LONDON, 1997
Ben had left early and Victoria was relieved when she woke and the flat was empty. She didn’t want to talk to him. They’d shared the bed last night but it was as if she were sleeping with a stranger. She’d stayed awake half the night worrying. Martha spent the early morning hours spooned around Victoria’s head. It had felt protective. “Good girl,” she said to the cat as she left for the office.
She saw Mac at the front desk on the way in.
“Miss Byrd,” he said, “you were in Paris? You saw her?”
She nodded. For some reason, she thought she might cry.
“We went to St. James’s,” Mac said. “We signed the book.”
“Of course you did,” she said, tears pricking her eyes. “I’m glad you did. I’m glad there are people marking her passing.”
He walked her over to the lift. “You take care now,” he said.
When she got up to the fifth floor, she went to see Ewan in his office.
“I haven’t written anything more,” she said. “I’m so sorry. You’ll have to get someone else, Ewan. I can’t do it.”
“You can’t just not file, Victoria. Surely you know that.” He was sitting at his desk sorting through pictures. He hadn’t looked up when she’d come in.
She didn’t want to tell him about last night, about Ben.
“Well, I can’t. I can’t write about her anymore. I can’t write about Diana.”
Now he did look up, seeming more curious than anything else. “Is this because Harry didn’t run the piece from Paris as the leader?”
“No—as if I care about that.”
“Then why not?”
“I’ve lost all my muscle. She’s my age. She’s . . . I saw everything in Paris and I wrote my heart out, but you’re right. It’s not what’s wanted right now, and I’m finding I can’t write to order anymore. Claire said yesterday she thinks it’s us, our industry, that killed her.”
“That’s like blaming a—”
“A cow for heart disease. I know. But maybe it’s time we take responsibility. Even if people are demanding this stuff, it doesn’t mean we have to supply it.”
Ewan sighed. “Oh, Victoria, I can’t have you go ethical on me. I’m up against a hell of a deadline. I need you.” He gestured to his desk. It looked as it always looked: like the desk of a teenager raging against the very notion of adulthood. “I have to get the stories finalized and go to press within four hours of the funeral, so that we get the edition out before the others. We don’t have a lot of flexibility here.”
“I know.” She forced herself to hold back her tears. She didn’t want to cry in front of him and have him know how upset she was. “I just can’t do it, Ewan. I can’t. It’s something to do with Diana, and also me and those photographers. I can’t. I’m so sorry.” She felt her voice falter. She still hadn’t mentioned Ben.
He sat back and looked at her more carefully. “No, I’m sorry,” he said, taking his glasses off. For a minute, she thought he was going to fire her, but he only said, “Jeez, it’s been a long couple of days.” He rubbed his eyes with one hand. “Okay. Okay. You know you can only do this once, don’t you?”
She nodded, not trusting her voice right then.
“I mean, I get it. This one has affected us all. So.” He sat there for a moment, thinking, put his glasses back on. “How about I take you off Diana and we get you straight on M. A. Bright? I think we can run that as the November cover if Fin gets his contract in place. If that’s not a story with your fucking name on it, Victoria, I don’t know what is. It’s you to a tee. You’ll find your muscles again.” He made to flex his bicep, his arm skinny even in a long-sleeved shirt.
She smiled. The relief she felt was enormous. “Have you heard from Finian?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact. He called me early yesterday. You’d think Diana didn’t happen. He just went on and on about the new novel. Do you know what a lost baby is?”
“I think it’s just that—a lost baby.”
“Okay. He sort of expected me to know.”
“Me too, but I think it’s just a baby that’s lost somehow. He said it’s a trope.” On the flight back from Paris, Victoria had read the chapter Finian had given her. “There’s a baby left at a foundling wheel and it dies. It’s very sad, maybe a bit overwrought. Not exactly uplifting as the start of a novel either.”
“Okay. Well, what I’m thinking is that you can go sooner rather than later. M. A. Bright will get out. It absolutely will get out and currently we’re ahead of it. Frankly, I don’t much care about the novel. For us, it’s an interview with M. A. Bright, and she’s offering it to you. That’s a story even if it’s not really M. A. Bright. It’s like that lord everyone tried to chase. What was his name?”
“Lucan?”
“That’s it. Finding M. A. Bright is like finding Lord Lucan.”
He looked at her and smiled gently. “It’s going to be easier on you, I think,” he said.
“What will you do about Diana?”
“That’s my problem. Maybe Harry will let us hold longer. I wouldn’t mind that anyway. Maybe I’ll write it.”
“Thank you,” Victoria said. She looked at him. “Why are you doing this?”
He looked at her for a long moment. “Why do you think?”
“Because I’m a good writer?”
He didn’t answer straightaway but only looked at her again. “Because you’re my best writer,” he said. “And . . .” He pushed his glasses up his nose and looked at her. “Is everything okay, Victoria?”
“Yes,” she said, too quickly. “I just . . . it was the . . . The photographers are at my place again today.”
“Who?”
“No one I know. Ben told them we’re engaged.”
“I see,” Ewan said. “You’re engaged?”
“Yes,” she said. “We were keeping it under wraps, but Ben thought it was a good idea to tell someone he knows at the Tele, so now they want pictures again because Diana will only be a story for so long. They’ll need something else then. They’ll run a story about the wedding, and I . . .”
“You?”
“I wanted to keep it private.”
“Yeah, well, it’s a living.”
“I guess it is,” Victoria said. “Anyway, thank you. I’ll never forget you did this.”
“Do forget it,” he said, waving her off. “I just want the old Victoria back.”
He looked upset then, and it scared Victoria for no reason she understood.