Bottom line: what I did is illegal. I struggle to remember my long-ago training in journalism law. I think it goes, you’re allowed to look at the top page of a document left near you, but turn the pages to look inside and it constitutes trespass. Picking up a phone and opening a text would certainly qualify, should Natalie want to sue. Loads of reporters have crossed similar lines, I know some of them have pocketed photos. The difference is being caught doing it. Ken Baggaley would have no qualms about hanging me out to dry, I’m sure, as punishment for the real crime of giving the story away.
Blurry with rage, I call Zoe, punching at her number in my address book, marching up and down as I wait for it to connect. This number is no longer in service. I recall she kept saying she was going to change it after the personal advert hassle, but hadn’t got round to it – what fortunate timing to get organised this weekend.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I scroll through the numbers on my phone and call Simon.
‘Yes?’ he says. He sounds haughty and inscrutable, but then Simon generally does. He’s with someone, perhaps.
‘Simon, you need to see the Mail, the stuff about Natalie. I promise you that I had nothing to do with it—’
‘I’ve seen it.’
‘You have?’ Oh dear God, thank you, he’s seen it and it sounds like he’s not lost it. ‘Simon, I—’
‘I’ve talked about work enough this weekend. Meet me in St Ann’s Square, one p.m. tomorrow.’
‘Sure, I’ll be there.’
I hear the beep-beep-beep that indicates he’s rung off. Definitely with someone from work, that’s why he was so abrupt. I hope.
After some more pacing, hair-pulling and cursing, I call Caroline, which results in an unsatisfactory conversation taking place, at her end, on a golf course with Graeme’s parents. It might be distraction due to the game, but she doesn’t seem to understand why this makes me look – and feel – so bad.
‘If nobody can prove you told Zoe about it, then it’s on her, surely?’
‘They suspect I did.’
‘They can suspect all they want, Rach, they need proof and if you tough it out you’ll survive, I’m sure.’
‘What if I they already know and they’re testing me to see if I own up?’
‘Then you’re screwed either way, so still say nothing.’
‘I suppose.’ This thought isn’t remotely comforting.
I hear Graeme in the background, calling ‘Cee, hurry up, we’re turning to stone here.’
‘I’ve got to go,’ she says. ‘Have you spoken to Simon?’
‘For about three seconds. He wants to meet up tomorrow to talk about it.’
‘Yes, alright Gray – I’ve got to go. Let me know how it goes with your boss.’
When my phone rings an hour later, I practically sprout wings and flap across the room to answer it, hoping Ben’s going to give me the inside track on what’s gone on. It’s Rhys. For the first time since I left, the thought of him provokes annoyance rather than guilt. I haven’t got the strength to be made to feel bad about anything else right now. I’m guessing this is more logistics and unfinished house clearance.
‘Hi. What’s up?’
‘I wanted to talk to you,’ Rhys says.
‘OK, if it’s a kicking, I should warn you you’re going to have to take a ticket and wait till your number’s called.’
‘Jeez, what’s up with you? You sound like you’re on the brink.’
‘I am.’
A pause while Rhys sounds like he’s weighing things up. When he speaks again, his tone is the most conciliatory I’ve heard in a long time. ‘Actually, I was ringing to see if you’d be up for going for a drink. I’ve got a gig in town next week, thought we could meet up first. Draw a line under a lot of aggro. Sounds like you’re too busy though.’
‘No,’ I say, weary. ‘No. I’d like to. I’ve got to sort a few work things out. Let me know, OK?’
‘Sure. Er … take care of yourself.’
‘I will. Thanks.’
After our goodbyes I find myself missing Rhys, badly. I miss how he would’ve sworn like a plasterer with a stubbed toe about this, given me a hug and made a crack about how I wouldn’t need their poxy job if I fired out babies instead.
He sounded different. Less angry. That was the first exchange where it seemed like he might want to talk like civilised adults rather than entrenched opponents in a never-ending civil war. I’m happy to hear him sounding happier and I’d like very much to be friends, as much as that’s realistic. Only I feel like a fraud at the arrangement, as ‘some time next week’, when I’ve weathered the storm tomorrow, only exists as some fantasy CS-Lewis-like land right now, where I may have the legs of a magical goat.
50
I attempt to stride purposefully through the early morning buzz of the open-plan office, internally repeating the mantra ‘no one’s bothered, yesterday’s news’. Only ‘yesterday’s news’ doesn’t count when it broke on a Sunday and today is Monday, the first opportunity to discuss it, and it’s this juicy.
Everyone looks over, and I could swear an expectant hush falls as I approach Ken, who’s busy hectoring a colleague on news desk. I stand and wait, before Vicky nods her head at me and he turns, fixing me with a cockatrice stare.
He heaves himself out of the swivel chair and stalks over to his office as I slope behind him, feeling multiple pairs of eyes bore into my back as I go.
‘Shut the door,’ he says, dropping into the chair behind his desk. I push it closed and stay standing.
‘I’m going to allow for having caught you on the hop yesterday. Today, I’d like the truth.’
I open my mouth to reply, and Ken cuts me off: ‘And I strongly advise you think before you speak, if you don’t want to see out your journalistic career spellchecking the letters page of Oxfordshire’s Banbury Cake.’
I teeter on a ledge. On the edge of a ledge. Caroline’s words about holding fast ring in my ears. I lick dry lips.
‘Natalie Shale never discussed any affair with me when I interviewed her. The name of that solicitor never even came up and he wasn’t my contact. Zoe’s worked off her own back and messed my story up. That’s all I know and I can’t defend or explain something I knew nothing about, even if it looks dodgy because Zoe and I worked together and I interviewed Natalie.’
I expect Ken to start screaming and shouting. Instead he simply nods.
‘That’s no more than I expected, unfortunately.’
‘It’s the truth.’
‘Is it?’
‘Yes.’
‘All right, let me give you some home truths. There are two reasons you’ve still got a job, Rachel Woodford. One, I can’t sack you without proof you’re lying. Believe me, I’ve looked into it, because I can’t stand liars, or reporters who don’t have any loyalty to their paper, and you qualify on both fronts from what I can tell. Should I get any proof, things will change. Two, I haven’t got anyone to stick in court in your place. For now. In the meantime, you