Up All Night Page 7

  The phone jagged into her thoughts.

  ‘Jo Randall,’ she said when she picked up, certain it was Declan wanting to share his thoughts on the News at Ten bulletin with her.

  Poor old Declan. Going home to a lonely flat . . . wife finally fed up with the fact that every single night of her husband’s working week was taken up with the paper.

  ‘You were supposed to phone me back, remember?’

  It wasn’t Declan, it was Simon.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’ve been a bit tied up.’

  ‘We have to make a decision here,’ he said.

  ‘Oh balls,’ she snapped back, irritated with him. Always irritated with him. But tonight she was too tired to make the effort not to show it: ‘We do not need to decide this tonight.’

  ‘In case you hadn’t noticed,’ he said with a sneer, ‘there’s a whooping cough epidemic, but you still can’t decide whether or not to get our daughter protected. I’m not sure what you’re waiting for. Do the children next door have to die before you’re going to be convinced that it’s a good idea?’

  ‘Children don’t usually die from whooping cough, Simon, you’re the doctor, you should know that,’ was her angry answer. She could not face this argument because she didn’t even know where to begin it. Certainly had no idea how to end it.

  He knew children could be seriously damaged and even die of whooping cough complications; she knew that was what he was going to tell her now. But she had interviewed parents with tears in their eyes, with utter conviction in their hearts that their children had been fine, had been totally well, totally normal, until they’d had a vaccination.

  ‘Anyone in your family have thrombophilia?’ she asked him now, changing tack.

  ‘Why?’ She heard the hostility in his voice.

  ‘Anyone with the thrombophilia gene shouldn’t have a combination vaccination because they run a greater risk of the complications associated with this type of immunization.’

  ‘Oh, they do, do they? And on which internet scare site did you unearth that little nugget?’ he spat.

  She told him exactly where the information came from. Facts, glorious facts: even Simon could be stopped in his tracks with enough confidently delivered information. She just wished she had a barrage of statistics at her fingertips that she could dump all over him right now, prove to him that he did not know everything there was to know about health, just because he was a hospital consultant. Actually, especially because he was an arrogant and narrow-minded hospital consultant.

  There was the smallpox epidemic that had apparently raged through England after vaccination was introduced, but she couldn’t remember the dates, so best not to bring that one up.

  It was ridiculous, having to prepare for a conversation with the father of your children as if you were preparing for a debate. But then the tail end of their marriage had been like one long session in the House of Commons, hadn’t it?

  ‘With all due respect, would the right honourable wanker stop giving the girls so many snacks in between meals Stop coming home so late at night, even though he’s been in hospital saving lives, supposedly . . .’

  ‘Would my nagging colleague kindly refrain from criticizing every aspect of the profession I work for, especially in the weekly rag she works for?’

  ‘As my pompous partner has explained, he is a being far superior to any other that has ever walked the face of the earth . . .’

  ‘Moving the debate on, shall we hear the evidence from the opposition as to who does most of the housework in the Randall-Dundas home?’

  ‘Are we ready to vote now? Which way will our friends go in the aftermath of the divorce? Gwen obviously through the Simon door on the left, Bella votes for Jo . . .’

  Simon had always believed he was so much more important than her. Ultimately, that was why the marriage had fallen on its knees. It had been fine long ago when she was a nurse, when she’d supposedly known her place. It was still OK when she became a local newspaper reporter and the mother of his children. He’s still been able to categorize this, work with it.

  But when they’d moved to London for his glorious career and she’d achieved the national newspaper job, the glorious career of her own – that’s when his world view had fallen apart.

  He’d been threatened . . . jealous . . . or maybe just confused. He’d belittled her, put her down in front of their families and friends.

  ‘Jo’s one of those bloody journalists,’ was how he used to introduce her at parties.

  He’d not been able to let go of the idea that he was so much cleverer, smarter, better educated than her. And wasn’t that really what they were arguing about now? Who knew better, who had the most information about this?

