I itched to say it. But the itch couldn’t be scratched.
On the bus to work, I took out my tablet and checked for messages.
YourPet27 had replied!
Hi, NN! I can’t help wondering what your real name is – mine’s Katie.
It was great to hear from you again – and thanks for offering to give me your mobile number. We’ll have to have a good old chat before we meet up. Send your number to PetKatie @ gmail dot com and I’ll text you as soon as I can. Xxx.
The excitement buoyed me up and made me forget about my tired, ravaged body all the way into work.
There was always a little bit of delirium in the air on Fridays, with nights out and after-works drinks and weekend plans being flung between the cubicles. It was usual for most of the non-journo staff to head to the bar on the corner straight after work for an hour or two, before dispersing into our various favoured fleshpots.
Tilda had free tickets for a burlesque show, and she was keen for Miles and me to accompany her, along with another friend who’d already said yes.
‘Burlesque, isn’t that like stripping?’ said Miles.
‘It’s not the same,’ said Tilda.
‘What’s the difference?’
‘Burlesque is more like cabaret. It’s more sophisticated.’
‘Arty stripping then? OK. I’m up for that.’
‘Miles,’ said Tilda disapprovingly. ‘Tell him, Ella.’
‘Tell him what?’
Tilda sighed. ‘To be honest, I haven’t decided whether I’m OK with it myself yet. So I’m going there with an open mind, to see if I’ll be convinced that it’s not ragingly anti-feminist.’
‘It’s not, though, is it?’ I said. ‘I mean, it’s more like performance art, not just women getting their kit off.’
‘Yeah, that’s what I said,’ said Tilda. ‘Performance art.’ But she didn’t seem convinced.
We spent much of the day discussing the borderline between art and sleaze, a conversation which seemed to embarrass Miles way beyond the bounds of reason. I was enjoying this until Tom appeared from nowhere and strode straight to Ed’s office.
It took me a while to realise that I’d stopped talking in mid-sentence. Miles waited for me to continue, but Tilda rolled her eyes.
‘Struck dumb,’ she said acidly. ‘I see you’re really over him.’
‘What? Sorry, just…’
He hadn’t looked at me, just whizzed into the office and banged the door behind him.
‘My sources tell me,’ said Tilda, lowering her voice, ‘that Ed wants to spike a story of his.’
‘Your sources? Jodie?’ I named Ed’s secretary, with whom Tilda was on very friendly terms. In fact, she was the other burlesque ticket holder.
‘Yes. We had coffee together first thing and she reckons Tom’s sailing a bit close to the winds of libel with one of his stories.’
‘What’s the story?’ I asked.
Tilda shrugged. ‘She couldn’t say, but it’s potentially very damaging to somebody high up.’
Corruption in the council. It was on the tip of my tongue, but I managed to bite it back.
‘High up?’ I nudged.