She flipped through a paperback, but soon her mind wandered. She loved being the only investigative journalist on the team, because it spelled solo missions. Most people couldn’t handle having nothing but their own thoughts to keep those long hours from crushing their skulls in. Add to that the drudgery of fact-finding, wading through verbal muck and quadruple-checking copy to make a story look great beneath a by-line, and Vee was regarded with both awe and pity.
Hard to admit, but she was now an investigator in name only. Lately, guiding readers through the maze of the make-up industry and the scam of knock-off labels was the raciest her writing had been. Pumping out the last piece of junky prose under a “human interest” heading had made her snap. With her skills stretched across two sister publications and their associated bimonthly advertorial, she’d been snapping internally for some time.
Chewing thoughtfully on the apple core, Vee reflected on the scene two days earlier, when she’d finally marched into the main office to see the editor, proposal in hand and the toughest look of resolve she could muster.
After two years working with and for Portia Kruger, she still found the editor an enigma. Portia’s appeal was also her Achilles heel: she was gorgeous, intelligent and a prima donna, the last quality lending a superhuman ability to overestimate herself in the first two, often rendering her incomprehensible at the worst of times and insufferable at the best. To add insult to injury, she had money. Modelling since the age of ten and an Oxford degree made her marketable. An editorship at thirty, albeit largely acquired through her father’s connections and one that carried little clout in the industry, stepped her up to overbearing. As far as everyone was concerned, being at the helm of Urban magazine was as much a learning experience for Portia as it was for the staff. In private, they freely tittered that she was no more than a seat-warmer for a discreet private venture her old man kept alive to diversify his business portfolio. In public, they jumped like fleas at her command because she was, after all, the “real” boss’s daughter.
Vee had knocked on Portia’s door and entered in one smooth movement. It had become clear early on that Kruger was one who responded well to the mythical creature that was “authority”. If you came confident of what you wanted and fully prepared to fight for it, chances were pretty good of wrangling a tenth of what you’d expected when the dust cleared. The fickle winds of office gossip whispered that Portia was a little intimidated by Vee. Being an underpaid subordinate, even one with a top-class degree in journalism and media from Columbia University, wasn’t much to go on. All the same, Vee took the leverage where she could get it.
“I read your proposal last night,” Portia said, shuffling files. Most likely they had nothing to do with the piece. You had to hand it to Portia in certain areas. If she’d devoted a fraction of her precious time and mental agility to the proposal, it would be memorised back to front.
“It was interesting . . . really interesting.” Her cinnamon hair, usually wild and curly in the deliberately unkempt but stylish way only the fashion-conscious know how to achieve, was coiffed in an up-sweep. Once upon a time, lubricated with alcohol and the benefits of shallow acquaintance, they’d fallen into a drunken after-hours debate on pedigree, a topic Vee quickly discovered was a South African preoccupation. Portia settled the argument by asserting that her hair guaranteed she was coloured. The real lesson was that her hair and dress code gave vital clues as to her mood. Curly and up was bad, but Vee couldn’t remember why. Was someone getting fired, or merely shot down in truly memorable style? She felt the tough face starting to slip.
“But it might be a little too hard-core for a major feature, though. An article on missing persons sounds riveting, but can it really appeal to the bulk of our readership?” What the words meant was not that a valid piece on the rising incidence of missing children might not appeal to her readership, but rather why should she yank one of her best writers off Urban’s bread-and-butter features to run free on a solo project.
Portia sat back in her leather chair and eyed Vee squarely. Vee feigned boredom, determined not to play along. The proposal was detailed and solid, and she’d dammed up the biggest holes by interviewing the two assigned case officers. It was obvious that Portia was spoiling for a fight, and unfortunately Vee was her favourite sparring partner. A different tack was required.
“I thought this was why you needed someone like me here. To give this place an edge, make sure it doesn’t become another rag on how to play dress-up and giggle when you want a promotion,” Vee said. “This will be a great story to cover, and you know it, but it needs my full attention. I’m not on anything hugely important at the moment.”
Elegant caramel shoulders, well within the boundary of a perfect BMI, lifted themselves and came down again. The girl even shrugged stylishly.
“Oh, I beg to differ, Voinjama. Your time’s been devoted admirably well, what with some of the great features you’ve done here. I mean, the kudos you got for reporting on the recurrent episodes of xenophobic violence earlier this year, it’s still on everyone’s lips.”
“A story that, sure, had my name on it but didn’t even appear in Urban.” Vee stopped as Portia flinched. Any reminder that the serious material regularly got shifted to the pages of City Chronicle underlined the fact that pivotal decisions on content were beyond Portia’s control. And any suggestion that her powers were constrained, or that the larger, more respectable newspaper was able to lord it over them, was hugely unwelcome indeed.
Portia blinked twice, slowly. “Would you like to go over to the Chronicle?” she asked with dangerous softness. “They are a part of us, after all, and you’ve done stuff for them before. It wouldn’t even be like you were moving.”
Vee shook her head, determined not to bite. “No.” Yes. Did she? Portia was right; they were both part of one media group, and moving one building over to the newspaper wouldn’t be like moving at all. They all looked so happy over there, with their concise job descriptions and real lunch breaks. She was willing to bet no one over at City Chronicle had fitful daymares of dead teenagers swanning over them.
Portia smiled. “The grass is never as green as you think it is on the other side.”
“Wasn’t thinking of grass. Or the colour green,” Vee answered evenly. “All I meant was, how often does it happen nowadays that I can at least pretend to be an investigative journalist? I need something more substantial, something to sink my teeth into.”
“Good. Because I’ve got just the thing. Singer cum Joburg socialite –”
“Please not again . . .”
“– kicks the drug habit, bags herself a steamy Frenchman, buys into Camps Bay property. She’s new to the Mother City scene and aching to talk about herself, especially her latest album. We want it first.”
Once more she rearranged what Vee now noticed were two files, one of which she recognised as her draft.
“So what’s it to be?” Portia angled. “The sob story on poor missing urchins or . . .”, edging her preference forward with little subtlety, “a career-making scoop on the hot and happening pop star?”
“Career-making? Baby-sitting a monstrous ego for two pages nobody’s really gonna read . . .”
Portia’s hand went up to stop her and call the final bid. “Which is it, Johnson?”
Resolved, Vee reached across and slid her file over.
Luckily, Portia’s coiffed hair signalled a playfully combative, but not spiteful, mood. Considering the ease with which she backed down, Portia must’ve been anticipating
