Page 4 of Cover Story

He was surprised to find it caused more clarity than offence. Why didn’t he finish it with her? Because leaving his high-flying career, reassessing his whole criteria for success in life and retraining as a journalist had been enough upheaval.

‘Examine where he and Jen stood when the dust cleared’ was on the to-do list, but right when Connor might have had enough energy to tackle it, his dog died, and he got sent up north for three months.

His father waited until he was showing him out of his dismal lodgings to put his hand on his shoulder and say: ‘Stop wearingyour cares so heavily. She’s a total fool to disregard you, there’ll be women queuing up.’

He winked.

Connor stood blinking in surprise as the door closed.

He knew his dad only intended to be encouraging. That his father would drive home congratulating himself on having steeled himself to speak up, rallying Connor’s spirits.

Yet in fact, his dad had actually communicated: ‘Every last bit of resilient dignity you think you’re showing is laughably futile, anyone can see your girlfriend likes you as much as a rectal bleed. And by the way, she’s right about you languishing in self-pity.’

Connor turned on to Deansgate. He felt such a deep, dragging well of emptiness and sadness inside he wondered if he might be depressed again. Obviously he was down in general, but the proper, clinical sort that doctors signed you off with. Could he skive out of the Manchester internship on the sick, or would it be waiting for him on the other side of a return to work?

He knew the answer: whether he did or he didn’t dodge the draft up here, switching careers, getting his first job in his new profession and immediately disappearing on mental health grounds would give off every bad signal about whether Connor Adams and journalism were a good fit.

Shoulders back, deep breaths, positive attitude: first morning.Three months, it was nothing, it was a term at university. Do you even really remember a specific term that felt long at university?he asked himself, his own sports coach.No? There you go.

He located the anonymous doorway, pressed buzzer two. The contact he’d been given, Aaron Parry, answered: he was theabsolute spit of the singer from the Arctic Monkeys, complete with a black quiff and lounge-lizard smirk.

Parry had come from theManchester Evening News, apparently, but it was the Investigations woman he was meant to take notice of.

Toby had said to him, in his public-school drawl:absolute coup hiring Isabel Macauley. Really impressive girl. Have you heard her podcast? Oh you MUST. Fabulous communicator, going places. Has a real knack for getting people to open up. Learn all you can from her.

The office was grotty, like a storeroom. Bel was sitting with her back to the door.

She had very long, treacle-brown hair, pulled up and looped back on itself like a collapsing bun, anchored by a large pair of sunglasses. Stray strands at the nape of her neck were pinned with tiny black butterfly clips, which Connor recognised as identical to the ones his mum had on the stems of her moth orchids to hold them upright.

As she turned to say hello, Connor felt a spasm of irritation at the likely motive for Toby’s lavish admiration. Bel Macauley was undeniably pretty, in a way he could imagine had won her a legion of unimaginative admirers. Wide-set, bright eyes framed by clumpy mascara, a tiny, upturned nose and curved bow of an amused, expressive mouth. She bore an uncanny resemblance to a young Shirley MacLaine in that black-and-white classic romance that didn’t seem at all romantic to Connor, and Jen insisted was her favourite.

And it was lucky she was the only person here or Connor might’ve taken her for the boss’s rebellious daughter who’d just got back from Glastonbury. She was in a short blue cotton summer dress with a sailor bib neckline, black leggings thatended mid-calf, scuffed white canvas lace-up pumps on her feet. And a burgundy-glitter mohair cardigan thrown over the top of the ensemble. It was unravelling, one sleeve shorter than the other. It looked like Connor felt.

There was an absolute stench of hot egg emanating from the puck of soggy carb next to her keyboard.

‘You’re not my pupil, it’s not really possible to shadow investigative work. You’re with Aaron, as your Work Dad,’ she said, because of course the status humiliation had to begin straight away.

‘Yes, I know,’ he said.I’m not going to be begging you for advice. Unless it’s on how to dress for a Just Stop Oil protest.

Connor kept his eyes fixed on his screen in an atmosphere where he could actuallyfeelthe two of them exchanging pointed glances, and face pulling.

Bloody hell, these three months would last forever.

3

On a solid piece of guesswork, Bel rang the doorbell at her flat instead of using her key.

The fearsomely expensive duplex she was renting was a stunner. She’d dipped into her ISA to afford the first six months upfront, with a discount because the last occupant had done a midnight flit and the owner– she could see why, at this rate– didn’t want any vacancy. Financially wasteful, yes, yet Bel didn’t feel it was a waste when she walked the twenty minutes home from Deansgate to her street in Ancoats.

She’d been reliably informed by Aaron that the fashionable area north of the city centre was, in fairly recent memory, tatty, crime ridden and neglected. ‘Rough as arseholes, doll face. The gentrifying Fairy Godmother has waved her magic money wand.’

It was now a thriving, trendy bohemia, old mills converted into apartments like hers, small plates restaurants with their names in swirling fonts on their picture windows. The sort of pubs that had fairy lights, skin contact wine and seasonal produce chalkboard menus.

Bel needed the sense of a fresh start, of being picked up and carried along by a different sort of lifein her new neighbourhood, and so far it had delivered in spades.

Her exorbitantly priced residence had exposed thick red brick walls and original windows, burnt black timber, floor-to-ceiling white curtains that ran on heavy, industrial-looking railings. It was very boutique urban hotel, the recessed lights set to permanent low glow, the diner-kitchen illuminated by a modern candelabra of industrial pendant lampshades on looped cord.

The heavy metal door swung open, Shilpa on the other side. Her long, straight hair was in two plaits, a style that always provoked racially insensitive beery lads to shout ‘Pocahontas’ at her. She was eating a bowl of Frosties.

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