Perfect Strangers Read Online Free Page B

to Namibia, Mozambique or Angola. And now finally London, covering all those dreary weddings, openings and parties that passed for news stories, hoping against hope that one day it would all be worthwhile and she would finally get the position she deserved: bureau chief of one of the most important territories in the world.
    ‘I won’t bullshit you, Ruth,’ said Isaac. ‘There’s talk about shutting the bureau down.’
    For a moment she couldn’t take in what he had just said.
    ‘You’re closing us down?’ she croaked.
    Isaac looked apologetic.
    ‘We’re not the Herald Tribune or the BBC. We’re smaller, leaner, and to be frank, we’re struggling financially. We can’t afford to keep a team out here.’
    Ruth couldn’t believe what she was hearing. ‘But this is London. The financial capital of the world. America’s ally . . .’
    ‘Which is exactly why we’ve kept it going so long.’
    She was still shaking her head. ‘I don’t believe this. I thought it was going so well. The Bernard story . . .’
    ‘Ruth, one great story does not pay the rent on an office in Victoria. You know it’s all about the bottom line these days, and the London bureau doesn’t generate anything that we can’t get from local stringers and freelancers.’
    ‘Local stringers?’
    She had worked with them many times before – fixers, interpreters, hacks from the native newspapers. They were often difficult and unreliable; he couldn’t seriously be thinking of handing the Tribune over to them?
    ‘Isaac, local reporters have their place,’ she said, trying to keep calm. ‘But they are never going to be as impartial as a Tribune journalist. Remember Kosovo?’ She had been shortlisted for a press award for her balanced reporting. ‘Local journalists are more likely to be biased because of their politics, their allegiances.’
    ‘London isn’t Kosovo, Ruth.’
    He put his hand on the tablecloth.
    ‘The view from upstairs is that we don’t need Tribune journalists out in the field any more. Not in English-speaking territories anyway.’
    ‘This is just cost-cutting.’
    ‘To an extent, yes it is. I’ll be honest, we’re not getting enough from you to justify the upkeep of the goddamn photocopier. Ruth, the media is changing. It’s the new way, kiddo: they want blogs and as-it-happens tickertape crap. Citizen journalism – stories phoned in seconds after the thing has happened. No one wants investigative journalism any more.’
    ‘Bullshit,’ snapped Ruth, before she could stop herself. She’d been up since six and she was in no mood to mince her words. And what did she have to lose anyway? ‘Don’t try and dress it up as the fallout from the digital revolution. You’re just cutting corners, pure and simple. You’re taking away the real journalists and bringing in interns to write cuts jobs from the internet and press releases. And relying on the general public to send in their cell-phone videos isn’t reporting . I can’t believe you don’t agree with me, Isaac.’
    ‘It’s not me you’ve got to convince, Ruth. I answer to the goddamn management consultants right now, just like everyone else.’
    Another time that comment might have gained some sympathy from her – but not today.
    ‘So what about opportunities in Washington?’
    Isaac shifted uncomfortably.
    ‘We’re downsizing over there too, not recruiting newbies.’
    ‘Newbies! I’ve got nearly twenty years’ hard news experience.’
    She closed her eyes for a moment, considering the alternatives. Freelancing? Writing about relationships for the women’s glossies? She’d come here expecting a promotion. Instead, she was being retired. Washed up at forty-one. She had devoted everything to her career at the expense of other areas of her life – most women her age were married, settled, they had kids. She knew the window of opportunity for motherhood was closing quickly, and while that thought occasionally saddened her, she consoled herself