CHAPTER TWO
“Harper,” Cosmo greets me in a strained voice as I hurry into the meeting room. “How nice of you to join us.”
I somehow get the sleeve of my blouse caught on the door handle, so I have to take a couple of steps back to free my arm before entering the room properly.
“Sorry I’m late, everyone,” I announce brightly, addressing the whole editorial team dotted around the long table.
“One of these days, you might just surprise us, Harper, and be on time for something,” Cosmo grumbles.
“I’m late today for a very good reason,” I justify, sliding into the empty seat nearest the door. “I’ve got a great scoop!”
“Oh?” Cosmo snorts. “Some pop star get a buttlift? Or perhaps a model has released a groundbreaking statement that she—shock, horror—drinks green juice? I seem to remember you were late last week for a ‘very good reason’ also, which turned out to be chasing down a B-list teenage actor involved in some ridiculous cause.”
He sniggers. I fix him with a steely glare.
“You mean the nineteen-year-old Academy Award nominee leading a campaign to highlight the lack of access to clean water for billions of people across the world? Is that the cause you’re referring to as ridiculous?”
Cosmo flushes, his jaw clenching.
I catch Mimi’s eye across the table. She flashes me a winning smile before turning to observe Cosmo’s reaction like the rest of the team.
“Of course not,” Cosmo mumbles eventually, clearing his throat. “A very important issue in the world today. Anyway, as I was saying before I was interrupted, we need to discuss cover options.”
As he begins his usual practice of firing questions across the table at every editor but me, I fish my notepad out of my bag in case by some miracle he’s interested in any of the pieces I have lined up for the next issue.
Cosmo Chambers-Smyth: editor-in-chief of our magazine, Narrative, and a constant belittler of my job. He has been in his post for a year and a half and still finds my role here as celebrity editor completely baffling. Our previous editor had been supportive of my work, so it was quite the shock when during Cosmo’s first editorial meeting, he burst out laughing when I introduced myself, before saying, “No, really, what is your actual job title?”
Cosmo used to be a features editor for The Correspondence, the newspaper for which Narrative is the weekend supplement magazine, so we’d all seen him waltzing through the open-plan office before, strutting about like he owned the place. Fifty-something, he’s extremely proud of his thick mop of dark wavy hair, which he meticulously combs to one side. With his permanently smug, self-congratulatory attitude, Cosmo is unabashedly pompous and entitled. He makes snide comments about his (no doubt long-suffering) ex-wife, is much more at ease in the company of men, and seems like the type of guy who isn’t afraid to say that it’s a crying shame private members’ clubs around London opened their doors to women.
He may be a decent writer and proofreader, but he is majorly lacking when it comes to content that he has no interest in personally. I’ve always believed that working at a magazine like Narrative is a privilege—it’s got an excellent reputation for reliable and well-researched journalism and it covers a huge variety of topics: culture, lifestyle, travel, fashion, food, and, best of all, it includes insightful interviews with public figures. It’s the perfect magazine to curl up with over the weekend. Its editor-in-chief should be someone who values and celebrates all these things, not just those that interest him as an individual. But Cosmo has connections high up the ladder, so when the top job came up at Narrative, he was deemed the man to increase the readership and bring in more advertising revenue.
The fashion and beauty editors suffer under his leadership, too, but at least he acknowledges that luxury fashion shoots help secure big ad buys. When it comes to my work, however, he loves to offer his sneering opinion.
“Readers don’t care about this person,” he spat during his first week, as I proudly showed him the mock-up of the four-page spread I’d written about a Radio One presenter. “Let’s cut this to one page.”
“What? Are you serious?” I asked, flabbergasted.
“I want to make room for the piece on the new Cotswolds country club,” he said simply, as though that cleared everything up. “The sort of thing our readers like to read about. Luxurious and aspirational.”
“I don’t understand. That’s only a one-page piece at a stretch, and this one is already laid out and—”
“I don’t recognize this so-called celebrity,” he interrupted, waving his hand across the pages. “Why should I care how she has come to ‘love herself’? Sounds like vain nonsense.”
