In Pieces (11 page)

Sir Lesley tried to smile but was only able to produce a grimace. He was beyond embarrassment. Inside he was boiling. Wait till I get hold of McCormack, he fumed.

‘Shall we take some coffee in the drawing room? Alison, why don't you lead the way? Through the door to the right…' Alison threw him a mocking glance and glided out of the dining room. As
everyone apart from Carla knew, she didn't need directions. She had spent enough time here in the past to know her way around. Her eyes twinkled as she recalled a certain incident on the dining room table which would certainly have surprised tonight's guests if they'd known. But the real source of her amusement was the way that chit of a girl had torn a strip off Lesley.

As he gave his arm to Carla and felt the limp touch of her hand, Sir Lesley realised with a surge of irrational anger that the dinner party had failed to advance his amorous plans.

~

‘What the hell do you think you're doing?'

‘What? How do you mean?' Dougy was confused. He had no idea what Sir Lesley was on about.

‘Don't muck me around, McCormack. I employed you to produce a paper, not to offend people. You realise that, don't you?'

‘Yes, of course, Sir Lesley. But if you don't mind me asking…'

‘I do mind. I mind very much. In fact I mind immensely. Next time you decide to attack respectable members of the Jewish community, you think again. Okay?'

‘Uh…'

‘Do you hear me?'

‘Yes, Sir Lesley.'

‘Good. Good.' Having vented his spleen and frustration, the newspaper magnate calmed down somewhat. ‘Okay, well, we'll say no more about it, this time…' He let the threat hang as he pressed the button and cut the line.

Dougy got up and breathed deeply. What the heck had that all been about? He stood in front of the big windows and looked out across Docklands. He loved this view. To him it symbolised the new Britain. Power, glass, money and water, glamorously combined. But even the view couldn't cheer him at this moment. He tried to work out what had upset his boss. Finally, he slapped the glass.

‘Damn. It was the bloody Diary.' He walked over and opened the door. ‘Martha, get me Simpson up here now. Like pronto. Okay?' Martha returned a scared look as Dougy slammed the door.

~

‘But I thought that was what you wanted.'

‘Well, I don't want it any more. Okay? I don't pay you to think. I pay you to get it right. Understand?'

‘Yes.' Si looked glum.

‘I brought you here because I thought you had potential. Don't blow it, okay? Don't blow it.'

Si just nodded and hoped he would be allowed to leave the room soon. The story had been routine, part of the series on religion and education. He'd done nothing out of the ordinary. Just phoned up Rabbi Schultz and pretended to be a lapsed Jew wanting advice on dietary rules. She'd been sweet and helpful and the piece he'd written had presented her far more sympathetically than had initially been his intention. And now this. Dougy bollocking him for no apparent reason. Si couldn't make it out. But he'd realised at an early stage in the interview that it was prudent to remain silent and not to attempt a defence. Hopefully Dougy would calm down and forget about the whole thing in a day or two.

‘And I've been thinking,' said Dougy, as if moving on to an unrelated subject. ‘I think we've probably done enough on the religious education stories. For the time being anyway. So drop it now, okay?'

‘Sure. Of course.'

‘Good. Now, just to be on the safe side, I want you to show me the Diary page from now on before it goes to bed, okay? I don't want any more cock-ups. All right? All right?'

Si groaned inwardly. One of the things he'd enjoyed most about his job was the semi-autonomy he'd had to decide what went into the Diary. It now looked as though Dougy was removing this authority and relegating him to an Assistant Diary Editor role. At least for the time being.

‘Yeah. Of course.' Si looked up as Dougy's eyes bored into him like lasers. He looked away and started to move towards the door.

As he went out he passed Martha. She glanced up quickly before looking nervously past him into Dougy's office. Si thought he could see the faint stain of tears on her powdered cheeks. He managed a weak smile and raised his eyebrows. He sympathised—what a nightmare to work so closely with the irascible editor. At least he could now bolt back to his own relatively safe corner of the office. Martha was exposed to Dougy the whole working day. Her gaze flickered back onto Si as he passed. But she didn't return his smile.

