Tonight’s Main Story

A young reporter craves good news in this delightful short story by Louise McIvor.

I hadn’t covered myself in glory today, but maybe there was still hope . . .

IT was Friday night and I was sitting alone in a draughty hotel room, with a bathroom in a chilly corridor and a telly couldn’t get to work. The suit I wore had a skirt that was loose on the waist and a jacket that was too long, but hey, it was 1998. This was the fashion.

I sat on my narrow bed with its polyester bedspread, wondering how on earth I would face my editor on Monday morning.

I looked through my shorthand notebook.

I had been sent to interview Neil Harlan, who had grown up in our town and was the keynote speaker at a medical conference.

But my notes would make one tiny paragraph, not the front-page feature I was meant to write.

I felt like crying, but instead, I made a cup of tea and tried to figure out what to do.

This was my first job. I’d always wanted to write and thought that, with an English degree under my belt, journalism would be the next step.

As I lived in a small town, with the only magazine being the church newsletter, my local newspaper was the natural career choice.

I reached for the TV remote control again. This was one of the pleasures of staying in hotels.

With only five channels to choose from at home, in hotels you could get satellite channels and 24-hour news.

Still nothing.

“Never miss a news bulletin,” my editor said. “News bulletins can save you – help you beef out a story, give you an update.”

Last week I had tried to set up an interview, but Neil Harlan’s PR woman had never got back to me.

I had taken notes during Neil’s speech, but it was all so technical that I had understood little of it.

I had rushed to speak to him afterwards but I couldn’t get near him.

At lunch I’d tried to “mingle”. I spotted one of our local councillors and got quotes from him about what a credit Neil was to our town.

I had hoped there would be something on the 10 o’clock bulletin about the conference, even just a line or two from Neil.

There was nothing for it. I was aware that court shoes and Christmas socks wasn’t the best look, but I grabbed my notebook and purse and went down to see if I could watch the news on the TV at the bar.

There was a telly in the lobby, tuned to “Frasier”. I always watched the show on a Friday night, but right now I really needed to see the news.

There was one man there, sitting in a leather armchair. The TV remote control was beside him.

“Do you mind if I see the news?” I asked.

“But it’s ‘Frasier’.”

He had an American accent – or Canadian?

“I know. I love the show, but maybe if I could just see the news headlines? Please, it’s important.”

“There’s nothing happening. It’s all about that dog they’re trying to rescue from the cliff.

“Besides, if you miss the first few minutes, you’ve kind of missed it.”

Was he talking about “Frasier” or the news? He changed the channel. “I always preferred ‘Cheers’ myself,” he said. “Even though ‘Frasier’ is set in my home town.”

“Seattle?” I said. “Right, it has that wee tower thing that sometimes lights up in the opening credits.”

“The Space Needle.” He looked down at my socks. They had reindeer on them.

“Interesting choice.” He nodded at the TV. “See? There’s nothing happening.”

He was right. There was a dull report about litter in

parks and then it did indeed switch to the poor dog on the cliff ledge.

There was an interview with the passer-by who had heard the barking, and a fireman who was fixing up some complicated rigging to get the dog to safety.

“Were you at the conference today?” the man asked, spying my notebook.

“Yes. I’m meant to be covering it for my paper,” I said. “What are you doing here from Seattle?”

“Actually, I live in Lincolnshire but I was raised in Seattle until I was ten. Then Mom came home to be with her folks after Dad died.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“I’m Curtis.”

“Lynette.”

“So, the conference. ‘I’m meant to be covering it for my paper,’ you said. Why ‘meant’?”

I sighed.

“I was to do a big interview with Neil Harlan, the keynote speaker.

“He grew up in our town and my paper thought I could get an interview with him and a few quotes from folk at the conference.”

I felt like crying.

“The problem is, I only managed to get a quote from one of our councillors, who wasn’t even attending the conference – he was just celebrating his wedding anniversary.

“Neil Harlan’s PR never got back to me, despite about twenty phone calls and a very nice fax.

“When I tried to speak to him afterwards, I was just told that he wasn’t giving interviews.

“So I’ve spent most of today trying to speak to everyone and his dog so I might have something.

“But my editor’s going to go through me for a shortcut on Monday.

“The piece isn’t anything without at least one or two quotes from Neil.”

