flashing lights behind her eyelids. This had happened a few times, since… but she couldn’t let it get to her. She just couldn’t.
Jools put a hand on her shoulder. “You’ve lost a stack of weight, too. What happened to our curry queen?”
Clare shook Jools’ hand away. “I’m fine, for god’s sake. Will everyone stop acting like my mother?”
Her voice came out louder than she’d meant. There was a second or two of silence. Then Nicki said, “Any more of that wine?”
Back in the flat, Clare poured herself a huge glass of water to put by her bed, spilling it in globs on the kitchen bench when she tried to add some chunks of ice. It was going to be another sleepless, airless night and past form meant that she would go over and over the evening’s conversation, wishing she hadn’t been quite so brusque with the friends who were trying to do her a favour.
She couldn’t decide whether she was furious with Joe for telling people that she wasn’t coping, or touched at his concern. Her feelings for Joe switched from impatience to something like fondness, at least a few times every day. There certainly had been days recently when she didn’t even want to look at him, and she also knew that wasn’t fair. She wasn’t going to let him know any of this, though: she’d be sure to tell him to keep his nose out of her personal life in future.
In the end it was Finn who made his way, unasked, into Clare’s dreams. When she woke up after an hour or so, she felt warm inside, for just a few moments. Until she remembered, and the chill inside came back.
Friday 20th July
At seven-thirty the next morning, Clare found herself sitting in the newspaper’s most beaten-up car with Stewie, one of the staff photographers. She hadn’t been scheduled for picket duty but once again Tony Warton, a new-ish young reporter, had called in sick when it was his turn for the job. Sharon Catt, who’d phoned Clare at home at around six in the morning, was unapologetic. “Get yourself turned round and down to the picket line. The Sick Man of Europe’s having another day in bed, apparently.”
“Tony?” Clare happened to be wide awake, after a predicted night of very little sleep, and she was proud of her ability to sound alert at that time in the morning. “Sounds like there’s something seriously wrong with him. He’s had a lot of time off. Has anyone spoken to him about it?”
“I’ll tell you what I think is seriously wrong with him,” said Sharon. Clare could hear her leafing through the morning papers on her desk. “He’s an idle tosser who doesn’t fancy doing the difficult jobs. He’s always ill on the days when he’s down to go to the picket lines. I told Dave Bell that if it happened one more time we should give him an official warning, and that’s what we’re going to do.”
“Maybe he’s got some personal reason…” Clare started to say.
“Reporters don’t have personal anything,” Sharon snapped. “You want to be a decent reporter, forget about your own lives. Otherwise you won’t get anywhere.”
Not with you in charge, at any rate, Clare thought. Poor Tony, with his startled expression and his Marks and Spencer shirts and co-ordinating ties, so obviously chosen by his mother. Maybe he was genuinely ill, but news editors have a habit of automatically assuming that anyone who rings in sick is faking it. Clare knew this at her own cost. More likely, the thought of covering the volatile picket lines left the poor lad terrified. Either way, Catt would make him suffer.
So Clare sat doodling on her notebook while Stewie played around with his camera.
“Nice to have you for company, anyway,” Stewie remarked. “You’re easier on the eye than Tony.”
“He’s heading for trouble,” said Clare. “Catt’s got him down as swinging the lead.”
Stewie shook his head. “It’s not that. Some of his family are strikers. They gave him a hard time the last shift he did. I think he’s trying
Jools put a hand on her shoulder. “You’ve lost a stack of weight, too. What happened to our curry queen?”
Clare shook Jools’ hand away. “I’m fine, for god’s sake. Will everyone stop acting like my mother?”
Her voice came out louder than she’d meant. There was a second or two of silence. Then Nicki said, “Any more of that wine?”
Back in the flat, Clare poured herself a huge glass of water to put by her bed, spilling it in globs on the kitchen bench when she tried to add some chunks of ice. It was going to be another sleepless, airless night and past form meant that she would go over and over the evening’s conversation, wishing she hadn’t been quite so brusque with the friends who were trying to do her a favour.
She couldn’t decide whether she was furious with Joe for telling people that she wasn’t coping, or touched at his concern. Her feelings for Joe switched from impatience to something like fondness, at least a few times every day. There certainly had been days recently when she didn’t even want to look at him, and she also knew that wasn’t fair. She wasn’t going to let him know any of this, though: she’d be sure to tell him to keep his nose out of her personal life in future.
In the end it was Finn who made his way, unasked, into Clare’s dreams. When she woke up after an hour or so, she felt warm inside, for just a few moments. Until she remembered, and the chill inside came back.
Friday 20th July
At seven-thirty the next morning, Clare found herself sitting in the newspaper’s most beaten-up car with Stewie, one of the staff photographers. She hadn’t been scheduled for picket duty but once again Tony Warton, a new-ish young reporter, had called in sick when it was his turn for the job. Sharon Catt, who’d phoned Clare at home at around six in the morning, was unapologetic. “Get yourself turned round and down to the picket line. The Sick Man of Europe’s having another day in bed, apparently.”
“Tony?” Clare happened to be wide awake, after a predicted night of very little sleep, and she was proud of her ability to sound alert at that time in the morning. “Sounds like there’s something seriously wrong with him. He’s had a lot of time off. Has anyone spoken to him about it?”
“I’ll tell you what I think is seriously wrong with him,” said Sharon. Clare could hear her leafing through the morning papers on her desk. “He’s an idle tosser who doesn’t fancy doing the difficult jobs. He’s always ill on the days when he’s down to go to the picket lines. I told Dave Bell that if it happened one more time we should give him an official warning, and that’s what we’re going to do.”
“Maybe he’s got some personal reason…” Clare started to say.
“Reporters don’t have personal anything,” Sharon snapped. “You want to be a decent reporter, forget about your own lives. Otherwise you won’t get anywhere.”
Not with you in charge, at any rate, Clare thought. Poor Tony, with his startled expression and his Marks and Spencer shirts and co-ordinating ties, so obviously chosen by his mother. Maybe he was genuinely ill, but news editors have a habit of automatically assuming that anyone who rings in sick is faking it. Clare knew this at her own cost. More likely, the thought of covering the volatile picket lines left the poor lad terrified. Either way, Catt would make him suffer.
So Clare sat doodling on her notebook while Stewie played around with his camera.
“Nice to have you for company, anyway,” Stewie remarked. “You’re easier on the eye than Tony.”
“He’s heading for trouble,” said Clare. “Catt’s got him down as swinging the lead.”
Stewie shook his head. “It’s not that. Some of his family are strikers. They gave him a hard time the last shift he did. I think he’s trying
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