In Pieces

  In Pieces

  Nick Hopton

  For Alejandra

  These fragments I have shored against my ruins.

  The Waste Land

  T. S. Eliot

  Behind our daily mirrors lie our dreams,

  Part of every breath but hard to see:

  Our guardian angels, watching us at night,

  And guiding us by day towards what’s right.

  But often we are blind and will not see,

  Let slip our dreams, relieve banality.

  So we must breathe betimes and, unconstrained,

  Soft sense an angel’s smile for dreams attained.

  The Book of Dreams

  P. Donoth

  Contents

  Prologue

  Winter

  Spring

  Summer

  A Note on the Author

  Prologue

  The summer came late that year. Thursday the 15th of September was one of those days for which it’s worth weathering a torrential July and August. Not too hot, but sunny and with the first intoxicating scent of autumn in the air. Those unfortunates stuck in offices longed to stroll in the parks and kick the first fallen leaves into the slight breeze. But enough Londoners remained masters of their time to ensure that the pavements were bustling and the cafés full.

  On the dusty Strand shoppers rushed along, tumbling over themselves. A great flood of humanity washed past Charing Cross and down towards the Aldwych. Tourists, office workers and the homeless jostled along together. The traffic moved more slowly, grinding its way along the choked road in peristaltic bursts. Exhaust fumes hung in the air and mixed with the sunshine, refracting primary colours onto the tired grey flagstones.

  It was the end of summer and yet an optimistic air of expectation hung on the day.

  When the explosion ripped across the street at two minutes after one o’clock, it seemed to fulfil the prophecy which had permeated London all morning; here was the great event foretold by the sunshine and the excited pedestrians. But once the stiletto splinters torn from shop windows had fallen back to earth, and the twisted metal sculptures wrought from scaffolding collapsed with an apocalyptic boom, all optimism evaporated.

  The bomb destroyed over one hundred metres of buildings and broke windows a mile away in the City. Many of the victims had to be identified by their dental records.

  Winter

  Mini Bournemouth stared out of the window and for the first time in over a year allowed herself to behave like a woman. The tears gouged through the powder on her slightly wrinkled, porcelain cheeks, but she didn’t bother to mop them up. She stayed at the window, staring blindly out at the twinkling brilliance of the London Docklands. In the distance she could make out Canary Wharf, blazing away like a Roman candle in the crisp, snow-filled night. It suddenly appeared a perfect metaphor for her own career; strange how she’d never noticed it before now.

  It wasn’t easy being the most successful woman in British journalism. Of course, the benefits outweighed the disadvantages—Mini was the first to admit that she loved the attention and the chance to play role model to thousands of bright young women. The letters she received still gave her a buzz and in her more philosophical moments, of which there had been an increasing number recently, she persuaded herself that it really mattered that she continue to make a success of her job. She wasn’t just working for herself. No, it was as much for the generations of women coming after her, benefiting from the barriers she had broken and the inroads she had carved into newspaper chauvinism.

  But being a pioneer also had its drawbacks. Since breaking through the glass ceiling and being appointed the first ever female editor of a major national newspaper (some would say the national newspaper), Mini had hardly seen her family. And this hurt because she had always taken pride in telling her many professional admirers, especially those interviewing her for glossy magazine articles, that she had succeeded in combining her career with a happy home life. Her three kids were doing fine at school and Mark, her husband—her only husband, as she occasionally emphasized to her much-divorced friends—was loyal and loving.

  When she accepted the job at The Courier she had known it wouldn’t be easy. What she hadn’t expected was that the man who hired her, Sir Lesley Johnson, the media tycoon, would prove so impossible.

  The problem became evident after only a few weeks, but Mini thought she could overcome it and even use it to her own advantage. After all, that’s what she’d always succeeded in doing in the past when faced with a difficult situation or a cantankerous superior.

  Sir Lesley, as he liked to be known, was to prove the exception. He objected to editorials which deviated even slightly from his own politics and seemed to forget when talking to Mini that she had a track record in the media almost as long and as impressive as his own. He patronised her dreadfully, but this she could bear.

