” I intone, trying to sound more Barbara Walters than Disney.

Jonas nods, motioning me to follow him. As we walk down the narrow corridor, I try not to giggle at the ripple effect created when his bulk grazes the cubicles on either side. Panting, he stops at the far end of the room beside a long, battered table. Three computers perch precariously on its flimsy top, with barely enough space for the dirty grey phones squeezed between them.

“Here you are. This is where you’ll be stationed.” Jonas draws out a dingy handkerchief and wipes his face.

“Great!” Miss Happy-Clappy bursts from me again as I attempt to cover my disappointment. I’m going to be working
here
? In practically Siberia – a lone corner, far from the likes of Helen Goodall; away from the action? I glance over at the still-empty cubes on the distant side of the newsroom. Where I
hope
there’ll be action, at least. My interview was in the pleasantly neutral HR office, and I never got to see the actual workspace. Somehow, I had the impression reporters worked around the clock chasing stories, a bottle of gin in one hand with pen and pencil in the other. Well, I never liked gin, anyway.

“Take a seat.” Jonas points to a scuffed swivel chair. Quite honestly, I’ve spotted better chairs abandoned on street corners, but that’s okay. Shabby chic is in right now. “Your colleagues Gregor and Lizzie should be able to answer any questions.”

“Only two others?” The words pop from my mouth before I can stop them, and Jonas stiffens.

“It’s rare these days a publication even employs fact-checkers,” he says sternly. “Most newsrooms are experiencing falling circulation due to readers migrating online, and fact-checkers are always the first to go.
Seven Days
prides itself on journalistic integrity, so we’ve managed to hang onto them.”

I gulp. Fact-checkers are the first to go? When I interviewed for this role, Jonas made a big deal how the job was a gateway to more senior positions on staff, reeling off a whole spiel of famous reporters who’d begun their illustrious careers as researchers. It’s what got me so excited. Yikes, I’d better show him I’m God’s gift to fact-checking – fast.

“Get settled in. Gregor, your most experienced colleague and acting subeditor, is around somewhere. He’ll give you a rundown of procedures and methods we use to verify information.”

“Hey, as long as there’s Wikipedia, I’ll be fine!” I laugh to show I’m joking, but Jonas shoots me a suspicious look and thuds off.

“Note to self: don’t joke with Jonas,” I mumble, easing into the chair and trying not to catch my trousers on the sharp plastic bits sticking out. Lois Lane wouldn’t walk around with torn pants. I won’t, either.

“Are you Serenity?” A rail-thin man with wire-rimmed glasses perched on a pointy nose stands over me, holding a steaming cup of what smells like rotten coffee. He gives me a disapproving look – God knows why, because I haven’t done anything (yet). Then I realise I’m swivelling back and forth on the plastic chair, a high-pitched squeal coming from its straining mechanisms. Oh. Well, they shouldn’t give you swivel chairs if you aren’t supposed to swivel!

“Yes, that’s me,” I say in my best Barbara Walters voice, extending my hand.

He encloses it in a cold limp grasp, and I try not to shudder. “I’m Gregor, the subeditor. Basically, I’m in charge of everything you do here on Fact Check Row. All your work goes through me before I decide if it’s good enough to send to Jonas.”

My heart drops as I take in the humourless man before me.
He’s
the one I need to get past to impress Jonas? Judging by the way Gregor’s eying me, it’d be easier to tackle Attila the Hun.

“Hi, nice to meet you,” I respond, easing my now-clammy palm from his.

“You’re American?” I almost expect him to wipe his hand, he’s said that with so much disgust.

“Yes. I’m from Maine originally, and I’ve been here for two years.” Wow, two years. I’d kind of hoped to acquire a cute British accent by now, but my American one is still going strong. I try sometimes to tone down the twang, but people just squint and ask loudly if I can speak English.

“Right, well. Let’s get started.” Gregor sniffs, then rummages in his desk and hands me a thick sheaf of papers. “Make sure you review this. It’s
Seven Days’
editorial code, and we expect you to follow it to the letter.”

Peering at the tiny font, I run my eyes over words like ‘staff must not use other material without attribution’ and ‘journalists should not endorse products without consent’ as pride floods through me. This is it: the big leagues; a media outlet so ethical it even has a charter-type thingy. After my stint at the tabloid (the seedier the method, the better) and the medical journal (the only code of conduct was staying awake), I can’t help being impressed by the firm set of rules governing reporters. Reverentially, I place the document on my desk to study later. 

I try not to glaze over as Gregor explains in excruciating detail how to use the phone (I mean, really, I’m from America, not Mars), my password for the network, navigating the expert resource files, and the rolling deadline system which ensures not all content deadlines fall on the same day.

“You’re lucky you’re starting on a Monday,” Gregor says in his reedy tone, “because the first day after publication is quiet – the only deadline today is for the beauty department, and their articles are quite easy to check. As the week goes on and more deadlines crop up, the newsroom gets busy. A hold-up on our side means the copy won’t get to the editor on time, throwing the whole production off-kilter.” He sniffs, his face deadly serious.

“So how long have you been doing this?” I ask. Gregor certainly seems to know the role inside out, but they wouldn’t make anyone fact-check longer than a year or two . . . would they? Surely that’s enough time to learn the ropes.

“Seven years.” He pushes up his glasses, and I try hard to keep the shock off my face. Seven
years
? God, no wonder he looks like he’s about to sprout mould. Well, maybe Gregor’s not reporter material, or perhaps he actually likes his job? I’m sure I won’t be fact-checking that long.

“Hey, you lot. Morning!” A woman shorter than me (and that’s saying something), with dark hair tied up in two pigtails, swings into the third chair on our row.

“You the new girl?” She snaps her chewing gum and sticks out a hand, fingernails slathered in a cool powder-green polish. “Lizzie Watson. Nice to meet you.” The south London accent is so strong it almost knocks me off my chair.

“Serenity Holland.” I like this girl already, I think, admiring her bright pink dress. By the jut of her chin and the energy vibrating the air around her, I can see she’ll be a welcome contrast to the weedy Gregor, thank goodness. No way could I cope with a Gregorette!

“Has G given you the rundown?” Lizzie switches on her computer.

Gregor stiffens at the nickname. “Of course.”

“And you still want to work on Fact Check Row?” She swivels to look up at me, eyebrows raised. “It’s not exactly excitement central. More like Dullsville.”