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My phone pings with an incoming text from AJ as I climb the stairs to the platform at Parsons Green.Patrick wants to see me first thing.
I step out of the way of the tide of commuters, and put my coffee cup on the ground between my feet so I can text him back.Did he say why?
No. But Sheila will be there.
Shit. There’s only one reason Patrick would have someone from Human Resources sit in on a meeting. He’s going to give AJ a bollocking, and he’s covering his arse so AJ can’t play the homophobic card if things suddenly go south.Don’t panic. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Keep me posted.
I hope to God Patrick’s not going to take AJ off the Univest account, because that’ll leave me super-exposed with Tina Murdoch. But he’s been punishing everyone involved in the Vine fuck-up, taking us off prestige accounts and cutting back on travel perks. AJ’s only myactingdeputy. Until Vine, he was on course to have the promotion made permanent, but Patrick can always throw him back in the pool with the other PAs.
I squeeze my way onto the tube, trying not to spill my latte as the crowd presses in behind me. AJ is more than my right hand: he’s my eyes and ears at Whitefish.He’s neurotic and occasionally daft, but he’s also intensely loyal, hard-working and that rarest of creatures: a gossip who knows when to keep his mouth shut. Losing him from the Univest account would leave me both short-staffed and politically vulnerable. He’s virtually the only person in my life I wholly trust. In many ways, he’s a better friend to me than Andy himself.
I change at Earl’s Court, and my mobile lights up with a flurry of emails as I come above ground. I scroll quickly through them as I walk down the platform. Four messages from Tina, a couple of cc’d emails from Patrick and Sheila – an ominous sign – and another from Nolan, plus a terse reminder from Andy to pick Bella and Tolly up from the station tomorrow. And it’s not even eight-thirty in the morning yet.
I suddenly stop in my tracks in the middle of the platform. Louise is screwing up my relationships both at work and at home, but there’s only one I can really do anything about.
I want to make things right with Andy. He’ll be tired when he gets home tonight, and because it’s easier than drilling down into what’s really going on between us, we’ll paper over the cracks and act as if this morning didn’t happen. Andy isn’t perfect, God knows; he can be narcissistic and shallow, he’s ridiculously weak around Louise, and he’s consistently rude to me. But he’s Kit’s father. And like the little girl in the nursery rhyme, when he’s good, he’s very, very good, even though when he’s bad, he’s horrid. I refuse to admitdefeat. I know I can get us back to where we were, if I can just get us through this rough patch. I don’t want to spend another week the way I’ve spent this last one, sleeping with a stone-faced stranger who turns his back to me before I’ve even got into bed. I want to put this whole thing behind us, and if that means apologising to Louise, I guess I’ll just have to suck it up.
Shoving my phone back in my bag, I step back into the flow of commuters and hustle down the steps towards the Piccadilly Line. If I go over to INN now, I can catch him before his daily news briefing at ten.
Half an hour later, I walk into INN’s reception atrium. In four years, I’ve been here just once; there was some unpleasant publicity about me in the papers when Andy left Louise, who was well liked by his colleagues at INN, and one taste of their hostility was enough for me. The atrium is bright and airy, with acres of chrome and glass. Vast photographs of the network’s main presenters, including Andy, hang on invisible wires from the double-height ceiling like flags at the UN. Maybe I should stop hiding and make my presence felt a bit more. I don’t have to apologise for being Andy’s wife. I need to stop behaving as if I do.
‘I’m here for Andrew Page,’ I tell the girl behind the reception desk. ‘I’m his wife.’
She turns to her computer. ‘Just a moment, Mrs Page, and I’ll tell him you’re here.’
My phone buzzes, and I glance at the screen and see AJ’s number. Damn. He must have finished his meeting with Patrick, but I can’t talk to him now. I decline thecall, feeling slightly guilty. One of the reasons Andy and I are fighting is because I’ve spent too much time and energy thinking about work instead of him. I need to put my marriage first if I want to save it.
‘Mrs Page? I’m afraid Mr Page isn’t picking up his phone. Would you like me to put you through to his secretary?’
‘That’d be great, thanks.’
She points to a phone on the reception desk, and I pick it up. ‘Hi, Jessica,’ I say. ‘Is Andy around?’
‘He’s out today,’ his secretary says, sounding surprised.
As a presenter, it’s rare, but not unheard of, for Andy to go out in the field. Maybe he’s presenting from a remote location, or doing a big interview. ‘What time will he be back, do you know?’
‘Is he expecting you?’ Jessica says.
‘No, I was just passing. Is he out on a story?’
‘Not that I know of.’
She’s deliberately evasive. The hairs rise on the back of my neck. ‘Do you know when he’ll be back in the office?’ I ask.
‘Actually, he’s not in at all today,’ she says reluctantly. ‘He’s booked a personal day. Declan’s standing in for tonight’s bulletin.’
For a moment, I wonder if I’ve got my wires crossed. And then I remember Andy’s sharp tone when he told me he’d be late for the morning briefing.
Chapter 28
Min
I change out of my hospital scrubs and grab a Snickers bar from the vending machine as I head to the car park. The graveyard shift is never fun, but sometimes you can at least get a few hours’ sleep in the on-call room. Either that, or a multiple car pile-up or chemical explosion will get the adrenalin pumping and make you forget you haven’t slept for twenty-two hours. But last night was the worst of both worlds: a steady stream of minor sprains and mysterious rashes that kept me busy but should really be the province of the local GP. We have enough hypochondriacs during the day, but there’s a certain group of worried well who love nothing more than presenting at the ED at four in the morning convinced they’ve got Ebola. I wouldn’t mind if, just once in a blue moon, one of them did.
I buckle my seatbelt and turn on Radio Four. It’s almost noon; I could grab a couple of hours’ kip before it’s time to pick Archie and Sidney up from school, but it hardly seems worth it. And anyway, I’m far too anxious about Louise to sleep.
On a sudden impulse, I unbuckle my seatbelt again, and grab my bag from the front seat. What I need is a brisk walk and some sea air. It only takes me a few minutes to make my way from the Royal Sussex down to the seafront, which is surprisingly quiet, given it’s the middle of summer. When I reach the promenade, I realise why: there’s a bracingly cold breeze blowing in off the sea, and despite the sunshine, it feels more like October than July. Which is a good thing, because I need to clear my head so I can think.