  What really got to her was the self-censorship which she began without really noticing. She started to lose respect for herself, slowly at first, but after a year she realised that it was a long time since she had even tried to challenge Sir Lesley’s brittle opinions through her editorial column. The fire which had carried her so far seemed to be burning out.

  The inevitable reaction when it came was predictably strong. Mini banged out several polemical leaders, which brought an incandescent Sir Lesley to the phone.

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing, young lady?’ he bellowed. ‘I’ve told you I don’t agree with euthanasia.’

  Mini had wanted to tell him not to call her a young lady—she was almost fifty after all—and to defend her argument that euthanasia was justified in certain cases; for example, in Sir Lesley’s. But her career mind overrode her emotions and she bit her tongue.

  ‘I’m sorry, Sir Lesley,’ she heard herself saying demurely, ‘I’d forgotten that.’

  ‘Well, don’t forget in future.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘You’d better not…’ He’d left the threat hanging in mid-air and had become more explicit a few weeks later when Mini chanced her arm again with a stinging attack on the current legal practice of allowing women to be cross-examined in court by those accused of raping them.

  ‘For God’s sake woman, The Courier isn’t some sort of feminist rag. If you want to write that kind of tripe, go and work for The Guardian…’

  ‘Sorry,’ was all Mini managed through clenched teeth.

  ‘Sorry? You’d better be. If this happens again, you’ll be looking for a new job.’

  Mini hadn’t answered, but she knew it was only a matter of time before her self-respect got the better of her again. She started weighing up the options and made a few discreet enquiries of old friends.

  Her natural home, The Daily Telegraph, had recently appointed a new editor and all the other top positions were filled. The Mail, where she had worked before coming to The Courier, also offered no escape route. She couldn’t face the prospect of sloping back to her old editor with her tail between her legs; it would look like she couldn’t handle the pressure, and she was under no illusions that many of those who had scribbled so enthusiastically about her arrival at The Courier would have any compunctions about writing with enthusiastic schadenfreude about her departure. Suddenly her position as a feminist icon seemed to be a millstone around her neck.

  Mini tried to pull herself together and stared hard at the sparkling night lights of East London, imploring them to provide the moral strength she so desperately needed. She wiped away the damp patches on her cheeks and powdered her shiny, porcelain skin. The mirror showed that her eyes were red beyond repair, but that couldn’t be helped. She dabbed a bit and then turned to the task in hand. The important thing was to act before Sir Lesley did.

  A beacon on top of Can
ary Wharf winked at her and the idea that she had a fellow conspirator cheered her slightly. Mini watched the snowflakes fall past her for a while; even the night seemed to be crying cold tears for her, she thought. Then she walked back to her huge black desk and surveyed the papers arranged in neat piles across the glass surface. The paper had gone to bed and the worst of the mess had disappeared. Odd articles and a few abandoned drafts still remained.

  She ignored these and picked up the framed photograph which occupied pride of place. She paused and planted a wistful kiss on it. Mark and the kids grinned back at her. Sasha was now frighteningly fifteen but Tarquin was still an adorable twelve-year-old cherub. She realised with a pang of guilt that she’d not always lived up to the high ideals of motherhood she had championed as a columnist. The picture had been taken three years ago, when life hadn’t been quite so serious. Before she’d had to neglect her family in favour of dawn starts and midnight finishes at work. That had also been long before she’d started to harbour even the slightest doubts about her husband’s fidelity. Well, that was one good thing about all this. She was going to have much more time to spend with the three of them; she might even be able to save her marriage—after all, as yet she had nothing concrete to suggest she couldn’t.

  Mini put the photograph in her bag and called her secretary, Martha Rogers, on the intercom. Martha, single, middle aged and unassumingly charming, was an institution at The Courier. She’d been there longer than any of the staff journalists, long before the paper moved to Docklands, and she provided a point of stability among the musical chairs to which everyone had wearily become accustomed. Invariably neatly dressed, tweed skirts in winter and cotton floral print dresses in summer with a cardigan cast over her narrow shoulders, Martha could be relied on to be efficient and calm when everyone else was rushing around chaotically. She also provided continuity between editors—her reputation was such that no newcomer would dare to sack her immediately and within a short time they came to rely on her utterly.

