How. Zoe May
of breaking the story surges through him. I know that feeling. It’s the feeling I chased when I went into journalism; the rush of breaking a story is one of best natural highs. The eagerness to be first, to beat the competition, and deliver your story straight to the public. It’s thrilling. It happened to me a few weeks ago when I published a piece on a gritty political investigation I’d spent weeks working on.
‘Right, that’ll do,’ Phil says, scanning Matt’s article one last time. ‘Now put it on the site. Just one image. No links. You can add them later.’
Matt nods, his brow glistening with sweat, as he starts pasting the article into the content management system.
‘Right.’ Phil turns his attention back to me, frowning with irritation. ‘Come on, let’s discuss this situation in the boardroom,’ he sighs, before getting up and striding across the office, not even bothering to look over his shoulder to see if I’m following.
But of course, I am. I hurry after him, struggling to keep up in my pointy heels. I try not to stumble as we cross the newsroom.
Finally, Phil pushes open the door to the boardroom and I manage to grasp it, just before it slams shut in my face.
I push it open and take a seat at the huge mahogany table. Phil is already sitting in one of the plush high-backed seats, leaning back and watching me gather myself. Unlike the newsroom, which is a clutter of Mac computers, stacks of old papers, abandoned press releases and gimmicky products sent in by companies desperate for coverage – from novelty baseball caps to pizza boxes left over from when a high street chain sent us samples of their latest vegan range – the boardroom is slick and minimalistic. It’s where the editors meet advertisers, lawyers and senior executives, it’s where the mechanics of the paper are determined and its vibe is way more serious than the chaos outside. It’s flooded with crisp natural light, unlike the artificial glare of the strip lights in the newsroom, and has tall windows overlooking city office blocks reflecting the crisp morning sunlight off their shining glass exteriors.
‘So, what’s this all about then?’ Phil asks, looking unimpressed.
‘You tell me,’ I retort, crossing my legs.
‘I need someone to cover the royal wedding and you know your stuff, so I chose you. Simple.’
I raise an eyebrow. ‘But why me, Phil? Why didn’t you line someone else up? There are plenty of other people you could have chosen who also know their stuff. What about Jessica? She’d kill for this gig. Give it to her.’
Aside from Ella, Jessica is the office’s resident Royal Family fanatic. She’s obsessed, to the point that she drinks her tea from a Royal Coronation mug and her boyfriend proposed with a replica of Princess Diana’s engagement ring. Technically, she’s an editorial assistant, which means she spends most of her time fact checking, dealing with PRs and handling day-to-day office admin, but I’m sure she could step up to the plate if she were given the chance.
‘Jessica?!’ Phil frowns. ‘We both know she’s not ready for this. You, on the other hand, are.’
Phil fixes me with one of his intense looks – a serious, penetrating gaze that cuts right to my core as though he’s recognizing my talent. It’s one of the looks he used to give me sometimes when I’d done a particularly good piece of work that would drown out the chaos of the newsroom and make me feel like I was important, smart and going places. It’s a look I cherished. But now, that look feels all wrong.
I uncross and recross my legs, looking down at the table.
‘The problem is...' I gulp, hating everything about this moment. I’m meant to be a tough go-getting journalist. Vulnerability is not something that comes naturally.
‘The problem is I don’t think I am up to it,’ I admit in a small voice, dragging my eyes up to meet Phil’s.
His brow is furrowed. ‘You are, Sam. I have every faith in you. It’s a big story but you’re more than capable. You’ve been working for me for years, I know you can do this.’
‘It’s not the work side of it,’ I sigh. ‘It’s the...'
Phil leans a little closer, resting his forearms on the table. ‘It’s the…?’ He nods encouragingly.
‘It’s the wedding aspect of it all,’ I admit, shuddering at the thought of writing wedding stories day in day out.
It’s been three years since my car crash of a wedding day, and even now, I’ll still cross the road to avoid walking past bridal boutiques. Every time a wedding show comes on TV, you can guarantee I’ll be changing the channel quicker than you can say ‘divorce’. I have no time for weddings. Not only was my wedding day the worst day of my life, but I no longer see the point of weddings in general. You see, my fiancé Ajay was my dream guy. If I had to write down a list of all the qualities my perfect guy would have, Ajay had them all, and then some. He was clever, handsome, charming, funny, well dressed, cool and successful. He was kind and sweet too, or at least I thought so, before he ditched me overnight for Candy and left me questioning everything, from my own self-worth to my belief in love. After all, if Ajay had ever loved me, how could he have mercilessly stood me up like that, in front of all my friends and family? He could have at least had the decency to end things beforehand, not via a stream of cowardly text messages sent while I was on my way to the church decked out in my wedding regalia. If it wasn’t for my best friends picking up the pieces and supporting me back then, I don’t know where I’d be.
A few weeks after my wedding day, which we ended up referring to as ‘The Day That Shall Not Be Named’, we went to a pawnbroker in town, sold the ring (which fetched a surprisingly decent amount for a guy who didn’t really love me) and used the money to go on a girls’ holiday to Spain, where we lay in the sun, drank cocktails and spent an extremely therapeutic week bitching about men, whilst simultaneously checking out hot Spanish waiters. I came back to London, still a little bruised, but I got back on my feet. I cracked on with work and I moved in with my best friend Collette. Things picked up, but the experience did mark a turning point in my life. Until then, I’d always wanted to settle down, but after The Day That Shall Not Be Named, I decided that other things were more important, like careers, like having your own home and being independent. Men come and go, but your career and your achievements, they stick by you. For example, I was shortlisted for an Investigative Reporter of the Year award at the National Press Agency Awards last year and the year before. Being on that shortlist and knowing I’d worked really hard to get there was far more fulfilling than any date I’ve been on recently. Not that I’ve been on many.
‘Come on, Sam. Think of it as a scoop,’ Phil advises.
I sigh. ‘I already have plenty of scoops. If it’s just a scoop, then give it to someone else.’
‘I don’t want to give it to someone else,’ Phil insists. ‘I want to give it to you.’
‘But why me?’ I whine. ‘You know how I feel about this.’
Now it’s my turn to give Phil one of those pointed looks, reminding him what the fallout from my wedding was actually like. There was one afternoon shortly after The Day That Shall Not Be Named, when I burst into tears at work, and to lift my spirits, Phil invited me for dinner at his place with his lovely wife Jill, who cooked up a huge meal with three courses: home-made bean soup, spaghetti Bolognese and apple pie with ice cream, served with red wine and a heart-to-heart. Phil saw into my world that day and I got a glimpse into his: his home life was so far removed from what I’d expected based on his no-nonsense exterior. His house was a small but cosy book-lined terrace with Persian rugs spread over ratty old carpets, rooms shimmering with Indian wall-hangings and a musty clothes horse sagging with laundry in the hall. A shaggy dog called Bruce bounced around and Phil’s bookish daughters hugged him so tight when he got home from work that his eyes sparkled. It was that day I realised that, despite his bravado, Phil is a really good egg and essentially, he’s on my side. Sometimes, even in the midst of the tersest work conversation, I’ll catch a whiff of his musty-smelling shirt and I’ll be sent right back to that evening, and the clothes horse, and I’ll