The Fix by Nick Earls Page A

wanted a broad reach, I also called Who Weekly. I didn’t know what line of work his six-to-fifty-staff clients were in but, if they had anywhere for customers to wait, chances were they would have Who Weekly. I had looked through some recent issues at Café Checocho and I asked for Aimee Duroux. On the strength of a couple of her stories, she looked like a good fit.
    â€˜I think we might be up for this,’ she said, once I had styled Ben as a self-effacing hero who had looked death in the eye. ‘If we can get some kind of exclusive. What else are you looking at doing?’
    â€˜Well, it’ll be news,’ I told her, ‘so there’ll be some coverage from the dailies. We could look at a magazine feature exclusive, maybe. If you’re up for a feature. Like,if you wanted to give it say, three or four pages and really flesh it out. I could email you some background stuff. He’s got a good story to tell.’
    â€˜Okay. Well, I think we might be interested.’ Something distracted her then. ‘If you could send me the stuff, that’d be great. I think we’re probably up for it, if it’s all ours. I’ll put it to the editorial team and get back to you. But send the stuff, yeah.’
    I hung up, took my red marker pen and wrote ‘PROB FEATURE’ on the whiteboard. I took a look at my radio targets and decided to start with the talk formats, feed the content hungry.
    When I got to Ben’s door at exactly ten, an itinerary was already beginning to come together. He was standing crumpling the post-it note from Frank in one hand and realigning his laptop on the desk with the other.
    â€˜I’ve started to book in some interviews,’ I told him. ‘We’re going to need to spend some time together to get all this clear. I need to get a sense of the story you’ll be telling.’
    He threw the note towards the bin, but it hit the edge and fell to the floor.
    â€˜It’s not a story,’ he said.
    â€˜You know what I mean. We did media subjects together. You know what I mean by story.’
    He nodded, and smiled in a way that said he was resigned to his fate. ‘Yeah.’
    â€˜Are you avoiding this? Or avoiding me?’ I couldn’t read him yet. The new Ben had even made my memories of the old Ben slippery, less distinct. As he stood in front of me, he looked like someone who hadonce played the role of Ben Harkin, but in a less than convincing amateur production. I could place someone like him in my past, but not this man, who seemed elegantly wounded.
    He laughed, but not convincingly. ‘Not for a second. I’d be happy to put this in the past – the medal was definitely not my idea – but I’m not avoiding anything. It turns out the world doesn’t stop because they start handing out medals. That’s all.’
    â€˜And after next week you can put it in the past. I’ve read the nomination paperwork. You deserve this, and people want you to get it. It might not feel like what you need right now, but maybe it’ll help put it in the past, once it’s done.’ This was not unfamiliar territory, this mixture of cajoling and therapy, though it felt more contrived than usual telling it to Ben. ‘You’re going to have to drop your guard, or look like you’re dropping your guard. You’re going to have to let something out, and I’m here to make that as painless as possible. To help you find a version of what happened that you can tell.’
    â€˜Yeah,’ he said. ‘I know.’ He looked at me. He half-smiled again but his guard was up. ‘How weird that it’s you, doing this.’
    Behind me, there was a knock on the door. ‘Josh,’ Selina’s voice said as I turned. ‘Phone call for you. ABC TV, Australian Story.’
    â€˜You’re avoiding me, Josh,’ Ben called out as I left. ‘Why are you avoiding me?’
    I turned back, and