You Had Me At Hello Part 28

'You don't know about that?'

'No?'

'His parents died in a car accident when he was about seven or eight. His aunt and uncle were made his guardians but they weren't exactly the nurturing types and packed him off to boarding school. I think it was paid for by the life insurance.'

'Oh, no. That's terrible.' I'm terrible. I cringe at the memory of myself mouthing off about 'Mummy'. 'I've said things about him being a toff ...'

Ben shrugs.

'You weren't to know.'

The sun's gone behind a cloud. I stare over the flat, tarmac-like expanse of water, whipped into shallow ripples by the wind. 'That's why I shouldn't have said it.'

The mood has dipped. I tear a bit of leftover bread off.

'Can I share this with the ducks?'

'Be my guest.'

There's a flurry of bottle-green, cream, black and yellow as the birds descend on fragments of soggy ciabatta.

'What about the weedy one who keeps getting missed out?' Ben asks.

'Where?'

'There! At the back. Poor beggar.'

I hand Ben a large lump of ciabatta and he smiles at me not any old smile, a slightly poignant, Sunday afternoon matinee, yellow-filter-on-the-lens would you look at the pair of us soppy-inducing smile. He starts lobbing bread chunks with more over-arm throw vigour than me.

'Got him! There you are, mate. Life isn't as unfair as you thought.'

'Hoo hoo, yeah it is,' I say.

Ben gives me a sideways glance. I feel 'A Moment' developing.

'Course what we're actually doing is killing fish,' I say. 'Apparently the leftover bread rots and then there's too much nitrogen in the water, or somesuch.'

'Oh, Captain Bringdown,' Ben says. 'And there I was, thinking this was nice.'

44.

As I hang on a ceiling strap on the bus, I'm lost in thought about orphan Simon, newly worthy of tenderness and sympathy, despite the shenanigans with the married woman. Although I trust Ben implicitly, I can't help wonder about Simon's version of events. I think about the pa.s.s I've given Natalie Shale and my debate with Caroline, and suspect I ought to toughen up and take a line on things, as Rhys would say.

My mobile chirps with m.u.f.fled birdsong in the recesses of my bag. I balance it on my hip and hastily dig the phone out. It's Ken. Not a good sign.

'h.e.l.lo?'

'Woodford?'

'How are you finding Zoe Clarke?'

'Finding her? To work with?'

'No, by candle light. YES TO WORK WITH.'

'Erm, she's ...' I block out the traffic and chatter around me with an index finger jabbed in my free ear '... she's excellent. She's a great reporter and she hasn't needed any hand-holding. She's backed me up and I know if I trust her to cover something she'll always come back with the story.'

'Right. I've had a word with the editor and we like her strike rate in court.'

Uh oh ... have I talked myself out of my job?

'So, we want to try a new arrangement, as an experiment ...'

My muscles start to bunch. Argument will be futile. Once Ken has made up his mind, especially when he's rushed the legislation past the editor, he's unstoppable. You'd have a better chance of knocking a hurtling oil tanker off its path by sticking your leg out.

'We're going to put her in court full time ...'

This isn't happening. I'm not about to find out that I'm going back to the office as a general reporter, with council meetings and death knocks and late s.h.i.+fts. No. I refuse. I'll leave. Oh yeah ... and then who'll pay for that stupid fancy flat that's overstretching you as it is?

'... As your deputy. Free you up to spend more time on backgrounders like the Natalie Shale piece. We liked that a lot too. Good straight piece. Didn't ladle it on.'

I stutter: 'Oh, right, thanks ...'

'Starting next week?' Ken asks.

'No problem.'

He hangs up without saying goodbye, Ken Baggaley being the only person outside movies to actually do this.

The bus doors open with a hydraulic hiss and I step out, taking deep lungfuls of carbon monoxide-laden Manchester city centre air and letting the panicky despair of moments ago start to dissipate.

A deputy. I'd have the time to get my teeth into the bigger stories, possibly rediscover a pa.s.sion for the job. I knew the Natalie Shale exclusive was a feather in my cap. I didn't antic.i.p.ate getting an effective promotion out of it. I smile to myself as I start walking towards work.