  ‘Martha, darling. Could you pop in a minute?’ Like the rest of the staff, Mini thought Martha was a star; in Mini’s book, her secretary was one of the best things about working at The Courier. She would miss her.

  ‘Sure, no problem, Mrs Bournemouth.’ Martha’s head appeared round the door, illuminating the room with a gentle smile.

  Mini smiled back.

  ‘Everything all right?’ Martha asked. Perhaps she’d noticed the red eyes.

  ‘Yes, fine. Everything is…fine.’

  Martha looked at her expectantly.

  ‘Right, sorry. I just want to dictate a quick letter and then we’ll both get out of here. God knows, it’s late enough.’

  Martha shrugged but was clearly grateful. The clock on the wall showed ten to eleven. Settling herself in the seat opposite Mini, Martha took the letter in shorthand, and, apart from a sharp intake of breath on a couple of occasions and the onset of a pained expression, she did not react to what her boss said.

  ‘… So it is with the deepest regret that I have to tender my resignation with immediate effect. Yours sincerely, Miranda Bournemouth,’ concluded Mini.

  ‘It’s always better to jump before you’re pushed,’ she offered by way of explanation to the shocked Martha. ‘Come on, cheer up. This isn’t the time for tears. I’m going to spend more time with my family after all.’ Mini managed a wry smile at the cliché and Martha stifled her sobs.

  ‘Now I need you to get that letter to Sir Lesley at about eight tomorrow morning. I know it’s a bit early, but I want him to receive it just after he’s read the paper and before he can get on the phone.’ Mini smiled broadly and surprised herself with her levity. ‘God, he’ll love that editorial! Absolutely love it!’

  She picked up her bag, crossed to Martha and gave her a peck on the cheek. ‘Thanks for everything, eh? Don’t worry; I’ll stay in touch. Look after yourself. Goodness knows who he’ll appoint after me… But you know you can always give me a ring if you need a move. Okay?’

  Martha nodded, dumbstruck by the loss of her boss. She had enjoyed working for Mini far more than for her predecessors.

  Mini turned and walked purposefully across the room. At the door she glanced back and waved briefly. Then she was gone.

  ~

  Dougy McCormack, Political Editor for The Scribe, a critically acclaimed but commercially failing broadsheet, was having breakfast at his desk. ‘Hey, are there any more croissants?’ No answer. Dougy sighed. You just couldn’t get the staff these days. What kind of a PA abandoned him at such a crucial moment of the day? The kind he had, that’s what.

  He turned to The Courier, a rival paper, but one which he respected and tried to keep broadly in step with. He knew as well as anyone that it offered the most accurate media barometer for the government’s policies. While he could read the gauge and reflect it in his columns, everyone knew that The Courier’s owner had a symbiotic relationship with key members of the Cabinet. What was less clear was whether Sir Lesley’s contribution to government policy exceeded the government’s influence on his newspaper. Dougy suspected it did.

  ‘Wow, that’s odd!’

  ‘What is?’ came a nasal voice from the next room.

  ‘Oh, you’re back are you? Thought you’d already left for the day.’ The sarcasm seemed to wash over Serena, his secretary.

  ‘No, Dougy, I’m here for several more hours yet. At least until lunchtime.’

  If I ever get another job, I’m going to give up being Mr Nice Guy with my staff, vowed Dougy. No more modern management for me. I’m going to be taken seriously, and I’m not going to take any crap from my subordinates.

  ‘What is?’ insisted Serena. For the moment it was obviously too late, Dougy sighed.

  ‘What is what?’ snapped Dougy.

  ‘What is odd?’

  ‘Oh, yeah. I was just reading this, that’s all.’ He shook a copy of The Courier above his head.

  Serena immediately lost interest.

