“Stick it out, princess. It’s not forever.”
We jogged through the ornate gates of Gladstone Park. There was a light frost, and the grass was white and shiny in the misty morning light. Dav was forgetting about my other huge, intractable problem—my chief of staff, JT Thorpe.
“He hates me,” I said. “Looks at me like he’s one uncomfortable bowel movement away from flushing me completely.”
“He promoted you to the politics team, mate.”
“Only because he flushed the turd in front of me. He’s never really forgiven me for missing that story about the sicko from Leicestershire.”
“You mean the bloke from Newton Bardon who was meeting men online, knocking them out with roofies, and cutting off their balls?”
“I should have known about all of it, apparently, as the newsroom’s designated ‘mincer from the Midlands.’”
“It was one psycho in his attic with his dick in one hand and a scalpel in the other. In a tiny village.Milesaway.”
“If you ask JT, it should have been aBulletinexclusive. And you don’t rob a man like JT Thorpe of a headline like ‘Bollock Bandit trawled chat rooms for tempting testicles’ and stay in his good graces.”
We reached the top of the hill. The view across London was obscured by mist.
“I should definitely quit.”
“How much money you got in the bank right now, mate?” I knew what he was going to say. “No way you got more than a month’s rent saved.”
He paused for confirmation, but I wouldn’t meet his eye.
“I’ll take that as a yes. You can quit, but you’ll be back in Leicester five minutes later, mate—sleeping in your old bedroom in your old council flat, watching your oldGleeDVDs and wanking over Darren Criss, until your mum finally nags you to death.”
“I’d be fine for a while,” I said. But Dav was right. I had less than £300 in my account to last until payday. If I chucked my job, or if JT finally sacked me, London was over. My heart sank. We jogged in silence for a bit.
“You doing anything for the coronation?” Dav asked.
I groaned. “Are you seriously going to watch that gold-gilded wankfest?”
“It’s history, in’t it? Come round ours if you want. Nick and I are having a small gathering.”
“Some bloke inherits a hat from his old man—not to mention a shockingly unrepresentative role in our democracy and a couple of billion in property and trinkets—and suddenly everyone’s a knee-bending Tory.”
“You’ll never get a job up the posh end of Fleet Street with that attitude, mate. They’re proper rigid for King George and Queen Philippa.”
“You’re meant to be on my side, Davinder.”
“Look, do you want to spend an afternoon on my couch eating my mum’s bhajis or not?”
Amita’s bhajis? I didn’t need to be asked twice.
“Does that mean your folks are coming down for the party?”
“Sort of.” Dav paused. “They’re going down the Mall to watch the King and Queen go past.”
I shook my head in disbelief.
“Class traitors!”
Twenty minutes later, we were back at my front door. My wonderful neighbour, Rosie, was hanging out her upstairs window, with a fag in hand, blowing her smoke into the street. We said good morning, and she waved back regally, like she was Queen Philippa herself. Dav put his hand on my shoulder.
“You’re a good journo, Sunny,” he said. “Just stick at it. It’ll all work out.”
Dav jogged home, and I went inside in search of a hot shower. I was too late. The rush had already begun. My flatmate, José, was in the bathroom and his girlfriend, Stella, had started a queue—standing in the hallway in her pyjamas, towel over her arm, hair like she’d spent the night shagging in a hedge. When I did finally get a shower, the hot water would be gone. I went to my bedroom, sat on the edge of my bed, and plucked off my socks. Dav’s final words rang in my ears.Just stick at it.
