Construct a Couple by Talli Roland

happy by saying he’s investigating, but so far there isn’t any evidence.” Lizzie glances at the clock. “Oh, bollocks, it’s five. I’ve got to run. See you tomorrow!”
    She grabs a sequinned backpack and dashes down the corridor. I watch her go, turning her words over in my head. No wonder Helen’s annoyed and looking for someone to blame. Imagine, being reduced from the nation’s most feared reporter to someone hamstrung by a now-timid magazine. Guess that’s why her copy was a bit . . . lacklustre. One day you’re giving Tony Blair the finger, the next you’re shoved in a cubicle writing about boring construction companies.
    God, I hope Helen doesn’t think I’m trying to steal her story. Not that there’s much of a story to steal. Stupid Julia and her stupid company doing so well. Damn her and her perfect hair! Hmm, might be best if I talk to Jonas first – just in case.
     “Bye, Gregor.” He grunts in return, and I retrace Lizzie’s steps towards the lift. I can’t wait to tell Jeremy of my tiny tiptoe forward!
    I’m seconds from dialling his number when a question floats into my mind. What will I say if he asks what the article’s about? Actually, it features your ex’s successful company! Did you know she’s raking in the dough? Yeah, I don’t think so. Guess who I spoke to today? You remember the woman who betrayed you, right? Um . . . maybe not.
    The thing is, Jeremy and I have never spoken much about Julia. Sure, I know the basics: how she cheated on him with David; how Jeremy sold his half of the business and lay low for a while, turning up at the cosmetic surgery clinic where I worked and requesting a full makeover after discovering Julia and David got married. But that’s all   behind us, and Jeremy hasn’t mentioned her name even once. Why would he? Julia has nothing to do with our relationship now – and I’d prefer it stays that way.
    I stare down at the phone’s blank screen, my fingers hovering over ‘call’. With whatever’s happening at the charity, I’m not going to ring up Jeremy and say how well his ex is doing – the same ex it took him ages to get over. Anyway, this feature is just a stupid puff piece. Hardly worthy of a Pulitzer Prize.
    I merge with the pedestrian traffic on the busy street, still gripping the mobile. Okay, so I can’t talk to Jeremy. My parents would love to hear I’m working on an article by Helen Goodall, though!
    Thank God they’ve stopped asking when I’m coming home, I think, listening to the tinny ring of the transatlantic call. In my first year here, they seemed to believe every conversation was the one I’d say I’m packing it in, ready to return to the fertilizer-scented air of Harris, Maine. Even if I wanted to head home, there’s nothing to do but listen to mooing cows, crossing your fingers you’re lucky enough to score a coveted cashier position at the local Walmart. Since speaking to Jeremy (whose down-home Welsh accent Mum heartily approved of, not to mention his charity), though, they’ve finally accepted I’m settling into life here.
    “Hello?” Dad’s deep voice echoes through the phone.
    “Hi, Dad! Guess what?” The words burst out loudly, and a man passing by throws me a disapproving look. Sorry for speaking above the acceptable 1.5 decibels , I want to say, but I content myself with scrunching up my nose at him.
    “Oh, dear, hang on a moment while I grab your mother. I’m sure she’ll want to hear your news.  Lesley!” I hold the mobile from my ear as he bellows. Guess that’s where I get my loud voice from.
    There’s a click as Mom picks up the extension. “Hello?” Her calm, measured tone is a sharp contrast to Dad’s earlier shout.
    “Hi, Mom.”
    “Serenity! How are you? How’s that man of yours? Is he taking care of his health these days? Tell him I can send another batch of herbal remedy, you know, the one that—”
    “It’s all right, Mom. He’s fine.” I make a face, remembering the