Can We Still Be Friends by Alexandra Shulman Read Free Book Online Page A

special. And it deserved to come from Joseph.
    On Sal’s first day at the
Herald
, she had been immediately subdued by the prevailing atmosphere of masculinity. The offices were a sea of grey suits and white shirtsleeves, although Jackie, the features desk secretary seated outside the senior management offices, was wearing what seemed to be the women’s uniform: a floral shirt and a calf-length skirt. Jackie had shown her the Ladies, the kettle and where the stationery was stored before bustling off, gesturing to the fax machine on her way.
    Nobody spoke to Sal for what appeared to be hours and, for the first time in her life, she felt unable to deploy her naturally flirtatious exuberance. Her white shirt was fine, and she had taken trouble to check it was a thick enough cotton that her bra wouldn’t show through, but the red skirt made her feel conspicuous. She couldn’t see anyone else wearing a bright colour. As the lunch hour approached she saw a posse of men pass and glance over to where she sat. She ate an apple at her desk. As they returned hours later, they looked again at her, more brazenly this time, before heading off in pairs to the Gents, hoisting the waistbands of their trousers.
    Her presence was a reminder that the newspaper industry was changing. New printing presses were on the way, there would be fewer jobs and, to many of the old guard, the hiring of young people like her, who had found short-cuts through the traditional provincial route, was a provocative move. Towards the end of her first afternoon a man, his collar unbuttoned and tie askew, approached her.
    ‘Give this number a ring and check out what the story is on Paula Yates at the Embassy last night.’ He handed her a scrap of paper scrawled with a phone number. ‘I’m Stuart.’ She guessed he must be from somewhere up north, with his flat vowels. ‘There may be something there.’ He looked over her head as he spoke.
    She had not known who she was ringing, or what kind of story Stuart had in mind, but her diary shifts had taught her the knack of following a trail, asking questions that would lead to fuller answers than the interviewee expected. Within an hour she was back to Stuart with three hundred words written not about Paula but about one of her girlfriends who was discovered in the small bathroom with another girl that night, screaming as they mistakenly flushed a wrap of coke down the loo. The information was greeted with a marked lack of interest by Stuart: ‘Just another day in Shangri-la, then.’
    Now, weeks into the job and with a few small stories to her name, the office had begun to lose the impenetrability of the new and, from what initially had appeared as a collective personality, the journalists and editors were starting to emerge as individuals. One lunchtime, she had been delighted to be asked by Stuart to join an outing to a dark Fleet Street wine bar where bottle after bottle of red wine had been drained. As the afternoon merged into evening, they all moved on to the famous El Vino’s bar, unbothered by a return to the office. Seated at a table in the corner with Doug, one of the home desk stalwarts, she learnt of his difficult custody battle with his wife.
    ‘I’m dossing on friends’ sofas at the moment. She’s in the house and she’ll only let me come round when her mum’s there.’
    ‘That must be awful for you.’
    ‘Yeah. I’m living out of my desk drawer.’ He tipped the dregs of the bottle into her glass and stood up to walk over to the bar for a replacement. When he returned, Stuart had moved into his seat and he had to perch on a low stool, shouting across the table.
    ‘Stu, how about William knocking off Noreen? He got her out of there double quick once our venerable editor got wind of thesituation.’ The affair between the foreign editor and the managing editor’s PA had become common knowledge. ‘It’s normally the women who get the sack with this kind of thing,’ he informed Sal.