Chapter 22
Jo’s bedside phone had a soft, muted ring tone. The volume control was always turned down low deliberately, to save her from being thrown out of bed in the middle of the night by a blaring bell.
When the phone began to purr gently beside her, she picked up, suspecting she knew who this was. Who else would be awake on a Thursday night, make that, Friday morning, watching the results of a by-election on the TV?
‘Hello, is that you?’ she said into the receiver.
‘Don’t know. Which “you” do you think it is?’
‘See, it is you.’
‘So, you’re awake then?’
‘Of course I’m awake! This is exciting.’
‘They’re just about to declare.’ Jeff’s low voice on the other end of the line sounded tired, but conspiratorially close to her ear.
‘I know,’ she said.
‘I thought you might like someone to keep you company for it.’
‘Did you? That was nice of you. But we’re going to regret this tomorrow morning, aren’t we? Industrial strength coffee all round.’
‘Never mind, it’s only Friday.’
‘Ha.’
Then there was silence, but it was comfortable.
No need to say anything else. They were silent because the returning officer was stepping up to the microphone.
The candidates standing for election in Oxford North lined up beside him: seven of them, twitching, adjusting collars, flicking their hair, all looking tense, even Savannah, whose hands were twisting together in a way that Jo wished she didn’t recognise.
Savannah was taller than everyone else in the line-up and looked…
well, ‘extraordinary’ would be the right word.
Everyone else was in office wear: suits and shirts.
But she’d chosen a soft, multicoloured, although mainly green dress, worn with high-heeled boots.
No wonder she towered over everyone. Her hair was tied back and as well as the nervous hand twitching there was something else that set her apart: she looked ready.
The returning officer leaned over the microphone and began to give details of the vote count.
He named the candidates from the big parties and their tallies, which seemed high…
too high. When he came to Savannah’s name he gave a number, which Jo didn’t think was high enough.
‘Has she—?’ she began, heart in her mouth.
But then the whooping noises, claps and cheers started up and the camera, after a swoop of the disappointed faces, closed in on Savannah’s huge, relieved smile.
She started to shake the hands of the candidates standing beside her, then she waved out into the crowd and for a moment it looked as if she was moved to the verge of tears.
But someone rushed up to hug her and a grin split across her face again.
‘Green Party candidate, Savannah Tyler, takes the seat for Oxford North,’ the BBC commentator’s voice was cutting across the noise in the hall.
‘This is something of a historic moment for the Green Party. Their first ever Westminster MP—’ then commentator-spiel took over.
Some blurb he’d no doubt spent all day rehearsing.
‘Get us an interview then, you prat,’ Jo directed at the TV, momentarily forgetting she was still on the phone.
‘That’s not me you’re talking to?’ Jeff said.
‘No. No—’ she was taken aback to hear his voice again, realised she was much happier about Savannah’s success than she’d even guessed she would be. It felt important. ‘This is amazing,’ she exclaimed. ‘She is amazing.’
‘Really?’ Jeff asked. ‘Sounds to me like you’re undergoing some sort of political conversion. Well, don’t,’ he added. ‘They’re all bastards. A year from now you’ll be looking into Savannah’s murky expenses fiddle or uncovering the fact that she’s secretly on the payroll of an oil company.’
‘Stop it!’ she interrupted him. ‘She’s not like that. Nothing like that at all!’
‘Jo Randall! You’ve been spun!’ was Jeff’s response. ‘I’m sorry but all politicians, if they don’t start out bastards, end up bastards. I’m much older and more cynical than you, so I know. But she’s got to you, hasn’t she?’
‘Just to you, Jeff, I am going to admit to a great big girl-crush on Savannah Tyler,’ was how Jo tried to express it. ‘And you know what? She phoned me on Sunday, when the paper came out, and said if she got elected, she’d like to offer me a job.’
Now, she’d gone and said it. Four years of working for Jeff and she’d never once breathed a word about going anywhere else, although there were occasional offers.
‘Obviously, as an MP, I’ll have money for support staff,’ Savannah had told her.
‘I want to employ an excellent communicator to help spread the message.’
