CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Most of the weekend is spent wallowing in the disaster that is my life.
Friday night was an embarrassing haze of tears, wine, and mini breakdowns—the smallest things toppled me into spirals of despair that concluded with banshee-style wailing sobs. For example, when I couldn’t find a clean wine glass, I drank wine from a mug that said WORLD’S BEST WRITER on it—a gift I got in the office Secret Santa a few years ago. This released a torrent of crying. I had no right to drink from that cup. No right.
I got into my pajamas as soon as I walked through the door to get out of my rain-soaked clothes—I must have looked a sight on the tube, but I didn’t care—and I climbed into bed with a raging headache, without bothering to take off my makeup. On Saturday morning, I catch my reflection in the bathroom mirror and gasp at the state of my face: blotchy, puffy, with shadows of mascara smudged down my cheeks. I feel so drained from the previous day’s events that I take my makeup remover back to bed with me, wiping at my eyes from the safety of my duvet.
When Mimi phones, I try my best to sound relatively normal, but she knows me too well.
“Hello?” I answer.
“Oh my god, Harper,” she gasps. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing!” I insist, my eyes filling with tears at her voice and my eyes welling with yet more tears. “I’m fine.”
“Did something happen with Ryan? I knew something was off with you yesterday before you left, and then he came into the office and I’ve never seen him so tense. He looked like he was going to either burst into tears or hit someone in the face. Are you with him now?”
“No,” I squeak.
“So you’re on your own?”
“Yes.”
“I’m coming over,” she says firmly, giving me no opportunity to protest.
By the time she arrives, I’ve forced myself to have a shower and get into fresh pajamas. Mimi is, of course, dressed as though she’s going for afternoon tea at The Ritz—in a bright orange sundress. She starts when I open the door. I remember I’m still wearing a face mask that is supposed to hydrate and plump your skin. While I go remove it, she heads to the kitchen to put the kettle on. I plod in a few minutes later to find her washing up a couple of mugs in the sink.
“I’ve put your dishwasher on,” she informs me.
“I meant to do that last night, but I forgot,” I sigh, leaning back on the kitchen counter and folding my arms across my chest.
“Tea or coffee?”
“I’m the host. I should be asking you that question.”
“Harper, look at you,” she says with a sad smile. “You’re wearing your pajamas inside out and you have one Miss Piggy slipper on.”
“I gave up looking for the other one,” I admit. “I think it might be under the bed.”
“I’m not sure you’re in the right state of mind right now to handle a kettle. So, tea or coffee?”
“Coffee, please. I could use the caffeine.”
“You want to tell me what’s going on? Knowing you, I’m guessing that whatever this is—” she gestures to my general appearance “—it’s not because of a boy.”
“You would guess correctly.”
She squints her eyes at me, trying to work it out. “Your parents? I know you were due to have dinner with them this week, and that never goes well. But usually you laugh it off.”
“I rearranged that dinner for next week. I’m sure fireworks will fly, but you’re right, I stopped crying over them a long time ago.”
“Is it worry over the redundancies? Because I know it’s horrible having that hanging over our heads at the moment, but you can’t let yourself get into a state before we have any of the answers.”
I look down at the floor. “Mimi, Cosmo already told me.”
She looks at me in disbelief. “W-what?”
“I asked him point blank on Friday. I shouldn’t have, but I knew that when it came to cutting roles, he would put mine at the forefront. And I was right.”
“Oh my god. Harper,” she says softly, coming over and wrapping her arms around me. “I’m so sorry. I can’t believe it!”
“I can,” I reply, my voice muffled in her shoulder. “Cosmo has been looking for an excuse to get rid of me since he took over the magazine. I should have known it was coming.”
She pulls back. “Do you know who else—”
“No, I’m sorry,” I say, biting my lip. “I don’t have a clue about anyone else. And I’m sorry to tell you this now; it’s not fair when we don’t know who else might go. It’s really selfish of me, actually.”
She shakes her head. “No, it’s not. I’m glad you told me now. And anyway, if it turns out that I’m losing my job next week, too, then at least we’ll be going together.”
“Right,” I say with a weak smile.
“Harper, you know this isn’t a reflection on you, right?” she checks, moving away to finish making the coffees. “It’s nothing to do with your work. It’s because Cosmo doesn’t get it! He doesn’t get his audience, he doesn’t get the magazine—he never bothered to try to understand why your features are so popular and how hard you work to get them. I know you don’t want to hear this right now, but honestly? I think you’re too good for Narrative magazine under his leadership.”
