It’s strange to imagine the One O’Clock News team all sitting in the newsroom without me, everything carrying on as normal, as though I were never there. I think I can persuade the Thin Controller to let me get on-air with what I’ve already got. Then at least this won’t have been a complete waste of time. Best to go straight to the top for an answer, I think; today’s program editor suffers from chronic indecision.
Finally, after listening to the phone ring for longer than it ever should when calling a network newsroom, someone answers.
“One O’Clock News,” she purrs.
The sound of Cat Jones’s velvety voice causes mine to malfunction.
I picture her sitting in what, only yesterday, was my chair. Answering my phone. Working with my team. I close my eyes and can see her red hair and white smile. The mental image doesn’t make me feel sick, it makes me feel thirsty. My fingers come to the rescue, and automatically start to search inside my bag for a miniature whiskey. I open it, twisting the screw cap with my one free hand—I’ve had practice—and down the bottle.
“Hello?” says the voice on the other end, in a tone resembling the polite preempt people use before hanging up when nobody answers.
My reply gets stuck in my throat, as though my mouth has forgotten how to form words.
“It’s Anna,” I manage, relieved that I can still remember my own name.
“Anna…？”
“Andrews.”
“Oh, god, I’m so sorry. I didn’t recognize your voice. Did you want to speak to—”
“Yes. Please.”
“Of course. Let me put you on hold and see if I can grab his attention.”
I hear a click before the familiar BBC News countdown music starts to play. I’ve always rather liked it, but right now it’s deeply irritating. I glance outside the window at the rest of the press still standing around. Some of the faces are familiar and everyone seemed genuinely happy to see me, which was nice. I remember that a few of them shook my hand, and reach inside my handbag again, this time in search of an antibacterial wipe for my fingers. I’m about to hang up—tired of being kept on hold—when the sound of shouting in the newsroom replaces the music.
“Can someone else try answering the goddamn phones when they wing? It weally isn’t difficult, and probably won’t cause wepetitive stwain injury as none of you do it vewy often. Yes, who is it?” the Thin Controller snaps in my ear.
Despite the job title and bluster, he is a man who is rarely in control of anything. Including his speech impediment. I have often suspected that the newsroom is allergic to his imagined authority, and the chorus of phones still ringing unanswered in the background reinforces the theory.
“It’s Anna,” I say.
“Anna…？”
I resist the urge to scream; forgetting me is clearly contagious.
“Andrews,” I reply.
“Anna! Apologies, it’s chaos here this morning. How can I help?”
It’s a good question. Yesterday I was presenting the program; now it feels like I’m cold calling to beg to be on it for a minute or two.
“I’m at this murder scene in Blackdown—”
“Is it a murder? Hang on…” His voice changes again, and I realize he is speaking to someone else. “I said no to a pwe-pubescent political weporter I’ve never heard of on the PM stowy—it’s the bloody lead. Well, tell the Westminster editor to pull her head out of Downing Street’s arse for five minutes … I don’t care what they are doing for other outlets, I want a gwown-up correspondent on my bulletin, so get me one. You were saying?”
It takes a moment to realize he is speaking to me again. I’m too busy imagining him in a physical, rather than verbal, fight with the five-foot-two Westminster editor. She would end him.
“The murder you sent me to…” I persevere.
“I just thought you’d wather be there than here, given what happened this morning. I did glance at the wires after the police statement a little while ago. But everything I wead just said it was an unexplained death…”
“That’s all the police are saying at the moment, but I know there’s more to it than that.”
“How do you know?”
It’s a difficult question to answer.
“I just do,” I say, and my reply sounds as weak as I feel.
“Well, call me back when you’ve got something on the wecord, and I’ll see if we can squeeze you in.”
Squeeze me in?