“When do you go to press?” Curtis asked.

“Tuesday evening. We’re a weekly.”

“Would you like a coffee?” I wasn’t sure if it was the done thing to drink coffee with strange men in hotel bars, but . . .

“Tea, please. I don’t like coffee. And could you see if they have any chips or sandwiches or something? I didn’t have time to eat.”

****

Left alone, I sat down in one of the big armchairs and wondered at his kindness. Perhaps I was just being naïve.

It happened to me a lot in those days.

Complete strangers would sit down beside me in dentists’ waiting rooms, on railway platforms and office receptions and tell me their problems, life stories and sometimes both.

My head would be so full of other people’s stories that I’d miss my train or forget what I was there for.

I switched back to the news, but there was still nothing about the conference.

The dog was now the top story. He had been rescued and was in the arms of a tearful fireman, seemingly none the worse for his adventure.

A few minutes later,

Curtis came back with two baskets of chips, a waitress with a tray of tea and coffee and – I nearly sank completely into the leather armchair – Neil Harlan!

I forgot all my carefully rehearsed questions and said the first thing that came into my head.

“I remember buying my ‘Bunty’ comic in your dad’s shop on the estate where I grew up.”

Neil laughed, took a sip of coffee and started to talk.

He talked with me for about 20 minutes.

I abandoned my shorthand notes and just listened.

At the end, I thanked him and promised to fax him a copy of the article, as he would be in California when our paper came out.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” I said to Curtis after Neil took his leave, but he just handed me a sheaf of hotel writing paper.

“Write it all up while it’s fresh in your head.

“I was at university with Neil and was meeting him for dinner. I’m sorry his PR didn’t get back to you.

“Neil had had a family bereavement and he wasn’t sure that he’d be up for much press stuff.

“But he was happy to talk to you because I’d sized you up beforehand.”

I wrote my piece right there and then, longhand, on the hotel notepaper.

I was fortified by tea, a basket of chips and the thought of a handsome man who did a kind thing when he really hadn’t needed to.

****

The interview saved my bacon. I got my byline on page one and the hoped-for two-page feature.

However, it was meeting Curtis for lunch the following Saturday that was the real turning point.

“Neil was pleased with your piece,” he said when we met at a little Italian place.

We were both having spaghetti carbonara and you really have to be able to relax with a man when you’re twiddling spaghetti around a fork, don’t you?

“It was all thanks to you. My editor even said he thought it wasn’t too bad.

“Then I ruined it all yesterday by writing a piece about a factory owner that he said read like something from the parish magazine.”

We both ate in silence for a few moments.

“Lynette, Neil said something else, and I completely agree with him.

“He said he enjoyed talking to you because you were such a good listener – that talking to you was like talking to a counsellor rather than a reporter.”

I wasn’t quite sure what to say.

“I love talking to folk and hearing their stories, and I love writing.

“It’s the rest of the stuff that’s hard – setting up interviews; worrying about getting parked when I go out on stories; dealing with the rude woman from the local history society who always wants coverage.

“The others on the paper are able to let it wash over them, but I lie awake at three in the morning, worrying about all that stuff.”

Curtis didn’t say anything for a moment.

“Maybe you need to have a little rethink about where you want to end up.

“Now, pudding,” he said. “Tiramisu or cheesecake?”

My head would be so full of other people’s stories

“If we order both, I’ll let you have a bit of mine.”

And that had been it.

****

Curtis was right.

I stayed at the local paper another few months, but after covering one bad-tempered council meeting too many, I decided to look for something more suited to my personality.

I ended up working in the publications department of our nearest university, where the hours were more regular, the pay was better and council meetings and court reporting were a thing of the past.

Curtis and I got married three years later. We had our reception in a hotel with ensuite bathrooms and working televisions.

Neil Harlan was best man and, as a result, we ended up on the front page of the paper I used to work for.

Of course, journalism is easier nowadays with

Skype interviews, mobile phones and e-mail.

However, the interview with Neil holds a special place in my portfolio (and heart) as, if it hadn’t been for my determination to see a news bulletin, I would never have met Curtis.

And if a man can fall in love with you when you’re wearing an ill-fitting Nineties’ suit, reindeer socks and court shoes, then you know he’s the man for you.

The End.