Chapter Text
The alarm sounded far far too loud to Michelle as she startled awake. She fumbled on her nightstand, hearing a bunch of stuff tumble to the floor before finally slapping the clock and finding silence. She sighed and rolled back into the thick duvet, burying her face in the soft cotton. Five in the morning was way way too early to wake up. It was barely light out, only the first few hints of dawn poking through the thin curtains.
She ran a hand through her hair and sat up, fumbling again on the nightstand for her glasses. Milk bottles, her brother always called them, large and round, framed by thick black plastic – they weren’t pretty but they were incredibly practical, as were most things in her life. She found them on the floor, a fuzzy glint of predawn light giving away their position. She slipped them on and the world came into focus.
She could start her day.
A piss and a shower were first, quick and efficient to make the most of any hot water the boiler could choke out before clamming up for the rest of the day. Then pop the kettle on for a bitter instant coffee. She deliberated over her mug of choice before settling on one shaped like a seal with its tail as the handle that her niece had given her for Christmas last year. Michelle firmly believed that it would be a good day if she used a mug with good memories.
As her coffee cooled, she got dressed, throwing on whatever work appropriate dress was clean in the cupboard; today featured a floaty orange number with little white cats dotted across it, paired with tights and sensible brown oxfords. Empty hangers and an overflowing clothes basket reminded her to do the washing soon, before she ran out of clean pants.
Finally, coffee (at a temperature slightly more drinkable than scalding) and a toasted bagel slathered with butter and marmalade were thrust onto the dining table, joining many other abandoned mugs and plates, as she opened her laptop and checked all the news websites for the latest updates. She flicked through each tab, still open from last night’s browsing, but finding little of interest. The newspapers never did update their websites first thing, waiting until after the first editions hit the stands. Probably was a smart business decision but she found it a right pain in the arse.
Her phone buzzed from the coffee table in the living area, separated from the kitchen by a half wall and a metal strip between the shoddy carpet and even shoddier linoleum. She strode across the room and yanked the phone from the charging cable before flipping it open. A text message from Angela:
Better be ready for your first day. I won’t be gentle x
Michelle smiled and shot back a reply, eyeing the time as she did so.
“Oh, shit.”
She stuffed the remaining piece of bagel in her mouth, downed the dregs of coffee and rushed to the door. She tossed her coat on and grabbed her satchel, praying she’d put her keys in it the night before as the door slammed shut behind her, locked. If not, it would be another embarrassing call to the locksmith tonight. They’d surely know her number by now, the amount of times she’d had to call them.
She rushed to the tube station, moving somewhere between a walk and a jog, her coat flapping in the early morning breeze and her bag thumping against her leg. Ten minutes and she was descending the cement stairs, fishing in her coat pocket for her oyster card – still such a novelty – and realising there were a surprising number of people also following suit, tumbling down to the tube in the beginnings of the mad morning rush.
She scanned her oyster at the turnstile, her pace faltering as the gates processed the transaction and then swung open, a long second later, allowing her to hurry on to the escalator and descend to the hot stench of the platform. She paused, hopping from foot to foot as the guy in front of her, laden with rucksacks front and back, took up both the standing and walking sides – the rude git, didn’t he know people had places to be? She prayed (not to any known god, cynicism had long ago removed any care for theology from her soul) that she would make the tube, that she might even get a seat at this ungodly early hour.
The rucksack man took an inordinate amount of time to get off the escalator and Michelle found herself shoving passed him, muttering a brief apology, and running the length of the tunnel as soon as she heard the familiar whoosh of the tube arriving at the station. She hopped the gap with seconds to spare, feeling the familiar sensation of the door gliding shut behind her as she clung to the nearest pole, enjoying the cool metal against her sweaty palms. She ran a hand through her hair, brushing her fringe out of her face, the only free seat she could see was next to a desolate looking mother and rowdy toddler. She decided that she would rather stand. It was only twenty minutes, after all.
Michelle escaped the hubbub of Liverpool Street station as quickly as she could. With time to spare before her first day officially started, she popped into the nearest Pret a Manger and ordered a latte from the tired looking, more-than-likely-hungover girl at the till. She made a quick bathroom pitstop, unsure when she would next get the chance if previous experience told her anything, and swiped some eyeliner and mascara on in the large toilet mirror. Her coffee was waiting for her on the counter as she left, striding towards the large, grey building halfway down the street.
