Follow Me: The bestselling crime novel terrifying everyone this year. Angela Clarke
hi,’ she gulped from a cold coffee as she climbed up onto the windowsill. Work brain, work.
‘I’ve taken a look at the stuff you’ve sent me and it’s great.’
Fuck!
‘The writing is sound, the points salient and well argued,’ he continued.
Fuck, fuck!
‘But I can’t use it.’
Fuck. ‘Why?’
‘The thing is, Freddie, you’re a great writer, but that’s not enough these days. The world’s full of great writers and the Internet’s only made it easier to find them. You need that extra something to stand out.’
‘Like what?’ She wasn’t sure she had much left to give.
‘Did you see Olivia Williams’ piece on being kidnapped by Somali pirates? Laura McBethan’s blog on surviving the Air Asiana plane crash? Or Gaz Wagon’s real-time microblogging from the London riots? All excellent reporting. All game changers. All propelled to stardom now.’
‘So I need to get kidnapped, or embroil myself in a riot? I’ll get right onto it.’
Neil laughed. ‘Are you working class?’
She thought of her parents, her mum a dedicated junior school teacher, and her dad a local council worker (retired early, following one too many dazed and confused moments at work), in their leafy suburban home. ‘Er, no.’
‘Shame, that’s quite in at the moment. Not landed gentry?’
What was this, an UsVsTh3m online game – What Social Class Are You?
Neil continued, ‘Because of Made in Chelsea, people are obsessed with the posh.’
‘I’m middle class.’
‘Middle class like Kate Middleton?’
‘Nobody is middle class like Kate Middleton.’ My career’s over at the age of twenty-three, condemned by my parents’ traditional jobs and the good fortune not to have been caught in a natural disaster, thought Freddie.
‘And you’re not black…’
Did he even remember meeting her? ‘I don’t see how that’s relevant.’
‘Just looking for a unique angle.’
‘Being black is a unique angle?’
‘Pieces written about the ethnic experience are very popular with readers.’
‘I’ll tell my Asian mates who lived in the same street as me, went to the same school, studied at the same university, and get paid the same as me, to give you a call to share their ethnic experience.’
Neil laughed. ‘Okay, then you’ll have to try the old-fashioned way. Keep getting your name in print, and with a bit of luck you’ll land a contract.’
She felt all the air go out of her. ‘How’d you do it?’
‘Wrote small pieces for a local newspaper and worked my way up till I was on the nationals. I was an apprenticeship lad.’
An apprenticeship: so scarce it’d be easier to book onto a plane that was going to crash. There was silence for a moment.
‘You could always consider another career, I pay my accountant a fortune?’ Neil sounded like he was only half joking.
‘Thanks. I mean, for the advice and that.’
‘Anytime, good luck.’ He sounded sad. Or guilty. ‘You’ve just got to seize the story, Freddie. Push yourself into uncomfortable situations. Keep your eyes and ears open.’ He was trying to be encouraging.
‘Sure,’ she tried to sound upbeat. ‘Something’ll turn up.’
After the phone call, Freddie lay looking at the nicotine-stained ceiling. Replaying Neil’s words over in her head. You’ve just got to seize the story. If she called her mum she’d only have to fend off her soft pleading to give up this ‘London madness’ and return to Pendrick, the commuter market town she’d left behind. Her mum didn’t understand she wanted to do more than try for a job at Pendrick’s local council. She wanted to make a difference. Bear witness. Maybe one day be a war correspondent. She sighed. It was half past four and already getting dark. The night was winning the fight.
20:05
Friday 30 October
No tattoos or unnatural piercings are to be visible. Freddie rolled the sleeves of her black shirt up, stopping just below the feet of her Jane and the Dragon tattoo. Partners are free to wear any black collared shirt and pants they choose, with many proud employees purchasing those bearing Espress-oh’s logo from the company store. She tucked the ends of her H&M shirt into her trousers. All partners are supplied with Espress-oh’s world-famous apron and hat to wear with pride. Freddie tightened the yellow apron strings round her waist. As if dealing with douches who wanted extra caramel syrup wasn’t enough, they made you dress like a freaking banana.
‘Turn that frown upside down!’ Dan, the manager of Espress-oh’s St Pancras branch, appeared in the hallway they called the staffroom. His fake-tanned skin an alarming orange next to his yellow Espress-oh’s uniform. He resembled a Picasso fruit bowl.
Freddie punched down the overstuffed bin bags that were shoved under the tiny kitchen surface. Ten Signs You Hate Your Boss (mental note: look for amusing gifs to accompany pitch). She lifted the bag she knew contained the expired best-before-date produce. ‘Bin’s full, Dan,’ she said. ‘I’ll just pop this one in the wheelie outside.’
‘Quick, quick, customers to bring joy to,’ Dan said without looking up from his stocktake clipboard.
All Espress-oh’s food waste is to be incinerated. Clutching the bag, Freddie left through the staff-only station exit and stood in the underground area that housed the bins and a healthy population of rats. She let her eyes adapt to the dim light and whistled. There was slight movement from the far corner. ‘Kath, that you?’ she called.
An elderly woman in the remains of a tattered skirt and layered jumpers, her hair matted and grey down her shoulders, edged into the light. She smiled a yellowing grin at Freddie. ‘Nice evening for it.’
‘Bit colder than when we met in July, hey? Do you remember?’ Kathy was getting increasingly confused, and Freddie had read with senility cases it was important to reiterate reality.
‘Course I do,’ said Kathy. ‘Me and Pat asked for one of your cigarettes.’
‘That’s right,’ said Freddie. ‘I was on my break. And what did you tell me about the old days?’ She glanced over her shoulder to check no one was following her out.
‘Oh! All the fun we used to have! The girls and I. This was our patch,’ Kathy smiled.
‘That’s right’ said Freddie. Until the regeneration tidied up the safe spots where you and the other ex-sex workers slept rough, and turned them into crowdfunded hipster coffee shops. She couldn’t write about Kath and the others and risk alerting the private security guards to their whereabouts, but she could recycle food that was destined for the bin. ‘Here you go.’ She held the bag out. There was a nasty cut on Kathy’s hand. ‘What’s that?’
‘Just some drunk kids. They took my sleeping bag.’ Kathy rooted through the packets. ‘Any of those funny cheese and grape ones today? They’re my favourites.’
‘Did