Perfect Strangers

She tried to keep her face as impassive as possible. They’d had a brief affair soon after she had begun at the Tribune, when Isaac’s recent divorce and Ruth’s eagerness to please the boss had spilled over into an out-of-hours relationship. The fling had lasted weeks, and within six months Ruth had been posted to Kosovo. At first she had thought it had been a rather extreme reaction to their break-up, but the truth was that Isaac had known about her desire to become a foreign correspondent and had done everything in his power to make that happen. For that she would always be grateful.

‘So I thought I’d give you a heads-up about some changes that are happening,’ said Isaac. As always, he was impossible to read. But she’d heard rumours that the Tribune’s London bureau chief, Jim Keane, was ready to move on. As his number two, she’d be in pole position to take over.

‘How old are you, Ruth?’

Her heart gave a little jump. So he was cutting to the chase before they’d even ordered their first course.

‘An experienced forty-one, Isaac, as well you know,’ she said smoothly.

Ruth held her breath. She had dreamt of this moment her entire career, throughout that time in the Balkans, then stationed in Cape Town – her bag permanently packed as she waited for a call from the foreign desk, day or night, dispatching her to Namibia, Mozambique or Angola. And now finally London, covering all those dreary weddings, openings and parties that passed for news stories, hoping against hope that one day it would all be worthwhile and she would finally get the position she deserved: bureau chief of one of the most important territories in the world.

‘I won’t bullshit you, Ruth,’ said Isaac. ‘There’s talk about shutting the bureau down.’

For a moment she couldn’t take in what he had just said.

‘You’re closing us down?’ she croaked.

Isaac looked apologetic.

‘We’re not the Herald Tribune or the BBC. We’re smaller, leaner, and to be frank, we’re struggling financially. We can’t afford to keep a team out here.’

Ruth couldn’t believe what she was hearing. ‘But this is London. The financial capital of the world. America’s ally . . .’

‘Which is exactly why we’ve kept it going so long.’

She was still shaking her head. ‘I don’t believe this. I thought it was going so well. The Bernard story . . .’

‘Ruth, one great story does not pay the rent on an office in Victoria. You know it’s all about the bottom line these days, and the London bureau doesn’t generate anything that we can’t get from local stringers and freelancers.’

‘Local stringers?’

She had worked with them many times before – fixers, interpreters, hacks from the native newspapers. They were often difficult and unreliable; he couldn’t seriously be thinking of handing the Tribune over to them?

‘Isaac, local reporters have their place,’ she said, trying to keep calm. ‘But they are never going to be as impartial as a Tribune journalist. Remember Kosovo?’ She had been shortlisted for a press award for her balanced reporting. ‘Local journalists are more likely to be biased because of their politics, their allegiances.’

‘London isn’t Kosovo, Ruth.’

He put his hand on the tablecloth.

‘The view from upstairs is that we don’t need Tribune journalists out in the field any more. Not in English-speaking territories anyway.’

‘This is just cost-cutting.’

‘To an extent, yes it is. I’ll be honest, we’re not getting enough from you to justify the upkeep of the goddamn photocopier. Ruth, the media is changing. It’s the new way, kiddo: they want blogs and as-it-happens tickertape crap. Citizen journalism – stories phoned in seconds after the thing has happened. No one wants investigative journalism any more.’

‘Bullshit,’ snapped Ruth, before she could stop herself. She’d been up since six and she was in no mood to mince her words. And what did she have to lose anyway? ‘Don’t try and dress it up as the fallout from the digital revolution. You’re just cutting corners, pure and simple. You’re taking away the real journalists and bringing in interns to write cuts jobs from the internet and press releases. And relying on the general public to send in their cell-phone videos isn’t reporting. I can’t believe you don’t agree with me, Isaac.’

‘It’s not me you’ve got to convince, Ruth. I answer to the goddamn management consultants right now, just like everyone else.’

Another time that comment might have gained some sympathy from her – but not today.

‘So what about opportunities in Washington?’

Isaac shifted uncomfortably.

‘We’re downsizing over there too, not recruiting newbies.’

‘Newbies! I’ve got nearly twenty years’ hard news experience.’