CHAPTER 6

Today

NRN News sits facing the industrial shoreline of Newcastle Harbour in the prettily named suburb of Honeysuckle, which—at first glance—appears to be a hotspot for new, sterile-looking apartment buildings.

I catch the lift to the building’s third floor and press the security buzzer three times before an irritated voice picks up. ‘Yes?’

‘Hi, I’m Josephine Larsen; I have an appointment this morning with Natasha Harrington?’

The door clicks open without a reply.

I step inside an open-plan newsroom that’s a quarter of the size of the one I’m used to in Sydney. I’m met by the backs of a handful of producers tapping away at computer stations while a laser printer spits out scripts beside me. There’s no indication of who buzzed me in—not even a cursory glance in my direction. Still, it feels strangely quiet in here compared with the ulcer-causing stress of the Sydney newsroom.

I approach the person nearest me, a girl with a neat blonde ponytail and a face that says please just fuck off.

After a gentle apology for bothering her, I ask where I might find the news director.

‘I’ll go and tell her you’re here,’ she huffs, rolling her chair back and leaving me feeling like the self-conscious new kid at school again. Except, this time, there’s no Zac Jameson to shyly ask to share my earphones.

Everyone tenses up—including me—as a woman bounds across the carpet like a Hollywood showrunner entering a writers’ room in which her entire team has been goofing off.

‘Josephine Larsen?’ she says to me. Her high-pitched voice is a comical contrast against her towering frame, expensive-facial skin and razor-sharp stare. I could do an epic impersonation of this woman.

‘I usually go by Josie.’ We shake hands, and I follow her down a short hallway and into a corner office. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, a glistening ribbon of water unfurls across the industrial landscape, partially obscured by the new apartment building going up across the road.

Natasha flops into her plush leather chair and digs through a mound of papers on her desk. ‘So, you’ve had around two years in the Sydney newsroom, correct?’

‘That’s right. I started there as a junior reporter after four years at an internet news channel.’

‘What sort of reporting have you done at Channel One?’

‘General news … environmental, court rounds, some health, politics, a bit of entertainment … basically everything other than sport.’

She leans back in her chair, and I wonder if her lashes are fake or just spectacular. ‘Good. You’ll be a jack-of-all-trades up here, too, and with less hand-holding than you’re probably used to. We’ve already got politics well covered, and there’s not a great deal of entertainment up here, so I’ll keep you on general news, environmental and health. We recently picked up the John Hunter Hospital as a sponsor, and as a result, we’ve become quite heavy on health content lately. We’re in the middle of a series with the hospital’s new cancer centre, so please familiarise yourself with what we’ve done there so far.’

I nod and say all the right things, but my clammy fingers slide down my second-hand pencil skirt, gripping my thighs like a lifeline.

I am not going to mess up again.

I am going to walk through that cancer centre like a boss and uncover the compelling stories with truth and sensitivity, and I. Am. Not. Going. To. Screw. It. Up.

Natasha mutters something about a meeting and guides me into the office beside hers like she can’t get rid of me fast enough. I’m introduced to Isabella, the operations manager, who greets me warmly and escorts me around the newsroom on a road trip of introductions. While most of the reporters are out shooting stories, I meet a few of the producers and the chief of staff—a guy named Colin, with a man-bun, who looks about eighteen—before Isabella leads me to the attractive blonde I interrupted earlier.

My eyes catch on the sentence she’s just typed about a shark sighting at Bar Beach: ‘The area is known to be popular with sharks.’

‘Popular with sharks’? It’s not a nightclub, I think meanly.

‘Hi, sweetheart. I wanted to introduce our new reporter, Josie Larsen,’ Isabella says to her.

A smile graces the girl’s lips, but her ice-blue eyes size me up as potential competition. I’m not sure why. She’s younger than me, blonder than me, and—I learn as she stands up—taller than me.

‘Hi, I’m Meghan.’

