Construct a Couple (11 page)

I shake my head before those thoughts go any further. Jeremy was going to tell me this weekend, I’m sure. There’s a party next week, right? He wouldn’t have gone off to that without me.

 “Are you all right, dear?” Karen’s staring at me with concern. “You’re a bit pale. Don’t worry, Jeremy will be fine once he’s rested up.”

He won’t be if he sees that article, I think, forcing a small smile. “I’m okay. Thank you so much for everything.”

She pats my arm again, then says: “Ring me if there’s anything you need.”

I nod, watching her straight back as she disappears down the corridor. Turning my head to avoid any chance encounters with the sponge-bathing Jaffa Man, I enter the room and sink into a chair in the corner. Tears fill my eyes as I reach over, grasping Jeremy’s cold hand.

When the news breaks on Sunday, Top Class will likely need every last penny to shore up their damaged business; forget charitable donations. Even if they
did
still want to donate, could Pick Up Sticks accept cash from a company with a dodgy reputation?

Either way, once that story hits newsstands, there’s a very good chance the charity won’t get the money it so desperately needs.

I glance over at the man I love, lying pale and motionless, and a wave of fear sweeps over me. He’s already worked himself into the hospital trying to get the charity back in order. What’s going to happen to his fragile health if that donation doesn’t come through? If Jeremy loses Pick Up Sticks . . . I wince, picturing how much time and effort he’s spent building it up. Without the charity, I don’t know what he’d do.

I link my fingers with his, liquid spilling down my cheeks. This article was supposed to be a step up; a way to impress the biggies at the magazine. But right now, everything plummets into insignificance compared to making sure Jeremy’s okay. And after last year – where my job at the tabloid practically ruined his life – there’s
no way
I’m going to let that happen again.

There’s only one thing to do.

I have to stop the story.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Although that conclusion is a no-brainer, I seem to have developed stop-that-story-itis. Thirty minutes later and my mind still spins like a whirling dervish, frantically trying to come up with something – anything – to kill the article. How the hell does someone even do that? Now I’m reverse Lois Lane, on a quest to save my Superman.

I bite my lip, watching the steady rise and fall of Jeremy’s chest. He couldn’t look less like Superman if he tried. Underneath the washed-out exterior, though, is a man who really
is
made of steel: he’s recovered from a stroke, set up a charity . . . I wipe away the tears trailing down my face. No matter Jeremy’s reasons for keeping quiet about Julia, I can’t let him down now.

Perhaps I can ambush the printing press? I snort, picturing me creeping into whatever godforsaken place the
Seven Days
press is located, and— okay, scrap that. I haven’t the foggiest how to sabotage a press! All I recall from our class trip to the
Harris Bugle
is Jimmy Lewis almost losing a finger after poking it too close to a noisy machine. God, that boy can
scream
.

Anyway, breaking into a giant printing press is hardly incognito, and I need something a little less obvious. If Helen or Jonas finds out what I’m up to, I can kiss my job goodbye. I glance at my watch – half past ten. Time is ticking, and Helen’s got her interview with Julia sometime later this afternoon. I make a face, picturing Helen’s sure-to-be brutal interrogation of Julia, who hasn’t a clue what’s coming her way.

Wait! Maybe that’s what I can do. If I somehow warn Julia about
Seven Days’
upcoming story, I’m sure she’ll go on the defensive, possibly even cancel Helen’s interview. At the very least, Julia will have time to prepare herself for the allegations. At most, Top Class might get their legal team to contact the magazine – and I know how fearful
Seven Days
is of being sued. It’s not a sure-fire method of stopping the story, but at least it’s a start.

I can carry out my plan from here, too. I’ll call up the publicity department and speak to Tanya, the PR who arranged my previous interview. No need to tell her who’s on the line; I’ll just lower my voice
à la
Deep Throat (God, what a silly name; surely they could have come up with something better – The Secret Squealer?), notify her about Helen and what we’ve found, hang up fast, then wait for Top Class to spring into action. Knowing Julia, I suspect she’ll take all possible measures to protect her business. Hopefully, my boyfriend will never discover how close his charity came to losing their most critical donation ever.