The offices of The Standard. Not a terribly auspicious newspaper but it wasn’t freelance, thank god. She would have taken anything with a salary by the time the offer came through. If she had learnt anything over the last few years, it was that she wasn’t built for freelance. Give her a half-decent wage and a basic pension scheme any day. Financial stability was worth the lack of freedom it afforded her.
She made her way up the long grey steps, through the revolving door and towards the reception desk. The lady behind it was clearly still getting settled in for the day.
“Can I help you?” She said, a placid smile plastered across an uncaffeinated face.
“Michelle McKinnon, I’m the new political reporter. I was told I could collect my ID from the front desk?”
The lady eyed her sceptically.
“Don’t suppose you have any proof of identity on you? Can’t be too careful, not these days.”
Michelle rummaged through her satchel for her purse, certain that she’d put it in the night before. She was a forward planner but only on days that it mattered. First day of school, every year, the night before she’d pack her new school bag full to bursting with everything she thought she could possibly need; notebooks for all her subjects, pens, a pencil case full of coloured pencils, a calculator, protractor and compass just in case maths got off to a running start, lunch and snacks enough to feed a small army, makeup, perfume, and an unholy amount of gum. While what she packed may have changed over the years, she had never ceased to be over-prepared for her first day. The days after… not so much. She grasped her purse, buried underneath notebooks and pens – perhaps her packing habits hadn’t changed that much – and sifted through it searching for her driver’s licence.
“Mitchie!” An unmistakable voice called from behind her. “I thought you’d have wimped out by now.”
“Can’t get rid of me that easily,” Michelle said, turning to give Angela a smile and a hug.
“At least you’ve finally joined us benefit scroungers. What was the final pull? The free gym membership or the discount Costa coffees?”
“Nah, it was the twenty percent off JD Sports, obviously.” Michelle rolled her eyes and handed her licence over to the lady at the desk – who appeared entirely unmoved by the two women’s loud greeting. She thanked the lady who handed over the staff ID and a lanyard, and remembered to slip her licence back into her purse before she could lose it.
“Come on, I’ll show you around.” Angela took her by the arm and dragged her to the lifts.
The ensuing barrage of description and introductions and office gossip was a welcome relief. It was like stepping back into a pair of comfortable shoes you hadn’t worn in a while; you forget why you ever stopped wearing them.
It was a whirlwind tour of the politics floor, mainly made up of cubicles and desks and half-remembered names, culminating outside the editor’s office. Angela knocked and swung the door open without waiting for a response.
“There’s a new recruit here to see you, Stephen.” She smiled and all but pushed Michelle inside.
Michelle had met Stephen before, during her interview. He seemed like a nice enough guy, a bit smarmy and overbearing as most of the Oxbridge types were, but nonetheless he had a good journalistic eye. He must have, he’d hired her.
“Ah, Michelle, come in, take a seat, I’ll be with you in a second.” He smiled, all perfectly straight white teeth.
She smiled toothlessly back and perched on one of the chairs near the door, expensive looking leather and walnut wood. He spoke quickly and quietly into his mobile, hanging up with a resounding yeah, bye before turning and smiling at her again. There was an overabundance of smiling happening in the office, Michelle decided.
“Right, well, first day,” he said loudly, “how you feeling? Excited, pumped, fired up?”
“Yeah, sure. All those things, to varying degrees, I suppose.” She gripped her bag tightly on her knee. “I, uh, brought some specs-”
“Ah, don’t worry about that! Plenty of time for that later, today I just want you to get a feel for the place. You’re a good journalist – I liked that piece in True Crime by the way, an interview with the killer’s family, very impressive – but you don’t know politics. Shadow Angela for today, see what she sees, hear what she hears, do what she does, she’ll keep you right. We’ll make a politico out of you in no time, I’m sure of it.”
Stephen’s mobile began ringing loudly, vibrating against the desk.
“And before you go,” he said, checking the screen, “you’ll need one of these.”
He opened his desk drawer and pulled out a small white box.
“Tool of the trade, you know.” He winked, handing it to her and answering his phone.
BlackBerry 7270 declared the box, loud and proud. It had only been released a couple of months back.
It was the newest piece of tech Michelle had ever held. The most expensive too.
She grinned widely, mouthing thanks as she made her way out onto the floor to find Angela.
***
“Right, just sit quietly next to me, take your notes, and let me ask the questions, ok?” Angela moved through the government building like a cat preparing for a hunt; slowly, carefully and then all at once. “The press conference is for a new policy the Department of Social Affairs is pushing, don’t worry about it too much, we got the broad strokes from them last night, we’re really here to see where else the ship’s leaking from.”
