With a huge sigh, Tiff flopped onto Dirk’s sofa.
She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, trying to ease the tension in her shoulders and neck. It was Sunday, and she’d hardly slept so her eyes were propped up on matchsticks after writing and rewriting Marina’s story dozens of times. She’d filed it earlier that morning and it was due to appear later in the week.
Marina had gone to stay with her parents and Tiff was glad her cousin had got out of the cauldron of Porthmellow for a while.
She’d taken no pleasure in writing the feature, which had been the most difficult she’d ever done. She’d lain awake most of the night, hoping she’d got the balance between giving her perspective and writing a story that would pass muster with the editor. She’d even shown it to Marina, something she’d never done before, and done her best to incorporate her amendments. Writing it was horrendous but she took a certain grim satisfaction in using her skills to shine a shaft of light on the darkest situation.
She knew Marina would be asked time and again if she was pleased that Nate had been found, and for a while, her every nuance of emotion would be picked over by the vultures like herself, and the millions on the Internet.
She opened her eyes to find Dirk putting two gin and tonics on the table. The simple pleasure of him making her a drink brought tears to her eyes. It was probably only due to her lack of sleep, but she was definitely teetering on the edge. She could get used to this kind of treatment: the everyday little kindnesses, someone to share the highs and lows of life with, to feel loved by and love in return.
‘Thanks,’ she said, taking the glass and trying to get a grip on her emotions. Ironically, she felt Marina’s troubles had brought her closer to Dirk.
He sat at one end of the sofa and she swung her feet up into his lap. He inclined his glass towards a newspaper on the coffee table. ‘I’ve seen the crap they’re digging up about Nate in the papers. Poor Marina.’
‘Yes … and you ought to know, that there’s another big story about to appear. The Post will be publishing an exclusive interview, giving Marina’s side of the story.’
‘Did you write it?’
‘If I hadn’t done it, someone else would,’ she said.
‘I’m glad you did, and I understand why you wanted to. I’m not judging you, Tiff.’
‘Thanks.’ She blew him a kiss, touched by his understanding. ‘It’s the one way I can help her. I’ve been desperate to get it right for Marina’s sake. I don’t think I realised how hard it would be and I did wonder if I was the right person to tell her story.’
‘No wonder you’re shattered if you put your heart and soul into it,’ he said, and sighed. ‘Imagine being the subject of it.’
Tiff nodded. It was the first time she’d ever felt so drained by a story. It was a new feeling. She sipped her gin. ‘Writing it has given me a better insight into the hell Marina was – and is – going through.’
‘She must be having a crap time and she doesn’t deserve it. I feel deeply sorry for her. I wouldn’t pretend to know what she’s going through, though I understand how it feels to be at the centre of a media storm.’
Tiff was heartened by his empathy. ‘You could tell her that when you see her. She needs her friends and neighbours to give her some sense of normality and kindness.’
His tone darkened. ‘I’ll chuck those leeches in the sea if I see them bothering her!’
She had to smile. ‘A very noble sentiment but perhaps not the best way of avoiding further publicity. Besides, have you forgotten I’m one of the “leeches” myself?’
‘No, you’re not. You’re doing the story for Marina’s sake and this is what you do.’
‘Yes, it’s what I do,’ she said wearily.
He nodded. ‘Let’s have a drink. I made a cassoulet for dinner. I’ve been hoarding a good bottle of Crozes Hermitages and now seems as good a time as any.’
Tiff sat down to the meal and the excellent wine. It was great to have someone cook for her but she felt very low. It might be only that she was wrung out emotionally and physically, or that the days were shortening, although she couldn’t deny she was apprehensive about the reaction to her article and the effect on Marina. She’d hate it if the story made things worse, not better.
The following day, Tiff’s exclusive appeared in the Post. By eleven a.m. that morning, she’d had to stop the car in an Asda car park on her way to do an ad feature on the tenth anniversary of World of Hot Tubs in Falmouth, because her phone had been going crazy.
There were calls and messages from several editors, including Yvette Buttler, the editor-in-chief of the Post itself. She knew what they might be about, and although she’d expected some reaction to the story, she had never anticipated this. Tiff phoned Yvette back and found herself with an offer of a job covering maternity leave for their features editor, with a view to a permanent position at the newspaper if all went well.
‘Call me when you’ve had chance to think about it,’ Yvette said, which really meant that Tiff should snatch her hand off.
She drove home, pleased for once that she was stuck behind a potato lorry, as it gave her time to think.
How ironic it was. What a shitty world this could be at times. She’d been desperate for a break in London, but she never would have wished things to happen this way. Now she’d profited from Marina’s misfortune and felt sick to her stomach. She pulled up in the parking spot next to Marina’s garage, laid her head on the headrest and prayed for forgiveness.
Everything she’d wanted, hoped for, a mere six months ago was hers: a dream job, a chance to return to London, and the vindication.
Redemption and reward were laid out in front of her. All she had to do was take them.
She took a deep breath and called Yvette back.