“Thanks, Mimi. But it doesn’t matter. Obviously the publishers agreed with him.”
“Which baffles me!” she exclaims, grabbing a carton of milk from the otherwise empty fridge. “The powers that be care about numbers, right? Subscribers, newsstand sales, digital clicks—the majority of those come from the kind of popular features you head up!”
“Yes, but those features can also be done by Ryan Jansson.”
She carries the two mugs of coffee over to the sofa and I follow her, and we sink into the cushions next to each other. I take my mug gratefully, the comforting warmth heating my fingers as I clasp it in my hands.
“Ryan doesn’t have your contacts, and he doesn’t have your way with people,” Mimi points out. “Who else could have gotten Audrey Abbot on our front page but you?”
“Ryan is very good at what he does,” I reason. “He’ll be able to handle it. Cosmo knows that.”
Mimi shoots me a sympathetic look. “Ryan is going to be devastated. He won’t have seen this coming.”
I smile at the irony. “Oh, he saw it coming before anybody else.”
“What do you mean?” she asks, puzzled.
“Cosmo told him about the redundancies at the beginning of the week. I think he likes to see Ryan as his buddy. Anyway, we had a big fight about it yesterday.”
“You and Ryan?”
I nod, taking a sip of my coffee. “When he got back to the office. I confronted him about it and he admitted that he’d known for days.”
“About the redundancies or about your job specifically?”
“Both. Apparently Cosmo implied I was a goner. Ryan didn’t bother to tell me that, though. Instead, he just distanced himself from me so he wouldn’t have to lie to my face … making me feel like I was the one who had done something wrong. Pathetic,” I mumble.
“I don’t know, Harper,” she begins cautiously, “it sounds like Cosmo put him in a horrible position. I doubt he was allowed to tell you anything.”
“Of course not, but he still could have,” I argue. “He could have trusted me.”
“It’s not just that, though. I mean, if I were in his shoes, I’m not sure I would have been able to tell you. Breaking your heart like that, when everyone knows how much you love what you do?” She shudders. “It would be so horrible. It’s not really his place anyway—even if you are shagging behind the scenes.”
“I get that he was being professionally responsible,” I huff, irritated that she’s speaking sense. “But a warning would have been nice.”
“Would it have made any difference?” She tilts her head at me. “Honestly, Harper, if you want my opinion on this, you shouldn’t be focusing on who knew what when. You should be taking some time, looking after yourself, and when you’re ready, having a think about what you’re going to do next. We can look around for other jobs or you could consider going freelance. I bet there are loads of editors out there who would be desperate for you to write for them! There’s no harm in reaching out to your contacts.”
“And telling them that I’ve lost my job at Narrative? They’ll immediately doubt my abilities. I mean, I doubt my abilities, so why wouldn’t they?”
“No, they won’t, Harper. Everyone knows what it’s like in this industry. Some of the best journalists in the country have had to go freelance.” She gives me a stern look. “You can’t let Cosmo make you believe you’re not valuable. I won’t have it.”
I smile at her. “If you get made redundant, I’d say you could hack it as a life coach.”
“It’s always easier to give advice when you’re on the outside of a situation,” she says gently. “I know you must be feeling really low. And I’m so sorry.”
“Thanks. And thank you for coming round,” I say, nudging her leg with my toe.
“Always here for you.” She pauses. “So, are you going to speak to Ryan about this? I don’t want you throwing away something that has the potential to be really good over Cosmo being a big-mouthed idiot. Ryan is the sensible type, after all. He probably didn’t agree with Cosmo telling him that kind of sensitive information and putting him in a position where he couldn’t share it with his colleagues. Maybe you can let him off just this once?”
“The thing is, it hasn’t been just the once.”
She frowns. “What?”
“He’s done this before.” I exhale slowly. “Mimi, did I ever tell you about the time I interned at The Daily Bulletin?”
Walking into the office on Monday is like wading through molasses, and then sitting there, acting normal and pretending to do any form of work, is horrific. Even worse, I have to sit next to him. At least Ryan has the decency to avoid more contact than absolutely necessary. He seems resigned to the fact that there is no hope for us, personally or professionally, and barely says a word to me. I have to fake a few meetings so I can be out of the office as much as possible, but what is Cosmo going to do if he finds out? Fire me?
