Читать книгу The Three of U.S.: A New Life in New York - Peter Godwin - Страница 22

Like most of my friends, I have put career ahead of children. In our twenties it seemed almost embarrassing to admit they were even a possibility. Now I’m suddenly aware of the explosive change that lies ahead. But instead of being scared, I find myself fizzing with elation – as though a secret trapdoor has sprung open to reveal a future quite different to the one I had been expecting.

I wonder, though, how my bosses in London will take the news of my pregnancy. I am currently the sole female staff foreign correspondent on the paper, and after only a few months I have fallen pregnant. This was clearly not part of their plan. I stare out of my greasy office window, trying to compose a memo breaking the news to the editor.

The truth is I am not a real foreign correspondent at all. I have no desire to zoom across the country clutching an overnight bag and a laptop, forever on call. I took this posting simply because I’ve always loved New York. As it turns out the job is largely office based, relying heavily on rewriting the New York papers and watching cable news. My colleague in Washington, Ed Vulliamy, calls it ‘lift ’n’ view’.

When I do try to engage in original journalism and hit the phone, no one has heard of the paper. This morning I am trying to get a comment on ‘zero tolerance’ from the NYPD press office.

‘Hello. It’s Joanna Coles from the Guardian,’ I say.

‘Where?’

‘The Guardian.’

‘La Guardia? The airport?’

‘No. The Guardian. It’s a British newspaper.’

‘Really? Never heard of it.’

The bureau itself depresses me. Though I should not complain about the location, in midtown on 44th Street sandwiched between Fifth and Sixth Avenue, the office itself reminds me of the shabby sets invariably used in amateur productions of Death of a Salesman. The windows are so fudged with dirt that I can barely tell if it’s raining. The glass top on the desk is shattered, its loosely arranged shards an industrial accident in waiting. The chair, a concave scoop of leatherette which has long since stopped revolving, has a two-inch nail sticking out of the left arm.

When I raise the issue with the foreign editor he is unsympathetic, assuming that I am exaggerating in the hope that he will allow me to refurbish with Philippe Starck accessories. Besides, he keeps reminding me, I am lucky to have an office at all. Most foreign correspondents are now required to work from a computer propped up in the back bedroom at home, something which would probably drive me mad.