His & Hers

I park next to the crew car, still unable to see who is sitting inside. The driver’s seat is fully reclined, as though whoever it is has decided to take a nap. It’s not a great sign. It has been a long time since I was on the road, and staff turnover is high in news, so chances are it could be someone I’ve never worked with. This career path is steep and a little pointy, with not much room at the top. The best people often move on when they realise they can’t move up. I consider the possibility that it might be someone new, but when I get out of my car and take a look inside theirs, I can see that it isn’t.

The window is down – despite the cold and rain – and I see the familiar shape of a man I used to know. He’s smoking a roll-up and listening to eighties music. I decide it’s best to get the awkward reunion out of the way, if that’s what this is going to be. I prefer leaving people I have a history with in the past, but that can be tricky when you work with them.

‘Those things will kill you, Richard,’ I say, getting into the passenger seat and closing the door. The car smells of coffee and smoke and him. The scent is familiar, and not altogether unpleasant. My other senses are less impressed. I ignore my instinctive urge to clean away all the mess that I can see – mostly chocolate bar wrappers, old newspapers, empty coffee cups and crumpled Coke cans – and I try not to touch anything.

I notice that he is wearing one of his trademark retro T-shirts and a pair of ripped jeans, still dressing like a teenager despite turning forty last year. He looks like a skinny but strong surfer, even though I know he has a fear of the sea. His blond hair is long enough to be tied back, but hangs in what we used to call ‘curtains’ when I was at school, haphazardly tucked behind his pierced ears. He is a Peter Pan of a man.

‘We all have to die of something,’ he says, taking another drag. ‘You’re looking well.’

‘Thanks. You look like shit,’ I reply.

He grins and the thick ice is at least cracked, if not broken.

‘You know, you don’t always have to tell it like it is. Especially in the morning. You might have a few more friends if you didn’t.’

‘I don’t need friends, just a good cameraman. Know any?’

‘Cute,’ he says, then taps the ash from his cigarette out of the window, before turning to stare at me. ‘Shall we just get this done?’

There is a slightly menacing look in his eyes, one that I do not remember. But then he gets out of the car, and I realise he just meant the job. I watch while Richard checks his camera – he might not be a perfectionist when it comes to hygiene, but he takes his work seriously – and I feel a wave of gratitude and relief that I’ll be working with him today for so many reasons. Firstly, he can shoot the shit out of any story, and make me look good even when I feel bad. Secondly, I can be myself with him. Almost.

Richard and I slept together a few times when I was a correspondent. It isn’t something that anyone else knows about – we both had good ring-shaped reasons on our fingers to keep it that way – and it isn’t something I’m terribly proud of. I was still married, just, but I was a bit broken. Sometimes I find the only way to ease the worst forms of pain is to damage myself in a different way. Distract my attention from the things that can and will break me. A little hurt to help me heal.

I’d never defend infidelity, but my marriage was over long before I slept with someone I shouldn’t have. Something changed when my husband and I lost our daughter. A small part of us died when she did. But like ghosts who don’t know they are dead, we carried on haunting ourselves and each other for a long time afterwards.

This is a stressful job at the best of times, and in the worst of times we all take comfort where we can. Most news is bad news. There are things I have seen because of my job that have changed me, as well as my view of the world and the people in it. Things I can never unsee. We are a species capable of horrific acts, and incapable of learning from the lessons our own history tries to teach us.

When you witness the horror and inhumanity of human beings close up, every single day, it permanently changes your perspective. Sometimes you just need to look the other way, and that’s all our affair was: a shared need to remember what it is like to feel something. It is not unusual for people in my line of work – half the newsroom seems to have slept with each other – and I sometimes struggle to keep up with the latest staff configurations.

Richard pulls on his coat, and I see a glimpse of a toned stomach as his arms reach for his sleeves. Then he drops his cigarette, extinguishing what is left of it with the sole of his large boot.

‘Coming?’ he asks.

He leaves the tripod behind and we walk towards the woods, no need for sticks in the mud here. I do my best to avoid all the puddles, not wanting to ruin my shoes. We don’t get far. Aside from a couple of snappers, we are the only press to have arrived, but it’s soon made clear that none of us are welcome.

‘Please stay behind the police tape,’ says a petite young woman.

Her clothes are too neat, her vowels are too pronounced, and she reminds me of a disillusioned class prefect. She waves her badge – a little self-consciously, I note – when we don’t respond, as though used to being mistaken for a schoolgirl and having to show ID. I manage to read the name ‘Patel’ but nothing else before she puts it back in her pocket. I smile, but she doesn’t.

‘We’ll be setting up a wider cordon soon. For now, can I please ask that you stay back down in the car park. This is a crime scene.’

The woman has clearly had a charisma bypass.

I can see the lights that have been set up behind her, along with a small army of people dressed in forensics suits, a few of them crouched down over something on the forest floor in the distance. They’ve already put up a tent around the body, and I know from experience that we won’t get another chance to get this close again. Richard and I exchange a silent glance, along with an unspoken conversation. He hits record on the camera and swings it up onto his shoulder.

‘Of course,’ I say, and accompany my off-white lie with a wide smile.

I do whatever I need to do to get the job done. Upsetting the police is never ideal, but sometimes unavoidable. I don’t like to burn bridges, but there tends to be another one – further upstream in this case, I suspect.

‘We’ll just get a couple of quick shots and then get out of your way,’ I say.

‘You’ll get out of the way now, and go back to the car park like she asked you.’

I take in the sight of the man who has come to stand beside the female detective. He looks like he hasn’t slept in a while, appears to have gotten dressed in the dark, and is wearing a Harry Potter-style scarf around his neck. A modern-day Columbo, minus the charm. Richard keeps filming and I stay exactly where I am. This is a familiar dance and we all know the moves – it’s the same steps for any breaking news: get the shot, get the story.

‘This footpath is a public right of way. We are perfectly entitled to film here,’ I say.

It’s the best line I can come up with, a stalling tactic to allow Richard to zoom in and get a few more close-ups of the scene.

The male detective takes a step forward and covers the lens with his hand.

‘Watch it, mate,’ Richard says, taking a step back. He points the camera at the ground.