~

Si knew he should stop going to parties. He simply didn't enjoy them any more. Even less since Jimmy had moved away. He'd come to this one with some acquaintances from work and, although he told himself it was history and a waste of emotions, he couldn't help remembering the last such party he'd been at where he'd met Roberta. He missed her.

‘God, I'm bored.' A girl standing next to him brushed back a loose strand of blond hair and leaned back against the wall. All around the party continued unabated. ‘All these ghastly people. Have you seen our host?'

‘No, can't say I have.'

‘Well, I wouldn't bother going looking for him. When I came in he was standing right here and I thought it right to say hello, especially since I didn't know him.'

‘So how did you get here, then?'

‘Oh, I came with some friends, but they've disappeared now. Anyway, I went up and thanked him for his hospitality and do you know what he said?'

‘Uh, no.'

‘He said, “Hey babe, no big deal. You just go on in there and have fun. There's lots of coke and some serious meat to get your teeth into…” I mean! What way is that to welcome somebody, especially someone you don't know?'

Si sucked on his beer and tried to assess this talkative girl. She was attractive, and dressed conventionally with an Alice band and a stripy shirt far too big for her worn over a short black skirt. Court shoes and navy tights confirmed the look. Normally such women bored him silly, but this one had something about her. A mesmerising vitality and, despite the superficial appearance, a malevolent sparkle in her cornflower eyes that spoke of sharp intelligence.

‘So why are you bored? All that coke and… How did you put it? Serious meat? Not very lady-like expressions, are they?'

‘Don't patronise me. He said it, not me. I would
never
use such terms normally. If you're going to be boring I'll go and find someone more interesting to talk to.'

‘No, don't get like that. I was only trying to make conversation. I'm sorry.' Si changed tack. ‘Look, I'm Si, what's you're name?'

‘Mary, Mary Cunningham,' and she stuck out her hand expectantly.

Si took it and completed the formal greeting. ‘So, what do you do, Mary Cunningham?'

She narrowed her eyes but didn't turn away. ‘I work in the City. Emerging markets.'

‘Oh.'

‘You seem surprised. I'm not as stupid as I look, you know.'

Si blushed. ‘I never thought you were. Stupid, I mean.'

‘Sure. Anyway, what do you do for a living? Fly aeroplanes?'

‘No, actually I don't. I'm a journalist.'

‘God, how boring. Journalists are all so egotistical.'

‘Well, not all of us. But listen, why did you think I flew planes?'

‘Oh, because you've clearly got your head in the clouds.' Mary Cunningham burst out laughing. The sound made Si think of a childhood summer holiday in the Highlands. Before he'd become aware of his mother's idiosyncrasies. Partly because of the memory and partly because he found Mary's laugh compulsive, he joined in.

‘Shall we find somewhere to sit? I'm knackered.'

‘What, not leaving after all?'

‘No, not yet.' And leading Mary by the arm, clutching the dregs of his beer in his other hand, he pushed through the crowd towards an empty overstuffed sofa.

~

Roger Gittings, the bumbling Minister for Youth and Sport, seems well suited to his job. Despite being follicly challenged, the Minister takes both of his portfolios seriously. At a recent charity event he was introduced to the lovely Mavis Davis, Olympic hopeful and renowned celebrity. Miss Davis' muscular charms were not lost on the Minister, who is said by a friend to be undergoing a rigorous training routine under Miss Davis' strict supervision. No doubt he hopes to recapture his fading youth. Let us hope his wife and the Whips don't take exception to his extracurricular exercises
.

Si stopped reading. Not bad, but a bit long. Also a bit too smutty. It wasn't easy to get the balance right between suggestive humour and tawdry lewdness. Bill had taken the Saturday night TV comic approach, but with a bit of polishing it would be all right. A distinct improvement on the series of bizarre pieces Bill had produced in their first few weeks of working together: Si hadn't been able to figure out why his assistant thought that stories about Leonardo di Caprio and Judy Garland were so interesting. Naturally, he'd not published any of them, although he'd realised how upset Bill had been at the time. Si looked up as Bill came into the office and started when he saw that his colleague had shaved off most of his hair and died the remnants white. Si looked away quickly and decided to act as if nothing had changed.

