His & Hers(33)

She didn’t.

When I got there, far earlier than I should have, strange men were coming out of our house, carrying boxes. I stood on the lawn in the garden allowing them to pass me on the path, and only started to panic when two men came out of the front door with our TV. Unlike a lot of homes those days, we still only had the one. I rushed inside to find my mother standing in an empty room.

“Why are you home?” she said. “Are you sick?”

“Why are they taking all our stuff?”

I was always good at answering questions with questions. It was one of the many skills I learned during childhood that has come in handy as a journalist.

“Things have been a little difficult, moneywise, since your father … left us. A lot of our things were bought on credit cards and I can’t pay for them on my own.”

“Because you’re a cleaner?”

I hated myself for the way I said it, not just the words themselves.

“Well, yes. My job doesn’t pay as much as your father’s used to.”

I knew she had only started cleaning other people’s houses because we needed the money. She wasn’t really qualified to do anything else—that’s why she wanted me to finish school, because she hadn’t.

“Can’t we just call Dad and ask him to send us some money?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“You know why.”

“I only know that you said he was gone and was never coming back, and now we can’t afford to have a TV.”

“We’ll get a new one once I’ve managed to save up, I promise. Word is starting to spread and I’m getting more and more work. It won’t take long.”

“And what about my school? They pulled me out of class today, said that my fees hadn’t been paid. Everyone stared at me.”

She looked like she might cry and that wasn’t what I wanted to see. I wanted her to tell me that everything was going to be all right, but I didn’t get to hear that either.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, and took a step toward me. I took a step back. “I’ve tried everything that I can think of, but we’re going to have to find you a new school.”

“But that’s where all my friends are…”

She didn’t reply, perhaps because she knew I didn’t really have any.

“What about my exams?” I persisted; she couldn’t deny those.

“I’m sorry, but we’ll find somewhere good.”

“Sorry, sorry, sorry! That’s all you ever say!”

I stormed past her and ran upstairs to my bedroom. I noticed that it was the only room in the house where nothing had been taken, but I didn’t say anything about that. Instead I yelled loud enough for her to hear before slamming my door.

“You are ruining my life.”

It was only years later that I understood how wrong I was—she had been trying to save it.



* * *



I stare at the box delivered to my mother’s porch just now, then use my phone to Google the name written on the side. It’s a cheap and nasty meals on wheels company. The idea of my mother—a woman who for years would only eat organic food or things she grew herself—eating ready meals makes me want to cry. But I don’t.

Holding my phone in my hand has sparked something in me, the beginning of an idea that I already know isn’t good, but sometimes bad ideas turn out to be the best. I’m aware that Jack didn’t tell me that the victim was Rachel Hopkins so I could broadcast it, but if I’m going to save my career I need to get back on-air. I call the newsroom. Then I dial my cameraman’s number and Richard answers immediately, almost as though he had been watching and waiting for my call.

A couple of hours later, I’m hooked up and about to do a live two-way on the program I used to present. Rachel’s social media accounts were public and also, unsurprisingly, full of photos of herself. I selected a few and sent them to the producer back at base to build a graphic. Richard filmed a couple of shots outside her home, and then we gathered some short interviews with local residents—none of whom really knew her, but were more than happy to speak as though they did.

I’ve always been good at getting people to talk to me. My methods are very simple, but they work: Rule Number One: Everyone likes to feel flattered.

Two: Establish trust. Always be friendly, regardless of how you really feel.

Three: Start a conversation that suggests you have plenty in common with the subject.

Four: Get them to say what you want fast, before they have time to overthink it, or you.

Works every time.

Finally, we recorded a piece to camera in the woods where Rachel died, as close as the cordon would allow, with the police tape fluttering in the background. It was very atmospheric. After popping in a brief clip of Jack speaking at the press conference earlier, we had a two-minute package for me to talk around. Not too shabby for a morning’s work.

The sat truck arrived just in time, and now I’m standing at the closest and best position we could find at the edge of the woods. We need a clear view of the sky in order to see one of the satellites and broadcast live. Trees and tall buildings can be problematic in this business. So can ex-husbands.

I’m wired up and ready to go when I see Jack’s 4 × 4 pull into the parking lot. He’s too late. I stare down the barrel of the camera when I hear the director in my ear, then Cat Jones—sitting in the chair that used to be mine—reads the intro for the story.