Free Maximum Exposure by Jenny Harper

Surely you have one?’ snapped Sharon.
    ‘Do I still do the Member of the Scottish Parliament at the recycling plant?’
    Sharon sighed. ‘I suppose so, yes. We’ll need to cover it.’
    ‘And the toilets?’
    ‘We can do without toilets, surely,’ Sharon said crossly. ‘They’re not exactly big news, are they?’
    ‘There’s lots of people feel they can’t do without them,’ muttered Murdoch.
    ‘We’re on to bigger and better things than toilets,’ snapped Sharon.
    ‘Thrones?’ said Murdoch as everyone – except The Herald ’s chief reporter – laughed. But nervously.
    Ben, watching the scene quietly from his desk, put the final touches to the back page (sports) and mentally shook his head. Jay Bond hadn’t a clue. That was obvious. What he did have was delusions of grandeur. But if he wanted to get The Herald closed down, he couldn’t have picked a quicker way of doing it.
    Local papers sold on local news. People bought them to see their friends, to read about what was happening in the neighbourhood, to get the results of the local darts league or find out who won the best apple tart category in the WRI. Public toilets were important. A local shop closing was important. These were issues that affected them all and which they got involved in. No one cared about the Scottish Parliament, still less about what was happening at Westminster, unless it was fiddled expenses, higher taxes, schools, or hospitals nearby closing, or local lads being sent to war. Then they were interested all right. How long would Jay Bond get before sliding sales forced him to realise how wrong he was? And Daisy, standing there looking as though she was about to burst into tears over her sausage picture being made into mincemeat – how would she cope?
    The truth was, Daisy didn’t cope too well. Distracted by events, she forgot to pick up the brief for the Jordanbank assignment, couldn’t remember where the recycling plant was, and phoned Ben in a panic just a few minutes before the photo shoot was due to take place.
    ‘Ben? Ben, I need help.’ Her voice, though lowered conspiratorially, sounded anxious.
    ‘Oh hi, Diz, what can I do you for?’ he said cheerfully.
    ‘I’m lost,’ she hissed down the line, ‘Listen, don’t tell anyone, they’ll just laugh at me. Just find my sheet, can you, it’s got the directions on it.’
    ‘Right. Hold on.’ He placed the receiver on his desk, found the missing instructions, and read them down the line to her. ‘Got it now?’
    ‘Yes, left, right, then third left. Thanks Ben, you’re a star. I’ll love you for ever.’
    If only that were true, thought Ben, replacing the receiver slowly.
    ‘Ditsy Daisy lost again?’ said Murdoch, dropping a printout of a page plan on his desk.
    Ben grinned at him. It was impossible to keep secrets in an office like this.
    The challenge of getting a big story was mercifully solved that week when some poorly stored fertiliser exploded in a barn next to the main road south to England. The incident not only sparked a major blaze at the farm and its outbuildings and killed two workers, but also caused smoke to billow across the carriageway, with an inevitable multiple pile-up and further deaths.
    Sharon was happy. ‘It’s not my way to be pleased at the misfortune of others,’ she said sanctimoniously amid barely suppressed sniggers, ‘and I’d really prefer to get a thorough investigative story on the front but –’ she held out the paper at arm’s length and admired it. ‘– it’s not bad, is it? And we did get there before The Stoneyford Echo. ’
    Daisy had surpassed herself with an image that captured the full drama of the incident taken from Tarbert Knoll, a small hill near the scene. She’d reached the spot before any other photographer was in the vicinity, realised she wouldn’t be able to get a good photo from ground level, and had puffed her way up the hill, cursing her extra pounds and general lack of fitness, until she