Blondie frowned and cast a quick glance up at Billie before picking up the phone. “Murielle, I have a lady out here who says she’s the new crime reporter, wants to see Sam.” She peeked at Billie, holding her hand over her mouth. “Right, Billie Stanford.” Her eyes widened and she looked up again, and another quick frown appeared. “Okay, then. Ta.”
She put the phone down and composed herself. “Murielle will be out to see you shortly. Take a seat please.”
“Thank you.” Billie wandered over to the window and contemplated the bustling morning traffic. A vibrant new city to get used to, people to garner for friendship and of course, information. Her whole network needed to be rebuilt from the ground up. So be it. If that was what it took to get her on the path to recovery and living again, she’d do it.
“Mrs. Stanford.” A prim lady in a dark-violet skirt and matching twin set walked out and waited for her to answer.
“Yes.”
“I’m Murielle, Mr. Fletcher’s secretary. Follow me please.” She turned on her heel and hurried away. Billie strode along after her, hoping for a warmer welcome from the new boss. They brushed past cubicle after cubicle of reporters and typists already busy with the next edition of the Sydney Morning Herald. At the far corner of the large cavernous room, a voice could be heard over the clatter of everything else.
“I don’t fucking care what you promised him. You had no right, no right whatsoever to do that. I make the rules here, not you. Now go back and get me the bloody story using your wit and charm, not my fucking money.” He slammed down the phone and faced the open door as Murielle knocked firmly.
“Now what?” His tie was already pulled off and lay crumpled on the top of a cluttered desk. Hair that had been bryl-creamed into submission earlier was already standing on end, the comb-over more likely to be described as a rooster tail. Billie tried to look away while he got control of the situation.
A forlorn rubber plant grew in a large pot in the corner of the office, a strand of Christmas tinsel still tangled amongst its large deep-green leaves six months after the party had died. Murielle tsked beside her as Sam huffed and shuffled papers, and Billie almost smiled. She’d known her fair share of frazzled editors and Sam Fletcher fitted the bill nicely. They would get on famously – she could see it now. After a short settling in period while they got to know each other, a routine would develop, each doing what they did best. All that angst this morning for nothing. She was beginning to feel at home already.
“Billie Stanford, boss.” He lifted his head, raked his fingers through his wayward hair and glared at her with such disdain the previous thought died a quick death.
She stood at the door wondering whether to run now while she had the chance or tough it out. Murielle gave her a slight nudge before retreating to the desk close by, the only one in the room that wasn’t fenced off like a battery egg farm.
“Well, don’t just stand there. Get yourself in and sit down. Don’t have all bloody day.” He leaned over and rifled through a pile of papers, reefed one out and slapped it on top of the mess, his beady eyes trained on her as she hovered in the doorway.
Billie swallowed, took a deep breath, and took a seat. She slid her bag from her shoulder and let it drop down on the floor beside the chair. This wasn’t going to be as easy as she’d hoped. “Thanks for taking me on, Mr. Fletcher. I can’t tell you what it means to be given a job on this great paper …”
He held up his hand like a traffic cop. “Stop right there. Keep the bullshit for someone who’ll believe it.” His mouth twisting into a frustrated grimace. “I have your first assignment.” Sam held out the sheet of paper and Billie reached for it, excitement overriding her fear and prickling her skin. She sat back in her chair and read the headline.
‘HISTORICAL SOCIETY DETERMINED TO SAVE THE DAY’
“Bleeding heart story but I have no choice. Deceased estate, Historical Society trying to do the right thing and save the place from ruin. A well written story in the weekender will boost their attendance. Or so they believe.” Sam shuffled a few papers, his mind already moving on.
Billie scanned the information sheet and shook her head. “Foxborough Hall to open to the public?” What the hell? “I don’t understand. Did someone get murdered here or what? How much crime is there in a small country town?” Billie studied him, but his gaze was firmly on the mess on his desk. The grim lines of his mouth told her she wouldn’t like his answer.
He flicked her a cursory stare. “To start with, I’ve put you on the Travel and Home section of the Sun-Herald, our Sunday edition.”
“Sam, Mr. Fletcher, I’m a crime reporter. You know that. Father told me he sent you my resume.” Her heart palpated alarmingly and sweat broke out on her palms. Hamsters did acrobats in her stomach, threatening to upset the whole works. Surely the powers that be weren’t going to take the final piece of self-respect from her. Not after travelling halfway across the world to start again in the one place she’d run from as a teenager. With her history of award-winning stories, he had to give her what she wanted. Anything less would cripple her.
He lifted his head, leaned his elbows on the desk and rested his chin on his hands, his tired gaze on her face. “Billie, I like your father very much. We go
