“That is not the news.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know exactly what Bargain Hunt sounds like.”
I sit up. “Why do you know exactly what Bargain Hunt sounds like?”
“I broke my leg three years ago and spent six weeks in bed discovering daytime television. I have strong feelings about antique fairs now.”
“Of course you do.”
“And that is definitely Bargain Hunt.”
“It might be research.”
“Into what?”
“Ceramic jugs.”
There is a brief silence.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“Because of the ceramic jugs?”
“Because it’s Tuesday afternoon, I can hear Bargain Hunt, and I can’t hear a million people shouting news things in the background.”
“News things?”
“You know. Phones. Keyboards. Someone yelling about a deadline. That strange collective panic you people call a newsroom.”
“We don’t yell about deadlines all the time.”
“No?”
“I’m not at the newsroom at the moment.” I sigh and I’m not sure why. “I’m embedded at Fellside Fire Station for two weeks. Four day shifts, four off, then four night shifts.”
“You’re what?” Graham says.
“Embedded. With the fire station.”
“I heard you. I’m just trying to understand why you said it as if that’s normal.”
“It is for the feature.”
“What feature?”
I hesitate and use the moment to mute the telly.
There is no reason not to tell him. It is not classified. It is not even especially complicated. And yet saying it out loud to Graham, who has always had the unnerving ability to hear the ugly hinge inside a sentence, feels riskier than it should.
“The follow-up to the farm fire piece.”
There is a pause.
“The one I texted you about?” Graham asks.
“Yes.”