“If you read it, you’ll see that she’s been through a lot to get to where she is today, overcoming the kind of challenges that—”
“One page is enough on this sort of thing,” he stated, cutting me off again. “Next time, bring me something that features people who are household names. What about a piece on that F1 driver? You know, someone who’s actually achieved something.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “She’s a top-tier radio DJ.”
He shrugged before ushering me out of his office. I should have known then that getting Cosmo Chambers-Smyth to take me seriously was going to be a lost cause, but I held on to the hope that he was throwing his weight around as a new editor-in-chief and would soon settle into the role. After all, celebrity features are not only some of the most popular sections in both our print and online editions, but they usually provide the cover headline and help juice social engagement. He must recognize that my features are crucial to our numbers because he hasn’t fired me. Yet.
Still, I’m proud of what I contribute to Narrative, and since I don’t have much respect for Cosmo, I’m never afraid to snap back—which he clearly hates.
He’s not beloved by the rest of the editorial staff, either, and they’re in my corner when I need help getting my point across. Mimi, my best friend and the travel editor, is my lifesaver.
Sophisticated, smart, and demure, Mimi is amazingly observant and thoughtful. She also loves nothing better than to organize things and boss me around, which I’m the first to admit that I need, since my head tends to be all over the place. We first met years ago when we worked at Flair—sadly now defunct—and then eighteen months after I moved to Narrative, the travel editor role came up and Mimi snagged it, so we could continue the best-friend dream of working together.
She’s happily married to Katya, a top surgeon who is equally as gorgeous and elegant as Mimi. On the rare and pleasurable occasion that Katya is not on shift and is at home when I go round to theirs for dinner, I feel like such a jumbled mess compared with the two of them as they glide around their immaculate Clapham house—which somehow always smells amazing—in their chic, creaseless clothes. I know that Mimi has a mild heart attack whenever she sets foot in my flat, and she keeps threatening to put in an application for me to appear on one of those shows where they declutter your home, but it would be pointless. I’d mess it up as soon as the TV crew left.
Before Liam came on the scene, Katya and Mimi loved to talk about setting me up with one of Katya’s fascinating and “successful” doctor friends, but I think we all secretly knew that her colleagues wouldn’t be thrilled at the prospect of being matched with someone that Katya once (affectionately) described as having a “haphazard personality.”
Mimi’s not the only ally I have on the team—I’m lucky to get on well with the features editor, Rakhee, who sits next to me and is, crucially, revered by Cosmo. This comes in handy when I’m fighting for a celebrity piece and Cosmo is being dismissive, because Rakhee will usually come to my rescue and help him see reason. Like everyone, Cosmo finds it difficult to say no to Rakhee. She’s fiercely intelligent and intimidating, and excellent at arguing her point. When I first started at Narrative, I was terrified of her, but once you get to know her, you see her softer side. Without her in my corner, I don’t think Cosmo would let me write half the stories I pitch.
“All right, so cover options—Rakhee, where are we at with the Don Bright piece?” Cosmo asks, clasping his hands together and leaning forward onto the table.
“The writer filed the feature this morning,” she answers.
“Don is a man to watch,” Cosmo declares, wagging his finger as though this is an invaluable piece of wisdom. “I’ve already got the headline for the cover: ‘The Future’s Bright.’ Brilliant, eh?”
“Yeah, um, I’m not sure this should be our cover piece,” Rakhee remarks.
Cosmo turns to her in surprise. “Why not? He’s one of the country’s leading businessmen. Every company he touches turns to gold.”
“But he’s boring,” she says matter-of-factly, tapping her pen against her notepad. “The writer had warned me that he didn’t give her much in way of quotes. He keeps his cards close to his chest, which may make him a shrewd businessman, but a lousy subject. He didn’t give her anything personal to work with at all. Mostly just profit figures. I should have sent Harper to interview him; she might have been able to draw out a personality.”
“Facts and figures are interesting!” Cosmo argues.
“Not these. Look, the writer has done a fine job with what she had, but I wouldn’t be drawing our readers to this piece as the main event of the edition.” Rakhee’s eyes flash across the table at me. “Have you got anything good this week that might make a cover story, Harper?”
“Well, funny you should ask, because—”
“I’ve already decided that Don Bright is our cover story,” Cosmo declares in an end-of-conversation tone. “Right, on to the travel pages. Mimi, overview please.”