I squeeze Jeremy’s hand again, then push past the closed curtain of Jaffa Man and out into the draughty corridor. Sure, I’m from Maine and all, but I swear to God I’ve never been so cold, so often since moving to London. Something about the dampness in the air just clings to you.

After looking up Top Class’s number on their website (what on earth did journalists do before smartphones?), I punch in the digits and press ‘call’, waiting as the receptionist patches me through to the right department.

“Hello, Top Class public relations, Tanya speaking. How can I help?” The voice is so perky it almost leaps from the mobile and does a little dance on the polished tiles.

“Hi.” I drop my normal tone an octave lower. God, I sound like Kermit the Frog!

“Yes, hello, PR department?” A hint of irritation is creeping in, but the chipper voice remains intact.

“Um, yes. I’m calling with a tip-off.” Is that what it’s called? I pause for a second to clear my throat; all the husky business has made it go funny.

“Is that you, Gerald?” The hyper-friendly manner has completely disappeared. “I told you to stop ringing here. Now piss off!” The receiver slams down.

Crap. Okay, maybe Deep Throat wasn’t such a great idea. I hit ‘call’ once more, tapping my fingers against the cold wall as I’m transferred. “Hi, sorry, I was just calling to—”

“Gerald!” Tanya screeches. “For God’s sake, did you think talking like some demented American is going to convince me to take your calls? Piss. OFF!” And again, the phone goes dead.

Right, well, Mom always says third time lucky! I go through the same steps, then hear the receiver being picked up and slammed down with such force my eardrums start ringing.

Damn. What am I going to do now? I don’t have Julia’s direct line, and all my contact has been with the PR. I furrow my brow, scrolling through possibilities in my mind. Email? Even if it did reach Julia, there’s no guarantee the message would be read before Bulldog Helen shows up.

Easing back into the room, I take up position by the bed. A groan fills the space, and Jeremy’s eyes open.

“Serenity?” he rasps.

I leap onto the bed, crashing into his legs. Oops – thank God he hasn’t broken any limbs. “How are you feeling?”

“Must admit, I’m a bit tired.” Jeremy lifts his lips in a smile, and I can see even that’s an effort. “But I’ll be fine.”

I squeeze his fingers. “Of course you will. Besides, if you’re not, I think Karen will kill you herself!”

He laughs softly. “Yes, probably. Did she call? I didn’t want to worry you.”

I nod, meeting his gaze as my guts clenches.
Didn’t want to worry me?
Okay, my Shut Your Mouth policy definitely needs to exclude health issues. “Yes, she did, thank goodness.”

Jeremy drops his gaze. “Guess all the strain with the charity was too much for me. But now that everything is sorted, I can relax.”

I force myself to smile, trying to keep the stress from my face. God, I hope everything
stays
sorted!

Jeremy’s lids are at half-mast, and the grasp on my hand eases. “Ser, I’m probably going to sleep for the rest of the day,” he says, his voice drowsy. “You don’t need to sit around here.”

I reach out, smoothing a lock of hair away from his face. His skin is cold and clammy, and my heart shifts with anxiety.

“We’ll see how it goes. I may nip out for a little bit, but I’ll be back tonight for sure.” Although I’d love to stay by my boyfriend’s side, if I
do
want him to get better – and remain that way – I have to kill the story. Fast.

As Jeremy’s eyes close and his breathing becomes steady, resolve washes over me. I’m not going to let a tiff between the PR and her Deep Throated boyfriend get in my way: I’ll head to Top Class myself. From all my research, I know they’re based in the Docklands, clear on the other side of the city. And forget the PR, I won’t leave there until I speak to Julia herself. Much more effective.

She won’t recognise me as Jeremy’s girlfriend, will she? My Facebook profile pic is a Jaffa (more photogenic than I am), but the Camden community paper ran a photo of Jeremy and me cutting the ribbon when the charity opened . . . That was ages ago, I reassure myself. Julia has better things to do than reading local rags. On the off-chance she says I look familiar, I’ll just tell her I’ve got one of those faces.

I take a deep breath, trying to calm my nervous flutters at facing the Royal Bitch – not to mention the high stakes of what I’m about to do. Lois Lane could handle it, I’m sure: she’d put on a fresh trouser suit, re-gloss her hair, and hold her own. But can I? Am I really going to do this – visit Top Class’s headquarters uninvited, and say what, exactly? I can’t pretend I’m Helen; everyone knows what she looks like. Maybe I could claim I’m her assistant (true), conducting the interview in her place?

