In Pieces

Nick Hopton

For Alejandra

The Waste Land
T. S. Eliot

The Book of Dreams
P. Donoth

Prologue

Winter

Spring

Summer

A Note on the Author

The summer came late that year. Thursday the 15th of September was one of those days for which it's worth weathering a torrential July and August. Not too hot, but sunny and with the first intoxicating scent of autumn in the air. Those unfortunates stuck in offices longed to stroll in the parks and kick the first fallen leaves into the slight breeze. But enough Londoners remained masters of their time to ensure that the pavements were bustling and the cafés full.

On the dusty Strand shoppers rushed along, tumbling over themselves. A great flood of humanity washed past Charing Cross and down towards the Aldwych. Tourists, office workers and the homeless jostled along together. The traffic moved more slowly, grinding its way along the choked road in peristaltic bursts. Exhaust fumes hung in the air and mixed with the sunshine, refracting primary colours onto the tired grey flagstones.

It was the end of summer and yet an optimistic air of expectation hung on the day.

When the explosion ripped across the street at two minutes after one o'clock, it seemed to fulfil the prophecy which had permeated London all morning; here was the great event foretold by the sunshine and the excited pedestrians. But once the stiletto splinters torn from shop windows had fallen back to earth, and the twisted metal sculptures wrought from scaffolding collapsed with an apocalyptic boom, all optimism evaporated.

The bomb destroyed over one hundred metres of buildings and broke windows a mile away in the City. Many of the victims had to be identified by their dental records.

Mini Bournemouth stared out of the window and for the first time in over a year allowed herself to behave like a woman. The tears gouged through the powder on her slightly wrinkled, porcelain cheeks, but she didn't bother to mop them up. She stayed at the window, staring blindly out at the twinkling brilliance of the London Docklands. In the distance she could make out Canary Wharf, blazing away like a Roman candle in the crisp, snow-filled night. It suddenly appeared a perfect metaphor for her own career; strange how she'd never noticed it before now.

It wasn't easy being the most successful woman in British journalism. Of course, the benefits outweighed the disadvantages—Mini was the first to admit that she loved the attention and the chance to play role model to thousands of bright young women. The letters she received still gave her a buzz and in her more philosophical moments, of which there had been an increasing number recently, she persuaded herself that it really mattered that she continue to make a success of her job. She wasn't just working for herself. No, it was as much for the generations of women coming after her, benefiting from the barriers she had broken and the inroads she had carved into newspaper chauvinism.

But being a pioneer also had its drawbacks. Since breaking through the glass ceiling and being appointed the first ever female editor of a major national newspaper (some would say
the
national newspaper), Mini had hardly seen her family. And this hurt because she had always taken pride in telling her many professional admirers, especially those interviewing her for glossy magazine articles, that she had succeeded in combining her career with a happy home life. Her three kids were doing fine at school and Mark, her husband—her
only
husband, as she occasionally emphasized to her much-divorced friends—was loyal and loving.

When she accepted the job at
The Courier
she had known it wouldn't be easy. What she hadn't expected was that the man who hired her, Sir Lesley Johnson, the media tycoon, would prove so impossible.

The problem became evident after only a few weeks, but Mini thought she could overcome it and even use it to her own advantage. After all, that's what she'd always succeeded in doing in the past when faced with a difficult situation or a cantankerous superior.

Sir Lesley, as he liked to be known, was to prove the exception. He objected to editorials which deviated even slightly from his own politics and seemed to forget when talking to Mini that she had a track record in the media almost as long and as impressive as his own. He patronised her dreadfully, but this she could bear.

What really got to her was the self-censorship which she began without really noticing. She started to lose respect for herself, slowly at first, but after a year she realised that it was a long time
since she had even tried to challenge Sir Lesley's brittle opinions through her editorial column. The fire which had carried her so far seemed to be burning out.

The inevitable reaction when it came was predictably strong. Mini banged out several polemical leaders, which brought an incandescent Sir Lesley to the phone.

‘What the hell do you think you're doing, young lady?' he bellowed. ‘I've told you I don't agree with euthanasia.'

Mini had wanted to tell him not to call her a young lady—she was almost fifty after all—and to defend her argument that euthanasia was justified in certain cases; for example, in Sir Lesley's. But her career mind overrode her emotions and she bit her tongue.

‘I'm sorry, Sir Lesley,' she heard herself saying demurely, ‘I'd forgotten that.'

‘Well, don't forget in future.'

‘I won't.'

‘You'd better not…' He'd left the threat hanging in mid-air and had become more explicit a few weeks later when Mini chanced her arm again with a stinging attack on the current legal practice of allowing women to be cross-examined in court by those accused of raping them.

‘For God's sake woman,
The Courier
isn't some sort of feminist rag. If you want to write that kind of tripe, go and work for
The Guardian
…'

‘Sorry,' was all Mini managed through clenched teeth.