Rakhee sighs and shrugs at me.
When Cosmo later declares the meeting has come to an end, everyone’s on their feet in a flash, all of us desperate to get out of the stuffy glass box that is Meeting Room Three and return to our corner of the vast open-plan office that houses the main print newspaper, the weekend magazine, and digital. In general, we don’t mingle. The digital group keeps to themselves, and the reporters on the main paper are a very serious lot.
“How does your desk not stress you out?” Rakhee asks, appearing behind me once I’ve plonked myself down in my office chair.
I swivel round to face her. “I’m creative.”
“You’re messy.”
“It’s organized mess.”
“Sure,” she replies, unconvinced, sitting down at her desk right next to mine. “So that means you know where everything is?”
I scan the contents of my desk—pages of old, scribbled notes, books (mostly celebrity memoirs) I’ve been sent and haven’t gotten round to reading yet, ticket stubs, passes, and lanyards—and conclude it is, admittedly, a little overcrowded.
“All that matters is I can see my keyboard,” I point out, pushing a file off the keys so I can type. “And everything else is within reach as soon as I need it. Thanks for your help in the meeting, by the way. I appreciate it.”
“Not that it did any good.” She looks pained, focusing on her screen and clicking her mouse. “That Don Bright piece almost sent me to sleep.”
“Don’t worry. I have someone lined up for the front page, and, when I secure the interview, she’ll be impossible to turn down for a front cover,” I inform her excitedly.
She turns to me, intrigued. “Do tell.”
“My lips are sealed, but ask me again tomorrow. In fact, you won’t have to ask. I’ll be shouting it from the rooftops.”
“How was the album launch last night?” Rakhee asks, suddenly remembering. “Did any of the musicians smash anything?”
“Unfortunately not,” I reply, to her great disappointment. “But it was fun.”
“Rock stars aren’t what they used to be. Did you take Liam?”
“No, but he was at mine when I got home last night.”
She raises her eyebrows. “Interesting. He’s quickly become a live-in boyfriend.”
“No, no,” I insist, opening my inbox and watching the unread emails begin to load. “He needed somewhere to stay because his housemate had a date.”
“Thanks for leaving me behind, traitor,” Mimi hisses as she sits at her desk, directly opposite mine. “Cosmo cornered me at the end of the meeting.”
“Ugh, sorry.” I grimace. “What did he want?”
“He was angling for another press trip, I’ll guess,” Rakhee mutters.
Mimi nods and leans in between our desktops.
“I know when he hears about the trip for that French golf club, he’ll want to take the spot, but I was going to offer it to Dominic. I know he’s into golf.” Mimi sighs, sitting back to log in, her perfectly manicured fingers tapping gently across the keys.
“Don’t tell Cosmo about it until it’s too late,” Rakhee suggests as she types loudly, in complete contrast to Mimi, as though the keys have somehow offended her. “Say Dominic is already booked in.”
“I can try.” Mimi tilts her head to look at me past her screen. “How was the rave last night?”
“The album launch was fun.”
“Why were you late this morning and what’s this big cover story?” Mimi asks eagerly. “Did the lead singer offer you an exclusive on his solo career? I think he’s into you.”
I look at her in panic. “Solo career? Where did you hear that? Oh my god, when did it break? I can’t believe it—they went to school together and started the band when they were all, like, fifteen years old in a garage at one of their parents’ houses! They can’t be splitting up!”
“I was joking!” Mimi holds up her hands. “Whoa, that was intense! And you completely skipped over the part where I said that the lead singer of a famous band has a crush on you.”
“Firstly, that joke was not funny. Secondly, no he doesn’t.”
“He sent you that box of donuts.”
Rakhee gasps. “Someone sent in donuts? When?”
“Last week,” Mimi says. “I think you were out at your dentist appointment. No, wait … that was the week before. Where were you last week on donut day?”
Rakhee waves her hand. “Doesn’t matter, why did he send you donuts?”
“They weren’t from him, they were from the band. And it’s because I wrote a piece about how wonderful they are,” I laugh. “The lead singer is dating the glamorous actor from that sitcom about the Irish pub in Normandy. I saw them together last night and they looked very happy. I think she might be The One for him, you know.”