If Helen heads over this afternoon, though, Julia’s sure to say someone from the magazine has already been there. A few descriptive words, and Helen will twig it’s me. Given how paranoid she is . . .  I shudder, imagining the fury on her face if that scenario ever happened. 

Perhaps I can use Helen’s paranoia to my advantage. She already thinks
One World
is onto us, right? I can pretend I’m one of their reporters. Even if an interview isn’t scheduled, I can’t imagine Julia turning down the opportunity to pontificate on how wonderful she is.

Leaning over, I kiss Jeremy’s cheek, lightly brushing my lips against his skin. The soft release of his breath warms my face, and tears push at my eyes. Whatever we’ve been keeping secret – no matter how big or how small – there’s one thing I’m sure of: we love each other. We’d never have come this far if we didn’t.

Forcing myself to walk from the bed, I head down the lemon-scented corridor and into the lift, where I check out Top Class’s website again on my phone to get their exact address. Outside, I rush to a mini-cab that’s just dropped off passengers. The journey to the company’s offices in Canary Wharf will take a good hour if I’m lucky, and I’ve no time to waste dicking around on the tube.

Sixty minutes later, I’m standing in front of the corporate headquarters, my stubby form distorted in the building’s glass surface. In a way, the reflection feels like my reality now: bent out of shape, so far from normal I can’t get a grip on it. I mean, who’d have thought I’d be risking the dream I’ve toiled so hard for? And who’d have guessed Jeremy would be working with Julia, of all people? I shake my head, watching as the monster reflection wiggles hers, too.

Smoothing my sandy hair, I push through the revolving door, standing stock-still at the sight in front of me. Wow. Whoever said the market was slowing hasn’t been here. Marble floors glisten beneath my feet, and the lofty ceiling arches over me. A video flickers on one wall, showing time-elapsed buildings rising from the ground in a flurry of construction. It’s more like a cutting-edge art gallery than a company headquarters, I think, striding to the security desk in the corner.

“Hello. I’m here to see Tanya in PR?” Safer to start from the bottom up. If I ask for Julia right away, they’ll probably shut me down.

“Name?” the security guard barks.

“I’m, um, Geraldine from
One World
,” I answer, cringing internally.
Geraldine?
Is that the best I could do?

The guard picks up the phone. “Tanya? There’s someone from
One World
to see you.” He motions towards a twisty white sofa resembling a sculpture. “Have a seat. She’ll be down in a second.”

I sink onto the hard surface, trying not to slide off as I fidget nervously. Finally, a woman about my age – so skinny her head resembles an egg on a straw – clacks over.

“Hello there,” she says, her pink lips stretching in a big fake grin. “You’re from
One World
? Can you remind me, did you have an appointment?” Tanya cocks her head, and despite all the tension inside, I can’t help smiling. Something about her reminds me of the hopping robins in my parents’ front yard.

“No, sorry, we’re on a rather tight deadline. I just need a quote from your CEO to add to the press release you emailed us earlier.” I cross my fingers they actually sent one to
One World
.

Tanya nods. “No problem. You’re lucky, our CEO Julia Adams happens to be free right now. Come on up, and I’ll introduce you.”

 I follow her into a glass-mirrored lift, feeling like I’m about to meet Godzilla. She’s just a girl from Jeremy’s past, I tell myself, even though deep down, I know that’s not true. Julia had a massive impact on him.

Wincing, I picture the watch I’d found on one of my exploratory missions through Jeremy’s house (I shouldn’t have snooped, but I was playing undercover reporter). It was a Bvlgari, dripping with diamonds, and the inscription on the back read:
To Jules, I’ve had the time of my life
.
Happy Two Years!

Jeremy and I have been together over a year now, and he’s never given me anything remotely similar. Not that I’d know what to do if he did – diamonds are better suited to someone like Julia than an Accessorize girl like me – but . . . does that mean something?

Mom would stroke a braid and tell me material things don’t determine the wealth of a relationship. Sometimes, though, I’m not so sure her hippie sayings are relevant to the twenty-first century London dating scene.