Free Maximum Exposure by Jenny Harper Page A

could get a decent view.
    It was a stunning shot. The flames from the farm were clearly visible, the smoke was drifting away from where she stood, carried by a light breeze, and the carnage on the road was crystal clear. Only the nationals, fielding helicopters, got anything better, and in some ways Daisy’s image, taken from closer, had the advantage of a riveting kind of intimacy.
    She was proud of the photograph. She’d run down the hill and managed to sneak in close to the accident by dint of pleading with one of the policemen at the scene, an officer she’d dealt with before. Daisy might be disorganised, but she could be very determined. The advantage of local knowledge and local contacts paid off – the officer turned his back for just long enough for her to do her job. The heart-wrenching photos of crunched metal she managed to snatch before she was shooed away complemented her main picture perfectly.
    ‘Not bad,’ said Jay, admiring the front page. ‘Well done, Sharon. Fancy a drink?’
    ‘Sure. Thanks.’ Sharon smiled up at him, flicking her hair back self-consciously and twisting her body towards him in a come hither pose.
    As the door closed into the silence behind them, there was an explosion of indignation.
    ‘Bloody hell, Daisy, that front page was all yours!’ said Dave.
    Murdoch concurred. ‘Sharon’s copy was fine, but a bit on the sensational side for my taste. Your photos now, they told the story brilliantly.’
    ‘They’re right,’ said Ben. ‘Fancy a drink, Daisy?’
    Daisy, who’d been hurt by Jay’s lack of recognition, was slightly mollified by the support of her colleagues, but turned Ben down unthinkingly. ‘No thanks, Ben,’ she said, ‘I’ve got other things I have to do.’
    Heading for the door, she missed the look of disappointment on Ben’s face.
    The first edition of The Hailesbank Herald under the editorship of Jay Bond rolled off the presses and out to the shops the next day. Jay called his staff together. They clustered apprehensively round the water cooler.
    ‘Congratulations,’ he said, looking from face to face and smiling. Daisy, observing, was forced to acknowledge that he had charisma, when he chose to use it. Today he was wearing a checked shirt in crisp cotton and smart navy trousers, their creases like knives. He’d rolled up the shirt sleeves – to look more like one of the lads maybe? She watched Sharon, too. The chief reporter’s face said it all; she was smitten.
    Who could blame her, thought Daisy. If you disregarded the cocaine story and the fact that he was married, it seemed that Jay Bond had it all; a great body, money, style, looks, charisma.
    ‘It’s not there yet, not by a long way,’ Jay was saying, ‘But at least we’ve made a start. Axing those little fillers – the WRI column, the reports from the local history society, bird watchers, ramblers, and such societies has opened up space for more in-depth journalism.’ He picked up a copy of the paper and flicked through the pages. Ben had worked his own miracle. Using the same template, he’d somehow managed to make the paper look smarter, more contemporary. Study it as she might, Daisy couldn’t work out how he’d done it. There was something about the white space? Maybe the font? The way he’d put in the headlines? She’d have to ask him what his secret was.
    Daisy looked at Sharon again. She might like the idea of ‘in-depth journalism’ in principle, but they really didn’t have the resources for it. She and Dave – Murdoch too – would have to half kill themselves to fill the pages if they got rid of all the bits people sent in. And besides, Daisy was pretty sure that the members of the aforesaid societies would not take kindly to their news disappearing from the pages of The Herald .
    ‘The horoscopes will have to go – I mean, nobody believes that stuff any more, do they?’
    Oh poor Sir Cosmo.
    ‘But that was a great front page – Sharon, Daisy.’ The full beam