Maximum Exposure by Jenny Harper

swivelled round and stared at the newcomer. Tall, thirty-something, he had jet black hair, male model looks with eyelashes that swept on for ever above piercing blue eyes, and a chin with a pronounced cleft, adding sharpness, symmetry, and focus to something that already approached perfection. Beautifully cut denim jeans, well-polished brown leather loafers, an open-necked crisp white cotton shirt and a navy jacket that was clearly expensive completed a look that might have marched straight out of the pages of a fashion magazine.
    There was silence, as the presence of this idol registered.
    ‘My name’s Jay Bond,’ said the man, his voice attractively throaty, ‘and I’m your new editor.’
    The silence was so profound for some moments that they could almost have been in a nuclear bunker, post holocaust.
    Jay, apparently oblivious to the impact he had made on his new team, scanned the office. What he saw clearly didn’t impress him. ‘Jeez, what a hole. When was the last time this place had a coat of paint?’
    They all looked around, taking in their daily working environment for the first time. They were in the main office. Once it had been the drawing room in what would have been a rather grand Victorian house. Above them, there remained an elaborate central ceiling rose, though there was a ragged black hole where once a chandelier might have hung. Instead, fluorescent lights had been suspended at intervals along the ceiling to illuminate the room more evenly. The light they emitted was harsh and unattractive. The cornice work matched the design of the rose. Leaves wound round each other and supported small flowers – lilies? – in what might have been a pleasing design had the paint not been so grimy. Years of cigarette smoking by generations of reporters and subs had left the once white paint a disagreeable yellow. Their desks looked as though they’d come from a salvage yard, the carpet was threadbare to the point of being dangerous. Only the computers on each desk indicated that the room had a place in the twenty-first century, and even the computers looked as if they might be steam driven.
    Daisy saw it as if for the first time. It had always been, quite simply, the Herald office. It wasn’t the environment that mattered, it was what happened in here. What mattered was the way they worked as a team, how they reported the news, supported the community, told stories of suffering, of anger, of heroism, or good fortune, or despair. This was simply where, week after week, they produced the miracle of a newspaper.
    The room was undoubtedly scruffy, but Daisy couldn’t help herself. Not normally courageous, she felt compelled to defend it. ‘We’re always so busy,’ she started, ‘No one’s ever noticed.’
    Jay Bond turned his blue-eyed gaze in her direction. Why had she opened her mouth? Cursing her stupidity, she was prepared to quail. Instead, unexpectedly, Jay smiled, and she wished she had the nerve to reach for her camera. Who could not want to photograph Jay Bond, Editor? He was, quite simply, idol-icious. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘perhaps it’s not our first priority –’
    Most women would have melted under the full heat of that smile. He was accustomed to that, it was obvious, but for some reason, Daisy resisted his charm. Years behind a camera lens had taught her to read nuances of expression.
    ‘ – and you are…?’ His eyes lit up the room, but Daisy saw disdain there, mixed with something else. Arrogance? Condescension? Boredom? They were unattractive traits, and she’d seen them all before he’d switched his mood. Or was it merely defensiveness? At any rate, her guard went up. This man had power over her future – over all their futures.
    ‘Daisy Irvine,’ she said as confidently as she could. ‘Photographer.’
    Sharon Eddy, bubbly and blonde, but by no means dumb, had been uncharacteristically quiet. Now she uncrossed her long legs and stood, tossing her hair back from her face to