‘It’s been really useful.’
Frank hadn’t expected her to be so positive. He’d observed her regular errands to the shops for coffees and chocolate bars. ‘In what way?’
‘Well, before I came here I couldn’t decide what I wanted to do after university and now I know.’
Frank couldn’t see her as a presenter. ‘Are you thinking of producer?’
Andrea shook her head vigorously. ‘No. A translator. Spanish. My degree is a big mistake. I never want to work here. Or anywhere like here. I’m not interested in working in the media. I’m going to quit and re-enrol on a Spanish degree. I should have done that in the first place.’
Frank nodded. ‘Right. Good. Well, that’s a positive outcome, then.’
*
Andrea worked with Frank for the remaining week of her placement. Despite her decision about her new career direction she appreciated Frank’s genuine efforts to tell her about his job and the way he worked, and she found going out with him to cover stories to be a welcome relief from the studio where the voice of Carol Decker seemed to boom from every speaker. Although younger than most of the rest of the staff, Frank seemed more solid and mature in ways that Andrea couldn’t quite put her finger on. He took his job seriously not just for the sake of ambition and advancement, but because he cared about the work he did and wanted to be good at it.
Frank discovered quickly that Andrea was not as intimidating as she had at first seemed. She had an acute ear for the vocal tics and traits of those around her and was a brilliant mimic of certain presenters. She had a keen sense of the absurd but also appreciated the ways in which the apparently trivial and laughable were often nothing of the kind. By their third day of working together Frank realized that he kept finding new things to like about Andrea. He tried to stop, but still they mounted up, unignorable. He liked her Leeds accent, he liked the way she unwrapped Kit Kats, he liked the perfect clarity of her face. Although it made him slightly nervous he even liked the way that she assumed he knew about the kinds of obscure bands she liked. He had no idea where she’d got the impression that he had a clue about such things, but he couldn’t help but be flattered.
*
Mo shuffled forward on the rear seat again. ‘Mom?’
‘Yes.’
‘What do you think is yours and Dad’s special song?’
Andrea thought for a moment. ‘I don’t know. I’m not sure that we have one.’
Mo was insistent. ‘I think you should have one. I think it’s important. Try and think of one.’
Andrea thought again and then smiled. ‘Okay. I think maybe something by the Pixies.’
Mo looked happy. ‘Can we listen to them when we get home?’
‘Yeah — you’ll recognize them — I’ve played them before.’
‘Why is that your song?’
‘Oh, your father was a big fan when we met. A big expert on the Pixies.’
Frank shook his head slowly and glanced at Andrea. ‘You’re a regular funny guy, aren’t you?’
Andrea smiled sweetly and hummed ‘Gigantic’.
Frank thought back to the final lunch hour of their week working together. Andrea had been sitting reading a music paper, something Frank always found unnerving. She looked up at him and asked, ‘Have you heard Surfer Rosa yet?’
Frank considered various high-risk strategies in answering this, but decided in the end for the simplicity and honesty of a simple head shake.
Andrea continued. ‘It’s an amazing review, but you know, I don’t want to be disappointed.’
He picked up on the doubt in her voice and thought he could safely venture something here without revealing his ignorance.
‘Yeah, I mean can she really live up to that kind of hype?’
Andrea looked at him for a moment and then burst out laughing. He liked her laugh — it was a deep, open giggle that always made him laugh too, though in this case the effect was slightly more disconcerting.
When she’d stopped, she said: ‘You’re a regular funny guy.’
He shrugged, having no idea what was funny, but unwilling to rebuff the compliment. He didn’t like pretending to be something he wasn’t, but he thought he could save letting her know for another time. He was almost sure there would be other times.
Mo had finished her comic now and was waving half-heartedly out of the window at a large poodle who was in turn ignoring her.
She moved forward in her seat to speak. ‘Dad, there won’t be anyone in the building, will there?’
‘What building?’
‘The one we looked at. When they demolish it. There won’t be any people still inside?’
Andrea gave Frank a warning look before saying. ‘You asked me that the other day. Do you remember what I said?’
‘You said there won’t be. You said they emptied it months ago, but I just thought what if a homeless person went in there to shelter from the rain? Or what if some little boys went in to explore? Or what if one of the people who worked there realized that they’d left their umbrella and they went back to get it?’
Frank answered. ‘But no one could get in. You saw it — there are big high boards all around, and the men will go and check last thing before they demolish it. Buildings get demolished all the time and never, ever in all the time I’ve been doing the news has anyone ever been trapped in the building.’
‘What if a pigeon flew in the window, or a dog jumped in?’
‘There are no stray dogs in town, and a pigeon could just fly straight out again.’ Frank thought for a moment. ‘Do you want to come and watch it being demolished? You’ll see then and you can stop worrying.’
Straight away he realized he’d said the wrong thing. Mo’s face was horror-stricken. ‘People watch it being demolished? But what if it falls on them?’
‘It won’t fall on anyone. The people have to stand a long way away, and the men are clever; they know exactly which way the building will fall.’
Mo was shaking her head. ‘Don’t go, Dad. Mom, tell Dad not to go. It’s dangerous. I don’t want to go. I don’t want to see it.’
Frank looked at Mo’s eyes in the mirror. ‘That’s okay. We won’t go.’ He suddenly felt as if he might cry. He reached back and squeezed her leg. ‘I don’t really want to see it either.’
7
Mustansar the transport correspondent was walking past Frank’s desk when he reached out and grabbed the sandwich packaging littering his work surface. ‘Frank, quick, without thinking, what are you eating?’
Frank looked at Mustansar. ‘A sandwich.’
‘Yes, yes, but what’s the filling?’
Frank thought for a moment. ‘I can’t remember.’
‘Excellent. That’s what I wanted. So, just on taste — what are you eating?’
Frank took another mouthful and chewed slowly.
‘What can you taste? What’s the filling?’
Frank thought hard. ‘Wet and cold?’
‘Ha!’ shouted Mustansar louder than was necessary. ‘That is not what it says on the box! This is what I’m talking about. That woman. What’s she doing to our food? Has she got a syringe down there that sucks out flavour? Can anyone distinguish cheese and coleslaw from tuna mayonnaise? Or does it all come from the same vat of cold porridge that she ladles into damp bread every morning? And do you know the best of it, my friend? We pay her! We actually give her money! We are fools!’