My lips part. ‘Meghan Mackay?’

She laughs musically. ‘You’re Zac’s friend.’

She says his name like she owns it, and a territorial feeling sweeps through me.

‘He’s the sweetest, honestly,’ she says, blushing. ‘I can’t fault him—you’ll have to tell me what he’s hiding.’ She glows at Isabella. ‘I don’t think I told you yet that I have a new boyfriend.’ They share a quiet squeal.

Isabella speeds up our tour, which we’re apparently now behind on, but I’m having trouble focusing on anything but Meghan calling Zac her boyfriend. After what happened with Tara, this feels like earth-shaking information. And why did he tell me just yesterday that he doesn’t have a girlfriend?

I trail Isabella into the studio, excitement firing in my chest at the sight of the news-presenting desk sitting empty behind four robotic cameras. I’m already aware that the main presenting duo here, Yvette Sinclair and Robert Knight, will need to be wheeled out in coffins before ever quitting their jobs. But the weekend newsreaders feel closer to my age and level—Genevieve Meleska and Richard Cross, who double as sports and weather reporters on weekdays.

I spend the rest of the day shadowing a friendly reporter named Lola, and we head to a courthouse in Belmont, where a guy accused of selling drugs on the dark web is attending a bail hearing. Lola is one of those approachable, bubbly people who I click with instantly, and after learning I’m new in town, she suggests we get together for drinks one evening after work. She’s also impressively patient with her cameraperson, Gus, who doesn’t appear to want to shoot anything. Instead, he huffs around, muttering, ‘We’ve got gobs of archival footage of that at the station,’ and ‘The editors will never use that shot,’ and ‘You’ve already got way more vision than you need.’ At first, I think he’s insecure about his abilities, but when he films Lola’s piece to camera like a seasoned pro, I cotton on that Gus is just lazy.

The bail hearing runs late, and when we get back to the station, poor Lola bolts to the voiceover booth because the deadline for her news package is looming. Still, compared with the panic-stricken Sydney newsroom, today’s atmosphere bordered on a Zen meditation session. Maybe Christina is right. There’s less competition up here, and if I knuckle down and avoid distractions, I could end up covering the region’s leading stories and prove to Oliver Novak that Christina’s unwavering belief in me is justified.

The rest of the week goes smoothly, and as I drive out of Honeysuckle on Friday evening in my gleaming new work car, I give my parents a call in Koh Samui.

‘Hello, darling, how are you coping?’ Mum asks right off the bat, like I’ve checked in to prison instead of Newcastle.

‘I’m going well,’ I reply truthfully. ‘I just finished up my first week at work, and it was all very calm and easy compared with Sydney. I think the news director here likes me, and I made a new friend called Lola.’

‘Well, that’s wonderful.’

Mum pauses so she can relay all this to Dad before she comes back on the line.

‘What do you think of the city itself?’ she asks. ‘It was quite small when we were there all those years ago.’

I flip on the indicator to make a left turn onto Hunter Street. ‘I’m still getting to know it, but I like it so far. It feels like a cool mix of beachy and quirky, like someone combined the best of Sydney and Melbourne. I also can’t believe how much cheaper everything is here.’

‘Sounds like you might actually enjoy the next six months in the boondocks,’ Mum jokes.

I breathe a light laugh. ‘I wouldn’t go that far.’

Mum pauses. ‘Have you seen Zac?’

My throat draws tight. ‘Yeah.’

‘How is he?’

My teeth dig into my bottom lip. ‘I don’t know yet. I’m still trying to figure that out.’

There’s not much either of us can say on that complicated topic right now, so the conversation shifts to Mum and Dad’s latest adventures in Thailand, which included a visit to the jungles of Chang Mai. Throughout our catch-up, I say nothing about the panic attacks I’ve been having over my health. It took incredible courage and planning for my parents to chase their retirement dream in Thailand, and I don’t want to be the one who sticks a pin into their happy bubble and makes them feel bad for being far away. It doesn’t help that my sister has a fantastic life and career in London as the communications director for a British politician, and is the living definition of having one’s shit together. I love Ingrid to death and want only the best for her, but I’m determined not to be the sibling who can’t keep up.