When I’m supposed to be at these “meetings,” I instead sit in coffee shops and scroll through media jobs, but it feels pointless. My brain is telling me that I need to work in order to, you know, eat and live. But my heart isn’t in it and I can’t bring myself to open my CV to update it, let alone upload it. When I quietly admit as much to Mimi, she acts as though it’s no big deal and says I have to give myself some time to get over the shock.
On Tuesday, Cosmo calls me into his office to discuss my redundancy. He also individually calls in Naomi, the style assistant, and Gabby, the editorial assistant. My heart breaks for them as I watch them emerge from the meeting with downcast expressions.
After receiving lots of hugs, I suggest the three of us go get some air, so we do. We go to Roasted and Gabby cries into the tea that I buy her, and Naomi pats her on the back and says it is going to be okay, even though she doesn’t look convinced of that herself. But I assure them that it really will be okay. They are smart and brilliant, and once the initial shock has worn off, they will see this as an opportunity to do something new and exciting.
I basically reel off everything you should say to someone in our position.
I can tell they believe it as much as I do. So I conclude with, “To be honest, it’s shit. And I’m so sorry this has happened.”
They appreciate that a lot more than my little pep talk.
Funnily enough, the office is much more bearable now that everyone knows. We can deal with it and move on, and everyone else in the team can stop worrying about themselves and put all their energy into making us feel better. I haven’t paid for my lunch all week, which is a bonus. And Cosmo has been lenient about our notice periods. We only have to do two weeks, including this one, and next week we’re allowed to work from home. I thought that revealed he had an ounce of compassion in him, but it turns out he wants to rejig the seating arrangement now that he’s losing three members of the team, and he thinks it’s better to sort that sooner rather than later, so it’s easier if we’re out the office.
What a sweetheart.
Still, I’m not complaining. They’re throwing us a leaving party at The Old Oak this Friday. Mimi is heading it up and she promises that she’s gone all out to make it fun rather than depressing. She also informs me that the main paper has had a round of redundancies this week, too, and they are also throwing a party on the same night, so a strange unspoken competition has emerged between Mimi and someone named Harold, who is heading up the paper’s party.
“He thinks he’s all that with his mustard-yellow socks, but that man wouldn’t know a good finger sandwich if it hit him in the face,” she muttered earlier as Harold swanned past.
Mimi has been a lifeline this week. When I’ve needed a shoulder to cry on, she’s been there, and when I’ve needed a bit of tough love, she’s been happy to oblige. She repeats the same sentiments, and they’re starting to get through to me: I’ve been at this magazine so long, stepping away from it seems terrifying, but it’s also a new adventure—life is always going to have its twists and turns, and I can’t predict them all.
I think the reason I’ve been so upset is down to the humiliation of being forced out, rather than leaving on my own terms. But maybe I’ll be grateful for the push someday.
I try to focus on these optimistic thoughts on Thursday evening as I arrive at the restaurant to meet my parents and sister. Positive vibes only.
The absolute last thing I want to do right now is attend this family dinner.
My confidence is at an all-time low and I know I’ll have to take a few punches to the gut over my career, but I can’t rearrange again. It’s better that I get it over and done with and then hopefully we won’t bother each other for another few months. All I have to do is put on a fake smile, pretend everything is okay, and steer the conversation away from me as much as possible. If I find myself under the spotlight, I’ll lie like I’ve never lied before.
To be honest, the last few days have been so shit, I might as well throw in a dinner with my parents to top it all off.
The three of them are already at the table when I arrive. Dad is in a suit and tie, and Mum is in her signature black from head to toe, wearing a pencil dress and black heels. They always dress in office wear, even at weekends, and everything they own is expensive and tailored. Mum’s blond, shoulder-length hair is perfectly coiffed, tucked behind her ears with her pearl earrings on display. Dad is almost fully gray now, and he looks good for it—I may not take after them in any other way, but my parents both have a good head of hair, genes that Juliet and I also inherited.
The thick hair is as far as Juliet and I go when it comes to similarities, and it’s not even the same color—she’s followed Mum’s footsteps and is now a honey blond, which I don’t think suits her as much as her natural brown. She has a narrow, angular face and sharp features with striking green eyes and great eyebrows, while I’m a little softer round the edges and unfortunately a victim of the nineties trend for plucking my eyebrows to shit. While I’m stuck there filling my eyebrows in every morning, I imagine Juliet never touches hers.
We all fit our stereotypes perfectly. Them, the sophisticated, brilliant, glacial lawyers. Me, the chaotic, fanciful writer. It’s never easy being the odd one out.