  Dougy read the leader again carefully. That didn’t look like Sir Lesley, not at all. Criticising the government’s education policy—not the usual line at all. And not just criticism, but a damning attack. What was going on? His brow furrowed as he puzzled this mystery and sipped his coffee. Blast, it was cold. ‘Serena!’

  ~

  Mark rolled over and stretched out a languid arm. He knew the bed would be empty. Mini was always gone by six and it was now nine. He understood why she went and was never there when he felt like making love to her, but no amount of conscious understanding could completely eradicate the nagging irritation and growing resentment. How could she expect him to be the perfect husband when she was either too tired or absent? It was a lot to ask. Although he knew his job was low-key compared to hers, he wondered whether Mini worried about the small cares of an interior designer any more.

  Mark’s hand brushed against something. Something soft and silky which yielded pleasingly to the touch. He opened his eyes with a start. ‘What are you doing here?’

  Mini yawned and stretched. ‘What do you mean? This is my bed, isn’t it, and aren’t you my husband? Or were you expecting someone else?’

  ‘No, of course not. That’s not what I meant. Shouldn’t you be at work?’

  ‘Yes, probably.’

  ‘Is it a holiday?’

  ‘You could say that,’ said Mini thoughtfully. She took his hand and placed it on her silk nightdress. Mark looked at her, puzzled, unaware for a moment that he was cradling her breast. He wondered what Mini was playing at. But then he felt a demanding warmth surge into his groin. There would be time for explanations later. He grinned and leaned over towards his wife.

  ‘Hey, you… Come here…’

  ~

  ‘You offering me the job?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Well, Sir Lesley, it’s a bit of a bolt from the blue…’

  ‘Well, don’t hang around admiring the show. Do you want it or not? There are plenty of others who’d jump
at the chance.’

  ‘Yes, yes. Of course I do.’

  ‘Good. There are certain conditions attached.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘But we can talk about that when you come in later today.’

  ‘Today? What time?’

  ‘Why, are you busy?’

  ‘Uh, no… Of course not. Anytime, that’s just fine by me.’

  ‘Good. That’s what I like to hear.’ Sir Lesley knew he’d got the right man already. ‘Let’s say twelve, okay? We’ll sort out a few details and then take some lunch. Quaglino’s okay?’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’

  ‘Right. See you at twelve.’

  Dougy still pressed the receiver to his ear as the line went dead. ‘Wow! Wow, bloody wow!’ he shouted.

  ‘What’s wrong now?’ asked Serena.

  ‘Wrong? Wrong? Nothing’s wrong. Nothing is wrong at all! In fact… Everything… Even you… Everything is perfect.’

  Serena looked at her boss suspiciously. He’d clearly lost the plot completely this time.

  ~

  Simon Simpson, tall and modestly handsome in a weak-chinned English sort of way, wrinkled his brow and scanned the first edition. It wasn’t there. He pursed his lips and exhaled through his nose. His friend Jimmy, who’d got a mention in the sports pages for his goal in Millwall’s Second Division victory, had contributed more to the paper than he had.

  Si slumped in his chair, swivelled forty-five degrees and undid the cuffs on his electric blue shirt before carefully rolling them up. Damn. He’d spent all day researching that story and then Slimey Stevens, his loathsome boss, had pulled it. He might have guessed this would happen. Si put it down to jealousy but knew that if he didn’t get out soon his career as a journalist would be over before it had really got started.

  While wondering how to salvage the day, he twiddled his pen and stared absent-mindedly at the screensaver on his desktop computer: Success isn’t the ball at the back of the net, it’s getting it there. Success isn’t the—The red text scrolled endlessly across the aquamarine background. Apparently, this was a quotation from the poet-footballer Eric Cantona. Si’s boyhood football-fanaticism had faded to indifference after puberty; he only took a passing interest in the game these days, and only then when it concerned Jimmy’s fortunes. So he found it hard to pinpoint what had attracted him to the aphorism; but after seeing it printed large on a sports page he had adopted it for his idle moments—at least until he found something more interesting.