Caroline implied getting friendly with Ben again could bring bad things to my door. So far, it's brought only good.

I'd like to go somewhere upmarket to celebrate our joint promotion, but my rent's really biting. Even with a pay hike, I doubt Zoe's high rolling, so we end up in The Castle, cursing our predictability. Zoe goes to get the drinks while I inspect a pun-laden leaflet about Thursday's Curry Club: 'Tikka The Night Off Cooking!' She returns with two fishbowl-sized gla.s.ses of white wine and I propose a toast to collaborating in court.

'To teamwork,' I say, raising my gla.s.s for Zoe to clink. 'And to Pete Gretton, who gave us something in common from day one an enemy.'

We slurp.

'You know all this is thanks to you, Rachel.'

'Don't be silly, it's thanks to you being s.h.i.+t hot at a tender age.'

'Seriously, though. I remember that first day when I didn't know what I was doing. I appreciate you having the patience.'

We sink into gossipy shop talk and when we're on the second round, I decide I can afford to unburden myself a little bit.

'Zoe, can you keep a secret?'

'Ooh, I love secrets. Course.'

'When I was interviewing Natalie, I read a text on her phone. I thought it might be about me. I went on a date with her solicitor. Not that it's an excuse.'

'And?' Zoe's slate-grey eyes widen.

'And it was from a ... lover. I think.'

's.h.i.+t. Her husband's in prison and she's getting up to stuff. Winnie Mandela badness.'

'I wondered if it was the bloke I was seeing. It wasn't his number.'

'You took down the number?'

I squirm. 'Yeah. Only to check it against Simon's.'

'Didn't you call it?'

'Not like I'm going to learn much from a random voice.'

'Got the number?'

'Why, what're you going to do?'

'Basically, call him without saying who I am.'

'And ask what "Are you the man who's having it off with Natalie?"'

'Nope.'

'A call where you don't tell him anything or ask him anything? Sounds like an exercise in futility.'

'We'll see.'

'You promise me this is no risk?'

'No risk at all. Trust me.'

I fumble my notebook out of my bag, flip it open. A fairly loud internal voice tells me I'd be thinking better of this if I hadn't had the best part of a bottle of wine on an empty stomach. There's the number, scribbled on the inside of the cardboard cover, next to the words 'GOOD PLUMBER', in case Gretton started copying anonymous numbers over my shoulder on the off-chance they were Natalie's.

'Read it out,' Zoe says, biro poised above the back of her hand. I dictate the numbers and she scrawls them down, dragging her skin with smudgy blue ink.

'Right, follow me.' Zoe slides off her stool, scanning the pub for a payphone. I drape my coat over my seat, shoulder my bag and follow her. She feeds in coins and dials the number while I act as lookout, though I'm not sure for what.

Zoe makes a 'mad excitement' face while it rings through, as if she's desperate for the loo. The manageress casts a suspicious glance in our direction. I haven't felt like this since I was fifteen and playing truant in HMV.

'h.e.l.lo, is that Liz?' Zoe asks the receiver. 'Oh, I'm sorry. Wrong number.'

She hangs up. 'It's a man.'

'I don't think this qualifies us for the Woodward and Bernstein investigative medal.'

'Patience,' she chides, and I wonder when Zoe became my mentor.

She dials the number again.

'What are you doing?' I mouth, and she puts her finger to her lips.

This time she doesn't speak, and hangs up. 'Bingo.'

'What?'

'Not many people answer a wrong number a second time. I got his answerphone.'

'And?'

'And, Natalie Shale is bonking someone called Jonathan Grant, who can't get to his phone right now, the lying sod. All we have to do is find out who this Jonathan is,' Zoe chatters. 'Electoral roll might help. I tell you what, he sounded posh, not like some gangland hardnut ... you OK?'

'Zoe, I think I know who he is,' I say.

'f.u.c.k. Who?'

'He's Lucas Shale's last solicitor.'

We stare at each other, Zoe agape.

'f.u.c.kin' aye!' shouts a lad nearby, as a fruit machine spits out pound coins like gunfire.

45.

'I need to think clearly,' I say, reinforcing this statement by lifting a third full wine gla.s.s to my lips, and Zoe nods gravely.