The Night Desk – Part 2: Front Page

Her investigation ran in March, over six pages, with her name on the front.

She had worked on it for four months: nights, weekends, lunch hours, a thousand phone calls. Callum had edited every draft. He'd cut it by half, then asked for more. He'd said "Good" exactly twice.

On the night it went to press, she sat in the empty newsroom at five in the morning, watching the pale light climb the windows. The presses rumbled in the basement. A cleaner pushed a trolley past, whistling.

Callum came up from the print floor with a warm copy in his hands.

"Here."

She took it. The paper was still faintly warm, smelling of ink. There it was, her headline, her name, the photograph of the river. Her hands trembled.

"Oh."

"Yes."

"It's real."

"It's yours."

She looked up. He was standing close, tie loosened, stubble greying, his eyes tired and glowing. The whole newsroom lay silent around them, desks piled with paper.

"Can I ask you something?" said Inês.

"Yes."

"Would you object if I broke the newsroom policy about colleagues?"

"I'd write the correction," said Callum, "myself."

She laughed. "May I kiss you?"

"Yes," he said. "And if you say stop, you must proofread tomorrow's classifieds."

"That is a terrible punishment."

"It's very long."

She kissed him, warm, quick and then slow, the newspaper crumpling between them. He kissed her back with tender, ink-stained hands cupping her face, tasting of bitter coffee and mint. The first light poured across the desks, and in the street below, the delivery vans started their engines.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" he asked.

"Green," said Inês. "Very green."

The front page hangs on the wall above the night desk, framed. Underneath, someone has added in red pen: Third paragraph. Excellent.

More workplace romance stories: The Late Shift · Night Shift · The Personal Trainer