She reached for the black leather business card wallet on her desk. I panicked. If she started ringing around, she’d discover what I’d done—or, more accurately, what I hadn’t done.
‘There’s no one!’ I lied desperately. ‘I can do this, Katrina.’
‘It’s too much of a risk. You’re not even a real journo.’
‘I am a real journo, and I’m willing to do anything to get this story. I’ll get you the biggest scoop Women’s Choice has ever had.’
‘You’ve got zero experience with these sorts of stories. I need an investigative reporter.’
‘I have actually done an investigative story before, remember? I believe you told me it showed my “enormous potential”?’
‘Your little story about the corrupt professor was ten years ago, Burrowes. And I’d hardly call a uni paper “big time”.’ But she was starting to look uncertain. If I kept pushing, I was sure I could convince her.
‘So you’d rather let one of the other mags pick it up? I thought that was why Women’s Choice was always ahead of the pack, because you’re an editor who’s willing to take risks.’
This was dangerous ground. In fact I had no idea whether we were ahead of anyone, and questioning Katrina’s decisions was right at the top of her list of career-limiting moves.
‘Imagine what this story could do for sales,’ I added in a final grasp.
Katrina’s face contorted into a pained grimace, as if I were strangling her. But I could practically see the dollar signs in her eyes as she contemplated the profits if we broke this story.
She tapped her pen briskly on the desk, her mouth set in a grim line. ‘It looks like I don’t have a choice.’
I tried to hold back my grin. ‘You won’t regret it!’
‘You’d better make sure I don’t. You’ve got a passport, haven’t you?’
I nodded.
‘All right, I want you to go first thing tomorrow. Joy will book you on a flight to Barcelona. Nick will go with you. We’ll need decent photos.’
This news swooped in and socked me in the guts. Not him. Anyone but him.
‘Burrowes!’ Katrina shouted. ‘Are you listening to me?’
I rearranged my face into an expression that I hoped was less stunned mullet, more ardent journo raring to get on the case.
Katrina gave me a shrewd look. ‘You have travelled before, right?’
This was one of those times when stretching the truth was a necessity. ‘Of course, loads.’
‘Ford owns an apartment in Barcelona, so start there,’ she resumed. ‘Once he’s in the EU he can cross borders without being detected, so you’ll need to work quickly. Joy will book your first night of accommodation in Barcelona, the rest you’ll have to organise on the fly. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that this is going to cost me a lot of money. I expect results, and I expect them fast. I want you to check in daily with a progress report. Email is fine, just use your phone.’
‘Um…’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘What now?’
‘I can’t do email on my phone.’
‘What do you mean you can’t do email?’
‘I don’t have a smartphone.’ Up until this second, I’d been proud of my steadfast refusal to join the crowd of mindless automatons staring at their phones on the daily commute, content with a good book and the bare necessities that my trusty flip phone afforded. But faced with my first real story in a foreign country and no data plan, I could suddenly see the advantages.
Katrina sighed. ‘Take the spare laptop and do your research on the run. There’s no time to sort you out with a corporate credit card, so use yours and I’ll reimburse you when you get back.’
I decided not to tell her that one of my credit cards was already maxed out and the other was gasping its last breath after Saturday night’s maudlin debauchery. I considered the financial responsibility of applying for a new one, but quickly discarded the idea. There was no way I’d get it in the next twenty-four hours.
‘What about my column?’
‘I’ll get Jo to google something and do it tomorrow. It’s a monkey’s job; anybody could do it.’
There’s nothing that boosts the confidence quite like a bit of positive reinforcement from your illustrious leader.
Katrina peered around me through the glass wall that separated her office from the open floor. ‘Here he is. Nick!’ she bellowed. ‘Get in here! If you’ve got anything on in the next week, cancel it! I’ve got a big job for you.’
I escaped before she could rope me into giving him the brief. I wasn’t ready for that confrontation just yet. And besides, there was another, more immediate, problem to solve.
The sharp smell of acetone assaulted my senses and I wrinkled my nose, as I did every time I stepped into my mother’s beauty salon. I’d never understood what was so bloody decadent about inhaling chemicals while having your cuticles poked with a sharp implement, but I guess that’s why I got out of the business in the first place.
My mother emerged from the back room with a client in tow. ‘Sarah!’ she exclaimed. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Nothing’s happened, Mum. I can visit you, can’t I?’
She pursed her lips as her client tapped her credit card against the terminal. I could hardly blame her for assuming something had gone wrong. Despite working a few blocks from the salon, I’d only dropped in a handful of times over the last couple of years, and I usually had an ulterior motive. As I did now.
When the front door had swung closed behind the client, Mum came over and gave me a hug. She was short and slightly dumpy, with smooth olive skin care of her Italian genes. I’d inherited her complexion, her large, dark eyes and her vertical challenge, and hoped my figure wasn’t heading the same way.
‘I wish you’d do something with your hair.’ She took a lock between her first two fingers as if she wanted to snip it off. I’d