‘Well, your party must be full of those kinds of people,’ Jo had said, sure that Savannah couldn’t possibly mean what, for a moment, Jo had thought she meant.
‘Yes. There are good people here,’ Savannah had agreed, ‘but I’ll be a lone Green voice, I’ll need someone really exceptional… Jo, I realise this will come as a surprise, but if I become an MP, will you consider coming to work for me?’
‘Me!?’ And into Jo’s mind had jumped all the reasons why she couldn’t possibly… wasn’t at all… had never even…
But Savannah hadn’t wanted to hear, hadn’t even wanted to have a big discussion about it, she’d simply said: ‘Give it some thought. Sometimes it’s best when an idea grows.’
‘And what did you say to that?’ Jeff asked, not missing a beat, not even sounding particularly surprised. ‘I said I’d think about it.’
‘Aha.’ There was a pause before Jeff said: ‘And what about your newly pay-risen SAS team?’
‘I know.’
‘I don’t need to tell you that, as your news editor, I wouldn’t want you to go. Can’t imagine working without you.’
‘No, but it’s nice to hear. Maybe you should tell me anyway – and more often,’ she said, suddenly aware of a squeeze in her throat.
‘As your news editor,’ he repeated, ‘I don’t want you to ever consider leaving the paper or else I’ll have to send Vince in his bulletproof car to bring you back.’
She laughed at this.
‘But,’ he went on, ‘not speaking as your news editor, speaking as your— umm— friend, maybe I should tell you to think about it.’
‘Really? Why?’
‘Because, you know… change is…’ he considered for a moment and decided on, ‘interesting.’
‘Yup. It’s also bloody stressful and kind of sad.’
‘Yes, kind of sad,’ he agreed.
‘Yeah,’ was all she could manage, because suddenly the thought in her head was: What’s going on? Is Jeff asking me to leave? Doesn’t he want to work with me any more? And now, she couldn’t imagine being without her job.
‘And maybe— if you didn’t work at the paper, other things would be possible—’ and here he stopped to clear his throat in an entirely uncharacteristic way. ‘You know,’ he went on, ‘if you were working somewhere else.’
‘Other things?’ she asked. Now what? She found herself doing the throat-clearing thing. What was going on? What was the matter with them?
‘Yes, other things,’ he repeated and coughed.
If she worked somewhere else, it was occurring to her, like wiping mist off a window, then the unspoken boundary that, like their marriages, had stopped them from even thinking about exploring the something, which was only just the beginning of a feeling… well, that barrier would be gone.
Now, she allowed herself to remember in full detail, the very end of the Christmas party a year and a half ago.
A year and a half ago! When she’d made her way through a packed, noisy crowd to seek Jeff out, intent on a mission to say goodnight to him, even though they’d see each other again in the office in the morning.
She’d got to him. The crowd had squeezed her in closer to him than she’d meant and he’d turned from the person he was talking to, not anyone she recognised, who’d excused himself.
Then they were there, facing one another, an island of two for a moment in this busy throng.
‘Came to say goodnight,’ she’d said as lightly as she could.
‘Oh,’ he’d given his quizzical smile. ‘Goodnight then.’
Then the strange thing. The emboldened by too much champagne moment, maybe. Their heads had moved towards each other, intending a friendly kiss on the cheek, perhaps. But still something they’d never done before.
She’d got to his cheek but had felt drawn to turn so that her lips were on his. And he’d reacted by pressing his lips against hers, putting his arms tight around her back.
She’d noticed a flurry of things: how he’d smelled of aftershave, smoke, the dry-cleaning fluid on his best suit. The solid bulk of him, the strength in his grip, the want in that kiss.
And then she’d pulled back, met his eye, read there something of the confusion, bearings lost, that she was feeling herself.
‘G’night,’ she’d mumbled and turned to go and find her husband. To let Jeff return to his wife. To both return to normal.
And that’s how the next day in the office had been.
Normal. Absolutely nothing out of the ordinary in the way he spoke to her, related to her.
