By the time I got to work, my flat shoes were squelching with water, my black pants were sodden and only my denim jacket and yellow woollen scarf had saved me from becoming a potential wet T-shirt competition candidate. The first thing I saw was Katrina pacing the empty aisles of the open-plan office. I surreptitiously edged to my desk before she noticed I was late again. Katrina was my boss and the managing editor of Women’s Choice, and if she weren’t so good at her job I’d think she were a hard-arsed bitch.
An unapologetic career woman, unmarried and childless, Katrina was in her mid-forties and had a body a twenty-year-old would be proud of. Everything about her, from her close-cropped black hair to her patent leather stilettos, screamed success. I always felt immature and unprofessional beside her with my not-quite-curvy-enough body and wavy brown hair that always seemed to be in my eyes. I was five foot two on a good day and hated high heels with a passion. I didn’t even own a suit. I was kind of scared of her.
She spotted me and made a beeline for me. Her heels made a ticking sound as they caught in the carpet with every step. I shuffled the stack of papers on my desk to look as if I’d been busy for a while.
‘Burrowes! Thank fuck someone’s turned up today.’
It only clicked then that it was a quarter past nine and the floor was almost empty.
‘Morning, Katrina.’
Her gaze slid from my hair, which I knew from past experience was probably beginning to take on the likeness of an electrified cat, to the soggy magazine on my desk.
‘Jesus Sarah, you must have been a shit beauty therapist. And I’m glad to see you’ve put our fine publication to good use. I hope you actually read it this time before you drowned it.’
I decided not to address this last comment since I had not, in fact, read it. And as for the quip about my appearance, there had been a time when I’d spent hours on my hair and make-up every day, applied fake tans, worn designer clothes, the works. But then one day, my alarm went off at 5.35am so I’d have enough time to make myself beautiful before going to work, and I’d decided: fuck it. No more painting myself to look like something I wasn’t. I saw enough of that with my clients in the salon every day, and I wanted myself back. Mum joked that it was bad for business but the funny thing was, the minute I stopped worrying about how I looked, I started getting a lot more interest from men. That had never been my objective, of course, but it didn’t hurt the old ego. And James, who had only seen me wear make-up a handful of times, told me I was beautiful no matter what, which made the barbs from the likes of Katrina a little easier to bear.
‘I forgot my umbrella—’ I began, but she was already talking over me.
‘Jane and Alex have both come down with gastro, Brad’s on annual leave and Jo’s had to stay home to look after her kid. Fucking terrible timing. I need you to do something for me.’
‘What’s up?’ I tried to keep my voice casual, but my heart had started to pound like crazy. This was it. Katrina was finally going to give me a story.
‘I’ve had a tip-off from Simon. It’s a big one this time—the AFP isn’t releasing it to the media yet so we’ve gotta move now if we want to break the story.’
Another surge of excitement rushed through me. Simon was Katrina’s ‘friend’ from the Australian Federal Police. He was an international liaison officer who fed her titbits of information about celebrities who got themselves mixed up in illegal activities. I could only guess at what he received in return for divulging state secrets.
‘What’s the story?’ I asked eagerly. If the AFP was involved, this obviously wasn’t the regular actor-goes-into-rehab job.
She ignored my question. ‘I need you to ring around, find me a journo who can spend a week on this. Someone who can travel.’
My morale flopped lifelessly beneath my desk. ‘But—’
‘Make it snappy, Burrowes. Freelance or from one of the other pubs is fine. Just get onto it.’
She pivoted on a stiletto and was about to sweep away when I leapt out of my chair. ‘Let me do the story!’
She turned and regarded me for a moment, a look of disbelief on her face. ‘I don’t have time for this, Burrowes. I told you, this story is big.’
Don’t beg, Sarah. Don’t beg. ‘Please, Katrina! I can do it, I know I can.’
She pursed her lips. ‘Look, no offence Burrowes, but I need someone with experience on this one. This is going to be the biggest story we’ve done in years. When you’re ready we’ll start you on some lighter stuff, but I need you to work with me now. Please find me a journo.’
I sank back into my chair, looking down at my desk to hide my disappointment. ‘What’s the brief?’
She slapped a black and white A4 photograph on the desk. My breath caught in my throat and I gaped at the face staring back at me.
The air escaped Katrina’s lips in an exasperated sigh. ‘Please tell me you know who Chris Ford is?’ She looked up at the ceiling in silent prayer.
‘I—’
‘For Christ’s sake, Burrowes, get with the program! Chris Ford, lead singer of The Fords, the biggest indie band to come out of Britain in the last two years?’
I tried to collect my thoughts into some kind of coherent statement, but Katrina barrelled on without waiting for a response. ‘If you’d actually read our latest