“You’re late,” Dad comments, picking up the menu after an awkward hello, because we’re never quite sure how to greet each other. Being family, we civilly attempt a kiss on the cheek, but it’s standoffish from both sides. We should probably accept that handshakes would be more appropriate.
“I got stuck at—”
“At work,” Mum finishes for me, already topping up her wine. “Juliet works twelve-hour days, yet she manages to get here on time.”
You know, I don’t think I’ve ever had a conversation with my parents that doesn’t involve a reminder that Juliet works twelve-hour days?
Juliet remains tight-lipped on the topic, but at least offers me some version of a smile—albeit a small, indifferent one—as I take my seat.
“So, the food looks good,” I remark brightly, determined not to engage and instead take the high road. “Have you eaten here before?”
“Yes, last week,” Dad replies irritably. “When you didn’t come. We didn’t want to waste the reservation.”
I take the hit, answering brightly, “Then you’ll know what to order. How handy! Juliet, could you pass the wine? How is the job, sis?”
“Fine,” she replies shortly, pouring me a drink and returning the bottle to its cooling bucket.
I’m impressed by my own self-restraint that I don’t down my entire glass straightaway, but I do allow myself two large glugs before I set it back down again.
“Great! You want to expand on your answer at all?”
She scowls at me. “Not really.”
“Okay. No problem. Fun chat while it lasted.”
Two more gulps of wine are taken. Positive vibes, positive vibes …
“Juliet has made partner at her firm,” Mum announces proudly, beaming at her. “She’s done extremely well, considering she’s so young.”
A blush of pink appears on my sister’s cheeks as she stares down at her lap. It’s not like her to look so modest about her achievements. She used to tell me all about them the minute I stepped within her vicinity.
“Very impressive, Juliet. Well done,” I say dryly.
“It’s wonderful news and we should celebrate,” Dad announces.
“Dad, it’s not news, you’ve known about it for months,” Juliet says, seeming irritated. “And we already celebrated when I came to see you.”
“We never tire of celebrating our daughter’s success. Not that we’re surprised, of course. They really should have made you partner last year with everything you’ve done for that firm,” he says pompously. “But here you are and there are great things to come!”
“I’ll toast to that,” Mum smiles, raising her glass.
We follow suit, but Juliet shifts uncomfortably under the glare of their attention, glancing at me and then looking quickly away. Maybe she’s starting to put herself in my shoes for once and realizes that being in her shadow has always been a bit chilly.
“It’s such a shame that Harry couldn’t join us for dinner,” Mum says, placing her glass down before looking pointedly at me. “You haven’t met Juliet’s boyfriend, have you, Harper? He’s an investment banker, studied at Cambridge. He’s very impressive.”
“He’d have to be to keep up with Juliet,” Dad chuckles. “Not too bad on the squash court, either. Although I taught him a thing or two!”
“And he’s so handsome, too,” Mum adds.
“He sounds like a catch,” I say, studying the menu intently. “Congratulations.”
“How are things with you, Harper?” Juliet asks, taking me by surprise. “How’s the job? Is there anyone on the scene?”
“I’m single and the job is fine,” I say briskly. “Hey, did anyone get the hake last time? Because I’m tempted. And Dad, how’s the squash going? Do you still play a lot or just when Juliet’s impressive boyfriend is in town?”
My bitterness is overlooked and it’s a successful steer of the conversation, prompting Dad to tell us a story about his latest win that he’s clearly told several times because it’s well-rehearsed and he stops at all the moments that seem to require a laugh.
My determination to ignore any gibes and bat away intrusive questions works right through the starters until our plates are cleared from the table. By then Mum’s had enough wine to ignore any willpower to mask her disappointment in me, and I can sense trouble brewing at her first question.
“I read an interesting article the other day about how the evolution of social media has impacted our connection with people in the public eye,” she begins. “Thanks to Instagram and the like, celebrities can allow people full access to their lives, so now, media outlets reporting on them are … redundant. I wanted your opinion on that, Harper?”
If it was someone else asking, it might have led to a very interesting discussion. But my mum likes to goad. She knows how to get under my skin.
“I think that is probably true in some ways,” I answer coolly. “But their social media posts give people a glimpse of what they want you to see. My job is different.”
“How?”
“They open up to me about many aspects of their lives. It’s not fake or posed—it’s a real conversation that touches on their opinions and viewpoints. If you read any of the features I’d written, you’d see they’re a little more complex than a social media post,” I add sourly.
