‘So, do you mind telling me what the fuck that was all about?’ Gina had leapt on Donna the moment she had walked through Valley’s doors, as though she had been lying in wait. Her face was pale, hectic blotches of colour clawing up her neck and across her chest like angry footprints. Her lips were drawn into a thin, bloodless line, and there was a chill in her eyes Donna had never seen before.
She had always wondered what it would take to get under Gina’s skin. She had seen her take on-air meltdowns, equipment failures and the near-constant stream of trouble Matt Evans served up with a cool acceptance that bordered on the mechanical. But this was different. Was it, Donna wondered, that she’d scooped them? Or was it more personal than that? Gina was head producer and director of programming. The station was her baby. Did she feel betrayed by what Donna had done?
She reached her desk, stripping off her jacket and hanging it over the back of her chair, acutely aware of Gina standing just a little too closely behind her.
‘Well?’ she asked again. ‘What the hell is going on, Donna?’
Donna turned, angry words leaping into her throat. ‘I was doing my job,’ she said. ‘In case you’d forgotten, I’m only on a freelance contract here, as the bastards at MediaSound are too cheap to make me a staffer and pay for my holidays. My contract stipulates I can undertake work that doesn’t “clash with or undercut” what I do here. And, in case you hadn’t noticed, that was a TV broadcast I did earlier, not radio. So there was no conflict. Okay?’
There was a moment of stunned silence, everyone in the office trying to look as if they weren’t interested and failing miserably. Donna felt her cheeks burn, saw something flit across Gina’s gaze.
‘Even so, that was a pretty shitty thing to do, Donna,’ she said. ‘You could at least have called me, let me know what was happening. Christ’s sake, the bollocking I got from Marcus . . .’
Marcus Hamilton. A career cockroach who had risen to be regional director of MediaSound, thanks to his unerring ability to know which arse to lick at just the right moment. Shit. ‘He didn’t say anything about . . .’
A small smile flashed across Gina’s face, a fast-moving front of cruel humour, and then it was gone. ‘No, you’re safe. He didn’t like your work for Sky but, as he says, you’ve attached yourself to the story now. And it looks good for him if he can say one of his freelancers is working a national story for TV broadcast as well.’
Donna let out the breath she had been holding, a strange mixture of relief and disappointment flooding through her. She needed the shifts here, especially at the moment. But still . . . ‘Look, Gina, I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Really, I am. It just all happened at once. I followed Ford to the university, a friend at Sky gave me a call asking if I could stand up a line for her, and the next thing, I’m being interviewed on the phone. Sorry, you know how these things go.’
If Gina saw through the lie, she gave no hint of it. And Donna had bent the truth only a little. The fact was that, after setting Gavin his mission to get photographs, Donna had phoned Fiona Clarke and told her she could give her an on-the-scene report about the breaking news from Stirling University. Maybe with pictures. Clarke had jumped at the chance and made the arrangements. She had been delighted with the results. So much so that she was sending a TV crew down to meet Donna at the press conference due to be held at Randolphfield in the next hour.
Gina adjusted her glasses, as though they were suddenly too heavy for her delicate nose. She took a deep breath, blew it out. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘But at least let me know next time. And get me something good from the press conference for the six o’clock bulletin. We could use something to brighten up a thoroughly crap day.’
‘Why? What’s up?’
‘Guess,’ Gina said, the weary resignation in her voice leaving only one possible answer.
Matt Evans. Why MediaSound had decided to give him a chance after the disaster he’d left behind in Edinburgh was beyond Donna, but then, as her dad would say, shit always floats to the top. ‘What’s he done this time?’ she asked.
‘Nothing. Literally nothing,’ Donna said. ‘He was meant to be at conference at three o’clock to go through the show and tonight’s guests. Didn’t turn up. And the smug git has his phone switched off, so there’s no way of telling if he’s even going to be in for the show tonight. Becky’s agreed to cover if he doesn’t appear, but still . . .’
Donna nodded. It was typical Matt Evans. Sloppy, unprofessional and totally selfish. Odds were he would arrive two minutes before the show was due to go on-air, give some crap about partying the night away with some idiot he’d convinced to spend the night with him, then breeze into the studio and nail a four-hour show. There was no doubt he was a wanker, but what really rubbed Donna up the wrong way was that he was a talented one.
And he knew it.
‘I’ll get you a good OB from the press conference, promise,’ she said. ‘Actually, I need to talk to you about that, but can you give me five minutes to catch up with my emails, make sure I’m not missing anything?’
‘Okay,’ Gina said. ‘I’m going to get a coffee, then I’ll see you in my office. Five minutes. No longer.’
Donna pushed down the impatience that frothed in her mouth like champagne. The story was live, she had an in with Sky and finally, finally, it looked like things were going her way. She didn’t have time for this.
Gina stalked away and Donna logged in to her computer, watching as the screen went blue and her name appeared above a spinning circle as it booted up. She was willing it to go faster when her mobile rang. She fished it out of her pocket, saw a number she didn’t recognize.
She hit answer and lifted it to her ear. Her world imploded as the voice at the other end said, ‘Donna? Donna, don’t hang up. It’s Mark. We really need to talk.’