‘Hey there, beautiful.’
‘I guess news travels fast.’
‘Bad news does. If you start crying, I’m out of here.’
Andrea stepped aside without rubbing the expression of disgust from her face, but secretly she was relieved. She should have guessed. Enrique Pascual had been her best friend and shoulder to cry on for many years. He worked for one of the big radio stations in Madrid, and every time Andrea stumbled Enrique showed up at her door with a bottle of whisky and a smile. This time he must have thought that she was especially needy because the whisky was twelve years old and to the right of his smile was a bouquet of flowers.
‘You had to do it, didn’t you? The super-reporter had to fuck with one of the paper’s major advertisers,’ Enrique said, going down the hall and into the living room without tripping over LB. ‘Is there a clean vase in this dump?’
‘Let them die and give me the bottle. Who cares! Nothing lasts for ever.’
‘Now you’ve lost me,’ Enrique said, ignoring the problem of the flowers for the moment. ‘Are we talking about Eva or getting fired?’
‘I don’t think I know,’ Andrea muttered, appearing from the kitchen with a glass in each hand.
‘If you’d hooked up with me, maybe things would have been clearer.’
Andrea tried not to laugh. Enrique Pascual was tall, attractive, and ideal for any woman for the first ten days of the relationship, then a nightmare for the next three months.
‘If I liked men you’d be in my top twenty. Probably.’
It was now Enrique’s turn to laugh. He poured two fingers of whisky neat. He had hardly taken a sip before Andrea had emptied her glass and was reaching for the bottle.
‘Take it easy, Andrea. It’s not a good idea to end up in Casualty. Again.’
‘I think it would be a fucking great idea. At least I’d have somebody to look after me.’
‘Thank you for not appreciating my efforts. And don’t be so dramatic.’
‘You think it’s not dramatic losing your lover and your job in the space of two months? My life is shit.’
‘I’m not going to argue with you there. At least you’re surrounded by what’s left of her,’ Enrique said, waving disgustedly at the mess in the room.
‘Maybe you could become my cleaning lady. I’m sure it would be more useful than that bullshit sports programme you pretend to work on.’
Enrique’s expression didn’t change. He knew what was coming next and so did Andrea. She buried her head in a cushion and screamed with all her might. After a few seconds her scream turned into sobs.
‘I should’ve brought two bottles.’
Just then a mobile phone rang.
‘I think it’s yours,’ Enrique said.
‘Tell whoever it is to go fuck themselves,’ Andrea said, her face still buried in the cushion.
Enrique snapped open the phone with an elegant gesture.
‘A Torrent of Tears. Hello…? Hold on a moment…’
He handed Andrea the telephone.
‘I think you’d better handle this. I don’t speak foreign languages.’
Andrea took the telephone, wiped away her tears with the back of her hand and tried to sound normal.
‘Do you know what time it is, you idiot?’ Andrea said through gritted teeth.
‘I’m sorry. Andrea Otero, please?’ said a voice in English.
‘Who is it?’ she answered in the same language.
‘My name is Jacob Russell, Ms Otero. I’m calling from New York on behalf of my boss, Raymond Kayn.’
‘Raymond Kayn? Of Kayn Industries?’
‘Yes, that’s right. And you’re the same Andrea Otero who pulled off that controversial interview with President Bush last year?’
Of course, the interview. That interview had had a big impact in Spain and even in the rest of Europe. She had been the first Spanish reporter to get inside the Oval Office. Some of her more direct questions – the few that had not been agreed beforehand and she had managed to sneak in – had made the Texan more than a little nervous. That exclusive interview had relaunched her career at
‘One and the same, sir,’ Andrea replied. ‘So tell me, why does Raymond Kayn need an excellent reporter?’ she added, sniffing quietly, pleased that the person on the phone couldn’t see the state she was in.
Russell cleared his throat. ‘Can I count on you not to tell anyone at your paper about this, Ms Otero?’
‘Absolutely,’ Andrea said, amused at the irony.
‘Mr Kayn would like to give you the greatest exclusive of your life.’
‘Me? Why me?’ Andrea said, making a writing motion to Enrique.
Her friend extracted a notebook and pen from his pocket and handed them to her with a questioning look. Andrea ignored him.
‘Let’s just say he likes your style,’ Russell said.
‘Mr Russell, at this point in my life it’s hard for me to credit that someone I’ve never met is calling me up with such a vague and probably unbelievable offer.’
‘Well, let me convince you.’
Russell spoke for quarter of an hour, during which the astonished Andrea continuously scribbled down notes. Enrique tried reading over her shoulder, but with Andrea’s spidery writing it was no use.
‘… that’s why we’re counting on you to be at the site of the excavation, Ms Otero.’
‘Will there be an exclusive interview with Mr Kayn?’
‘As a general rule, Mr Kayn doesn’t give interviews. Never.’
‘Maybe Mr Kayn should find a reporter for whom rules matter.’
There was an uncomfortable silence. Andrea crossed her fingers, praying that her shot in the dark would hit its target.
‘I suppose there could always be a first time. Do we have a deal?’
Andrea thought about it for a few seconds. If what Russell was promising was really true, she’d be able to get a contract with any media company in the world. And she would send that son of a bitch editor at
She didn’t give it another thought.
‘You can make a reservation for me on the next flight to Djibouti. First class.’
Andrea hung up.
‘I didn’t understand a single word except “first class”,’ Enrique said. ‘Can you tell me where you’re going?’ He was surprised by the obvious change in Andrea’s mood.
‘If I said the Bahamas, you wouldn’t believe me, right?’
‘Very nice,’ Enrique, said, half annoyed and half jealous. ‘I bring you flowers, whisky, I scrape you off the floor and this is how you treat me…’
Pretending she wasn’t listening, Andrea went into the bedroom to pack.