Normal service was resumed. And she hadn’t thought since then about how she could possibly feel about Jeff…
if they weren’t married to other people… and if he wasn’t her news editor.
‘And here she is,’ Jeff interrupted her thoughts. ‘Your leader,’ he teased. ‘Your girl crush.’
‘Ha ha,’ was Jo’s response but she leaned forward as Savannah’s face filled the screen.
Oxford’s newest MP may have looked somewhat shell-shocked and flushed, but she spoke with collected calm. She had replaced the bright green rosette pinned to her dress earlier in the evening with a large green flower – surprisingly Sex and the City but probably biodegradable.
‘This is a fantastic result for us,’ she was saying into the microphones thrust into her face. ‘This is the start of the Green revolution.’
Then she stumbled up the steps to the stage again, high heels obviously not quite her thing, to make her acceptance speech.
‘I’d like to thank everyone who made this possible—’
‘Here we go, the Oscars moment,’ Jeff interrupted.
Jo didn’t reply. Her eye had fallen on her two handbags. They were propped up, side by side on the chair at the side of the room.
One was the heavyweight, expensive label that could accommodate her whole life, everything about her.
It was dependable, solid, strong. A lifelong companion that came with history.
It came with a wallet from Jeff… in fact, it was the handbag version of Jeff.
A little bit jowly, heavy set, ten years older, gym strong, a man who made writing macho, who came with a lifetime of experiences.
Who came post-marriage, with his own children.
Who would understand everything about her and her work.
Who was married to the paper, married to the job.
Who had an older, well worn, somewhat weary world view.
And then there was that dainty little Marcus bag.
Fun, frivolous, futuristic. Lightweight.
Everything was still ahead for him. Everything was new.
He wasn’t a long-term commitment. But neither was she, right now.
She was newly freed. She was uncommitted.
The Jeff. The Marcus. Heavyweight Italian leather for keeps, or appliquéd girlie glamour for the moment.
Which to choose?
She watched Savannah on the dais thanking everyone who’d helped her to run her campaign.
‘Why rush the decision?’ was the thought that sprang to Jo’s mind. Why even make it a decision? She was in between. And being in between choices was just fine.
There was far too much emphasis on quick decisions, quick gratifications, quick solutions.
Maybe there was no quick remedy here. What about a long, slow, elaborate romance? Slow, simmering of years of unconsummated devotion.
The kind of wonderful, complicated mental creation that would have existed in the past. An unspoken romance that lasted and lasted and shaped the course of two lifetimes. She could wait until she was ready. Until she knew what she was ready for.
There was another more important decision to make first. Would she leave the paper at the pinnacle of her career, and work for Savannah? Again, she didn’t need to decide today. The right decision would come.
‘So, what do you think… might be possible?’ she asked Jeff, clearing her throat, ‘You know – if I were to leave the paper?’
‘I’d probably ask you out to dinner,’ was his answer.
‘Is that it? Dinner! But maybe I’d say no,’ she replied.
‘I’ll have to take that risk,’ was his calm answer. As if he too was prepared to wait this out.
‘I might not need dinner… I’m currently seeing a chef,’ she risked.
‘I know.’ Still the same calm, steadying voice she knew so well.
The voice she really did like to have pressed up against her ear, listening to her thoughts.
No denying the lurch in her stomach that this conversation was provoking.
But really, she wasn’t sure if she even wanted him to suggest anything like this…
it was too soon. She didn’t know if she had anything to offer him yet…
The delicious smell of Marcus was on her sheets, was on her skin, erasing her past, her mistakes and making her look to the future, like him. To better things ahead.
‘So, what’s next?’ Jo asked, wondering how Jeff would reply. Wondering if any more of him or his intentions would be revealed.
‘What’s next?’ he repeated. ‘It’s Friday morning. Time to get busy.’
No more secret sharing now, just the usual hint of friendly tease evident in all their daily conversations.
‘The Savannah victory interview, obviously,’ he said. ‘I’m expecting you to do that for us. Exclusive. And then what the hell else have you got for this week?’
‘A lot more,’ she answered him. ‘I might even surprise you.’