Page 4 of So, I Met This Guy . . .

But it all hung on getting an exclusive interview with the inhabitant of the caravan.

Flick glanced at it now from underneath her umbrella as she tramped across the muddy field. Nerves jangled in the pit of her stomach, but she refused to acknowledge them. Off in the distance, she spotted a cow. She’d just covered a story about a rambler who was trampled by cows. The poor woman suffered broken ribs and was lucky to be alive. Not so much her poor spaniel. She quickened her pace. Rory, her boyfriend, would probably say it was her fault if she got trampled. He warned her about being too ambitious and going after her own stories.

‘That’s the problem with you, Flick, you’re always getting ideas above your station.’

Of course, he only said things like that because he cared about her. He didn’t want her to get hurt or be disappointed, especially so soon after losing her mum. He couldn’t understand why she wasn’t satisfied with being a reporter at The Local Echo. OK, so the money wasn’t great but it was a steady job and they paid into a pension.

‘I just don’t want you getting your hopes up, that’s all, babe. All these pipe dreams about having your own column in one of those fancy, big newspapers in London. Those are proper journalists, people who went to private school; they’re not like us. Your articles are great, but it’s not like you’re a real writer. You need to stick to what you know.’

Constructive criticism, that’s what he called it.

She kept trudging, head down, battling the rain, until eventually she reached the far corner of the field. Up close, the caravan was worse than she’d first thought. Chewing-gum white, net curtains, condensation on the windows: it had seen better days. Flick knew the feeling. Taking a tissue from her bag, she attempted to scrape the clods of mud from her now-filthy trainers, then smooth down her fringe. She hesitated. As a local reporter she’d stood on enough doorsteps in order to get an interview, but this was different.

Abruptly, a twist of anxiety threatened to derail her, but she quickly pulled it together. It was important to appear confident and assured. Taking a deep breath, she knocked on the door. No one answered.

‘Hello?’

Actually, maybe this was a really bad idea.

She waited a moment, cleared her throat, then reached forward to knock again.

At which point the door was flung open to reveal a barefoot, middle-aged woman wearing a pair of old sweatpants and a crumpled T-shirt. She peered myopically at Flick from behind a messy curtain of hair.

Immediately Flick was struck by two things: the woman was extremely tall, even with bare feet; and she looked surprised to see her.

‘Hi. We spoke on the phone. I’m Felicity Lomax, from The Local Echo.’ Flick spoke quickly and held out her hand. ‘But everyone calls me Flick.’

‘Oh, you’re early!’

The woman looked like she’d just got out of bed. Pulling a scrunchie from her wrist, she scraped back her curls, which were the same colour as Flick’s unfinished croissant, revealing grey at her temples and a face full of freckles.

‘I am?’

And now it was Flick who was surprised. She prided herself on her timekeeping. She checked her watch, thus confirming to herself that she was bang on time.

‘Didn’t we say twelve on Friday?’

Remember: confident and assured.

‘Yes, but today’s Thursday. I was expecting you tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow?’

There was a pause as the cold realization trickled down the back of Flick’s neck like the rain dripping off the broken spoke of her umbrella. And all at once she realized she’d made a mistake. Mortified, she reached for her phone in her pocket to check the date, but she already knew before she glanced at the screen. Somehow, with everything that had been going on since her mum died, she’d lost track of the days and got the dates muddled up. The funeral was six months ago, but she’d still not got back on track.

Unexpectedly her eyes prickled. Forget looking confident and assured; she looked like a total moron. She sniffed sharply, quickly pulling herself together. ‘I’m so sorry, my mistake. I can come back another time if it’s more convenient . . .’

Standing at the doorway of the caravan, Margaret Fletcher looked at the sodden young reporter with her muddy trainers and broken umbrella, its spokes sticking out at right angles, and considered this.

It really wasn’t a good time. The place was a mess. Plus, she was so tired she couldn’t face talking to anyone right now. In fact, all she really wanted to do was climb back into bed and pull the covers over her head. But then she felt like that most days now.

She opened her mouth to make some excuse, hand already on the door to close it behind her, thoughts returning to getting back into bed, disappearing underneath the duvet, making it all go away . . .

Then she noticed the reddening of her eyes.

Later, when Margaret Fletcher looked back, she would realize that this was the moment something clicked. The moment she recognized something in Flick. A vulnerability? A familiarity? A strange feeling of being untethered? She didn’t know what it was, but she saw it reflected back at her and changed her mind.

‘You’re getting soaked, come inside.’ Opening the door wide to let her enter, she forced a broad smile. ‘And, please, call me Maggie.’