Sharon Griffiths - Time of My Life

‘Sex, is it?’ said one, looking around with a broad grin at the others. ‘Well, if you’re offering.’

‘No I am not ,’ I said and banged the copy down on their desk, ‘and certainly not with you.’ I turned to walk out.

‘Will you just look at that,’ one of the men said to my retreating view. ‘A backside like two eggs in a hanky.’

I slammed the door but could still hear their laughter through it. My face was bright red. Pigs. Idiots. Stupid ignorant men. Bugger! I realised it was probably a test, to see how I’d cope. Well, I’d really blown that, hadn’t I?

Flustered and feeling stupid, I went back into the newsroom. At least it was nearly going home time. Gordon was there, talking to another man. A tall man with sleek blond hair, standing with his back to me under the yellowing light at the far end of the newsroom.

I recognised him instantly even in the shabby unfamiliar clothes. I would have recognised him any time, anywhere. The set of his shoulders, the angle of his head, the gesture with his hands as he explained something to Gordon. Oh, I knew them all. I didn’t need a second glance. I knew that body almost as well as I knew my own.

Will!

I was so happy I nearly let out a yelp of excitement and only just stopped myself running up and flinging my arms around him. I thought my heart would leap right out of my body with joy and relief. Here, in the middle of whatever strangeness was going on, and those stupid sniggering subs, I knew how much I needed him. With Will here, everything would be all right. He would turn the nightmare into an adventure. It would be a game, a laugh, a great story. Us two against the world. Suddenly it stopped being something strange and slightly sinister. Already, in that split second, it had started being fun.

It was all so wonderfully familiar, so reassuring. If Will was here, then I could cope with anything, from sexist subs to fish paste sandwiches, scratchy underwear and no showers.

‘Will!’ I said, going towards him. ‘Will! Thank God you’re here!’

Will looked around. He looked surprised. He looked straight at me. And he absolutely blanked me.

Will looked at me as though he’d never seen me before in his life.

The silence seemed to go on for ever, to hang heavy in the air above the heaps of newspapers, the jumbled files and scuffed desks. It swirled with the dust from the overflowing ashtrays, and time slowed down as I gazed desperately at Will. I had stopped breathing, was just waiting for him to respond, to laugh, to step forward and hug me. But he didn’t.

Sure, for a moment there was a flicker in his eyes – but it was that flicker you get in the eyes of any strange man when he sees you for the first time, the quick measuring, appraising look. And then – nothing. Not a hint, not a glint of recognition.

This was worse, much worse than any row. This was nothing to do with anger. Will was looking at me as though he had never seen me before. As though I were a stranger, as if we had no life, no past together. Nothing. And when I saw that blankness in his eyes my whole world shifted, as though the very earth I was standing on had been hollowed out from under my feet and I was in free fall. Without him, there was nothing to cling to. Nothing.

I wanted to run up to him, fling my arms around him. OK, we’d had a row. That was in another world, another lifetime. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he was here. But not when he looked at me like that.

‘Will?’ I asked, tentatively, hesitating, terrified that he wouldn’t even acknowledge me. I stood beside the desk, too frightened to move any closer.

Gordon was looking at me oddly. ‘Billy,’ he said to Will, ‘you haven’t met our temporary girl, have you? Rosie’s here for a few weeks. From America or somewhere.’

There was a little spark in Will’s eyes and then he smiled – oh that smile! – and held out his hand. ‘How do you do Rosie,’ he said. ‘Welcome to The News .’

I looked at him, expecting an acknowledgement, a little secret smile perhaps. Anything. But no. I shook his hand. And that’s when I had another shock. His hand was rough, callused. Not at all like Will’s. I looked up at him, puzzled.

There were other differences too. His haircut, of course. Very 1950s, short back and sides. But his face looked different, more hollowed, angular, and he looked somehow older, different in a way I can’t explain. I wanted to touch his cheek, follow those bones and hollows with my fingers, but he was looking at me as if I were a stranger.

I could still feel the impression of his hand in mine. But he had already turned away and was talking to Gordon about the court case he’d covered. It was as if I didn’t exist. I studied him from the back, the way his short haircut went into a little curl at the nape of his neck, how his shoulders looked so broad, yet he seemed slimmer. Must be the 1950s clothes.

But why did he blank me like that? How could he be so cruel? I sat at my desk, a copy of The News propped up in front of me, though I couldn’t have told you a single thing that was in it, while I tried to work it out. Yes. That must be it. We were in this 1950s house, but no one must know how close we were. We must pretend to be strangers. Then we can secretly work together, be a team. Together we could soon sort out what we should be doing and do it. But we mustn’t let on.

It was the only explanation I could think of, and I clung to it.

I knew I had to speak to Will alone – ideally somewhere out of reach of any possible cameras, and the office was surely full of them. But I needed to stay in the office so I could watch him, catch him when he left. Looking at him bent over the typewriter instead of a computer, yet the same pose, the same frown, the same fierce expression as he thought of the next sentence, and then the half-smile as he bashed it out. That was the Will I knew. Even if here he was wearing baggy grey trousers and a rather shabby shirt, instead of the stylish suits he normally wears.

I sat and watched and waited. Brian, the Night News Editor, came in and was introduced to me. At last he and Gordon went out to see Henfield. Will and I were alone in the newsroom and I had to seize my chance.

‘Will,’ I said, standing opposite him in the dusty yellow light.

He didn’t react immediately, just sort of looked up vaguely as if puzzled about who I was talking to.

‘Will!’ I hissed. ‘What are we going to do? What’s this all about? Do you know what’s going on?’

He looked at me, baffled. ‘Sorry, er Rosie, I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about. I’m nearly finished here. Have you done all your stuff? It’s time to go home. You’re not doing the late shift are you? No, you were here this morning.’

He looked back to his typewriter, typed a few more words, looked over what he’d written, pulled the papers and carbon out of the machine and folded them over. ‘Have you sent your stuff along? If you give it to me, I’ll drop it off with the subs for you on my way out.’

This was hopeless.

‘Will! We’ve got to have a plan, work out how we’re going to deal with this. Do you know who the other competitors are? Where are the cameras? And is there a video room? We’ve got to find out.’

Now he was lifting his jacket – a heavy, shapeless tweedy sort of jacket with pens in the front pocket and leather patches on the elbows – off the back of the chair and easing into it. ‘Sorry Rosie,’ he said, politely, ‘I don’t think I know what you want. Have a word with Gordon. Or if it’s cameras you’re interested in, talk to Charlie, the Chief Photographer, or young George. Anyway,’ he said, picking up the papers off his desk – and that was another difference, his desk was absolutely immaculate and tidy, very un-Will – ‘I must be getting a move on. I promised my wife I’d be home early. Goodnight. I hope you’ve enjoyed your first day with us. See you tomorrow.’