‘Sorry? You'd better be. If this happens again, you'll be looking for a new job.'

Mini hadn't answered, but she knew it was only a matter of time before her self-respect got the better of her again. She started weighing up the options and made a few discreet enquiries of old friends.

Her natural home,
The Daily Telegraph
, had recently appointed a new editor and all the other top positions were filled.
The Mail
, where she had worked before coming to
The Courier
, also offered no escape route. She couldn't face the prospect of sloping back to her old editor with her tail between her legs; it would look like she couldn't handle the pressure, and she was under no illusions that many of those who had scribbled so enthusiastically about her arrival at
The Courier
would have any compunctions about writing with enthusiastic
schadenfreude
about her departure. Suddenly her position as a feminist icon seemed to be a millstone around her neck.

Mini tried to pull herself together and stared hard at the sparkling night lights of East London, imploring them to provide the moral strength she so desperately needed. She wiped away the damp patches on her cheeks and powdered her shiny, porcelain skin. The mirror showed that her eyes were red beyond repair, but that couldn't be helped. She dabbed a bit and then turned to the task in hand. The important thing was to act before Sir Lesley did.

A beacon on top of Canary Wharf winked at her and the idea that she had a fellow conspirator cheered her slightly. Mini watched the snowflakes fall past her for a while; even the night seemed to be crying cold tears for her, she thought. Then she walked back to her huge black desk and surveyed
the papers arranged in neat piles across the glass surface. The paper had gone to bed and the worst of the mess had disappeared. Odd articles and a few abandoned drafts still remained.

She ignored these and picked up the framed photograph which occupied pride of place. She paused and planted a wistful kiss on it. Mark and the kids grinned back at her. Sasha was now frighteningly fifteen but Tarquin was still an adorable twelve-year-old cherub. She realised with a pang of guilt that she'd not always lived up to the high ideals of motherhood she had championed as a columnist. The picture had been taken three years ago, when life hadn't been quite so serious. Before she'd had to neglect her family in favour of dawn starts and midnight finishes at work. That had also been long before she'd started to harbour even the slightest doubts about her husband's fidelity. Well, that was one good thing about all this. She was going to have much more time to spend with the three of them; she might even be able to save her marriage—after all, as yet she had nothing concrete to suggest she couldn't.

Mini put the photograph in her bag and called her secretary, Martha Rogers, on the intercom. Martha, single, middle aged and unassumingly charming, was an institution at
The Courier
. She'd been there longer than any of the staff journalists, long before the paper moved to Docklands, and she provided a point of stability among the musical chairs to which everyone had wearily become accustomed. Invariably neatly dressed, tweed skirts in winter and cotton floral print dresses in summer with a cardigan cast over her narrow shoulders, Martha could be relied on to be efficient and calm when everyone else was rushing around chaotically. She also provided continuity between editors—her reputation was such that no newcomer would dare to sack her immediately and within a short time they came to rely on her utterly.

‘Martha, darling. Could you pop in a minute?' Like the rest of the staff, Mini thought Martha was a star; in Mini's book, her secretary was one of the best things about working at
The Courier
. She would miss her.

‘Sure, no problem, Mrs Bournemouth.' Martha's head appeared round the door, illuminating the room with a gentle smile.

Mini smiled back.

‘Everything all right?' Martha asked. Perhaps she'd noticed the red eyes.

‘Yes, fine. Everything is…fine.'

Martha looked at her expectantly.

‘Right, sorry. I just want to dictate a quick letter and then we'll both get out of here. God knows, it's late enough.'

Martha shrugged but was clearly grateful. The clock on the wall showed ten to eleven. Settling herself in the seat opposite Mini, Martha took the letter in shorthand, and, apart from a sharp intake of breath on a couple of occasions and the onset of a pained expression, she did not react to what her boss said.

‘… So it is with the deepest regret that I have to tender my resignation with immediate effect. Yours sincerely, Miranda Bournemouth,' concluded Mini.

‘It's always better to jump before you're pushed,' she offered by way of explanation to the shocked Martha. ‘Come on, cheer up. This isn't the time for tears. I'm going to spend more time with my family after all.' Mini managed a wry smile at the cliché and Martha stifled her sobs.

‘Now I need you to get that letter to Sir Lesley at about eight tomorrow morning. I know it's a bit early, but I want him to receive it just after he's read the paper and before he can get on the phone.' Mini smiled broadly and surprised herself with her levity. ‘God, he'll love that editorial! Absolutely love it!'

She picked up her bag, crossed to Martha and gave her a peck on the cheek. ‘Thanks for everything, eh? Don't worry; I'll stay in touch. Look after yourself. Goodness knows who he'll appoint after me… But you know you can always give me a ring if you need a move. Okay?'