“I cannot understand why any adults with half a brain are interested in celebrities,” Dad sniffs. “I would have thought only teenagers would care about narcissistic pop stars talking about their hair color and who kissed whom. Drivel.”
“I don’t write drivel,” I snap, before desperately trying to pull myself back and taking a deep breath to steady my voice when I continue. “The average age of the readership of Narrative is forty-five years old, and the articles are interesting, well-researched pieces.”
He snorts. My blood boils. I’ve tried, but it has been a week.
And I am exhausted.
“But as a celebrity editor,” Mum jumps in, wrinkling her nose, “you’re hardly writing well-researched pieces, are you?”
“How would you know?” I ask bluntly. “You’ve never taken any interest in what I do or what I write. It doesn’t matter what you classify as ‘serious journalism.’ All that should matter to you is that I love what I do. But you don’t care about that, do you?”
“Here we go,” Dad sighs. “The dramatics. We’re trying to have a civilized family dinner.”
“I’m standing up for myself. If that’s being dramatic, then—”
“Please don’t raise your voice, Harper,” Dad interrupts, holding up his hand. “All your mother was pointing out is that your role doesn’t require the sort of … significant journalism that others do. Like my colleague Jasper’s son, for example, who is a political reporter. Or that columnist I like who writes about economics. Not fluff pieces.”
“My journalism is significant,” I assert.
But my voice breaks and hot tears prick behind my eyes, threatening to spill over at any moment. They’ve struck a nerve, but the tears are not of sadness. They’re of rage.
You know what? I have had enough of people like my parents and sister and Cosmo looking down their nose at me and going out of their way to disparage me. I’m tired of having to prove my worth when I know in my heart that what I do is worthy: I tell people’s stories. Stories that entertain, inspire, and captivate an audience. When a reader relates to a person I interview, no matter how different their lives might be, they feel less alone.
I won’t be told anymore that that’s not important.
I’ve been nothing but polite and decent to my parents tonight; I’ve listened to them, I’ve asked questions about their life. And in return, they’ve prodded and jabbed, trying to get a rise out of me so they can call me the dramatic one.
It’s pathetic. It’s embarrassing. I don’t need approval from people who can’t show any common decency. They can think what they want to think, but I don’t have to sit here and let them make me feel small so they can feel superior.
“I have to go,” I say, peeling my cloth napkin off my lap and bundling it next to my glass. “Enjoy the rest of your evening.”
“What? You can’t walk out in the middle of dinner!” Dad declares, while Mum merely swirls her wine in her glass, looking unsurprised at my announcement.
“Yes, I can,” I inform him, pushing my chair back. “I don’t want to spend any more time in your company. You do nothing but belittle me. I’m not going to be bullied by my family any longer.”
“Harper,” Dad seethes, his face turning red, “sit down.”
“And spend the evening listening to you congratulate yourselves and tell me how much of a disappointment I am? No, thanks. I’ve made the decision to no longer care whether I disappoint you or not. This little get-together has come at one of the lowest ebbs of my life, and actually, that horrifying timing has provided me with the clarity I need to free myself from you. Even though I’ve been made redundant—yes, there you go, you can dine out on that information, free of charge—and despite not being in a relationship with a Lacoste-wearing, big-earning Ken doll, I feel sorry for you.”
I point my finger at each of them accusingly to hammer in my point.
“How boring if everyone met your approval and your approval only,” I continue confidently. “The world would have no differences, no color, no fun. Are you even happy? Are you really happy? Because if you were, I don’t understand why you’d want to bring me down all the time. Ever since I decided to branch out from your idea of success, you have gone out of your way to make me feel like a failure. How does that saying go? ‘Misery loves company.’ Well, you three can go ahead and enjoy these family dinners without me, I really don’t care anymore. I thought that I’d be able to make you proud one day, but Ryan was right all those years ago when he said I should do it for myself. I’m proud because at least I have the guts to follow my own path in the face of your contempt and ridicule. So, in conclusion, screw all of you.”
Mum and Dad stare at me in utter shock at my outburst.
Picking up my bag from under the seat, I get to my feet.
“Harper,” Juliet pipes up, her face crumpling, “wait, please, I need to say something. I—”
“You’re just as bad as them, you know,” I say with disgust, cutting her off. “You’ve never had my back or attempted to stand up for me, even when they were being downright nasty. You’re my big sister, and you never once reached out. I’m really not interested in anything any of you have to say.”
Leaving them in silence, I walk out of the restaurant with a smile on my face.
I feel lighter than I’ve felt all week.