‘Tell me why.’
‘Imagine I found somebody who is really sick and they can’t get treatment.’
‘So they medicate at home. Big deal.’
‘Or what about a woman in labour? She’s pacing up and down on the street outside but she just can’t bring herself to go through the doors of the hospital.’
‘So she has the baby in an ambulance or at home or on the street.’ Constance shrugged. ‘I once did a story on a woman who gave birth whilst in hiding in Kosovo. She was all by herself and it was her first child. They weren’t found until two weeks after, perfectly healthy and happy together. Women in Africa have their babies while working the fields, then they go straight back to work. Tribal women dance their babies out. The Western world goes about childbirth the wrong way around,’ she said, waving her hand dismissively in the air, despite having no children herself. ‘I wrote an article on that before.’
‘A doctor who can’t go to work…’ Kitty continued to push her idea.
‘That’s ridiculous. He should lose his licence.’
Kitty laughed. ‘Thanks for your honesty, as usual.’ Then her smile faded and she concentrated on Constance’s hand wrapped around hers. ‘Or how about a selfish woman whose best friend is sick and she wouldn’t visit her?’
‘But you’re here now and I’m happy to see you.’
Kitty swallowed. ‘You haven’t mentioned anything about it.’
‘About what?’
‘You know what.’
‘I didn’t know if you wanted to talk about it.’
‘I don’t really.’
‘Well, then.’
They sat in silence.
‘I’m being torn apart in the newspapers, the radio, everywhere,’ Kitty said, bringing it up anyway.
‘I haven’t seen any papers.’
Kitty ignored the pile of papers on the windowsill. ‘Everywhere I go, all week, everyone is looking at me, pointing, whispering as if I’m the scarlet woman.’
‘That is the price of being in the limelight. You are a TV star now.’
‘I’m not a TV star, I’m an idiot who made a fool of herself on TV. There’s a distinct difference.’
Constance shrugged again as if it wasn’t a big deal.
‘You never wanted me to work on the show in the first place. Why don’t you just say “I told you so” and get it over with?’
‘They are not words that I use. They do nothing productive.’
Kitty removed her hand from Constance’s and asked quietly, ‘Do I still have a job?’
‘Haven’t you spoken to Pete?’ She looked angry with her duty editor.
‘I have. But I need to hear it from you. It’s more important that I hear it from you.’
‘Etcetera’s stance on hiring you as a reporter has not changed,’ Constance said firmly.
‘Thank you,’ Kitty whispered.
‘I supported you doing Thirty Minutes because I know that you’re a good reporter and you have it in you to be a great reporter. We all make mistakes, some bigger than others, but none of us is perfect. We use these times to become better reporters and, more importantly, better people. When you came to be interviewed by me ten years ago do you remember the story you tried to sell to me?’
Kitty laughed and cringed. ‘No,’ she lied.
‘Of course you do. Well, if you won’t say it, I will. I asked you if you were to write a story for me then and there about absolutely anything, what would it be?’
‘We really don’t have to go through this again. I was there, remember?’ Kitty blushed.
‘And you said,’ Constance continued as though Kitty had never spoken, ‘that you had heard of a caterpillar that could not turn into a butterfly…’
‘Yes, yes, I know.’
‘And you would like to examine how it would feel to be denied such a beautiful thing. You would like to know how it feels for the caterpillar to watch other caterpillars transform while all the time knowing he would never have that opportunity. Our interview was on the day of a US presidential election, and on the day a cruise liner sank with four thousand five hundred people aboard. Of the twelve interviewees I saw that day, you were the only person who did not mention anything about politics, about the ship, or about wanting to spend a day with Nelson Mandela, for that matter. What concerned you most was this poor little caterpillar.’
Kitty smiled. ‘Yeah, well, I was just out of college. I think I still had too much weed in my system.’
‘No,’ Constance whispered, reaching out for Kitty’s hand again. ‘You were the only person who truly told me in that interview that you weren’t afraid to fly, that in fact you were afraid that you wouldn’t.’
Kitty swallowed hard, close to tears. She certainly hadn’t flown yet and was, she felt, further from it than ever.
‘Some people say that you shouldn’t operate from a place of fear,’ Constance went on, ‘but if there is no fear, how is there a challenge? Often that is when I’ve done my best work, because I have embraced the fear and challenged myself. I saw this young girl who was afraid she wouldn’t fly and I thought – a-ha – she is the girl for us. And that is what Etcetera is about. Sure, we cover politics but we cover the people behind the politics. We want them for their emotional journeys, not just so we can hear their policies but so we can hear the reason for their policies. What happened to make them believe in this, what happened to make them feel this way? Yes, we sometimes talk about diets, but not organic this and wholewheat that, but of why and who. We are all about people, about feeling, about emotions. We may sell fewer but we mean more, though that is merely my opinion, of course. Etcetera will continue to publish your stories, Kitty, as long as you are writing what is true to you and definitely not what somebody else is telling you will make a good story. Nobody can pretend to know what people want to read or hear or see. People rarely know it themselves; they only know it after the fact. That is what creating something original is all about. Finding the new, not rehashing the old and feeding a market.’ She raised her eyebrows.
‘It was my story,’ Kitty said quietly. ‘I can’t blame anyone else.’
‘There are more people involved in telling a story than the writer, and you know that. If you had come to me with this story, well, I would not have covered it, but hypothetically, if I had, I would have pulled it before it was too late. There were signs and someone above you should have been able to see them, but if you want to take the entire blame, well then, you ask yourself why you wanted to tell that story so badly.’
Kitty wasn’t sure if she was meant to answer then and there but Constance gathered her energy and continued: ‘I once interviewed a man who seemed increasingly amused by my questions. When I asked him what he found so entertaining, he told me that he found the questions an interviewer asked revealed much more about the interviewer than any of his answers revealed about himself. During our interview he learned far more about me than I about him. I found that interesting and he was right, on that occasion at least. I think that the story one covers often reveals more about the person writing it than perhaps the story is revealing itself. Journalism classes teach us that one must extract oneself from the story in order to report without bias, but often we need to be in the story in order to understand, to connect, to help the audience identify or else it has no heart; it could be a robot telling the story, for all anyone cares. And that does not mean injecting opinion into the pieces, Kitty, for that bothers me too. I don’t like it when reporters use a story to tell us how they feel. Who cares what one person thinks? A nation? A genre? A sex? That interests me more. I mean inject understanding in all aspects of the story, show the audience that there is feeling behind the words.’