nose and rubbed his eyes using his free hand, his spectacles jiggling up and down. ‘Come in, Compton. Sit, for God’s sake.’
Anna moved forward, closed the door behind her and smoothed her skirt. As she did, she caught sight of the remnants of her son’s porridge near her behind. She grew hot under the collar and then realised she must also have got caught downwind of her daughter’s milk tsunami. The smell of gone-off cheese started to permeate her nostrils and she tried to remained focused.
‘Barry,’ Anna started, taking a seat as requested, ‘I’m leaving The Post.’
She had been hoping he might show even a vague sense of regret but, instead, he grinned.
‘Leaving?’
Anna cleared her throat. ‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘Going anywhere good?’
Anna clenched and unclenched her fists, kneading her skirt. ‘Barry, I just said I’m leaving.’
Barry let out a bark of a laugh. ‘What do you want me to do? Cry?’
‘No,’ Anna started. ‘Oh, do you know what, you can stuff your job. I was going to ask for a reference, but frankly…’ As Anna spoke, her head was buzzing with regret (she needed a reference, she had children, she was going to the great unknown). ‘I don’t need a sodding reference from you. I mean, who’ll have heard of The Post in Trumpsey Blazey?’
Barry chuckled. ‘Ah, so you’re making a break for the countryside, old gal.’ He paused. ‘I presume you’ve got a job, or have you…?’ He grinned. ‘No, Anna Compton cannot have found a new man – a millionaire?!’
Anna stood. ‘I don’t need to take this rubbish from you. I’ve found a beautiful home, the children are going to a wonderfully rated primary school and I…’ She stammered. ‘Will find another job with a reputable country paper.’
‘You mean the Hare and Hound Gazette?’ He laughed, his belly shaking unpleasantly as he did so. ‘I know Tim, the big man behind that little number, and you won’t get work with him.’
Anna stuck out her chin. ‘Why ever not?’ She bristled with anger.
‘He only employs men.’ Barry looked back at his screen, then said seriously and with no sense of irony, ‘He’s quite the chauvinist.’ Barry returned his gaze to Anna and then to his screen, then back to Anna. Anna grew immediately worried. She could almost see his brain steaming and puffing with the energy of an idea.
‘Well, I’ll be off,’ Anna said, turning on her heel before she got involved in whatever strange idea he was concocting. ‘Good luck with the paper.’
As she pulled the door open, Barry spoke again. ‘Compton, I’ve just had an idea.’
She turned slowly.
‘You know what this paper needs? It needs fresh air, it needs something different, something fun, something rural, something idyllic.’ He stood now, his podgy hands flying through the air. ‘It needs to see a woman making the most of Blighty!’
‘Barry?’ Anna almost didn’t dare ask.
‘You clearly don’t have a job, and you have children to think about, Anna.’ He smiled, as though he really was the saviour. ‘I’m offering you the chance to write a weekly column for the paper.’ He drew his hand across the air in front of him. “Anna’s Little Cottage in the Country”, that’s what we’ll call it!’ He moved inelegantly from around the desk and shuffled his excess weight towards Anna, who grimaced at the sight of her (ex) boss moving in on her, like a puffer fish. ‘What do you say, Compton? Give us the lowdown on what it’s like in the Wild West of Wiltshire?’
‘Um, that’s very, um…’ she started, her mind whirring. ‘Well, Barry, the thing is…’
‘You need money? You want to keep your foot in the door as a successful journalist?’
‘Successful journalist?’ She reeled under the weight of such a compliment; one he had never, ever come close to giving before.
‘Well, a…. you know… an OK one,’ he clarified. Then, wagging his finger in front of her face, ‘But you could become a wonder. You could personally help this paper survive with your take on rural life.’
‘Really?’ She wasn’t convinced.
He looked at her intently. ‘Yes, it’ll be brilliant. Well…’ He paused. ‘You need to make it brilliant. Join in, make friends, get a loooovverrr…’ He purred this last word in such a way, Anna had to turn away from the sudden gust of stale coffee emanating from his mouth.
‘Barry, the thing is, I want a fresh start.’ She was resolute.
‘Yes, but the thing is, Compton, you can have a fresh start, but you have to think of your children. You need money.’
She turned towards the door again, took one step out.
‘When do you leave?’
‘Two weeks,’ she said, her back to him.
‘Excellent! Give me something juicy in two and a half.’ He grinned. ‘Actually, I might talk to Diane, see if she can’t take some shots.’ His mind was whirring and his upper lip glistened as he smacked his lips together. ‘People will love to follow your story… I can see it now. City girl living the dream.’
With that, he started to close the door and she shuffled forward before he could catch her ankles with it.
‘Good luck, Compton. Over and out,’ he wheezed from the sudden exertion. ‘I’ll get Sheryl to ping you over the details.’
The door slammed behind her, totally befuddled by what had actually just happened. But then, she realised, he had a point. Anna shrugged. She supposed she did need money, and at least she wouldn’t have to see Barry every day. She imagined herself happily typing her column in the pretty cottage garden, the birds tweeting and the twins making daisy chains under the dappled light of the apple tree.
‘And so the next chapter begins,’ she thought as she made her way to her desk to pack away her notebooks, pens, laptop and snowglobe.
Anna grinned as she sped towards the countryside, leaving London and her past firmly behind. She felt as if she was, in fact, stepping where no thirty-two-year-old divorcee with two young kids had ever been before (she allowed herself this slight exaggeration). She was unstoppable. She knew she was on the verge of something spectacular. She was totally in control and her heart lifted at the sign: Welcome to Wiltshire. Yes, she had made it. Goodbye Big Smoke, hello Country Glamour Queen, Domestic Goddess and Yummy Mummy Extraordinare.
She beamed as she pressed ‘Play’ on the stereo system – OK, she admitted, not quite stereo system: more like tape deck – of her 1989 Nissan Micra and started to sing (wail) along to the first track on her homemade mix tape.
‘Born to be wiiiiiiilldddd….’ She looked in the rear-view mirror and her smile quickly faded. ‘Freddie, don’t put a Smartie up Antonia’s nose.’ She glanced quickly at the road and turned in her seat, batting the air behind with her free hand in an attempt to stop her five-year-old son sticking a chocolate up his twin sister’s nostril. ‘Freddie, have you stuck the chocolate up her nose?’ She looked at him.
Her son grinned back at her, his angelic face flashing a mischievous grin, and she forced herself to focus once again on the road. Oh bum, she thought, why now? Why today? She needed to pull over and somehow lever a Smartie from her daughter’s nose without causing long-term damage. She imagined a repeat of the Blu-Tack-in-ear incident and, remembering the doctor’s words, winced.
‘Antonia will be OK, but this is not a rerun of ER, Ms Compton. It’s best if you leave it to the professionals.’