After I finish the call with Mum, I make an unplanned turn towards Hamilton. I haven’t spoken to Zac all week, and showing off my new set of wheels is a good excuse to make contact. Plus, Fridays used to be our favourite night to hang out when we were living in Bathurst. We’d usually start with a game of pool at our local, then hunt out some live music—even if it was a crappy soloist—and end up stumbling home while making each other laugh with retellings of the night’s events … odd people we got chatting to, singers who’d screwed up the lyrics, my weird dance moves if it had been a particularly rowdy one.

My car slows outside Zac’s place, where a massive moving van sits blocking his house. There’s no sign of Zac’s black Subaru. I pull over behind the van and decide to text him when a shadow falls over my passenger-side window.

Zac’s housemate, Lindsay, is standing on the footpath clutching a cardboard box. He spotted me right away—this guy should be a reporter.

I reach across the car seat and push the button to open the window. ‘Hey there.’

His smile crinkles his eyes behind his glasses. ‘I thought that was you. Zac’s friend, Josie, right?’

‘Definitely Josie. But Zac’s friend?’ I shake my hand like it’s touch-and-go.

I have no idea why I even said that, but Lindsay chuckles, his eyes gleaming. ‘Zac’s not here right now.’

‘Ah, OK. I was just driving past.’ I rest my hand on the gearstick, but Lindsay shows no indication of leaving.

‘You’re moving out today,’ I observe. I don’t know why I’m continuing this conversation, but the thought of heading back to my dingy house with Davide and his clouds of incense sends a swell of loneliness through me. I already suggested to Lola that we go for those cocktails she mentioned, but she’s got a date night planned with her live-in boyfriend, Nathan.

‘Yeah, we’re obviously running late,’ Lindsay replies. He plonks down the box he’s holding while two guys in orange hi-vis shirts heft a bedframe in the background. Lindsay thumb-points at them. ‘Those dickheads booked two jobs in one day and didn’t get here until an hour ago.’

Silently, I note that Lindsay’s not exactly hurrying either.

‘Zac’s an all-right guy deep down; that’s not why I’m moving out,’ he adds randomly, like I know nothing about my oldest friend. ‘We just didn’t see eye to eye on a few things. Plus, my folks have an awesome pad over in Merewether that they’re not using, so they’re letting me move in. Rent-free.’

‘Sounds like an offer too good to refuse.’

I’m trying not to think about Zac’s description of Lindsay as a nudist who can’t aim his pee. With his rimless glasses, white polo-neck shirt and blingy watch, Lindsay comes off as more of a weekend golfer with a corporate desk job. And I can’t deny that his boastful smile looks good on his face.

I hold his gaze for a few jittery heartbeats before switching on the engine. ‘Will you tell Zac I stopped by?’

Lindsay leans closer to the window. ‘You know, Zac’s been holding out on me. He never told me he had a stunning friend called Josie.’

Zac never told him about me. That little nugget of information unlocks a desolate feeling in my chest that I push away.

‘That’s probably because I’m from Sydney, and I only just moved up here recently.’

‘Ah, so you’ll need a tour guide then.’ Lindsay stares at me with a question in his eyes. ‘Can I show you around? You tell me what you like doing, and I’ll show you where to find it in Newy.’

My cheeks flush, and I fumble for what to say before Lindsay flops out an upturned hand. ‘May I please borrow your phone, Miss Josie from Sydney?’ This guy is all confidence, which I certainly don’t hate.

‘My phone?’ I parrot, even though I know where this is going. My heart steps up its pace as I give Lindsay the handset and watch him tap his number into it. When he passes the phone back to me, he grazes his fingers over mine.

