Erica
Erica had been wrong. The dogs weren’t pulling her up the mountain, she was pushing them up it. ‘The dogs can’t carry the weight of you and your sleds on an uphill climb,’ Valek had explained before they’d set off. ‘So you’ll be walking between the runners and pushing the sled for most of the day.’
Her thermal layers stuck to her skin from the sweat covering her body. Somewhere in the last hour of climbing her bra had ridden over the curve of her breasts. She could feel the underwire pushing against the lower half of her flesh and the edges of the wire where the two cups met were digging into the middle of her chest. She longed to wriggle it back into place and regretted not choosing a crop-top-style sports bra.
How could she be this hot? The outside temperature was dropping with every hundred metres they ascended the mountain. Her breath left her mouth in puffs of white smoke. The air was thinner too, forcing her breathing to quicken and a lightness to flitter in her head. ‘Don’t panic up there,’ Valek had told them earlier. ‘We will not be going so high to be a problem today. Your body will adapt to the change in pressure.’
She hoped the Norwegian leader was right. This was not a place Erica wanted to risk fainting.
She lifted her head, just for a second, and glanced at the misty light blue sky. The sun was low in the distance and the palest yellow she had ever seen, like one of Isla’s brightly coloured toys left forgotten in the garden all winter and found again, the colours faded and old.
Erica moved her eyes back to the sled and the dogs, but not before glimpsing the edge of the path and the drop below. The ledge of the mountain didn’t slope off. It was a straight down kind of drop. The right sled runner was half a metre away, less in places, from sliding over the edge. The snow on the ledge was frozen hard, and it was impossible to tell where exactly the rock ledge finished and the snow beneath their feet was all that was there.
She had never been one to suffer acrophobia. A few years ago she’d jumped out of an aeroplane at thirteen thousand feet without so much as a moment of hesitation. But she’d been wearing a parachute; she was supposed to jump then. The frozen snow, the thin air, and the death drop towards the treetops and the ground far below: this was not a fall any of them were supposed to experience, and yet it was right there, beside them. It was hard to guess how far the drop was. Erica could see the pointed tops of fir trees – their pine needles a rich green against the faded sky, grey rock, and the white snow.
Her weight swerved slightly as they turned another tight corner. Kriger’s black fur disappeared around the corner and for a moment the edge of her sled skidded off the ledge. Erica forced herself to focus. She leant her weight against the handles and pushed, whilst her feet dug hard into each step.
She desperately wanted to unzip her coat but she couldn’t take her hands from the sled. Instead, she raised one shoulder and pushed it against her cheek until her neck scarf dropped. The air on her face was icy cold and cooled the sweat on her upper lip. The rest of her remained a sweating sauna beneath her layers. At this rate she’d stink as bad as the dogs by the end of the trip, or maybe even the end of the day.
‘Great work, Erica,’ Lee called from in front of her. ‘Keep running. We’re almost there now.’
Erica nodded and gritted her teeth against the pain shooting from her lower back all the way down her legs. Of course it would be today that Group B would lead, and of course it would be today that she’d be given the front spot behind Lee. So much for letting the dogs do all the work, so much for lagging behind.
Rachel’s comment rang in her ears. If you’re too old to hack it …
She wasn’t too old, was she? No one had asked Greg if he was past it, and he had ten years on her. Greg hadn’t run his sled into someone though, had he?
All of a sudden it wasn’t Rachel’s sniping voice circling her head; it was Darcey’s. Erica’s heartbeat thumped hard inside her chest. It had nothing to do with the thinning air now, or the physical strain she was putting on her body, it was the memory forcing its way into her thoughts.
Erica glanced again at the sky and the pristine white snow sitting like hats on the top of the fir trees, fighting to keep herself in the present. It was too late. She couldn’t stop herself being sucked back to her desk reliving a day she’d been trying so hard to forget. So much for leaving her problems back at Huskyleir with the other non-essentials, so much for living in the present.
Three and a half months ago
Erica placed the receiver back in its cradle and allowed a quick smile to spread across her face. The call had been brief.
‘Erica, this is Alice, Mr Schuster’s secretary. Have you got a moment to talk in his office?’
‘Of course. I’ll be right up.’
This was it. The Call. The Meeting she’d been waiting for. Denise’s maternity leave was coming to an end. The rumour circulating the office was that she wasn’t coming back, and Neil, Denise’s cover for Evening News Director, was leaving for a position with Sky at the end of the month.
