30

Saturday, late morning

Harriet presses the neat stack of envelopes into her handbag. There are five in total, and each one contains a letter to Robert Pickford. He has handed them to her because, although each one begins ‘Dear Sir’ or ‘Dear Editor’, they are commenting on her Forty Thieves piece. She had been surprised, at first, when he dropped them on her desk. He has not shown her any great regard until this moment – quite the opposite, indeed. She knew what they were, of course. Jimmy Cartwright has many such envelopes on his desk. He takes it for granted that he will receive them. Members of the public always write to the editor to praise or critique an article or report, and Pickford hands them to his reporters. They learn very quickly, Jimmy has told her, that real people read their words. He has also told her not to pay too much heed to such letters. He assumes she has received them already.

‘Read them, enjoy the praise where you find it, and try not to argue with the negative remarks,’ he said. ‘Learn from them. People like what they like. Oh, and some people are mad.’

Some people, if these letters are any indication, are, indeed, mad – or at least hold odd opinions. Mostly, they are diatribes against shoplifters and thieves, but there are a few words of praise for her writing scattered here and there.

These are the first such letters she has received, and they feed a growing hunger within her. She is worth more than the women’s pages – she always knew it – and, in a matter of days, five people have written to the editor, confirming her ability. She clings to the positive words, reciting them in her head. She will read them over again later, perhaps.

She stares at her typewriter, wondering what excitement she might give her readers today. Now that she knows she has readers beyond Mrs MacKenzie and, occasionally, her mother. Mr Pickford has made it clear yet again that she is to confine her energies to the women’s section and to what he terms ‘feminine interests’, despite the evident enthusiasm for her piece about Ruby Mills.

It is Ruby’s story, though, that was the inspiration. And Ruby herself.

Harriet touches the knot of hair at the back of her neck. She has twisted it into the same style today as she has every day since leaving school.

Jimmy Cartwright breezes in, a leather satchel slung across his body as always, and heads straight for his desk without speaking.

Harriet feeds a sheet of paper into her typewriter, observing him. He throws the bag on his desk and pulls out his notebook, oblivious of everything around him. He is like this when he is investigating. This is not reporting; it is scenting out news, and he is like a dog after a fox. When he is writing about something that has already happened – the robbery at Mr Enderby’s, for instance – he is gregarious. He laughs with the other men, slaps them on the back, hail-fellow-well-met. But when he is investigating, operating on a hunch, a tip from an informant, an overheard conversation, a whisp of a story on the wind, Jimmy becomes withdrawn, secretive, focused.

Harriet pulls the sheet out of the typewriter, feeds it in a second time – straighter – and taps the carriage return twice. She puts her fingers to the keys, pauses, then types: ‘The Cocktail Hour’. She will write a piece about the American Bar at the Savoy.

Jimmy is flicking through his notebook, a well-chewed pencil between his teeth.

The clock on the office wall tells her that it is already nearly eleven. She has written only three words. It is time to go and make the morning tea.

When she reaches Jimmy’s desk with the tray, she sees that he has finished reading his notes and has pulled a copy of the Daily Express from his satchel. She puts a cup of tea in front of him.

‘Thank you.’

‘Are you seeking inspiration?’

‘Just seeing what they’re leading with today. How about you?’ He folds the newspaper and drops it on the corner of the desk. ‘Are you still basking in adulation for your girl-thief article?’

She feels the heat rising at her neck. ‘No. Not really. I had some letters… Mr Pickford…’

‘Good. I’m glad. It was a great piece. Are you following it up?’

The compliment is unexpected. ‘No. At least, not immediately,’ she flusters. ‘I’m back to the women’s section. Trying to conjure something breathlessly exciting.’

‘Hats or handbags?’ he laughs, not unkindly.

‘I thought I’d try cocktails.’

‘Really? For the matrons of Holland Park? Audacious.’

She giggles. ‘I know. My mother and her friends will have kittens. What about you? You were distracted when you came in. What are you chasing? A murder?’

‘Corruption.’

‘My father is always fulminating about corruption, usually from behind the Times, over the breakfast table. What is it now? More American businessmen paying to become peers?’

‘Viscount Astor, you mean?’ His eyebrows raise. ‘That was a couple of years ago, and I’d hardly call his peerage corruption.’

‘My father would disagree. Says he bought his title when the war was at its height. That greedy Yankee, he calls him.’

Jimmy shrugs. ‘Well, he may have done, but Willy Waldorf shared his wealth – at least a little of his vast empire – unlike so many others. A philanthropist as well as a newspaper proprietor. No, this is different – shabby stuff.’ He runs a finger down the scrawl in his notebook, open on the desk. ‘Illegal buying and selling, gambling and drugs, prostitution, that kind of thing. I’m picking up straws in the wind so far, but there’s a story here, I know it. I can smell it.’

The door to Pickford’s office opens. The editor, in his shirt sleeves, collar off, cigarette in hand, summons Jimmy.

‘On my way, sir.’

He rolls his eyes at Harriet and gulps down a mouthful of tea. ‘Good luck with the cocktails. Let me know if you need anyone to help with your research. Unless you already have a young gentleman to escort you around the bars.’

She turns her head, avoiding direct eye contact. ‘Of course, Jimmy. I’ll let you know.’

He strides towards the editor’s office and closes the door behind him.

He has left his notebook on the desk, open. As she moves to collect the half-drained teacup, Harriet cannot resist taking a look.

His writing is appalling. He has a shorthand all of his own, but one word is legible, circled twice at the top of the page: Angel.

She stares at the word.

‘Forgot my notebook.’ Jimmy is beside her. He reaches for it, snapping it shut as he scoops it off the desk. ‘Ah, thanks.’ He takes the teacup from her hand. ‘I hadn’t quite finished it. Don’t want to waste your lovely tea, do I?’ He jerks his head towards Mr Pickford’s office. ‘He’s in a filthy mood, by the way. I’d get back to your typewriter, if I were you. Don’t let him see you standing idling.’

‘No. I won’t. Thank you for the warning.’

She returns to her desk deep in thought, recalling the charmingly aristocratic Peter Lazenby. The stories he told her had been racy, to be sure. The goings on at the Angel lay on the outer edges of morality, but there was nothing more to them than that.

Straws in the wind, Jimmy said.

She shakes the Angel from her mind and tries to concentrate on her piece. She scribbles headings and comments in her notebook, describing the colour, the taste, the sensations of the American Bar as best she can remember, before typing the requisite number of words.

The sentences come, slowly, painfully, until she finishes. It is a poor article, but it is something, and she is sure that it will suffice. She tugs it from the typewriter and lays it on her desk.

She pulls her new powder compact from the handbag under her desk and checks her appearance in the tiny mirror. A strand of hair has fallen out of her comb. She hooks it back behind the teeth of the comb with a frustrated sigh, knowing that it will work its way loose again before the end of the day.

Perhaps it is time to do something about it.