How To Tackle A Crush (Hearts of the Press #2)

1. Chapter 1

Ava

Something is wrong.

I know it before I even reach my desk.

The Carlisle Gazette newsroom is never really quiet. Even on slow days there is always something. Keyboards. Phones. Someone arguing about a headline like national security depends on it. Someone talking as if silence might cause them physical harm.

Today there is almost nothing.

Just the hum of the lights. The distant drone of a vacuum cleaner. And AJ’s voice travelling across the room in one uninterrupted stream of words.

I stop just inside the doorway.

Either I have forgotten a bank holiday or everyone has been abducted.

I consider this carefully.

Statistically, the bank holiday seems more likely.

I check my phone.

Tuesday.

Definitely just an ordinary Tuesday.

No festive emojis. No apologetic email from HR. No indication the rest of the country knows something I don’t.

Weird.

Three rows of desks sit abandoned. Coffee mugs left behind. A cardigan draped over the back of a chair. Someone’s half-eaten apple slowly turning into something else beside a keyboard. It looks less like people left and more like they vanished mid-sentence.

AJ is by the news desk, phone wedged between shoulder and ear, one hand gesturing dramatically despite the fact nobody on the call can see him.

“Yes but was it definitely the chicken?” he says. “Because if it was the quiche, that changes the narrative completely.”

The cleaner, Sheila, pushes her trolley past me.

“Morning, love.”

“Morning.” I step aside so she can reach the bin beside my desk. “Do you know what’s happened?”

She gives me a look that contains both sympathy and mild amusement.

“You didn’t go to that picnic then.”

“I had… deadlines.”

“Well,” she says, “best decision anyone made this week.”

That does not sound promising.

I hang my coat on my chair and automatically straighten the stack of proofs I left yesterday. The top page has a comma where there should be a semicolon.

I swap them without thinking, then stop myself from continuing down the page. There is a difference between professional diligence and using punctuation to avoid reality.

AJ finally ends his call.

“Right,” he says into the phone. “Keep me updated on… developments.”

He drops into his chair and spots me.

His face lights up like I am unexpectedly good news.

“Ava!”

“AJ.”

“You live.”

“I was not aware my survival was in question.”

He points at me. “See. That. That is why you’re my favourite friend.”

“I am your only friend currently visible,” I correct instead.

AJ grins. “Fair.”

I glance around again. “Why is everyone missing?”

He leans back in his chair with the air of someone about to deliver breaking news from a war zone.

“The picnic.”

I wait.

He waits back, clearly convinced that explains everything.

“The company picnic,” he adds.

“And?”

“And half the newsroom is currently fighting for their lives in various bathrooms across Carlisle.”

I stare at him.

“That feels like an exaggeration.”

“It is not an exaggeration. It is a tragedy. I have just spent ten minutes on the phone with Ben from sport and he described things I will never mentally recover from.”

“I did not need to hear that.”

“No one needed to hear that, Ava, and yet here we are.”

I look again at the empty desks. “What happened?”

“Food poisoning. Suspected chicken. Possibly potato salad. There is an ongoing investigation.”

“I am not sure food hygiene counts as investigative journalism.”

“Today it absolutely does.”

He swivels his screen towards me. The newsroom group chat is scrolling at an alarming pace.

Does anyone have Gavin’s number?

I can no longer use the downstairs loo.

I regret the mini sausages.

Tell my wife I love her.

Someone has replied to that last one with

Too dramatic. You’ll be fine.

AJ takes a sip from a mug that has clearly been sitting there since yesterday and immediately pulls a face.

“Cold,” he says.

“That tends to happen when tea is left overnight.”

“I was hoping for a miracle.”

“I do not think miracles extend to beverages.”

He looks at me over the rim. “You didn’t go then?”

“I had three features to proof.” For once my social awkwardness paid off. “You?” I ask. “Why didn’t you go?”

AJ looks faintly offended. “I was not invited.”

“It was a company picnic.”

“Yes but apparently if you keep teasing others about missed deadlines people stop sending you friendly calendar invites.”

“That seems like a natural consequence.”

“Also,” he adds after a beat, “I had a dentist appointment.”

“That is a significantly less dramatic reason.”

“It involved drilling.”

There is nothing I can reply to that and instead head back to my desk and open my notebook. The blank page steadies me. There is something reassuring about margins and straight lines. Words behave if you are patient enough. People rarely do.

