What Will Survive by Joan Smith

drinks.
    In the bedroom she used as her office, the fax machine whirred into action again, reminding Amanda that she did not have much time. She hurried back to her desk, noticing the time on the bottom right-hand corner of her computer screen. Reaching over to the radio, she turned on the news and the room filled with jeering voices, which she immediately recognised as coming from the House of Commons.
    â€˜The Prime Minister angrily denied claims of a conflict of interest,’ the newsreader said as the recording ended, ‘pointing out that ministers’partners were not covered by the code of conduct. But Opposition MPs were not satisfied and the row, which has caught the Government off balance, according to our political editor, looks set to continue.’ She paused and said in a tone of studied neutrality: ‘Reports from Lebanon suggest that a British tourist is among the injured after a landmine exploded underneath a vehicle in Lebanon yesterday. One man is believed to have died at the scene, and two survivors have been flown to hospital in the capital, Beirut. More details are expected later.’ The newsreader moved on to the latest developments in the trial of three footballers who had been involved in a fracas at a nightclub in Bradford, and Amanda snapped off the radio. She keyed a number into the phone, and Simon answered immediately:
    â€˜Newsdesk.’
    â€˜It’s Amanda. Is there any more from Lebanon? This man who’s died — it’s not her husband, is it?’
    â€˜I was about to call you. No, she was travelling with a photographer, a guy who took some picture during the civil war? Fabrizio Terzano. Mean anything to you?’
    â€˜Ye-es.’
    â€˜Anyway, he’s dead. Killed outright, poor sod. He took her photo for
Vogue
last year — Fi’s trying to get a back issue.’ He paused. ‘Maybe they were having an affair. You met what’s-his-name, the husband, didn’t you?’
    â€˜For about five minutes.’ Amanda was relieved Simon couldn’t see her face. ‘They seemed like a perfectly normal couple to me, but then they would, wouldn’t they? To a journalist, I mean.’ It wasn’t entirely true, she thought, admitting to herself that she hadn’t warmed to Tim Lincoln. But she wasn’t going to mention that when the poor guy’s wife was in hospital.
    â€˜Hmm. Just a thought. What? Can’t it wait?’
    There was a noise at the other end of the line, as though the phone had momentarily been put down. When Simon returned, he sounded irritable. ‘Sorry, Ingrid was on the other line. No more news, but I think you’d better make it fifteen hundred words. How are you fixed to get out there, if she’s well enough to do an interview?’
    â€˜To Beirut?’
    â€˜Yeah, you’re the obvious one to do it, seeing as you know her.’
    â€˜Well, I—’ She sat up straight. ‘Sure, if you want me to. Do I need a visa?’
    â€˜I’ll get Fiona to check all that. Tell her the minute you’ve filed. He what?’ He paused. ‘Gotta go, the editor’s called an emergency conference.’
    Amanda put down the phone and pulled open the top drawer of her desk, rummaging inside for her passport.

    Ricky had arrived at work with a hangover and discovered, when he took off his jacket, that his mobile battery was flat. He peered at himself in the small mirror in the staff toilet, groaned and ran his hands through his hair: usually it was wavy, like his mother’s, but today it was lank and there were red blotches on his cheeks. He splashed his face with cold water, gulped down a black coffee and a Mars bar in the small kitchen and presented himself just in time for morning surgery.
    â€˜Rough night?’ Olivia asked, looking up from her preparations for the usual parade of domestic animals with infections, parasites and minor injuries. Ricky got through it like