The Art of Standing Still Read Online Free PDF Page A

violence, or misuse of authority”.’
    Jemma opened her mouth, then closed it again. She wanted to flounce out of the room, slam the door, and start throwing things, but a monumental sulk might not be the approved method of handling this sort of employment dispute. She could always phone the union later.
    â€˜Okay, what you’re saying is that I’ve got to do this if I want the senior reporter’s job?’
    â€˜Put it this way: you need to demonstrate to me that you are ready for the added responsibility, and this would be a good way to do it.’
    â€˜What if I audition and don’t get the part?’
    â€˜Then I know you’re not trying very hard.’
    â€˜You’ve made up your mind about this, haven’t you?’
    â€˜The contact number is at the bottom.’ He pushed the paper over to Jemma again.
    She picked up the letter, and with a look that said everything, she stood and walked out.

    â€˜HOW CAN HE DO THAT?’ JEMMA THUMPED HER FISTS ON THE TABLE.
    â€˜Steady. He’s your boss, he is supposed to be able to tell you what to do.’ Lou calmly drained the last of her wine. ‘Besides, getting involved in the mystery play would be good for you. Get you out, help you to meet people.’
    â€˜You make it sound as if I’m in need of therapy! I meet loads of people at work, and I’m hardly ever in the office. How much more gregarious can I be?’
    â€˜I don’t mean meet “people”; I mean meet people , male people.’
    â€˜Ever the matchmaker. Look, I couldn’t possibly think about anyone else at the moment. Besides I’m enjoying being young, free, and single.’ Jemma raised her glass. ‘Here’s to spinsterhood.’
    They clinked glasses.
    â€˜Except I’m not free, am I? I’m stuck doing this play because Mohan says so. That is beyond the call of duty.’
    â€˜Just smile sweetly, do the job . . . then clobber him with your overtime claim.’
    â€˜Excellent idea, with just one drawback,’ said Jemma.
    â€˜What’s that?’
    â€˜They don’t pay overtime.’
    â€˜In that case, I’d better get the next round, you impoverished young hack, you.’
    â€˜Just another cola, please,’ said Jemma. ‘I’m driving.’
    Lou looked heavenward and headed over to the bar with its mock-Tudor beams and horse brasses. The idea of getting plastered appealed to Jemma, but she really was driving, and she had work in the morning, and the feeling of sleeping on a boat, with the movement of the water was not a pleasant one if you were intoxicated. She had learnt that from experience.
    The Fruiterer’s Arms wasn’t the most fashionable pub in Monksford, but it was friendly, did a good evening meal for under a fiver, and they had an admirable selection of real ales, which Richard liked . . . Jemma felt the slap of realisation. They had only come here at Lou’s suggestion. They could have gone to any pub in the area. How, then, had they ended up here with memories as deeply ingrained as the smoke on the embossed ceiling? She wanted to run. Was it impossible to go anywhere without being reminded of Richard? When he first left, she thought of him constantly so the pain was always with her, but now she would go minutes, even hours without thinking about him, then suddenly – wallop! Her eyes stung, but she couldn’t blame it solely on the farmer sitting behind her, his pungent coat, and equally pungent pipe tobacco.
    Lou returned with the drinks. ‘What’s the matter with you?’
    â€˜Feeling a bit claustrophobic, that’s all. I think I’ll go home.’
    Lou laid her hand on Jemma’s arm. ‘I brought you here to cheer you up, and you’re not leaving until I do.’
    They were in for a long haul then.

    THE REFLECTIONS OF THE LIGHTS ALONG THE RIVERBANK QUIVERED SLIGHTLY as a cool breeze stirred the water. Jemma