‘Some men tend only to hire men, not all men.’
‘All right,’ Mirren conceded.
‘You should try for a job at theChronic. Editor’s a woman there, isn’t she? And she hires women all the time. Place is overrun with them.’
The little sneer, barely suppressed, on his thin white lips, said it all. Mirren didn’t need to ask why he was looking for another job; some run-in with the lady-boss or one of his female colleagues most likely had him desperate for work in the industry, any work.Has he been booted out or is he pre-emptively searching for work in a more male dominated environment?Wonder what it was, she thought. Could she put out some feelers? She knew people who worked at theChronicle, getting the goss would be easy enough. If there was one thing reporters were good at, it was spreading word fast. Jamesey interrupted her thoughts.
‘You’re more likely to get this job than I am, so don’t worry about it.’
Mirren knew this wasn’t coming from a place of consolation or encouragement. It was competitiveness and grievance, and she couldn’t understand it. They’d only just met. Why the animosity?
The door opened. ‘Ms Imrie? Mr Angus is ready for you,’ said the woman from HR. Mirren, not entirely sure why, quickly wiped her red lipstick off with a tissue before stepping inside, smiling, hopeful that she’d at least have the upper hand over this bitter hack from theChronicalwith a sudden shady departure from the newsroom to explain away. That wasn’t likely to go down well at the stoic, strait-laced and (dare she admit it?) dour,Broadsheet. Its reputation was as solid and impressive as the great grey building it inhabited on Princes Street with Edinburgh Castle looming over its hunched grey shoulders. The paper’s reputation was timeworn and weathered, having survived for a century in increasingly competitive markets, but it was trusted and true, a Scottish institution. They weren’t likely to hire some dodgy bloke (possibly) fresh from a workplace scandal, were they?
‘Wonderful, we’ll look forward to seeing you back here first thing on Monday morning.’
Mr Angus was pumping James Wallace’s hand warmly as he showed him from his office, and James had been sure to flash a quick smile at Mirren sitting on the chair by the door as he’d said, ‘Please, Mr Angus, call me Jamesey.’
They’d asked Mirren to stick around after her interview, which hadn’t gone quite as well as she’d hoped. All her answers had been greeted by cool silence and the thrust-out chin of a frowning Mr Angus. In the years since, she’d come to learn this was his ‘thinking face’ but in the interview it had been utterly disconcerting and she’d found herself rambling on, piling on evidence of her skills and experience at the local rag, hoping to get at least one nod of approval from any of the grey-haired men around the table. Only the nice HR woman, Mandy, had smiled enthusiastically as she’d taken her notes, and Mirren increasingly found herself addressing her answers to her, hoping she might have a say in the hiring after all.
Mr Angus was showing Jamesey towards the newsroom.A private tour for the new hiring? Great!Mirren wanted to slump in the chair in defeat, but Mandy smiled from the door and invited her inside the room again.
Mirren followed her and took the hot seat once more. A dry, tweedy smell now hung in the air with Jamesey’s aftershave, and… were those whisky glasses on the table?
Mirren looked down at her hands clasped on her lap over the closed notebook. Well, they weren’t going to offerhera dram, but at least she might get some feedback about why she hadn’t been hired and what she could improve on for next time. Every cloud.
‘Mr Wallace has accepted the role of principal court reporter,’ Mandy said gently, before adding, ‘but Mr McManus wanted to have a word with you.’
So much for Jamesey Wallace’s cosmetics theory,Mirren thought, but she looked up at the deputy editor, suddenly hopeful.
Mr McManus had been quiet throughout the interview, but now his eyes crinkled into a smile, and Mirren wondered why he hadn’t shown this kindness earlier when she’d been struggling in the face of the four fusty journos.
‘We’d like to offer you a junior position, supporting Mr Wallace. You’ll go to the courts when there are parallel magistrates sitting; you’ll cover the minor cases. Would that be of interest?’
After years at her local paper and dreaming of writing for a bigger one she wasn’t about to turn the offer down. But as she accepted and shook hands over the table, she couldn’t get Jamesey Wallace’s triumphant smile out of her mind.
Mirren tried to block the infuriating memory now as she looked across the pitch meeting table at Jamesey, smiling that same old smile, the cat that always got the cream.
‘Hmm, let’s see,’ Mr Angus was mumbling, his chin thrust out a little more than usual, meaning he really was weighing up the two ideas; Jamesey’s and Mirren’s. Mirren sat bolt upright in her chair. This really could be her chance. ‘Another impressive pitch, thank you, Mr Wallace. But, you’ve got the “Techy Christmas Gifts for the Discerning Man in Your Life” feature to research for the mid-November women’s pages. And, don’t forget we’ve got the autumn tournament at the club next weekend.’
Mirren felt her heartrate pick up and her cheeks redden as Mr Angus turned to her. ‘You take the feature. Show us what you’re made of. Two thousand words, mind? Centre spread. In my inbox by next Friday. And don’t let it interfere with your court duties, you hear?’
‘I won’t. Thank you, Mr Angus.’ No matter how demeaning his mode of delivery, basking in the light of her boss’s preferment felt wonderful.
Mr Angus’s eyes lit up at the sight of the delivery woman from the deli down the road arriving with the rolls, and he quickly called the meeting to a close and shuffled out the door of the glass meeting room.
Mirren didn’t look at him as she gathered her belongings ready to leave, but she could feel the burning glare of Jamesey Wallace as he smouldered in defeat across the table. She hid her smiles until she was out of his sight.
Chapter Five
‘Be blithe again, and bury all thy fear in my devices’
(Titus Andronicus)
Kelsey knew the downstairs flats in her towering Victorian redbrick were accessed by doors leading off from the cool and spacious tiled hallway with its scent of lavender and beeswax emanating from the polished oak balustrade and the carved wooden owl who, from his perch at the foot of the stairs, had witnessed every visitor passing through Number One, St Ninian’s Close for the last century. What she hadn’t known was who lived in the flats, and it had intrigued her for so long now.
Not once had she seen anyone arrive at or leave the other flats in her building: no Ocado deliveries, no visiting relatives, no one stretching in the tarmacked drive before a morning run, nothing. Shehadseen mail filed neatly in the rack by the door, and its disappearance every day meant someone was collecting it. The only flats which never received any mail whatsoever were those on her own floor up at the top of the building which she believed to be entirely unoccupied. Maybe the rent and their tiny proportions put people off. She really ought to look for another flat, something slightly cheaper and larger than her own little shoe box, flat 2B, but she loved its compact, pristine white simplicity and the fact that she had access to the building’s roof terrace with its wonderful views across Stratford and the wide Avon valley.
She’d pressed the doorbell of Blythe’s flat twice and had no answer when she noticed the faded note taped beside the little peephole.
