Her new commission, it seemed, would take her back to her own doorstep. At last, she was going to meet one of her mysteriously quiet and unobtrusive neighbours.
Chapter Four
‘Tis best to weigh the enemy more mighty than he seems’
(Henry V)
There was a buzz in theEdinburgh Broadsheetoffice, not because it was almost the weekend – most of the junior staff would end up working over the weekend so it was no kind of break really – but because Friday was bacon roll day and they were due to arrive in half an hour, all floury bread and smoky, salty, ketchupy deliciousness, to be devoured greedily over today’s copy.
Reporters, Mirren had learned long ago, lived for this kind of pick-me-up in their busy working lives. Mr Angus, the paper’s Editor in Chief, and Mirren’s boss, would eat his later at his desk, as he signed off the upcoming feature allocations before leaving early for a weekend on the golf course at St Andrews. Mirren could tell this was on his mind as he tried to hurry along the Friday meeting, shuffling the agenda papers in his hand.
‘Any other business? Oh yes. Rae’s off on leave, so I’ve got a double-pager for one of you. Who wants it?’ He surveyed the assembled reporters around the table.
‘A feature?I’lltake it.’ Mirren said, having forced her mouthful of coffee down in the race to beat Jamesey, her nemesis in the news pool, to the claim.
Both Jamesey and Mr Angus responded with pointedly blank stares at her audacity.
‘No need to bite my hand off, Mirren. Do you think you’re up to feature-writing? Aren’t you better off sticking with your magistrates’ court reports?’ said the boss.
‘I’m sure I’m up to it, and you’ve promised me a crack at writing a feature more times than I can count. So,umm, what’s it about?’ She was struck with a sudden panic that in her haste she’d pushed herself forwards to write her first ever feature on one of Jamesey’s specialist subjects. He was the go-to staffer for motoring stories, technology, and consumer rights stuff.
Mr Angus exhaled through flaring nostrils, not with anger but with something that looked like impatience. ‘I want the low-down on the theatre season across the country for the first November weekend supplement women’s pages. Theatre mini-breaks, where to see the stars of the stage this winter, who’s wheeling out their Widow Twankey for the twentieth year running, that sort of thing. But remember to…’
‘Put a kilt on it,’ pre-empted everyone around the table in an obedient chorus, Jamesey’s voice booming louder than the others.
This was well rehearsed. Every Friday pitch meeting saw this scene repeated at least once.Put a kilt on it: the newsroom’s mantra. It meant making sure there was a Scottish slant to every piece.
Mirren tried not to wriggle in her seat. The conversation that would take place over the next few minutes felt suddenly vital to her future here at the newspaper. She’d never had the chance at feature-writing before, though in every appraisal meeting she’d ever had she’d explained her ambitions of moving out of courtroom reporting to writing weekend features.
She gripped the arms of the chair and gulped down her nerves. Could she get a by-line over a weekend feature, or would she lose out to Jamesey again, a humiliating, maddening occurrence she was well used to by now?
Mirren glanced at Jamesey across the overly large oval desk which had the kind of frustratingly outsized proportions that meant if the meeting’s pastries were placed at its centre, which they usually were, no one could actually reach for one. Mirren had sat through many a meeting as her stomach growled audibly, prompting Jamesey to throw her a smirk over the vast wasteland of mahogany and leather.
It was all right for him. She’d heard him boasting proudly that his wife made him porridge with maple syrup every morning and sent him off to work with a packed lunch every day. God knows how, but he’d managed to convince some poor, confused woman into catering to his every whim. Mirren shuddered at the thought. It sharpened her mind and her focus returned.
‘Pitch me, then,’ said Mr Angus.
Mirren jumped in first, even though she could hear Jamesey’s, ‘Well, actually…’ from across the table.
‘I’d look at festive staycations across the UK, places where you can combine a stay in a nice B&B or a boutique hotel with a Christmassy evening show, or a matinee.’ A little flash of inspiration hit her. ‘Like Stratford-upon-Avon, for instance, where you can mix Christmas shopping with a bit of culture and a champagne cream tea. Our readers will like that.’
Mr Angus turned his head to Jamesey, eyebrows raised in expectation.
‘You were saying, Jamesey?’
Mirren watched as the disgruntled flash of anger that had seconds before lit her colleague’s face was hastily wiped away under their boss’s gaze.
‘Hmm, I like your thinking, Maureen,’ Jamesey began, and no one round the table, including Mirren, dared to point out he’d got her name wrong, again. He was still talking anyway. ‘But I’m not sure about the overallthrustof the piece. Who’s got money for expensive Christmas trips in the current climate?’ A smiling shake of his head accompanied this final, fatal blow as Mirren’s idea was dismissed. Jamesey turned to Mr Angus. ‘No, I’d give you the low-down on all thelocalshows happening across Scotland, low budget stuff, as well as listing what the big regional theatres are offering.’
Mr Angus was already nodding his approval, so Jamesey carried on, eyes glinting now.
‘I’ll interview a few local heroes, the blokes who make am-dram productions happen in venues all across the country every year without fail. I might go in search of an island community’s Crimbo production, Orkney or some backwater, get pictures of the rehearsals, mad artsy types in the bottom half of a donkey costume, that kind of thing.’
A ripple of laughter went round the table, and Mirren found herself forcing a smile. She’d learned long ago not to court the disapproval of Mr Angus, who inexplicably seemed to like Jamesey Wallace. Actually, it wasn’t that inexplicable, Mirren reminded herself. They’d both gone to the same school, albeit two decades apart, and they were in the same golf club, so they had a lot in common, a priceless connection that she couldn’t ever hope to replicate.
She looked around the table at the other women present, all graduates from different universities across the globe. What united them? Right at this second, a combined adoration for Jamesey Wallace seemed to unite them, judging by the tipped heads and smiles as they listened.These are smart women,Mirren raged internally.They ought to know better than lust after the vile slime that is Jamesey Wallace.Then again, she’d seen no evidence that Jamesey was in direct competition with any ofthem, in fact, he was as affable to them as he was with everyone else. Jamesey reserved his vitriol for only one person: Mirren.
Mirren and Jamesey’s dislike for one another had been born at their very first meeting when they were both applying for the same job as the paper’s magistrate court reporter, five years ago now.
