Page 2 of Bay of Plenty

Chapter Two

“Surprise!”

A chorus of “Happy birthday, Isla!” rang through the Arbor pub.

My gaze darted around the laughing faces. About thirty of theSunday Newspeople I’d worked with for years—the keen-eyed journos, the gruff subeditors, and the art desk in their black leather. Some I hadn’t seen for… six months. They already seemed well trolleyed, their howling and hooting vibrating all the tinsel draped over the pink velvet sofas. The sight of them made my heart sparkle as bright as the old chandeliers lighting up the bar.

Beside me, Shay grinned, the gold stars in her Afro puff bobbing triumphantly. I wrapped her in a tight hug, burying myself in her red coat.

“Thank you, Shay. You’re the best.” Squeezing her arms, I joked, “Get you back for this, woman.”

Her reply, soft as syrup, “Like to see you try.”

These were the top people in the industry.And they were here. For me.I couldn’t help wondering whether one of them had heard anything about a job going at a rival newspaper or had articles I could help with. I’d never get my old positionback atSunday News,but maybe they had a tip-off about a story that wasn’t in their wheelhouse.

From the back of the crowd, Jack, the chief police reporter, all slicked-back hair and too-tight sweater, gave me his cocky smirk and crooked his finger in a sexycome-heregesture. I shot him what I hoped was a withering look. Not a chance. Because I’d given him a chance, and he’d cheated on me. I would email him the story tomorrow without having to get close enough to fall into an old habit.

It was actually fun to chat with people I hadn’t seen in a while. It felt as though work wasn’t our only connection. I didn’t exactly get caught up on the gossip,since I was now the outsider, but I did feel genuinely welcomed. However, as I always thought in a room with other people in our industry,You don’t have friends anymore, only contacts.Those wise words from our editor.

“How are you getting on, Isla?” one of my old desk mates asked.

“Trying my heart out,” I said.

“Can you get some PR or comms work to see you through?” The usual backup for journalists who’d lost their jobs.

“I’m still a bit untouchable.” I didn’t have to remind her that my fall played out in public. “I’ve been filing at the local council to pay the bills.”

She winced. “You’re too good a journalist. Someone’s going to hire you.”

“Fingers crossed. I’ve got two months of savings left. And then I’ll have to take on a full-time filing gig.”

“Oof.” She squeezed my hand. “Well, let me get you another drink.”

While she was away, I was sure someone behind me said, “All washed up.” The hip-hop music thumped along with my frantic thoughts, making my heart pump faster too. Were they talking about me?

Block them out. Get out of here quick,I chanted to myself, like I used to in high school. But I was pinned against the table in the crush.

My mouth opened for a breath of air, but my throat had seized up. Clutching the table, I fought to pull myself together.

A drink appeared next to my clenched fingers. I thanked my old desk mate who’d bought it, raised it to my lips, and gulped it down, my knuckles white from tension. The liquid warmth spread through me, relaxing my tight throat and stomach.

Another drink and I was feeling better. Two more, and I was merrily tipsy.

Some of my old female colleagues were dancing on a big table. “C’mon up, Isla,” one sang.

Why not? It looked fun up there. A couple of them reached down, and taking off my stilettos, I scrambled up, hoping I didn’t flash my knickers.

It seemed like minutes, but it must have been hours later when Shay and Bato reached up to tell me they were leaving. Bato would return to walk me home when I was ready.

I was still dancing on the table, wine splashing from my glass, when the crowd started thinning. A guy was staring at me, gobsmacked. No wonder. When I got going, my dance moves were fairly dazzling.

“Wobbly,” he yelled up to me, all rugged mountain man on vacation, with his hair tied back, beard, and hippie beach pants.

Wait—was he talking about my thighs?Rude.

“Table’s a bit wobbly,” he shouted over the music. I’d been safely up here for hours, but he seemed concerned. “Let me help you down.”

I went one better, calling out, “Catch.” I leaped into the air toward his terrified face.

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