  ‘No one in my family has thrombophilia,’ he answered. ‘It’s extremely rare. So are bad reactions to both Quintet and any other vaccine.’

  ‘I will book Annette in for a single whooping cough injection, OK?’ Jo told him firmly.

  He gave an exasperated sigh, but didn’t start up again with objections.

  ‘All right, but as soon as you can. ASAP,’ he added for emphasis. ‘In fact, you’ve got a week. If it’s not done by then, I’m taking her to the surgery.’

  ‘No. No emotional blackmail, Simon, you know how strongly I feel about this.’

  ‘Well, you know how strongly I feel about this. One father took his ex-wife to court about the right to vaccinate his children. And he won.’ There was the triumphant, ‘I’m having the last word on this’ note in his voice.

  ‘I’ll phone the clinic and I’ll let you know when they can take her,’ she said, already dreading the moment. It was all very well to talk about injections, to argue the pros and cons, the risks of having them, the risks of not. It was an entirely different matter baring your precious daughter’s arm and watching someone stab the needle in.

  Once she’d hung up on the man-formerly-known-as-her-husband, she knew just what would be more comforting than another glass of wine, or even a bar of chocolate. She dialled Marcus’s mobile number.

  ‘Hello there,’ he answered and she could hear the grin on his face.

  ‘Hello. You busy?’

  ‘I’m very busy. I’m the busiest person in the entire kitchen, but I deserve a cigarette break right now.’

  ‘It’s OK, I can phone you back,’ she insisted.

  ‘No. No, keep talking, I’m walking to the back door . . . How are you?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Fine?’ he asked and she could hear the click of his cigarette lighter and the deep first breath of smoke. ‘Fine sounds a bit boring. Are you up? Are you down? Are you missing me? Are you wanting a late night visit?’

  Little surge of desire as she heard those words.

  ‘No, not tonight. It’s been a long day.’

  ‘I could make it an even longer day. Very long.’ He paused to suck up another lungful of smoke.

  ‘You’re very tempting.’

  Their second ‘date’, the first time they’d gone to bed, came into her mind in little flashes. It had begun with a cheeky if slightly hesitant call on her mobile. ‘Jo, hello there, Marcus here . . . you know, the chef. . . er. . . I’m going for a drink after work, I just wondered if you were free . . . well . . . if you’d like to come along. To make up for the other night.’

  At the sound of his voice, Jo had felt an outrageous tug in her stomach . . . and lower.

  ‘I’m still at work,’ she’d told him. It was 9 p.m. on a Friday night and she’d be at least another hour or so finishing things off.

  ‘Me too. Us late-shift workers.’

  ‘Speak for yourself,’ she’d answered. ‘I’ve been here since 9 a.m.’

  ‘You’ll really need a drink when you finish, then.’

  ‘Either that or she’d go straight to bed,’ she’d said, only conscious of the other meaning once she’d said it and it was too late.

  ‘Aha,’ he’d said after the kind of pause that meant he was thinking of that other mea
ning too.

  They’d met at the cramped and hot bar she remembered from their last night out, but Marcus was there on his own this time. He was drinking a bottle of beer, with his hair dishevelled, tucked behind his ears. In a red and grey T-shirt, he looked grimy but incredibly sexy.

  He’d bought her a beer, then they’d squeezed into a corner table together and had one of those conversations she hadn’t had for years, where she’d barely taken in anything that was said, barely even listened, she’d just watched him, using his turn to speak as her excuse to stare. She’d liked everything she’d seen, particularly the chunky wrists, the broad, tanned forearms, the expressive mouth drinking from the rim of the bottle, the surprisingly white base of his neck that she glimpsed now and then.

  He’d quickly breached the physical barrier between them, putting an arm round her, saying things into her ear, kissing her neck. He was a touchy-feely outrageous flirt. If she’d been much younger, she’d have worried about him, been nervous that he wasn’t going to be reliable or particularly trustworthy, but now, he was the serious fun she wanted. Oh. Yes. Please.

  ‘So where are you?’ he’d asked. ‘Are you moving on from your husband? Are you going to start seeing other people?’

