Page 11 of So, I Met This Guy . . .

Sitting across from him, Flick frowned. Was he trying to be funny? She wasn’t sure.

‘OK, I’ll tell them.’

‘Good.’

‘But I still want to go. It would make a great story. You know it would.’

It was a compromise of sorts. Flick knew the police wouldn’t do anything. But this way she could still try and get her interview.

‘Would it, though? I mean, a middle-aged woman falls for a con man? It’s hardly headline stuff.’

‘And pole-dancing pensioners are?’ snapped Flick.

Seymour didn’t reply. Underneath his Fair Isle vest, he could feel his shirt buttons straining from the extra pounds he’d gained since Gaynor, his wife, had left him six months ago. Too many takeaways and beers on the sofa. They’d met when he was a young, skinny-hipped reporter working in Fleet Street and he’d travelled to Liverpool to interview a band that was about to become the next Beatles. For the life of him, he couldn’t remember their name now, but he’d never forget the pretty redhead who asked for his ticket at Lime Street station. Six months later they were married with a baby on the way and he’d given up his crazy London life for a steady job on a regional paper. He never regretted it, though sometimes he missed who he used to be. He glanced at his wastepaper basket, noting the empty box from the bakery and made a mental note to cut back on their custard tarts. Starting tomorrow.

And he really missed his wife.

He reached in his drawer for a packet of Monster Munch.

‘I think you’re forgetting this is a local newspaper,’ he said, after a moment. ‘We don’t have that kind of budget. This isn’t News of the World.’

‘Actually, I don’t think that exists any more.’

‘But that’s not the point, is it?’ Seymour sighed heavily. ‘You’re supposed to be a local reporter. Reporting on local news.’

Through a gap in the vertical blinds, Flick caught sight of Simon on Features staring into Seymour’s office. He was her senior and seemed to take great pleasure in giving her all the worst stories. He’d been dying to know why she was going to speak to their editor, but she’d refused to tell him. Now, with hope fast disappearing, she could imagine the smirk on his face when he found out.

Simon was someone who kept his location on and liked to post photos of himself drinking cocktails in bars around town together with the hashtag #cheerstome which, Flick thought, said everything you needed to know about Simon.

‘But it is local news,’ protested Flick. ‘The woman’s living locally in a caravan. That’s local connections.’

But Seymour wasn’t listening. ‘Look, I know you’ve got ambitions. I was once like you. But keep working hard and one day you’ll get here. You’ll get my spot. You’ll be in this chair,’ he continued, his mouth full.

Flick looked at her editor, feet up on his desk, eating pickledonion Monster Munch in his messy office. This was not the peak of her ambition.

‘And, all right, perhaps it is a good story. But if it’s a good story you want, I’ll send you over to Clifton Park Reservoir.’

‘What’s happening at Clifton Park Reservoir?’

‘Electric scooters. They’re getting stolen and dumped there. Black market. Gangs. It’s got all the hallmarks of a big story.’

‘But it’s not a big story, is it?’

‘Well, that depends upon you. You’re our community reporter. You can interview people. Follow up leads. Look at their footprint on social media,’ added Seymour pointedly.

Flick felt her spirits sinking.

‘If you write up a big piece, we can even think about the front page. How about that?’ he enthused, flashing Flick a bright smile. He didn’t want her feeling discouraged. She was a good reporter. Hardworking, enthusiastic, never missed a deadline. Not once during that whole time her mother was sick or even after the funeral.

‘Or at the very least you could be on page three. Though not in the traditional sense, of course,’ he added with a jovial laugh.

‘Is that a reference to the tradition of sexually objectifying women by publishing photos of topless models in British newspapers that was finally banned in 2015 after a three-year campaign?’ replied Flick.

Seymour nearly choked on a pickled-onion monster’s foot.

‘Right. Yes. That one.’ Clearing his throat, he nodded vigorously, his expression stern. ‘And not a minute too soon either, in my opinion. Thank goodness times have changed.’

‘Thank goodness,’ agreed Flick.