Now it was Erica’s turn to shine. Her turn to show them that she could do more than write copy for the anchors and stream graphics and segments together. Erica had plans. Big plans, which would transform the very concept of watching evening news.
Erica liked Denise. More than liked her. They were good friends. Denise had joined Channel 6 a few years before Erica, and it had been Denise who’d helped Erica find her feet in a male-dominated industry. It had also been through Denise’s guidance that Erica had landed a junior producing role when the internship had finished.
They’d remained firm friends for the best part of thirteen years. They’d met each other’s boyfriends; been at each other’s weddings; cooed over each other’s newborns, and had had more than their fair share of nights out, which is how Erica knew that the rumour was true. Denise had told her as much over a glass of crisp buttery Chablis last week when Erica had travelled south to Clapham after work, instead of east, and landed on Denise’s cream leather corner sofa ten minutes after Denise had finished putting Izzie and Bella to bed.
‘I can’t juggle two kids and a career. Doing it with one was hard enough, but with the two of them, it’s just not worth it,’ she’d sighed, gulping back her second long mouthful and draining the glass Erica had just poured for her. ‘Emotionally, physically, or financially. The costs of childcare for a baby and a toddler … Oh my God, Erica, just be f-ing glad that Henry can and, more to the point, is willing to go part-time. Christ it’s more than that though. I don’t want to do it any more. This whole idea of being a kick-ass career woman, a wife, a mother, a feminist. It’s exhausting. I just want to be a human being for one fucking minute. Know what I mean?’
Erica polished off the bottle with Denise, listened to her friend’s decision and even nodded along. On the empty Northern Line tube, Erica had mulled over Denise’s words and had quickly come to the conclusion that whilst she was happy for her friend, she, Erica, didn’t understand. Erica’s career was everything. Everything. She was one rung away from exactly where she’d always dreamed of being, and nothing was going to stop her getting there.
Every time Erica’s desk phone had rung that week – and it rang a lot – she’d jumped with the startled anticipation of The Call. The Meeting, and now it was here.
Erica glanced around the office for anyone watching, and seeing only heads bent over monitors, she pulled out her compact and added a flick of concealer under her eyes, whilst simultaneously kicking off her flats and fumbling her feet under her desk until they found the black patent heels she kept under there for the times she needed a little more gravitas. And this was without a doubt one of those times.
Standing up, Erica drew her shoulders back, smoothed down her blouse, and scooped up her suit jacket from the back of her chair. She’d been working her way up the ranks of Channel 6 since her internship after uni. And it was all for this. Erica Mitchell, Evening News Director – God, that sounded good.
Erica opened up the bottom drawer of her desk and pulled out a slim black folder containing her business plan. She’d been tinkering with it off and on for years, updating it every so often when an idea struck her. This particular draft had been sitting in her bottom drawer for a couple of months.
Fighting the urge to grin like Upsy Daisy from Isla’s much-loved In the Night Garden, Erica strode towards the lifts and rode the five floors up to Schuster’s office.
Erica flashed a wide smile at Alice – Schuster’s long-suffering PA – who ruled Schuster’s calendar like a gatekeeper to a magical realm few would ever enter. ‘Shall I go straight in?’
Alice nodded. ‘Good luck in there,’ she said in a low voice.
Erica faltered mid stride. Her hand was on the door handle of Schuster’s corner office overlooking the Thames and the City. It wasn’t just the wishing of luck that Erica wasn’t aware that she needed; it was the whispered sense of foreboding in Alice’s tone.
What exactly was she walking into? Erica had half a mind to turn back to Alice and beg her for details, but Erica’s body was moving faster than her thoughts and by the time the idea had formed in her head, the door handle was already down and the door swinging open.
‘Erica, great,’ Schuster bellowed. ‘Glad you could finally join us.’
‘I wasn’t aware I was late,’ she said with a curt smile that she hoped masked the alarm flashing in her mind. She’d expected an intimate meeting between herself and Schuster that ended with a long lunch at The Ivy. She’d expected Schuster to offer her the Director slot with an almost pleading tone. She was, after all, the best person for the job; they both knew it.
Of course she’d take it. There would be a long overdue raise, the promise of a bonus, and a few extra holiday days she’d struggle to take.
She certainly wasn’t expecting to find Schuster sitting at the boardroom-style glass table by the window that looked west towards Waterloo Bridge and the London Eye. This was not The Call. Not The Meeting. This was something else. A panicked fear burst like a water balloon in her stomach. What the fuck was this?
