The Cover-Up.

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The Cover-Up: By Sophie Darch

        ‘You have five new messages’ said a woman’s voice as I walked through the door. It was raining outside; in fact it had been raining all day. I glanced in the mirror as I walked past and noticed my hair! It had become slightly matted with the damp and the copper streaks which had been so delicately placed around the front of my face the week before, now made me possess a slight resemblance to the cookie monster!        

        I skipped through my messages one by one; most of them were from different companies trying to sell me various items, including a conservatory. These people obviously didn’t know much about their customers, other wise they would have noticed from my address that I lived in a twelfth floor apartment in the middle of New York City!

        “Hey darling, just calling to find out whether you fancied coming out with me for a drink Saturday night? I thought maybe we could go to The Attic (The Attic, or the ‘Black Room’ as some people call it, is the latest in clubbing venues, just off of Broadway). Anyway I’ll pick you up around seven, ciao!”

        Ciao? Ugh! Doug has never been the most subtle or charming character that I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing and I’ll admit that. His father is a much-liked congressman here in NYC. What was he thinking calling here? I don’t know how many times I’m going to have to tell him I’m not interested!

        I walked into the bedroom to find the bed neatly made, clothes which were previously strewn across the floor hung neatly in the closet and a Butter-worth mint placed centrally on the pillow, which also had apparently been fluffed to its limit. Alongside was a note. It was from mum. She wanted me to go to dinner with her and the new ‘partner’. There was some (and I quote) ‘delightful young man’ whom she wanted me to meet. Maybe going for a drink with Doug wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

A re-release of a hit track by the Beach Boys is what I had to awake to the next morning along with a weather report, which stated that yes in fact, it was going to be yet another wet and windy day. Where was all the snow and bitter cold winds that I had been looking forward to ever since I moved out here? I had obviously brought with me the dreaded British winter weather, the day I stepped into JFK airport with my mother in tow. I casually tied my now desired coloured hair back into a ponytail and made my way downstairs. I pulled on my dressing gown and walked out the door to find my post on the doormat in the hallway. I don’t know why, but ever since we acquired a new doorman in the building my post seems to miraculously appear outside my front door each morning. Not that I am complaining of course, I mean no one should have to be put through the daily interrogation which faces you from the landlady once you step out of the lift downstairs and into the lobby.

        Bills, bills and more bills. That’s all I ever seemed to receive, except the occasional letter from my sister of course, who wrote to complain about her husband of ten years who blatantly refuses to wash dishes, sweep floors or put the toilet seat down when he’s finished. Ah hah! A mysterious letter, with no return address, just my name on the front: Natasha Pardon. I opened it to find a letter, which seemed to have been formed from letters cut from a broad sheet, the New York Times perhaps? It read: ‘Congress holds the key to a big case, and a big story for you Natasha’. OK a riddle of some sort, I can handle that. I looked at the time, it was 8 o’clock, I rushed back upstairs, jumped in the shower, dragged on the nearest outfit I could find and ran out the door after grabbing an apple and the letter from the table.

        “Fifth floor please,” I asked as I stepped into the lift at the Daily Globe. Yes the Daily Globe Newspaper, not quite as in demand as some of the big time papers, but we had enough readers to keep us in production. I walked through the various desks until I got to mine. I could see Doug peering through his blinds from his office. I prayed that he wouldn’t come out of there and start hitting on the other women around me as to try and make me jealous, when he obviously has no idea that I think he’s a prematurely middle aged…well you know what.

Join now!

        Looking again at the letter, I tried to think of anyone who could have possibly produced it. They were obviously quite professional when it came to this sort of thing; there wasn’t a glue stain in sight. Come to think of it, it could have been anyone of a large group of people. Since moving from London to New York I had acquired a few people who helped me out on various stories, informants you could say. This was probably just one of them having a joke, they all knew me well enough to know that I enjoyed my work ...

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