‘You’re sure we’ll get a clear view from here?’
Sarah Truman asked the same question for maybe the tenth time in as many minutes.
‘As good as anyone inside the hoardings,’ replied Jack Maguire. ‘You want better, you have to go higher. That means going outside the square.’
Maguire nodded towards the nearby rooftops. Sarah followed his indication. For a moment she seemed to consider their options. A marksman was visible on a nearby church spire. It was a reminder that all raised buildings were off-limits.
Sarah turned back to Maguire.
‘It just seems a bit side-on. Wouldn’t we get a clearer shot if we were directly in front of the stage?’
‘I’m sure we would. Of the back of everyone’s heads, mainly.’
Maguire’s brisk words were said with a smile. He could understand her worries. For Sarah – much more than for him – today was a big deal. The first major story the network had given her. Maguire would have been concerned if Sarah had not been a little neurotic.
‘You almost ready for a run-through?’ Maguire asked, focusing his lens.
‘As I’ll ever be.’
Maguire could tell that Sarah’s grin was forced. That she was hiding her apprehension. Her stomach must be churning, he thought. But she can handle it.
Sarah quickly proved him right. She pulled her long brown hair free of the band that had secured it in a neat ponytail and scrunched her fingers through its thickness. It was something Sarah did before every take. A transformation from ‘behind the scenes’ to ‘front of house’. A superstition that was almost as pointless as a rabbit’s foot or a four-leaf clover.
Sarah placed herself in the centre of Maguire’s shot.
‘Let’s do it.’
Maguire’s smile widened. He had worked with TV reporters and actors for years. He was used to their narcissism and had lost count of the shots wasted while ‘the talent’s’ make-up was re-touched. But the last two years had been different. Not because Sarah was nothing to look at. In her own way the tall, slim American was as attractive as anyone Maguire had ever partnered. Sarah was not a classic beauty, sure, but she was somehow better for that. And, unlike the others, she was utterly lacking in vanity. At least as far as Maguire had noticed.
With her ritual complete, Sarah seemed reinvigorated, her pre-shot jitters now hidden by her honest smile and sparkling green eyes. Maguire beamed with pride.
‘What are you grinning at?’
‘Nothing. Come on, get started.’
Maguire refocused his lens one last time before giving Sarah a thumbs-up. The signal for her to begin:
‘We’re here in London’s Trafalgar Square, where the great and the good will soon arrive to commemorate the thousands of British men and women who have taken part in over a decade of conflicts in Afghanistan and Iraq. As the armed forces of Great Britain and her allies are preparing to rethink their priorities and their deployment, we are here today to say thank you to those who are already home. And to those who have made the ultimate sacrifice in defence of our way of life.
‘With the War on Terror shifting its focus in the Middle East, the time has come to take stock of what has so far been achieved in the years of brutal conflict. And to pay our dues to those brave soldiers who have fought so hard and for so long. And now, as we wait for . . .’
Sarah’s words trailed off, interrupted by the sound of cheers from the south-eastern end of Trafalgar Square. It could mean only one thing. The presidential motorcade had arrived.