On the central planning board someone has written

TODAYS DEADLINES

Without an apostrophe.

I stare.

I look away.

I look back.

It takes approximately three seconds before I stand up and fix it.

AJ watches the entire process.

“You know nobody likes that,” he says.

“I am not doing it for popularity.”

“You definitely are not.”

Before I can reply, AJ’s phone starts vibrating across the desk.

He glances at the screen.

“Marie-Louise.”

He answers and immediately hits speaker, placing the phone between us when I get to his desk.

“AJ.”

Her voice comes through, thinner than usual but still carrying that very specific authority that suggests she could run the newsroom from a blanket fort if necessary.

“I assume from the fact you answered that you are still functional.”

“Yup. I clearly owe my dentist a thank you card. Without his insistence that he won’t have another appointment for a month, I would now also be cuddling with my toilet,” AJ says.

“Staying away was the only sensible decision made yesterday.” There is the sound of some dry heaving.

“How many are in the newsroom?” she asks.

“Just me and Ava. And Sheila.”

“Good. Is Ava there?”

“I am.”

“Right. We have a staffing crisis.”

“That seems consistent with current evidence,” AJ says.

I automatically reach for my notebook.

“AJ, I need you at the council offices. The mayor situation is escalating and I want someone there capable of asking coherent questions.”

“On my way.”

“Ava. I need you to cover the Westland press conference. At eleven,” she continues, “FC Carlisle is officially announcing Jack Westland in post.”

I stare at the phone.

“I’m a proofreader.”

“You are also the only other person currently present.”

“I correct grammar.”

“You can also take notes.”

“I do not know anything about football.”

“You know how to listen.”

I open my mouth.

Close it.

Try again.

“I really do think someone else might be more suitable.”

“There is no one else.”

“I could prepare briefing notes for someone remotely.”

“No.”

“I could remain here and support production.”

“No.”

I try one last time, weaker now.

“I am not particularly… press-conference shaped.”

AJ makes a choking sound that is definitely laughter he is trying to hide.

“Ava,” Marie-Louise says, sounding tired now, “you will sit in a chair and write things down. This is within your capabilities.”

My grip tightens slightly on my pen.

This is happening. There is no version of this conversation where I can escape.

My brain immediately starts doing what it always does when I am pushed into unfamiliar territory. Running scenarios. Identifying risks. Planning exits.

Press conference means journalists.

Journalists means questions.

Questions mean attention.

Attention means speaking.

I do not like speaking without preparation. Speaking without preparation is how people accidentally say irregardless in public and have to move cities.

And add to all of this, Jack Westland.

Everyone knows the name.

England striker. Played abroad. Now a manager.

Successful. Famous. The sort of man who appears in newspapers even if you only read the culture section.

Dark hair with grey at the sides, effortless good looks that makes women of all ages go gaga.

That serious expression he always seems to have in photographs.

Like he is thinking three moves ahead of everyone else.

Also, if headlines are to be believed, extremely good with women.

That part I know because Chloe once delivered a ten minute rant about how male athletes get described like prize stallions while female athletes get described like disappointments.

I know enough to know he is exactly the kind of person who belongs in rooms I normally avoid.

My stomach does a small, unhelpful twist.

“What exactly do you want me to do?” I ask.

“Sit in the back. Take notes. Send me a summary.”

That at least sounds survivable.

“I do not need to speak?”

“No.”

“I do not need to network?”

“No.”

“I do not need to introduce myself to anyone?”

“No.”

That part feels like oxygen.

“Fine,” I say quietly.

There is a sudden sharp sound from the phone.

Then silence.

Then the very unmistakable sound of Marie-Louise abruptly not being able to continue the conversation.

AJ and I both become extremely interested in the grain of the desk.

Neither of us says anything.

Several long seconds pass.

Then the sound of running water.

“Right,” she says, sounding tired and weak. “Apologies.”

“That sounded unpleasant,” I say.

“Yes,” she replies flatly.

A breath.

“I’ll email you the details about the press briefing.”

A small pause.

“You’ll be fine.”

The call ends.

AJ looks at me.

I look at him.

“Well,” he says, “you’re about to meet Jack Westland.”

“I am about to sit very quietly in the same room as Jack Westland.”

He grins. “Same thing.”

I look down at my notebook.

This morning I expected commas.

Now I am apparently getting footballers.

I am not convinced this is an improvement.