‘I hate Monday mornings. D'you want a coffee, Si?'

‘Yeah, love one. Your story's okay, Bill. I want to tweak it a bit but we'll put it in today.'

Bill beamed. He recognised that as his hit-rate of pieces published since Si took over as editor had been low, he needed to adapt his approach; otherwise, his brief career at
The Courier
would come to a premature end. And the chances of landing another job elsewhere were slim as the dust had now settled since the turbulence and upheaval of the late autumn.

Si's arrival had been greeted with the same apprehension felt on all the papers as new staff took over key positions, particularly as he'd been handpicked by the new editor and given an unusual degree of control over the Diary. Bill, unaware of the consequences of Carla Melli's intervention, thought that Si still had considerable autonomy to decide what went into the page.

Despite early misgivings, Bill's confidence was gradually growing both in and out of the office and he now thought that he would be able to work happily for Si after all. Perhaps he did have a future in journalism. Returning to Scotland so soon after arriving in London would have been a terrible humiliation. He could imagine his mates laughing in the pub over their pints of Heavy. His school friends who'd never tried anything, who were going the same way as their dads, who had zero prospects, and whose brains were shrinking in their skulls with each passing numbing day of
monotony… No, Bill wouldn't be going back there. And after years of confusion he was finally beginning to face up to the inevitable, although God alone knew how he'd tell his parents. He couldn't even pluck up the courage to talk frankly to his new mates at
The Courier
. Bill's daydreaming returned to the Diary: if Si liked this story, then he could repeat the approach and, surely, his hit rate would steadily improve. Maybe he would even take over the Diary when Si moved on, although that could be years away. Nevertheless, Bill had patient ambition.

‘Hey, Bill? What about that coffee? You're miles away.'

‘Oh yeah, sorry, Si. Coming right up.' That served him right for getting carried away in his daydreams.

Bill returned with the coffee.

‘Thanks. Did you put sugar in it?'

Bill nodded.

‘Great. Right, about this story. I think we need to cut this out and bring this bit up front more. Yeah? And then let's try to put in a quote from Mavis.'

‘Mavis refused to comment.'

‘Well, let's say that then. Ms Davis declined to comment on her relationship with Mr Gittings. D'you see? Good.'

‘We could always try her mum?'

‘What?'

‘Mavis' mum. She might give us something?'

Ms Davis senior was a renowned self-publicist who had no scruples about using her daughter to achieve column inches. ‘Yeah, why not? Good idea. Okay, you get on to Mavis' mum and we'll take it from there.' Si was pleased. Bill was brighter than he'd thought. Perhaps he'd been a bit hard on the kid at the beginning. With a bit of time they could make a good team. ‘And Bill…'

‘Yeah?'

‘Like the hair.'

Bill grinned sheepishly and went off to find a telephone number for Mavis' mum. Si looked at the next story someone had put in his tray. He was soon interrupted by the phone ringing.

~

‘I've never seen it like this before.'

‘No, me neither. Spooky, don't you think?' The stillness of central London was broken by the distant wail of a police siren. Si shuddered and hoped Mary hadn't noticed.

‘Do you think this'll just carry on? Like before, I mean? It's so depressing to think that everything's back to square one as if nothing happened.'

‘I don't know.' Si and Mary walked on in silence. Their steps echoed down Haymarket. A few other pedestrians walked in the same direction.

‘Sorry sir, you can't go down there. It's still being searched for evidence.'

‘Oh. I wanted to get to Embankment. How can I do it?'

‘Well, it won't be easy. It's all shut off round Charing Cross.'

The bomb scare suggested that the cease-fire might be about to end. The streets were strangely silent, cleared of all traffic to allow the police to approach a phone box in which a bomb was said to be hidden.

A new tension mingled with the smog in the damp air. Or rather an old, unspoken terror which had evaporated in the last few months of cease-fire. It was almost as if those intervening months had never happened. If the cease-fire collapsed, then the peaceful interregnum would be quickly forgotten.