In Pieces Read Free

up. Damn. He’d spent all day researching that story and then Slimey Stevens, his loathsome boss, had pulled it. He might have guessed this would happen. Si put it down to jealousy but knew that if he didn’t get out soon his career as a journalist would be over before it had really got started.
    While wondering how to salvage the day, he twiddled his pen and stared absent-mindedly at the screensaver on his desktop computer:
Success isn’t the ball at the back of the net, it’s getting it there. Success isn’t the
—The red text scrolled endlessly across the aquamarine background. Apparently, this was a quotation from the poet-footballer Eric Cantona. Si’s boyhood football-fanaticism had faded to indifference after puberty; he only took a passing interest in the game these days, and only then when it concerned Jimmy’s fortunes. So he found it hard to pinpoint what had attracted him to theaphorism; but after seeing it printed large on a sports page he had adopted it for his idle moments—at least until he found something more interesting.
    Slimey Stevens,
The Standard
’s Diary Editor, sidled over to the desk where Si had spread out the paper. ‘Hi Si, how are you today?’ Slimey was forty-three, thin on top, squeezed ridiculously into a yellow check waistcoat, and in the last couple of years had been forced to concede that his parabolic career curve had irrevocably flattened out and could only descend. As a result he had added spite to his rich collection of personality defects, which already included insecurity and bitchiness. Talented and attractive but inaccessible young men, such as Si, had become favourite targets for Slimey’s queening acerbity.
    Si looked up at Slimey’s approach. ‘Fine… Well actually, no. I’m bloody pissed off.’
    â€˜Oh, why’s that?’ Slimey was doing a bad job of hiding his
schadenfreude
.
    â€˜Because you pulled my story, that’s why.’ Si knew he had to hold back and control his temper. Otherwise he’d be out of a job.
    â€˜Oh that. Yes, I know, sorry luv. But it just wasn’t up to it. That’s all.’ Slimey made to move off. ‘It’s a tough old world, journalism. You’ll just have to get used to it.’
    â€˜But it was a perfectly good story. You know it was.’ Si was about to accuse his boss of doing him down deliberately, but just bit his tongue in time.
    â€˜No it wasn’t. It was crap. Far too political for us. If you can’t understand that, then you’d better reassess your options, I’d say.’
    â€˜You would, would you?’
    But Slimey didn’t bother to reply. He’d had his fun. He turned his back and walked over to his own desk to start the day’s work. If Simpson could be riled so easily, then he’d have no problem getting rid of him before long. But not quite yet; he wanted to enjoy the situation a bit more first.
    Si watched Slimey waddle away. He ran his fingers through his mop of wavy hair and rested his head in his hands, crumpled over the desk. This was awful. Where had things gone wrong? Until only a few weeks ago he’d been doing great. ‘The high-flyer’ was how he’d heard someone describe him. But now it was all about to go down the pan. When the phone rang he watched it for about ten seconds, too depressed to answer.
    â€˜Why don’t you answer your phone?’ Slimey called across. ‘It might be a story and, God knows, honey, you need one…’
    â€˜Hello,
Standard
Diary…’
    â€˜Hi, can I speak to Simon Simpson please?’
    â€˜Speaking.’
    â€˜Hi, Simon. This is Martha Rogers. I work for Douglas McCormack.’
    Si sat up. Like the rest of the media world, Si was very aware that McCormack had just been appointed to succeed Mini Bournemouth at
The Courier
. ‘Yes, of course…’
    â€˜Mr McCormack was wondering if you could pop into the