She felt like a teenager again, sneaking something illicit while her parents were distracted, filled with the fear they would come back and catch her in the act. But this time it wasn’t a boyfriend or a cigarette or a stolen drink with a friend. No, this time it was her laptop.
Donna hit the power button, wincing as the sound of the Mac chiming into life filled the flat. What the hell was she thinking? Why did she still let them get to her like this? She wasn’t a sixteen-year-old who had ruined her life and it wasn’t the 1960s. She was thirty-four, had studied for two degrees, forged a career in a male-dominated industry in which women were still expected to handle the puff pieces and soft news. If she’d been married they’d have been delighted by a grandchild, probably be pushing her for a ‘little brother or sister’ for Andrew.
But there was the problem. She wasn’t married, a fact of which her parents – her mother in particular – reminded her every time an opportunity arose. And, unfortunately, as Donna needed them to help with childcare when she was at work, the opportunity arose far too often for comfort.
Leaving the laptop to boot up, she headed for her bedroom, and the crib in which Andrew had finally decided to take a nap. She peered in cautiously, focused on his chest, watching it rise and fall gently, the dummy in his mouth jerking occasionally as he sucked. Again, she felt the amazement well up in her that this tiny life had come from her.
As she leant closer, watching his small chest rise and fall, she brushed a strand of hair away from her face and absently tucked it behind her ear. She had changed out of her work clothes and slipped on her favourite pair of maternity jeans – she was almost back to her pre-baby figure but the elasticated waist was comfortable – with a hoody and let her hair hang loose. She knew her mum would disapprove of her fashion choices – ‘Dress the part, Donna, always dress the part’ – and the irony of it made her smile. Just you wait, Mum, she thought.
Her looks weren’t intimidating but she had something that caught men’s interest, which she resented and didn’t understand. She knew she was generally seen as overly serious, and on the odd occasion when she let her guard down, her laugh could shock those who didn’t know her well. Her piercing pale blue eyes amplified her serious demeanour, giving her gaze an intensity she knew some weren’t comfortable with. It hadn’t been an issue in papers or on the radio, but now? She had a habit of letting her thoughts leak out in a cold glance, and she had never been able to meekly agree if she thought her bosses were in the wrong. But that was the career she had chosen, the life she had planned. Until Andrew. She had not been desperate to have children. In truth she hadn’t been sure she wanted this one, until the first moment she’d held him. She felt a pang of guilt at the thought, resisted the urge to pick him up, stroke his warm, smooth cheek and sniff the thick mop of hair that was so like his father’s.
She remembered her first meeting with Mark Sneddon in the newsroom of the Chronicle, the attention he’d paid her, telling her she was ‘just what the newsroom needs’. Standing up for her with the editors, arguing for her stories, sharing contacts, encouraging her to take risks, go for the political-reporter job she wanted. It was only later, when someone told her to watch what she was doing because Sneddon had a reputation, that she had the uneasy feeling she was making a mistake. But by then it was too late.
Way too late.
She crept away from the cot and back to the living room. Checking the baby monitor beside the laptop, she opened her email account. After wrapping the report for Valley FM, she had copied the audio file and sent it to an old friend at the local bureau desk for Sky. Donna had met Fiona Clarke when they both worked at the Western Chronicle – the Westie – in Glasgow. Back then, Fiona had been on features while Donna had remained with news.
It crossed her mind that perhaps she should have followed Fiona’s example, not stubbornly insisted on sticking it out on news. But news was the toughest gig and she wasn’t going to concede that she couldn’t hack it. She might have been better off if she had: after yet another round of redundancies targeting the features desk, Fiona had taken a payout, while tapping her contacts for a sidestep into broadcasting. She’d pocketed the redundancy money and found a better-paid job. Worked her way up to her current role as a senior news producer – and raised a finger up to her former newspaper bosses by regularly getting the stories they couldn’t.
With news reporters not eligible for the redundancy payments, Donna had stuck it out, telling herself she was an old-school newspaper hack, refusing to acknowledge the terror of being front and centre that broadcast required. She liked being a newspaper reporter because she could get the story and leave – no need to be in front of the camera, judged or even mocked by millions watching at home. But not now. Now it was different.
She felt a sudden pang of panic – had she been wrong? About Mark, about her job, about every decision she had made? Was that why she was now swallowing her fear and pursuing a slim chance in broadcasting? What if Fiona thought she was being too pushy and said no?
Her heart skipped when she saw the message she was waiting for.
FROM: Fiona Clarke fclarke@skynews.com
RE: Stirling murder. Local reporter covering?
She paused for a second, finger hovering above the trackpad. Muttered a silent curse, angered by her sudden indecision. She hadn’t been like this before Mark. Or Andrew. But now . . .
She shook off the thought, stabbed at the trackpad and opened the email.
Hi, Donna, long time no hear! Hope all is well with you. I hear you’re a mum – congratulations, and welcome to the non-sleep brigade! Denny is four now, growing so fast and with an opinion on everything.
I listened to the package you sent over. It’s good stuff, and it’s clear radio suits you. Good to know you’re freelancing, I’ll keep you in mind for the future. As for covering this story, I’m sorry to say that, with the coverage it’s getting, the bosses are shipping in the big guns, so there’s not much work going at the moment. That said, keep in touch. If you get a good line on it, especially with you being local, let me know and I’ll see what I can do.
Let’s get a catch-up soon!
Fx
Donna leant away from the laptop, breath hissing from between clenched teeth. Shit.
She looked around the room, let the quiet soothe her. It was a small, characterless flat, a new-build in an estate just close enough to the town-centre postcode to be described as ‘Central Stirling’. But she loved it. It was the first home she had owned and everything in it was hers and Andrew’s. No nervous waiting for the key in the lock – would he come home this time? She felt a wave of self-loathing wash over her. Why had she let him come and go, believed him as she’d told herself lie after lie? He just needs time. I’ll play it cool. I’m giving him space, the impression I don’t really need him. I’m independent and strong: he’ll find that irresistible.
In hindsight she realized she had done the opposite. She’d sat at home letting him pick and choose. She had put it all on a plate for him. She shuddered at how naïve she had been. She’d made it so easy for him. Too easy.
She scanned Fiona’s email again, forcing herself to read more slowly. How had she ever thought she, of all people, could become a TV reporter? It seemed ridiculous.
But there, at the end, a glimmer of hope: If you get a good line on it, especially with you being local, let me know and I’ll see what I can do.
Donna shut the laptop slowly, hardly aware that she was biting her bottom lip. Fiona had been right. And wrong. Radio did suit her. For the moment. But she had no intention of staying there, letting her insecurities hold her back again. After Andrew’s birth, and the nine glorious months of maternity leave when it was just the two of them, she’d realized it was time to get back out there. This time, she was going to grab every opportunity that came her way. Valley FM was a stepping stone. She didn’t want to be the reporter in the background any more, slipping in quietly with a few questions in her notebook: she wanted to be fronting the news. Since the shit-storm surrounding her pregnancy and the trauma of Andrew’s difficult birth, her priorities had been clearer, her resolve firmer. She was beyond caring what people thought, wanted only to show them that they were wrong about her.
And if she had to scoop every other reporter covering the Cowane’s Hospital murder to prove herself, then fine. She knew just how she was going to do it.