‘Is the political stuff competitive?’
‘It’s usually reserved for more senior reporters,’ she admits. But I hear the hesitation in her voice, and then it’s like the banks of a river have broken and she’s blurting out, ‘But it has nothing to do with that, it’s all because of who I am, and the fact he can’t bear to reward me, no matter how hard I work. I’ve tried applying for other papers, but between Kirk and my dad, there are certain major places I feel like I need to avoid, and it doesn’t leave me a lot of options. Besides, I like theStandard, I like the team. I feel more accepted there than I have anywhere else.’
‘Hold up,’ I say, slowing down as we pass a roadside fruit stand with a line of cars parked alongside it. ‘Why wouldn’t he promote you to the job you want? Who are you?’
‘It’s not me, so much as my dad. He’s Randolf James.’
She says it like I’m supposed to know who that is. ‘A politician?’ I hazard a guess.
‘No.’ She sounds kind of relieved. ‘A journalist; a very good, very famous, Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist, whose name is so well known in the industry that everyone just assumes whatever I achieve is because of him. When the truth is, I ran hard and fast from journalism all my life toavoidthose comparisons, only to have wound up here anyway.’ She huffs out another sound of indignation. ‘Sorry. That was kind of an overshare.’ She laughs awkwardly, like she regrets having told me so much, so I reach out and put my hand over hers.
‘That’s our deal, remember? I made you promise I get to interrogate you too.’
I glance at her and see the pink in her cheeks, think how pretty she is, and quickly look back to the road.
‘So what happened, to bring you into journalism?’
‘I had to do something, after … the ballet thing wasn’t going to be viable. Dad convinced me to give it a try.’ She wrinkles her nose. ‘When I was a kid, I used to trail him around constantly. He was a foreign correspondent and travelled a lot, usually covering some kind of war or another. It was very dangerous work, very stressful for my mother, and I guess for him. He was away often, but whenever he was home, he was like my idol, and I was his little star.’ Warm nostalgia softens her voice. ‘He would sit and talk to me for hours about what he’d seen—obviously a verysanitised version of it—and he’d get me to help him write it up. As a kid, it was just me making notes on a notepad, then, when I was older, I’d type at the computer while he talked. But the more he wanted me to pursue journalism, the more I started to fight against it, until I just couldn’t anymore.’
She’s very quiet and I don’t speak, because I feel like she’s reliving something, something she might share with me if I don’t frighten her off.
‘I was in a pretty dark place. I did months of rehab, pushed myself to the point of exhaustion to try to get back to ballet, but I couldn’t, and afterward I kind of fell in a heap. I know they were worried about me. They just wanted me to find something else I could pour my energy into. I only agreed to study journalism because I thought it would get them off my back. I thought it would mean I’d be left in peace to keep grieving my ballet dreams. But I got to college and realised pretty quickly how much I loved what I was doing.’ She pulls a face. ‘They knew best.’
‘Parents have that knack sometimes,’ I say, but wistfully, because I haven’t known the guiding hand of a parent in a long time. And no matter how I try to frame it, to be sympathetic and understanding, I still find it hard to forgive my old man for making me quit riding. I get how much he worried, but it wasn’t his decision to make. My life is my life; no matter how much you love someone, you don’t have a right to tear down their dreams.
Sometimes the best thing you can do when you really care is set a person free. He just couldn’t do it.
‘I thought I’d do college for maybe a year, then drop out, or find something else, or maybe even get back to ballet. Even when the doctors all told me it was impossible. But from the firstassignment I was given, I started to thrive again. You know how you described your brother and what Beth did for him? That’s kind of what journalism did for me.’
‘You’re good at what you do?’
‘Are you asking or telling me?’
I wish I’d read some of her pieces. ‘Asking,’ I admit, sheepishly. ‘I’ve done the exact opposite of the amount of research you’ve done.’
She pulls a face of mock offence. ‘Are you saying you haven’t devoured everything I’ve ever written?’
‘’Fraid not.’
‘I’m wounded, cowboy, wounded,’ she jokes.
‘Send me something,’ I say, seriously.
‘No way.’
‘I’d like to read it. This whole thing was kind of just dropped in my lap, and since you arrived, I’ve been a little … preoccupied.’
‘Is that a complaint?’
‘Hell, no.’ I reach out and squeeze her thigh. ‘You’re just about the best damn distraction I’ve ever had.’
‘Flattery will get you everywhere, Beau Donovan.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’ I flick on the indicator, the repetitive sound forming the backdrop to our conversation as I exit the highway. The road stop has a bright neon sign with the diner’s name in huge letters.
‘Okay.’ I pull into a park and cut the engine, then turn to face her properly. ‘So you’re good at what you do.’
‘You haven’t read anything of mine,’ she reiterates.
