Free Construct a Couple by Talli Roland Page A

think. I breathe in, trying to contain the hope building inside. Have I uncovered a new angle? It could be rumours, like this Bob dude said. I’ll take my time, investigate properly, and then present Jonas with facts. The last thing I want is to go off half-cocked and get it wrong. Hey, if it is true, they’ll have to give me a by-line now, right? Dad will be so proud, and I won’t need to hide the corporate rah-rah story from him. This is the kind of feature my parents love.
    Don’t get carried away, I remind myself sternly. First things first, I need to find this care home, speak to the owners, and get a great quote. Once I have that, then I can talk to Jonas.
    “Morning!” Lizzie swings into her chair, cheeks flushed. “What happened? I passed Gregor in the corridor and he looked like he was about to have a fit.”
    I gesture to the brown liquid now trailing across the scarred tabletop. “Coffee spillage.”
    “Oh, Christ. That’s going to put him in a good mood for the rest of the day.”  Jabbing at a chopstick in her hair, Lizzie makes a face. “Bloody thing won’t stay still. Right. Best get started before Jonas comes by.”
    I nod, staring at the notepad as my mind flips through how on earth I’m going to find this care home. Flowers or trees, my scribble reads, and somewhere around London. Well, that narrows it down.  After typing ‘London care homes’ into Google, my heart drops as result after result filters onto the screen. I click onto a directory of homes, divided by borough. There must be hundreds of them!
    Okay. I’ll flag up anything to do with plants, then work my way through the list. It’s after nine now, and I’ve got until five to turn in copy. But can I find the right care home and get a quote, too?
    Two hours later, I’ve reviewed the list, jotting down names and numbers of anything remotely botanical. The Pines, Daisy Care Home, Petunia Palace . . . God, when I get old, I’m going to start my own care home and christen it ‘Den of Iniquity’ or something. Who wants to live their last years in a flowery-sounding pseudo-home?
    “Lizzie, where can I make a private phone call?” I’m not going to ring these places with Gregor ear-wigging beside me.
    Lizzie glances up from the screen. “There’s a meeting room just off the kitchen you can use, if it’s not already busy.”
    “Great, thanks.” I grab my notebook, just about to head there when Gregor returns with the bathroom’s entire supply of toilet paper.
    “Where are you going?” he asks, jabbing a spindly finger to push up his glasses.
    “The loo.” To be honest, I’m not sure why I’m keen to keep him in the dark. We’re on the same team, right? But something about the way he pokes his nose into every bit of business sets my teeth on edge. Anyway, I’m better off staying mum until I know for sure what I’m dealing with.
     The small meeting room is dark, cold, and – thankfully – empty. Reaching to the phone in the centre of the table, I punch in the first number on my list, hoping this won’t take long.
    An hour later, though, I’m only half-way through and I still haven’t reached the right care home. Since I’ve exceeded the two point five minutes allowed for the loo, Gregor pops in and out several times. I’ve resorted to pretending I’m suffering a medical crisis of the female variety so he leaves as quickly as possible. Last time he poked his snout in, I’d just picked up the receiver to dial. One mention of ‘vulva’, and Gregor’s cheeks went scarlet before slamming the door behind him. Some men need to get a grip – figuratively, of course.
    Sighing, I dial the next number on the list.
    “Rose House,” a nasal voice answers. “We put the bloom back into life.”
    Oh, God. It’s all I can do not to roll my eyes. “Hi, could I speak to the manager?” I repeat the same question I’ve asked countless times already.
    “One moment, please.”
    I tap my fingers on the table as she