The Sister Surprise by Abigail Mann (read full novel TXT) 📗

the screen. ‘I don’t know how much of that you planned, but frankly I don’t care. You did a good job.’ Duncan smiles, despite the concertina of frown lines on his forehead. ‘Ava, I’m giving you a compliment, so write it down or something because they’re not handed out often.’

I bite my thumbnail, the skin around it already pink and sore. ‘Thanks, but, um … I’m not sure this is the reputation I want.’

‘Look, I know this isn’t conventional. It’s not like you’re a bad writer. But what we do here is find a different source, a different perspective, and then present it with a fresh kick. I couldn’t pick out something you’ve written from any of the other kids that come in here knowing how to use a semi-colon, which, by the way, is far less important than having a bit of grit. That live stream, though? Internet gold. Your script was good. You’re funny, whether intentionally or not. It’s the direction we need to be going in.’

I look out of the window and watch two pigeons jostle for space on a window sill, chests puffed out, toe-tapping along the ledge.

‘If you never thought I was a good journalist, why have you kept me in editorial for so long?’ I say.

‘It’s because I think you’re good that I’m asking you to leave.’

‘What?’ I say, my voice small. Jesus. I didn’t know it was going to be quite this brutal. I thought I’d at least be able to collect my mug from the kitchenette before handing my staff pass back.

‘Not like that,’ he says, waving a hand in the air. ‘Sorry. The husband and I have been watching a lot of Swedish crime recently. I can’t seem to stop making everything sound like a homicide plot. Where was I? Right. The way I see it, you’ve got a choice to make.’

Duncan holds his hand up, ready to tick points from his fingers.

‘DNA tourism is on the up. You’ve got a personal angle and an audience waiting for more content. If you want to pursue this story, it’s there. If you don’t want to do it, I’ll understand. It’s not my family on the table, so ultimately, it’s not my call.’

I jiggle my knee. Ever since I found out about Moira, I’ve been fixed on the idea that if only the timing had been better, if only I’d found out more gently, I’d have more clarity about what to do. But that’s not true, is it? There’s no such thing as good timing, not with something like this. If I go up to Kilroch, I can look into my father’s side without having to broach the subject with Mum, thus avoiding the likelihood of her shutting down like an angry clam. If I find Moira, it’ll have been worth it. If I don’t find her, things can go back to normal. At the very least, I’ll know something more about the place my parents met.

I tap the front of my teeth and take a deep breath. I’ve never travelled alone, let alone the far end of Scotland. If Mum knew where I was going, she’d ask too many awkward questions, which isn’t unreasonable when you consider that we’ve only holidayed apart once, and even then it was a Centre Parcs forty-five minutes out of London. I’ll have to say I’m going to Edinburgh for a work trip, otherwise her suspicion levels will be off the chart.

‘I’ve not left the country before,’ I say.

Duncan grins, his joy undisguised.

‘It’s Scotland, Ava, they eat the insides of a sheep and call it normal, but that’s as weird as it gets.’ Duncan rocks forward in his chair, folding his arms. ‘Look, our audience want to be on this journey with you. If you’re going to explore your family connection anyway, you can take them. Combine it with a diary series – something quirky, eccentric, funny – that’s the vibe we’re angling for.’

‘But I don’t think I’m any of those things,’ I say.

‘You are. The live stream proved that,’ says Duncan, tapping the graph on his tablet. He sits back, eyes narrowed, and raps the table with his knuckles. ‘Let’s say you find your sister, sit her down, announce yourself … you may as well turn it into a video feature, right? We can use it as a follow-up; the viewers get a happy ending, and you get more space on the homepage.’

I nod, but it’s only to buy myself some time. I don’t need to look for ways to justify it anymore. It’s obvious, both for my job and as a way to stitch together the mismatched pieces of my family history. The only problem is figuring out a way to appease Duncan’s need for clickbait content whilst I try to find Moira, thus gently broaching the subject of our father’s Lothario approach to procreation.

‘How long do you think you’ll need?’ says Duncan. He shuffles back in his chair and gives me a hard smile.

‘Six weeks? Maybe less? I’d want to try and integrate within the community. I don’t want to freak anyone out by scribbling things down in shorthand, you know?’

‘Hmm. Just one small factor to consider. If you wait that long, our audience will have moved on by the time you deliver the goods.’

I nod, more to reassure myself than Duncan. ‘It’s not just about the job, though. I don’t know Moira. She might not want anything to do with me, especially if I charge up to the Highlands and announce myself without knowing more about the circumstances.’

‘Take a week,’ he says, swallowing coffee.

‘I don’t know … What if it takes me a while to find her? I’ll keep busy, content wise. I’ll write a bunch of diary entries, travel guides, whatever you want. Snooper aside, this is a big deal for me. I need more time.’

Duncan’s purses his lips to the side. ‘We can figure out the logistics when you’re there, but I can’t guarantee how long this assignment will last. If