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The moon faded from the sky and the birds chirped, and still Ellie tapped away on her computer in her father’s study. She’d spent the whole night locked in one position. Her neck had grown stiff, and she rolled her shoulders back in an arc, and doubled down again to wrestle the words into existence.
In the morning, Tom came through with a list of editors and their contact details, men and women who commanded the respect and attention of millions of readers. At first, Ellie balked at approaching them. Her ousting from BAZ had knocked her confidence, and she shied away from the possibility of further rejection so soon. Still, to publish without the umbrella of BAZ or another newspaper would be an act of self-sabotage and diminish her credibility as a journalist. There could be no way that the new WordPress blog she had created would take off overnight of its own accord. She needed the patronage of an editor to draw attention to the story. Fear of rejection couldn’t stop her if she wanted to make up for her previous error and rally people in support of the circus. Maybe then her own prickles of guilt would subside.
She drafted a cover note to accompany the story outline and the evidence she had collected, then she sent an email to the editors of her three favourite publications on the list, together with her credentials, asking them to respond to her within two days.
When she’d finished, she flopped on the desk with her head cradled in her arms and fell asleep as a train of words continued to trail across her mind, kernels of thought she couldn’t quite capture.
The buzz of Ellie’s phone pierced through the fog of her sleep. She woke to find her mouth had crusted with saliva, and swept her sleeve across it. She reached for the phone, her body slow and heavy and not yet replenished.
“Hello?” Her fingers rubbed the side of her face where a circular motif in the metal desk had imprinted itself on her cheek.
A voice like a purring engine met her ears. “Frau Richter? This is Simone Mayer from Die Welt. I received your email. Can you talk?”
“Of course.” Ellie sat bolt upright and tossed off her blanket. She looked at the grandfather clock in the corner of her father’s study. She hadn’t expected a response so soon.
“So, Marina Schmidt is up to her neck in it? These are quite some allegations you’re making. You can send me the proof?”
Ellie’s hand quivered on the handset, but not one note of hesitation crept into her response. “I have everything ready.”
“The article, too?”
Please, please, let me be doing the right thing. “Yes.”
A grunt of satisfaction. “Good. We’ll pay you our usual freelance rate for one article, and additional money for any follow up pieces. This is in exchange for exclusivity. We’ll email you a contract once I have received the piece. Sign the terms immediately, and we’ll run the story this week, assuming I’m satisfied with your work.”
Ellie thought fast. “I’m intending to write a connected blog series about the refugees. Will that impact exclusivity?”
“Big news is ours first. Run anything you need to by my assistant before you post it to your blog,” said Simone, reeling off the instructions with a butter smoothness that commanded respect. “Welcome to the big time, Frau Richter.”
Ellie gulped, said her goodbyes and called up her gmail account to send Simone the promised work.
Half an hour later, her father found her staring into space and placed a fresh coffee next to the stale remnants from the night before.
“You’re working too hard,” he said.
She grasped the mug in her hands and ignored his concern. “Thanks, Papa.”
Her father looped his arms around her shoulders and she could see his grainy reflection on the screen of her computer. “You making much progress?”
“I think so.” She softened her voice, willing him not to get prickly. “You’ve been drinking less recently.”
“Yeah, well, I know when my girls need me.”
She reached up to kiss his stubbly jaw.
He rubbed the prickles against her face like he used to do when she’d been a little girl. “Being cooped up isn’t good for the soul, Ellie. How about I treat you to a champagne brunch in Hackescher Markt?”
“Are you sure a drink this early is sensible? You know what you’re like,” said Ellie. She longed for a leisurely walk in wet woods to clear her head, not a family tête-à-tête, and certainly not alcohol first thing in the morning. No doubt her father would start as he meant to go on. “Besides, I’ve got something I need to wrap up.”
She filled him in on the conversation with Die Welt and his eyes grew wide with pride.
“See, you can’t keep a good woman down,” he said, delighted. “Are you sure we shouldn’t celebrate?”
“Don’t you have work?”
He ruffled her hair and she grimaced. “Sometimes you forget who’s the father and who’s the child. Don’t worry about me. I can go in late today.”
“Is Mama coming too?”
Her mother popped her head around the door, a haze of pink, with a felt-tip in her hands. “I’ve been making up signs for the march tomorrow, but I’m almost done.”
Ellie brushed her thick fringe out of her eyes, and smoothed out her crumpled t-shirt. “Look at the state of me.”
“We’ll give you half an hour to get ready,” said her father.
“Okay. I’ll do the brunch, minus the champagne.”
He patted her shoulder, and left her to it. Ellie lingered a moment, then hit publish on her blog. She pinged a few journalist friends on Twitter. After that, she pushed her anxiety away, deep into the darkest recesses of her mind, where it simmered.
Twenty-five minutes later, Ellie had showered and changed. She slipped into the cool leather interior of her parents’ Audi.
“Ready, love?” said her mother, turning around in the front passenger seat.
“Ready,” said Ellie, tying her damp hair into a knot at her nape and plugging in her seatbelt.
Her father drove across the city and, before long, he’d parked and they entered his favourite brunch restaurant in the tourist trap of Hackescher Markt. The chandeliered ceiling, cornicing and art nouveau paintings adorning the walls were a far cry from the laidback shabby chic charm of the restaurants Ellie favoured in Friedrichshain and Prenzlauer Berg.
They ordered their food and coffee, and her father requested three glasses of Prosecco. Ellie’s scowl at the early alcohol soon gave way into smiles as her parents toasted to her success.
“I knew you’d fall on your feet, darling,” said her mother.
“I bet they’re paying you quite a fee,” said her father, with a wink. “Maybe you should be treating us today, and not the other way around.”
Ellie laughed. “Hold your horses until I’ve signed the contract at least.”
They watched tourists amble past, through rain-splattered panes of glass. Soon, the waitress returned, balancing plates laden with scrambled eggs, sausages, Dutch cheese, avocado and toast. Her mother cast an envious glance at Ellie's bowl of natural yoghurt and pomegranate.
“Maybe I wanted something healthy after all,” she said.
“We can share. I need some stodge after the night I’ve had, especially if we’re going to be walking miles tomorrow,” said Ellie, helping herself to some cheese.
“Are you sure you want to go to the May Day march?” said her father, downing his drink. “Wolfram was at the stammtisch last night. He told me the police expect a bit of trouble this year. Maybe you should stay away.”
“Wolfram getting in a flap really isn’t going to sway us,” said her mother. “We’re battle-hardened Richter women. We can handle ourselves.”
Her father rolled his eyes.
“If you’re really worried, Martin, why don’t you come?” Her mother flashed her most winning smile.
“And miss the game?” said her father.
Her mother sighed. “You really are impossible.”
Her blew her a kiss. “As are you, darling. I wouldn’t have you any other way. Just promise me you’ll be careful, and for goodness sake stay on the edge, won’t you, in case you need to make a quick getaway.”
Her mother nodded.
Her father raised his hand for the waitress. “Time for another glass of Prosecco?”
“No!” said Ellie and her mother in unison.