‘If Zac’s cool with it, give me a call.’ He cocks his head, his eyes making a deliberate slide down and up my body. Sleazy or sexy? I can’t decide. All I know is that I seem to have scored myself a date. I’ve got zero plans to stick around this city once my contract ends, but who knows, if things went well between us, maybe Lindsay would move to Sydney for me. He’s got ‘city slicker’ written all over him.

I bite down a smile all the way home, but when I push through the front door, I nearly stumble backwards. What the …

I blink hard at the two white globes of Davide’s bare ass, unsure if I’m seeing right. He spins to face me, holding a lighter against the tip of a smudge stick of white sage. Yup, he’s definitely naked.

‘God, sorry!’ I splutter, squeezing my eyes shut. When I open them again, Davide’s casually flicking the sage smoke into the room’s corners while his hairy bits swing in my vision. Our gazes catch again, and something suggestive sparks in his eyes. I race past him and dash up the stairs before shutting my bedroom door and pressing my back to it. My gut twists as I pull out my phone, figuring out what to type to Zac. I don’t want to launch straight into: Davide’s a nudist, and I think he wants to hook up with me.

ME: Hey favourite, I swung past your place today, but you weren’t home.

Hope you’ve been having a lovely day.

Using a nickname that I haven’t given Zac for two years makes my breaths quicken. It’s not like he calls me ‘sunbeam’ anymore. But when three dots appear immediately, my shoulders loosen a little.

ZAC: What time was that? I was at the gym, then took the dog to the groomer.

ME: Oh no, you didn’t shave Bob Marley, did you??

He replies with a photo of himself holding Trouble, whose ratty dreads have been clipped into something only marginally more presentable. Zac’s amber-green eyes sparkle through the screen as he presses his smiling lips to her fur.

ME: Both looking gorgeous

Eeek, was that too much?

Zac begins typing something before the speech bubble disappears. It reappears then vanishes again, twice. I decide to rescue both him and me in one move.

ME: Do you have dinner plans? Want to come over?

I’m going to make that sheep head thing from Iceland.

ZAC: Sounds good, as long as you absolutely do not make that thing from Iceland.

Is it OK if I bring Trouble? She’s feeling needy with her new coif.

ME: Zac, trouble follows you wherever you go. Of course you can. Come in an hour or so?

And can I pls ask a favour?

ZAC: I’m sorry, I can’t babysit your kids. They are truly terribly behaved, and you should be ashamed of yourself for raising such brats.

ME: My new housemate’s being weird (already).

While you’re here, do you think you could pretend to be my boyfriend?

It can just be a verbal thing.

I promise you don’t have to kiss me.

I already regret the puke-face emoji, but it’s too late. Zac’s typing.

ZAC: No problem. What’s that tree-hugger done? Is he chanting at the full moon? Burning all the gluten? Making you crochet him a poncho?

ME: Haha, it’s all good, he just insists on walking around naked, no biggie.

(And really, I mean no biggie)

ZAC: You’re kidding, right?

ME: Wish I was. But don’t worry, I think he thought I wasn’t coming home.

Are all the men in Newcastle nudists?

ZAC: Apparently it’s a requirement. I’m so sorry.

ME: Not your fault! Plus, I know there are at least two decent men left in Newcastle.

Did your housemate Lindsay tell you he gave me his number today?

My finger hovers over the ‘send’ arrow before I chicken out and delete the message. Zac didn’t seem to think much of Lindsay, and right now, our friendship feels fragile enough.

ME: Better run and get ingredients.

See you soon, my sexy-a-f boyfriend.

This is exactly what I would have said to old-Zac, but this is new-Zac now, and the words I’ve already sent make me grimace at my phone screen. When he doesn’t reply, I fast-type another message.

ME: I was obviously joking … see you soon.

ZAC: As long as you don’t puke if I kiss you.

My stomach does a funny dip and doesn’t seem to right itself until I get to the grocery store.