  ‘Other people?’ she’d smiled at him. ‘I don’t think so.’

  He’d nodded solemnly as if he understood, was trying to sympathize.

  ‘Not other people,’ she’d added, taking a swig from the bottle of beer, putting her hand on his arm, feeling the hair parting beneath her fingers. ‘I’m going to start seeing you.’

  She didn’t need to be subtle, she’d decided, she didn’t need to wait to read the signals, she could make the offer, she was a grown-up. If he wasn’t interested, why was he here? If he didn’t want to play, then he could say so . . . no hard feelings.

  And then they’d kissed properly: tongues tasting of beer, cigarettes and filthy promise.

  There was only one thing to say after a kiss like that.

  ‘Let’s go,’ she’d told him.

  They’d left the bar, Jo savouring the feel of a new hand in hers. Kissing again outside, she realized how close in height they were. Simon had always towered above her.

  ‘I’ve got my car, you’re not far from here, are you?’

  The journey was only minutes, but it was still too long. They’d run up the stairs to his flat and when he closed the door and they were together in the tiny hallway, facing each other, she’d felt her heart shake, the blood rush.

  In the busy tangle of kissing, he’d tried to slide her jacket off but she’d caught it in her hands as it headed for the floor: ‘Can I hang this up?’ she’d asked.

  Not exactly mad, passionate abandon but she was damned if she was going to let lightweight woven wool and silk workwear end up in a heap on this none too clean floor.

  When Marcus swung open his bedroom door, she’d seen a clean bed, freshly made as if he’d thought this through, expected to get lucky.

  He’d pulled off his trousers, hauled off socks, shoes then his T-shirt, until he stood before her naked. Very erect. An erection pressed so tightly against his stomach it was almost difficult to slide her hand between the two.

  For a moment, Jo had felt awkward, too old, too unused to this, too formal, too dressed: a shirt, trousers, tights, areas of dubious shaving. She hadn’t thought this through properly at all, she’d been caught out.

  ‘Come here,’ he’d encouraged her, bare arms folding over her shoulders.

  ‘Get under the covers,’ she’d told him. ‘And turn out the light.’

  ‘Why?’ There was a smile with this.

  ‘Because I say so.’

  ‘Are you shy?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  When the room was dark orange, lit only by a streetlamp outside the window, Marcus had slid his naked body into bed and watched as best he could in the half-light as she’d taken off her clothes.

  His hand was on his cock, that much she could tell.

  ‘Come here,’ he’d said again with something close to a groan.

  And she did.

  Under the cool covers, with his solid warmth, bare skin pressed up against hers, she’d felt like she was going to come three times just at the touch of his hand on her thigh.

  ‘Here?’ and ‘OK?’ he’d asked in breathy whispers.

  Her skin all over had tingled for him, needed him to rub against her, with his fingers, with his cock, with his lips and tongue.

  The fumble of the bedside condom. How could she have forgotten about the excitement, the awkwardness, the pain almost, of wanting someone so badly? The ache from the very centre of her pelvis.

  But when he was inside, she’d felt him pulse through her, felt the newness, the different shape, the unexpected chill of the condom, the new rhythm and suddenly she’d been struck by a piercing sense of loneliness that had brought tears to her eyes.

  She’d heard the long, sustained gasp and felt him shudder and fall back with some disappointment because he hadn’t made her come.

  He’d wanted to keep trying, but she’d moved his hand away. Didn’t want him to. She’d carefully moved off and lain down beside him on the bed, the throb of blood receding.

  Lying quietly, chests rising and falling almost together, she’d felt a wave of disbelief wash over her. She’d lost her marital virginity and it was just as overwhelming as losing her virginity the first time round.

  ‘I am very tempting, Jo,’ he was saying right now into the receiver against her ear.

  ‘You are. But no,’ she replied.

  ‘Are you sure? Sure?’ he repeated, warm and intimate.

  ‘What are you doing tomorrow?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know. Might not be interested tomorrow . . . maybe you should say yes to tonight. Tonight I’m very interested. Tonight I’m getting hard just talking to you.’

