The Wife Who Ran Away by Tess Stimson

Author:Tess Stimson [Stimson, Tess]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781447209232
Publisher: Macmillan
Published: 2014-06-27T04:00:00+00:00

Ned

‘Sorry it’s not better news, old son,’ Simmons says. ‘Wish I could help, mate. I really do.’

I knock back my Scotch. Cheap and nasty, like Simmons himself. ‘Forget it, Jeremy. It was just a thought.’

‘Any other time. You know how much we like your stuff.’ The editor reaches across his desk to take back the half-empty bottle and locks it in a drawer. ‘I’ll be frank: it’s been a bad year for the paper. Christ, it’s been a bad year all round. Lot of belt-tightening going on. Never know who’s going to be next.’

He hauls his fat belly out from behind the desk and nods towards the newsroom on the other side of the glass. ‘Fucking vicious out there,’ he says, digging his hands into his pockets and playing with his balls. ‘Six months ago, they let half the staffers go and hired the rest back on contract. No holiday, no pension. Closed down Books and Health altogether. Only reason we haven’t lost anyone on Sports is because they’re mostly stringers anyway. Not that we’re using them; we’re taking most of what we print off the wires.’

‘Yeah. I get it. Well, no harm in asking . . .’

‘Remember Bill Munro?’ Simmons interrupts. ‘On the financial desk? Repossessed. Bailiffs came round and kicked him out on the street. Wife, three kids, another one on the way. If anyone should’ve seen the crash coming, you’d think it would have been him.’

‘It’s been a tough time all round. Look, if you hear anything . . .’

‘Will do.’

I shake his fat, sweaty paw, forcing a smile. Slimy bastard. He’s waited years for this. He never got over me beating him to Sports Journalist of the Year the only time he ever got nominated.

As I cross the newsroom, a familiar voice calls my name. ‘Ned! I thought it was you.’

A tall skinny guy with a distinct resemblance to Mr Bean waves across his desk. It takes me a second to place him. ‘Martin! I thought you’d fucked off to Spain years ago! You’re never still here?’

‘Jackie threw me out.’ He grimaces. ‘Bitch waited till I’d finished paying off the mortgage, and then took me for the lot. House, pension, the works. Next thing I know, she’s moved her bloody tennis coach in. Couldn’t afford to quit the job and take early retirement after all. I was lucky to keep the clothes I stood up in.’

‘You poor bastard,’ I sympathize.

He grabs his jacket off the back of his chair. ‘Don’t suppose you’d fancy a drink?’

We stroll round the corner to the Green Man, one of the few hostelries left in town where a man can still get a decent pint. None of your gnat’s-piss American beer with a slice of lemon shoved in the neck. The barman turns a blind eye to a few discreet smokes, too, as long as you don’t stint the rounds and put a few in the bin.

‘So how’s it going?’ Martin asks as we pull out a couple of stools at a scarred table in the corner.

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