Charlie – Chaz to his friends – Schuster was a large man – both wide and tall. An American brought in five years ago in an attempt to compete with the ratings of the dozen new channels that had sprung up from America and stolen UK viewers. He’d been the youngest CEO in the history of Channel 6 and his turbulent first year – watching colleagues and friends clear out their desks – was suddenly fresh in Erica’s thoughts as she strode to the conference table with more confidence than she felt.
Now in his early fifties, Schuster’s youthful bounds through the office had become clumping steps, but he hadn’t lost his passion for risk-taking, and always seemed one move ahead of waning trends. The women he liked hadn’t changed either. He had a predilection for young blondes. One of whom was sat beside him at the glass table – Darcey Drake. An executive producer who’d made a small name for herself when she’d convinced Jonny Depp to do an exclusive interview for the breakfast show. Darcey had a knack for being in the right place at the right time, and was happy to flirt her way into people’s good graces, but as far as Erica was concerned, that was where her skill-set ended.
Darcey was wearing a black Rolling Stones T-shirt that slipped down one shoulder, revealing a scarlet red bra strap. From under the desk, Erica caught sight of stonewashed ripped jeans and red Converse trainers. It was two steps beyond casual, and a look that said I don’t give a shit about what you think of me.
Erica straightened her suit jacket, feeling suddenly stuffy and a little on the frumpy side. She glanced around the table. As well as Schuster and Darcey, there were two HR bods at the table. One of them, Luke, had started at Channel 6 the same month as Erica. He raised his eyebrows and pulled a face conveying sympathy and despair all in one go. The other – a woman in her early thirties, Erica guessed, with a slight stocky appearance and broad rugby player’s shoulders – was sat beside Luke and wearing a tight black tailored dress that showed every ripple of her skin underneath. The woman, whose name Erica had forgotten, had joined the HR team a year or so ago and as far as Erica could tell, kept to herself.
‘So,’ Schuster said in a strong New York accent as he clasped his hands together. ‘I’ll just catch Erica up. Erica – as I’m sure you’re well aware, TV news is a dead. If people wanna know what’s going on, they hit YouTube, they hit blogs, Facebook. And for twenty-four-seven headline news shows they go to Sky News. The days of people sitting down with their dinner and tuning into an evening news broadcast are gone.’
Dead? Dead? Everything Erica had worked towards and believed in was gone? And apparently she was supposed to have been well aware of this nugget of information.
‘The good news for you,’ he continued, pointing a large finger at Erica, ‘is that we’re not killing the show yet. But we are rebranding all of Channel 6 news. The morning headlines will be covered by the breakfast show team, the lunchtime slot will now be a five-minute recap, and the evening news is getting a rebrand. So let’s hear ideas.’ He looked between Erica and Darcey with an impatient nod.
Erica pulled back her shoulders. She had no idea why Darcey was in the meeting, let alone pitching ideas, but she didn’t care. This was her shot. Her time to shine. ‘We need more depth,’ she said. ‘People can get the headlines and the basic facts of a news story with one swipe, so we need to give them more. We need to add insight to the news, and explain what impact the headlines will have on people’s day-to-day lives, both immediately and in the future. We need to get out on the street –’
‘Interview real people,’ Darcey cut in, nodding along as if everything Erica had just said was a shared idea. ‘Each day we can go to a different area of the country and find people affected by stories and hear what they have to say.’
You cut me off, Erica screamed inside her head. ‘As I was saying –’ Erica shot Darcey a stony glare ‘– we should go out onto the streets and do more exposure pieces. If unemployment rises by three per cent, then we need to be at Food Banks and Job Centres showing the reality of this. If politicians are making empty promises we need to be in their faces demanding the truth and asking the hard questions. And back in the studio we should have a panel of relatable experts debating the top stories. Like Jules Whitcliff, the economist who breaks things down into understandable chunks –’
‘Is she the gal with short skirts?’ Schuster asked, motioning a circle shape with his hands, which Erica could only assume was supposed to signify the bottom size of one of the UK’s top economists.
Erica nodded and resisted the urge to punch the CEO in the face.
‘And celebrities too.’ Darcey grinned. ‘We should have celebrities on the panel, and we need to cover way more celebrity gossip. Viewers in my generation –’ Darcey flicked a glance at Erica as she spoke ‘– really identify with celebrities. And young presenters. No stuffy anchors in boring suits.’
Darcey didn’t need to glance at Erica this time. Her dig was crystal clear.
Bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch.
‘Like it.’ Schuster slammed a hand on the table causing the glass to rattle as he stood up and strode back to his desk. ‘Presentations and interviews will take place next week, and we’re going to hit the ground running. I want a rebranded evening news by the start of next month.’
***
Erica dropped into her chair and stared at her computer screen, but the emails and bulletins swam in front of her eyes. Daytime news was being scrapped. Her job was dead. At the pinnacle of her career she was applying for her own flipping job.
What exactly had Schuster claimed to like about their ideas? Her in-depth analysis show or Darcey’s celebrities? Erica sighed and slumped forward at her desk. She might as well be asking if Schuster preferred young and hip or old and stuffy. The answer was obvious. But what did that mean for Erica’s plans? Should she evolve and deliver a crappy no-news news show idea to save her job? Or stick to what she knew would not only be awesome, but what the public desperately needed?
‘Hey, Erica.’ Darcey yanked out a spare swivel chair from the desk beside Erica’s and sat down, scooching herself across the carpet-tiled floor and gliding over to Erica’s desk.
‘That was bloody awful, wasn’t it?’ Darcey smiled the kind of smile that said it was anything but awful, for her anyway. ‘I’m on a half-day today. Off on a girl’s weekend in a mo. If I’d have known they were going to spring a meeting on us, I’d have worn something different.’
Would you? Erica forced a smile. ‘I’m sure it won’t matter.’ If Darcey wanted to play the let’s-be-pals game then Erica could fake it with the best of them.
Darcey scooched another inch closer and glanced around the office before she spoke. ‘This is probably going to sound really weird, but my mum makes me do this thing where I check her face every time I see her, and tell her if I see any stray hairs growing.’
‘OK.’ The smile froze on Erica’s face. What was Darcey on about now? Another idea for the show? Beauty tips by Darcey’s mum?
‘I must have gotten in the habit of looking for them, and well, I thought you’d want to know, you have one on your cheek. I didn’t want to embarrass you in the meeting, but it’s good to know, right?’
Somehow Erica managed to laugh through the horror of Darcey’s insult. A chortle of humour and a mumbled comment about women sticking together, and with that Darcey was off, skidding away in the chair before bouncing to her feet and bounding out of the studio.
Erica touched her cheek with one hand and rifled in her bag for her compact with the other. Just what kind of game was Darcey playing? As if Darcey thought she could rattle Erica with some backhanded bullshit about a mythical hair. It was … Erica’s fingers caught something. A fallen eyelash – it had to be. She tugged at the wiry hair and realized two things: it was too long to be an eyelash, and it was attached to her cheek.
Didn’t want to embarrass me?
Erica wasn’t embarrassed she was bloody mortified. How, how, how had she missed it? Erica flicked open the compact and gave the inch-long red hair another tug. It must have been sprouting out of her face for weeks and no one had told her, not even Henry, although with Isla being poorly they’d been zombies passing in the night this week.
It didn’t matter, Erica tried to convince herself as she darted to the toilets with a pair of tweezers from her make-up bag tucked in the palm of her hand. Darcey might be younger than Erica, she might be pert-breasted and firm-skinned, and she probably didn’t have stray hairs sticking out of her face, but Erica had the experience. Darcey had been at Channel 6 for all of five minutes. OK, it was probably closer to a year, but one year in a junior producing role was not a scratch on Erica’s fourteen years in the company.
And that, along with Erica’s ideas to innovate the news, would be what mattered at the end of the day. Schuster might like them young, but he wasn’t stupid. Celebrities giving insights into news stories? It was ludicrous, Erica thought with a pinch of pain as she plucked out the hair.
She held the tweezers up to the light and examined the dark red hair.
It didn’t matter.
All that mattered was that she was the best person for the job.
***
Erica panted harder as the gradient of the slope levelled. The dogs picked up speed and copying Lee’s movements in front of her, she jumped onto the runners of the sled and let the dogs pull once more. Her heartbeat pounded as the haze of the memory rolled over in her mind. Darcey, Rachel, even Molly, they all thought she was old. Thought she was past it. Even Henry thought she was getting on a bit. She knew that was the real reason he wanted another baby straight away.
Fuck ’em, Denise would’ve said if Erica had told her. Show ’em they’re wrong and fuck ’em all.
And Erica had, hadn’t she? The price – the lies she told to Henry, the double life she’d been living. Was it worth it to prove everyone wrong? She didn’t know.