  ‘Uh oh,’ was her response to this.

  ‘Tonight I’m so interested that you might just want to put your hands inside your pants right now and see what I’m talking about.’

  She swallowed involuntarily.

  ‘It’s very nice in there,’ he added.

  ‘Uh oh,’ she repeated, not sure if this was the way she wanted this phone call to go.

  ‘Ohhhh,’ he gave a little groan, ‘I want you.’

  ‘You are a lovely boy, I’d really like to see you soon. But I have to go now. Is that OK?’

  ‘No! You’re not going to leave me like this, are you?’ She could hear the giggle in his voice.

  ‘Night-night,’ she said then hung up.

  The phone rang back almost immediately.

  ‘Baby, you have to leave me alone now,’ she purred into the receiver.

  ‘Jo? Is that you?’

  This time it was Declan.

  Chapter Six

  The UK will donate nearly £1 billion for vaccines to protect children in poor countries from disease.

  The Guardian

  Wednesday: 8.15 a.m.

  ‘So, that’s the update,’ she told Jeff. She’d had hands-free mobile set up in her car years ago, but it still felt a bizarre thing to do, talk out loud to yourself in your car.

  ‘When do you think you’ll be back?’ Jeff asked.

  ‘Well. . . all the way to Canterbury, good long interview, I’ve got Ray coming down to do pictures. If 11 be well after lunch, I think.’

  ‘It sounds good,’ he told her. ‘First bad reaction to this new vaccine. I’ve already told Spikey. We like it. Obviously we have to proceed with caution, the country’s panicking about a whooping cough epidemic and we’re telling them the injection that should protect their children might not be safe.’

  ‘I will proceed with extreme caution,’ she said. ‘All we’re going to be able to say is that these parents believe the injection has damaged their children. It’s not up to us to prove it either way. And we’ll only say that if they make a good case.’

  ‘Yeah . . . so I’ll go through the rest of yo
ur list at conference?’

  ‘Unless you want Dominique to go in?’

  ‘I don’t think so!’ Jeff warned. ‘I can’t give Dominique a taste of conference power or I’ll find you dead at your desk next week with a great big dagger in your back.’

  ‘Oh ha ha.’

  ‘So the twins is a totally signed-up world exclusive, I take it?’

  ‘Well, it will be by the time I’ve finished with it,’ Jo assured him. ‘No, don’t worry, the woman who put me in touch with the family is a rock solid contact.’

  ‘OK then. Drive carefully.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Jo clicked the phone off and turned the radio on. More whooping cough, some political stuff – Conservatives mock Labour defence spending plans – blah, blah . . . an item about bits of the Greenland ice shelf breaking off and melting into the sea at an ‘alarming’ rate.

  They should do something fresh on global warming. She felt readers should be reminded of that at least once every five or six weeks. Three per cent of the world’s coastlines were going to go . . . SOON.

  She’d wanted to do a full-page interview with the long-suffering President of the Maldives, which was due to be submerged not long after 2010. He was the guy who’d been fighting for CO2 cuts for years and was getting very pessimistic: ‘Watch what happens to us . . . Whatever our fate tomorrow, will be your fate the day after.’

  But Jeff had argued against it: ‘We’re a Sunday paper. We can’t scare people out of their wits every week. And readers want to know about what’s going to affect them this week, not in decades’ time.’

  ‘That’s just the point though,’ Jo had argued back; in fact, they’d had this argument many times before: ‘We have to do something now!’

  ‘You’re a reporter,’ he’d reminded her. ‘You bring the news, you can’t change the world.’

  ‘Maybe I should be trying a bit harder.’

  ‘What? To change the world?’ He’d smiled at her.

  She’d smiled back. ‘Listen to me: megalomaniac tries to control world.’

  ‘Come and have a beer,’ he’d suggested. ‘Your girls are with their dad tonight, aren’t they? Beer is very soothing. If all megalomaniacs drank more beer, the world would be a better place.’