ON HER SECOND DAY in the newsroom of The Sunny, Meggie arrived before Saul, still sensing the smell of fresh ink and cheap coffee that permeated the mornings of that building. The tall windows filtered London's cold light and reflected off the monitors, creating a haze of electricity in the air.
As soon as she turned on her computer, she began reviewing the accumulated emails, noticing the reporters' frantic routine. That was when she heard, in the background, a deeper voice rising above the others — a tone that blended irony and restrained fury.
She recognized Saul Nolland's voice.
Elegant as the day before, with his jacket perfectly tailored and his hands buried in his pockets, the assistant editor was arguing with Mick Gallagher, the editor-in-chief.
The tension between them was almost palpable.
— You've crossed the line, Mick — Saul said, with that dangerous calm of someone about to explode. — I won't allow my name to be used in journalistic deceptions.
The other man, broad and thick-necked, with an impatient gaze, replied with disdain:
— You'd be dead in this market if it weren't for me, you ungrateful son of a bitch. You'd still be publishing nothing under your name.
— I'd rather that than put my signature on lies created by you.
— Ah, of course… the knight of truth! — Mick mocked. — Funny to hear that from someone who signed one of the greatest hoaxes in British journalism. If the history of English journalism were written, your name would be in the chapter of frauds.
Saul clenched his fists, his eyes sparking.
— Watch your words, Mick. Gregory Evans is in London and would love a private meeting with you.
The name fell like a bomb in the air. The editor-in-chief's face lost its color. Just hearing that name sent a chill down his spine.
This time I might really be screwed… he thought, masking the panic with a forced smile.
The tension was broken when someone touched Meggie's shoulder.
— I'm Diana, fashion editor — said a tall blonde woman with a controlled smile. — How about joining me for some tea?
— I prefer coffee — Meggie replied. — Actually, I'm addicted to coffee.
Diana rolled her eyes as if she had just heard heresy.
— Coffee is fashionable among young English people, but I remain loyal to tea. The tea room is on the top floor — she said, already heading off.
AS THEY CLIMBED the carpeted stairs, Meggie asked:
— Do they always argue like that?
— Saul? Almost never. He's a true gentleman. But when Mick decides to push limits, all hell breaks loose.
Meggie smiled.
— Besides being elegant, he seems very polite.
— And he is — Diana confirmed. — Born into wealth. His father is a banker with deep political ties. He was an advisor to the Queen, if I'm not mistaken.
— And even so, he works here?
— I think it's some kind of social experiment — Diana replied sarcastically. — Maybe he wants to discover how ordinary mortals live.
— Or maybe he just likes independence.
— Independence? — Diana laughed. — They say the two cut ties years ago. Saul received his share of the inheritance, a few million pounds — and they've never seen each other since.
The American raised her eyebrows, surprised:
— And does an editor's salary pay for all that?
— Darling, his salary barely covers the tailored suits he wears. Not to mention the expensive wines and restaurants he frequents. Go out with him and you'll understand.
Diana winked, and Meggie caught the subtext.
— So you two…
— We went out a few times, yes — the editor admitted, adjusting her hair. — But his problem isn't lack of interest. It's the past. One of those tragedies that distort the soul.
THEY ARRIVED AT THE TEA ROOM, a quiet place scented with bergamot. Diana ordered an Earl Grey, and Meggie insisted on an American coffee.
— I'm sorry, ma'am — said the waitress. — We only serve Italian espresso here.
— That will do — Meggie replied, not taking her eyes off Diana.
— He had a girlfriend — the editor began, stirring her tea delicately — they died together… or almost. An accident in his father's Aston Martin after a weekend at one of the family estates. She died at the scene, while he survived, but had to have pins placed in his right leg. He still limps a bit.
— Poor thing… — Meggie murmured.
— Yes… the tragedy made him reserved. Since then, he doesn't get involved with anyone. At least, not emotionally.
— But physically, yes?
Diana gave a crooked smile.
— Oh, darling, he knows that part very well. Just don't expect flowers or promises.
Meggie took a sip of her coffee and grimaced.
— Too strong. I don't think I'll ever get used to this.
— It's London, my dear. Nothing here is mild — not the weather, and certainly not the people — Diana said, raising her cup. — An American must learn to survive.
WHEN THEY RETURNED to the newsroom, the noise had subsided. Saul was in front of his computer, focused, his jaw tense. Meggie approached and greeted him with a quick kiss on the cheek.
For forty minutes, neither of them said a word. She discreetly observed him, noticing the scar that cut through his right eyebrow — likely a reminder of the accident… and yet it only added to his dark charm.
Saul looked up and noticed her interest.
— Don't you drink coffee here? — she ventured.
— I prefer tea — he replied. — It's a drink that respects the mood of the one who drinks it.
— What do you mean?
— Coffee excites, while tea adapts. It can calm or ignite, depending on the state of mind.
She laughed.
— I like living excited, so I'll stick with coffee.
— Perhaps that's why the world is so rushed — Saul commented, typing something. — Everyone wants instant answers.
She leaned slightly closer.
— Do you smoke?
— I like a pipe.
— A pipe? Not even my grandfather did that.
— Your grandfather must have been younger than I am.
Meggie smiled.
— I read your article about my friend Jessyca Volpi.
His expression changed.
— That piece of garbage? My name was used without permission. Mick wrote everything.
— Even so, I found it biased. Europe is no longer the center of the world, and Christianity is no longer humanity's official religion.
— What do you mean by that?
— That her father practiced Candomblé, a religion that blends Catholicism with African rituals.
— Interesting… are there sacrifices?
— Of animals, like in ancient Judaism.
— Of course. Justifying the present with the past.
— The Sunny turned her father into a devil worshipper. That's an absurd injustice — Meggie protested, raising her voice. — Even the Jews, who crucified Jesus, were never treated like that.
Saul raised an eyebrow, impressed by the American's conviction.
— And what is this religion called?
— Candomblé.
He wrote the name down.
— Do you know what I believe, Saul? — she asked, crossing her arms.
— I'd love to know.
— That if faith is the currency between humans and gods, those who practice Candomblé have the advantage. They truly believe — they don't repeat prayers like robots.
— If you have issues with the Catholic Church, discuss them with a priest — Saul replied with subtle irony. — But if you're inviting someone to a sacrifice, I'll only accept if you cook the animal afterward.
Meggie laughed, surprised.
— Was that a joke?
— Perhaps. Now, back to work… — he straightened up. — You're going to write your first article. I want you to tell Jessyca's spiritual journey — what she learned at home, what she believes, and why she chose that path.
— And who guarantees the editor-in-chief won't distort everything?
— If you want guarantees, you chose the wrong place.
Saul's phone rang.
— Father, how are you? Yes, I'll stop by Temple Church at a quarter to five… You're invited for afternoon tea… agreed then.
Meggie raised her eyebrows.
— I don't like priests.
— You don't like priests, you don't like tea… — he smiled. — Should I warn England to change its customs?
— Don't get me wrong.
— If you meet Father Raphaniè Marin, try to be nice. Otherwise, he might want to exorcise you.
She laughed, but his expression remained serious.
— And please — Saul added, returning to the keyboard — write again the unpronounceable name of that Afro-Brazilian cult. I want to consult the priest about it.
Meggie sat in silence, observing the man before her — half mystery, half arrogance — and became certain of one thing:
Saul Nolland would be far more difficult to decipher than any article at The Sunny.