“Is that how all this works, then? Leaks and hearsay and titbits from MPs you schmooze,” Michelle shook her head.
“Don’t forget about the blackmail,” Angela said lightly.
“Course not. But, really, that’s how this all works?”
“I like to think there’s a bit of journalistic integrity in the mix somewhere too.”
“Right,” Michelle barely suppressed a snort. It was all a bit more slimy than she thought it would be.
They entered a large, open room, filled with journalists, party members and civil servants milling about and mingling in small circles. It was like walking into a school dance, Michelle wasn’t sure where to go or who to speak to first. Everyone held flutes of prosecco – the department was surely too cheap to get actual champagne – and paper plates that were filled with triangular sandwiches, cocktail sausages, and crisps. No one could resist a free meal, especially not journalists. She followed Angela to a long table, filled with hors d'oeuvres and half-full glasses, selecting a few nibbles for herself and sipping a glass of prosecco. It was sweet and slightly yeasty, making her nose wrinkle involuntarily.
Michelle recognised a few faces from her freelance days, although putting names to them was another matter. A bloke, dark hair and a garish tie, raised his own glass towards her. She nodded in return, wracking her brain for where she knew him from. A feature shift at the Telegraph, maybe? Or the Daily Mail? She supposed it didn’t matter too much, whichever paper it was hadn’t offered her a permanent position, unlike The Standard.
Angela finished collecting her own plate of food and dragged Michelle over to a small group she seemed to know. Michelle didn’t recognise anyone but made it through introductions and handshaking, before realising they were all competing journalists. She popped a mini sausage roll in her mouth to stymie a disparaging comment about the state of journalism.
She watched as the party members, special advisers and the like Angela had told her earlier, wandered from group to group, checking in on the journalists under the guise of telling vaguely amusing anecdotes. An older man, broad-shouldered with grey hair and glasses tucked into his breast pocket, appeared well-practised in schmoozing the press. The young guy who bounced from group to group like a puppy searching for a pee-pad was less so. She watched as his punchlines half-landed and he shifted awkwardly from foot to foot, pouncing on people’s barely finished sentences with his own, loud, opinions.
Angela saw her watching.
“Ollie Reeder, Social Affair’s newest recruit, don’t even go there, he’s a wanker,” she said, keeping her voice low.
“God, no. Didn’t I hear something about you and him?”
“The worst four months of my life, seriously. There is no love lost there.” Angela took a sip from her glass and turned back to the group conversation.
Michelle followed suit, although she quickly zoned out. Journalists had to be the driest party guests, all they ever wanted to do was talk about themselves. Get more than one of them in and a room and they spent all their time trying to one-up each other in journalistic integrity or writerly ability or some other equally dull field that in no way merited a contest or a gold medal.
“Angela,” a rough, distinctly Glaswegian voice called, “what a pleasant surprise to see you here.”
Michelle’s gaze followed Angela’s as a lanky older man strode across the room. He carried an armful of folders and a flute of orange juice.
“Malcolm,” Angela greeted as he joined the group, nodded hello to the others, “miss me, did you?”
“About as much as a hole in my head,” he flashed a smile, “bleeding in the new recruit, I see.”
Michelle raised her eyebrows at the description.
“Oh, yes, Malcolm, this is Michelle,” Angela stepped aside so they could shake hands, “Michelle, Malcolm. She’s one of your lot, you know.”
Michelle took his outstretched hand, finding it warm and softer than she expected.
“Is that right? Where’re you from?” He asked, letting go and shuffling his folders into a more comfortable position.
“Stirling.”
“Yer no into all that William Wallace, Braveheart shite are ye?” Malcolm grimaced.
“About as much as you fancy shipbuilding, I’m sure,” she smiled, sipping the awful prosecco and immediately regretting it.
He chuckled and eyed Angela with an expression Michelle couldn’t read.
“A hack wi a sense of humour, that’s a new one,” he glanced around, attention already diverted elsewhere, “well, I’ll see you ladies later, I’ve got some real work to be getting on with.”
He darted off, loudly greeting another guy and slapping him on the back.
“You know who that is, don’t you?” Angela asked, frowning as Michelle shrugged and shook her head. “Malcolm Tucker? Director of Communications? No?”
Michelle shrugged again.
“God, you’ve got a lot to learn.” Angela grimaced.
Michelle was under no illusions otherwise. She was jumping in, feet first, to a political ocean she had never encountered before. She just hoped she learnt how to swim before she sunk.