Cover Story - 4

‘Tell us about one of your podcast greatest hits, then, Macauley,’ Aaron said, in the 3.00 p.m. lull, the energy dip phase of the nine to five. And it was a Thursday: not yet the weekend, no Toby check-in until tomorrow. Outside it was no-jacket-required late springtime muggy, in here it was a dingy sweat box. The mood felt distinctly ‘get a Diet Coke, doom scroll and piss about’.

‘Was it like MP’s expenses, did a York MP claim for an ornamental duck pond and a load of dildos?’ Aaron said. ‘Or did you probe why Wetherspoon’s chips are so many calories when you only get about six of them?’

Bel recognised the highly specific variety of teasing that Aaron was using with her, in front of a studiously unimpressed, blank Connor Adams. (He was a real charisma powerhouse. He’d worked in near silence since his arrival on Monday, except when asking Aaron for more to do. As Bel’s mother liked to say, lucky he’s got those looks, he needs them.)

To the untrained observer, Aaron’s attention might look like mockery. In the world of journalism and in the north of England, Bel sensed it was a compliment.

He wasn’t putting her on the spot so much as putting her in a spotlight, because he thought she could tap dance.

‘Erm … There was the one that was mentioned in the award,’ Bel said, then paused, aware this could still be a bear trap for making a boastful arse of herself. ‘… Which was about the “Ask for Amy” initiative the police and Mayor’s office started. I’d seen the signs in loads of places back at home and thought, has anyone stress tested whether it works? So I did.’

‘What’s “Ask for Amy”?’ Aaron said. As crime reporter, she was surprised he’d not heard of it – it had rolled out beyond York. Lovely male privilege.

‘It’s when a woman feels unsafe, a date’s not working out or he’s not who he said he was, you know. You ask for “Amy” at the bar and the staff member unobtrusively goes to get the trained person on site who calls you a taxi, or the police. It’s a code for “help me”.’

‘Why d’you think it wasn’t working?’

‘It was a hunch that landlords stuck the posters up in the Ladies with good intentions but were less rigorous about teaching every new bartender what to do. You know, we have fire drill practice because otherwise we’d forget the process in an emergency. I was pretty certain they weren’t doing drills, so I did one.’

‘And? You were right?’

‘It didn’t work on most occasions. Some of them actually drew more attention by calling: “Oy, do you know an AMY?” down the bar and shaking their heads, nonplussed, at me. The whole point of it was it was more discreet than saying you were in trouble. Anyway, it gave the scheme a kick up the arse so hopefully it operates the way it’s meant to now.’

‘Woah,’ Aaron said. ‘Well done. Crusader.’

‘Thanks. Except I made my brother Miles be my “bad date” and he was really annoyed by getting barred by several landlords until I went back and explained, hahaha. Even then one place said, “is he making you say this?”’

‘And hopefully you didn’t lose anyone in the pubs their jobs,’ Connor said, evenly but pointedly. Both Bel and Aaron looked over in surprise at him speaking. ‘For not knowing the protocol. Given I’m guessing it was their voices on the audio.’

‘Hopefully not,’ Bel said, startled at his input. ‘I wasn’t calling out anyone pulling the pints. The venue needed to provide the training. It was the employer’s responsibility.’

‘Not always how it works when a business looks bad though, is it?’

Aaron looked from Connor and back to Bel, eyes wide, clearly delighted to have inadvertently kicked off drama.

‘Right, but I can’t control that.’

Connor didn’t reply and Bel realised she was annoyed.

‘It matters more that women who feel threatened can call on help?’ she added.

‘Of course,’ Connor said, mildly, with more maddening superiority.

A beat of tense silence.

‘You know, investigative journalism with no risks isn’t likely to be worthwhile,’ Bel said. ‘You can’t safety proof every aspect and anticipate every consequence. If people are getting something wrong, they’re getting it wrong.’

‘Can’t make a podcast frittata without breaking a few eggs,’ Aaron said.

‘Sure. Though if they hadn’t been given training or even told about it, they’d done nothing wrong,’ Connor said.

Bel was ready this time.

‘Sorry, are you implying I’m anti the working man or woman by demonstrating a scheme to protect women from harmful men isn’t functioning?’

‘I’m not suggesting that at all. I’m thinking out loud about how good some bosses are at divesting themselves of responsibility and letting others carry the can.’

Sure, right. Bel seethed. Seriously, who was this guy?

‘I could do with a better coffee than that mouldy Kenco with Rice Krispies in it,’ Connor said, after a minute, standing up. ‘Anyone want one if I go to Caffè Nero?’

‘Ooh, Honey Iced Velvet Americano, cheers, mate,’ Aaron said. He seemed to be like a wasp in a beer garden when it came to sugar.

‘Bel?’ Connor said.

‘No, thanks,’ she replied, prim. She felt certain her refusal had been correctly interpreted as: ‘The only thing I’d accept from you is an apology.’

‘Oh,’ she said, as Connor opened the door to the stairwell, ‘forgot to say.’ She addressed both him and Aaron, ‘I’ve got a job tomorrow that’s going to take me out of the office for the afternoon. So I’ll meet you both at Platzki’s at half five?’

She and Aaron had decided to offer every intern a Friday night drink and welcome dinner in their first week. Cicely had asked: ‘Is it compulsory?’ and then declined. Connor was ahead in at least accepting.

‘We’ll get you a black cherry vodka in,’ Aaron said, and Connor nodded.

After Connor’s footsteps thundered down the stairs, Aaron said: ‘Don’t you be dumping me with him, Macauley!’

‘I was explaining I will definitely be there even if I’m not here!’

‘Hmmm. Look at this …’

Aaron was out of his seat and standing at Connor’s desk. He twitched out a photograph in a frame next to the monitor, the size of a postcard. He turned it so Bel could see it – an elegantly gorgeous brunette, hair in a bob, smiled into the camera lens. Her arms were wound round the neck of a large, shaggy dog. The hound – was it a Golden Retriever? Bel’s dad was the dog person in their family, and he’d died fourteen years ago – had a pleasingly goofy expression, as if it too was smiling.

‘Fookin’ hell, a picture of your good lady on your desk! Does he think she’ll do spot checks? He’s definitely been to a school where they’re all called Old Somethings,’ Aaron said. ‘Fair play, though, she’s fit.’

Bel might find Connor Adams repellent, but she had principles. Deriding someone’s affection for their loved ones, or assessing the shaggability of said loved one, was not really on.

‘Aaron, leave him be. That’s really nice. We should all hope to be worthy of a picture on someone’s desk.’

‘My darling, if anyone displayed one of you, your portrait would be stolen within an hour by a randy thief.’

Bel rolled her eyes and hoped his flirting was the automatic-ironic type, and that he wasn’t the randy thief.

Why did men have to make themselves problems?