what she was going through. When she phoned him in desperation and told him she thought she was having some kind of breakdown and might never be able to return, instead of telling her she was being ridiculous and to get a grip (like Scott had) he’d left the office and come straight over.
His explanation, that what she was experiencing was probably a mixture of delayed grief, shock, and relief, made sense. It also made sense that it was occurring now she’d stopped after being so driven, so focussed for so long; her brain now had the time and energy to process the trauma. He’d finished by telling her he thought she just needed some time and to take as much as she needed; ‘After all,’ he added with a lopsided grin, ‘you’ve accumulated a shitload of leave.’
When the Walkley nominations were announced six months later, Nicola had spent the first week smiling sweetly and agreeing that yes, the nomination alone was enough, while all the time desperately hoping for success. She knew that many in the industry saw her as little more than a well made-up clothes horse with ample cleavage.
That Scott was so dismissive of her nomination hurt. He seemed to share the view of many of her peers, and clearly didn’t think she had a hope in hell of winning. She consoled herself that he knew nothing about journalism, let alone the magnitude of what a Walkley nomination really meant. If he did, he’d be reacting differently.
This was her chance to prove she had both brains and beauty; that Nicola Harvey was a journalist to contend with, not just a glorified presenter with impeccable hair and makeup.
Though of course she’d give up the chance in a heartbeat if it meant having Ruth and Paul back. How the hell would she keep it together if she did win? It was such a personal story.
‘Stop with this false modesty crap – winning’s everything, Nicola Harvey, and you can. You did a bloody good job, and don’t you forget it!’ Bill barked one morning after overhearing her reply to one such well-wisher. At least someone believed in her.
That afternoon Nicola had drafted a response that adequately expressed her joy at being nominated while remaining humble about her talent. In truth, she wanted to scream that she bloody well deserved to win.
Just before the first announcement, Scott had squeezed her hand to offer support, luck, and probably sympathy – he’d told her enough times not to get her hopes up.
Nicola let out a slightly pained sigh, remembering his obvious discomfort at having microphones, cameras and spotlights thrust in his face and being asked how he felt.
‘Proud. Yes, obviously very proud,’ he’d replied awkwardly. No wonder he couldn’t wait to get to the safety of his office.
But at least Scott hadn’t been uncomfortable in his attire – that was one of the first things that had attracted her. She had always been a sucker for a man in Armani pinstripe.
It felt a little cruel to be enjoying his unease, but it reminded her he was human after all. Anyway, he deserved it for not believing in her.
As a stockbroker he’d had his share of hairy moments but somehow he’d always managed to land on his feet. It was as if he had a crystal ball.
He’d even managed to dodge the global financial crisis and make enough to pay off his BMW convertible before everything went pear-shaped. She failed to see how he could remain so calm when there was so much at stake.
As much as Nicola liked the idea, aimlessly hanging about the house during the day just wasn’t in her nature. She got up, put her mug on the sink and went back upstairs to get dressed.
Forget the day off; it was high time Bill coughed up her next serious assignment.
Nicola stood tall and proud outside television headquarters, her two solid, twenty-centimetre fountain-pen-nib inspired statuettes tucked under her arm. Shoving the frosted glass foyer door open, she strode across the polished stone floor towards the lifts.
‘Congratulations, Ms Harvey,’ Barry the doorman-cum-security-guard-cum-general-dogsbody said. ‘I knew you’d do it.’
Nicola turned and walked over to where he sat behind a long timber veneered reception desk. She grinned. ‘Thanks Barry.’
‘Thought his lordship would have at least given you the day off,’ Barry continued, tossing his head up to indicate above them.
‘He did. I’m just not cut out for sitting about.’ Nicola shrugged. The lobby phone rang and Barry waved a dismissive arm as he picked up the receiver. Nicola repositioned the slipping awards and started making her way back to the lifts.
As she ascended, Nicola felt kittens doing tumble turns in her stomach. What should she say? How should she act? Would everyone be pleased for her or be catty and jealous? The men would probably be cool and gracious, but women were always a different story.
In her acceptance speech she’d been very careful to emphasise that she was accepting the award on behalf of everyone involved with Life and Times. She was sure she’d named everyone who’d played a part.
The lift doors opened, and she stepped out onto the sixth floor.
As she strode down the narrow corridor in front of the wall of chest-high office partitions, heads bobbed up from desks, bums swivelled chairs around and there was a chorus of ‘here she is,’ and ‘congratulations!’
Within seconds the office had formed a crowd around Nicola and someone shouted, ‘Round of applause for our star reporter.’
Wild clapping and cheering followed and Nicola felt the kittens in her stomach claw their way up to the back of her throat.
‘Um, thanks guys, but you all deserve one of these,’ she said. After carefully unloading her lunch, handbag and satchel onto her desk, she thrust the gleaming sculptures towards the nearest two people.
Paul Cox, the copy boy and most junior of staff, received the Gold, his pimply adolescent face reddening right up to the ears. His hands were hesitant when he reached out to stroke the object that every serious journalist aspired to.
‘Go on, have a decent look,’ she encouraged, pushing the object firmly into his chest. Paul stared down at it, mouth open in awe, then back at Nicola like it was the nicest thing anyone had ever done for him.
Nicola’s chest pinged in sympathy. She too had started at the bottom. Under Paul’s lack of confidence she could see some of her own tenacity.
She smiled warmly at the lad, then turned slightly at hearing an uneven thudding tread coming down the hall to her right.
Bill Truman’s stout legs struggled under a belly that had grown considerably in the two years since he’d joined executive ranks and swapped pounding the pavements for lunch meetings.
‘Heard all the commotion and knew you’d be at the centre of it. Didn’t I tell you to take the day off?’ he added, waggling a scolding finger.
‘Too quiet at home.’
‘Well in that case, the station had better fork out for a bit of a celebratory lunch. Nothing flash; pizzas in the boardroom at noon.
‘All I ask is that I get a couple of hours work out of you lot before then. In return you can all have the afternoon off.’
There were whoops and squeals of delight.
‘So now if everyone can return to work it would be much appreciated – we can celebrate later.’
Nicola smiled. Bill was one of the best bosses she’d ever had – tough but fair. He’d cracked his fair share of whips but could still appreciate the need for the occasional slack attack.
Nicola watched the crowd slowly dissipate. Within seconds the office had returned to its loud, lively pace; masses of people made phone calls, tapped hard on keyboards, raced between cubicles, and hurried to and from the lifts