Good old @ScottishStandard. An extraordinary woman dies tragically and your journalist @NeilMunroWrites reduces her down to her attractiveness, her ex-husband and her childlessness.

There were about fifteen of them altogether, plus the retweets. A couple more just addressed to the newspaper alone. Not the massive storm Craig had hyped him for. For fuck’s sake. He missed the days before the Internet, when only the angriest old men could be bothered to reply, in green ink, a week after the fact. Well, the fact was that she wasn’t as beautiful as she had been, and surely even none of these outraged keyboard warriors would deny that her beauty had been an important part in the signing of that record deal. He was proud to call himself a feminist, but that was just how the industry worked. She had been breathtaking in her twenties, but thirty years of smoking and drinking had cost her and there was no pretending around that. He remembered the amount of make-up he’d noticed on her face, when he’d moved in for that rejected kiss at the end of her fiftieth birthday party, peach emulsion rucked up in each crease, as he’d swung dizzily away into the Argyle Street night. Mentioning children, or the lack of them, in the final line was standard obituary format, and it was definitely in the public interest to raise a musician’s former marriage to a well-known industry figure. He should not have to apologize for any of this, and he said as much to Craig when the boss buzzed back over to him half an hour later. What he didn’t say was that the idea of being forced to apologize by a man who just yesterday had been salivating over a possible celebrity lesbian suicide was making him want to punch something.

‘Mate. I hear you. I hear you. Believe me. Let’s maybe backtrack a bit – perhaps a little public statement about your friendship with her? You’re grieving, aren’t you –’ Craig began a rhythmic patting of his shoulder and Neil’s pulse began beating in time, obediently ‘– just let them know you need a little space. You would never dream of disrespecting such a dear friend and just wanted to celebrate her life; you hope to make amends in the Saturday magazine special edition. Nice wee trailer. That sort of thing. Brilliant.’

What would be the future if he just walked out? He’d worked here for so long he couldn’t imagine himself being anywhere else. It had come to define him, this building, the regular push to hit a deadline, the eight-year-old byline picture with a still-full head of hair that he used online everywhere. Well, he would stay until this thing was put to bed, anyway. He would do his duty and remember her well.