“Did you bring Liam to the soirée?” Mimi asks.
“Rakhee asked, too. You’re making me feel bad—what’re the relationship rules on these things? Should I be asking him to work events?”
“I’m not sure anyone would enjoy being your plus-one,” Mimi comments. “You flit round the room at a hundred miles per hour talking to anyone and everyone. It makes me dizzy.”
“It’s my job.”
“Liam was waiting for her when she got home last night, though,” Rakhee informs Mimi without looking up from her work.
“Ooh.” Mimi smiles wickedly at me. “Booty call.”
“It was not a booty call,” I tell them regretfully. “He was asleep when I got back and when I left this morning. We didn’t even speak. I should check my phone actually to see if he’s messaged; he said something about dinner later.”
I start searching around my feet for my bag. I spin round in my swivel chair a few times, examining the floor.
“What are you doing?” Mimi asks.
I groan. “I left my bag in the meeting room.”
“I’ll come with you. I want a coffee anyway,” Mimi says, standing. “I’m guessing you won’t turn down a coffee, Rakhee?”
“You know me so well,” Rakhee says, typing away furiously again.
Gabby, our editorial assistant who sits a couple of rows behind, overhears.
“I can get your coffees if you like,” she sweetly offers, glancing up from her screen.
“That’s okay,” I say. “I need to rescue my bag from the meeting room.”
“You’d lose your head if it wasn’t screwed on,” chuckles Dominic from the picture desk as we wander by.
“Hey! If you still want early screening tickets to the next Ryan Reynolds movie, I’d be careful about your tone,” I say breezily.
“Have I told you lately how amazing you are?” he adds quickly.
“That’s more like it.” I grin, winking at him.
Mimi is waylaid at the picture desk about one of the hotels she’s featuring in an all-inclusive round-up, so I go ahead, swiftly passing Cosmo’s glass office that is situated next to Meeting Room Three. Facing away from the door, he’s on the phone, leaning back in his chair with his feet on the desk. His eyes are fixed on the bookcase that runs the length of the wall.
I bet he’s not listening to a word of the conversation, instead admiring that ridiculous trophy that’s pride of place in the middle of the shelves.
When Cosmo first moved into his new office, it was the first thing to be unpacked, carefully positioned in the center of the bookshelves. We all assumed it was a journalism award, but when Mimi made the mistake of asking about it, she got a long-winded, blow-by-blow account of how he’d won a bowling tournament the previous year. He drops it into conversation whenever he can, which you’d think would be quite tricky, but he manages it surprisingly often.
I reach Meeting Room Three and spot my bag straightaway through the glass, on the floor under the table.
I’ve already entered before I realize that the room isn’t empty.
A man is standing at the other end of the table, and he glances up from his phone at the sound of my footsteps.
Our eyes meet.
My cheeks burn hot under his intense gaze, his piercing blue stare seeming to look right through me. His brow furrows and his jaw clenches, as though he’s cross and confused at the same time. I wonder what he’s thinking. Whether he’s remembering. My whole face is on fire.
“Harper?”
Mimi’s voice makes me jump. He startles as well, both of us jolted from our thoughts.
“Sorry, coming,” I croak, quickly crouching down.
He remains silent as I reach for my bag and pull it toward me. Mimi gives him a friendly smile and apologizes for the disturbance. Frowning, he doesn’t say anything.
Without prolonging the awkwardness any further, I turn on my heel and march out, Mimi hurrying to keep up.
“What was that?” she asks, falling into step with me as we make our way down the side of the busy newspaper desks toward the kitchen.
I play innocent. “What do you mean?”
“Um, the eye contact? The tension in that room!”
“There wasn’t any tension,” I claim.
“Isn’t that guy on the features team for the paper? He always looks cross about something, but even I can appreciate that he is very pretty. He’s like a model masquerading as a reporter,” she muses, before snapping her fingers as she remembers. “Jansson. But I can’t remember his first name? It will come to me in a minute.”
“Ryan.”
“That’s the one. Ryan Jansson. I think he’s Scandinavian.”
“His dad is Swedish,” I say, without thinking.
As we reach the kitchen area, she stops. “Wait. Do you know him?”
“No, course not,” I say, flustered. “He must have mentioned it in one of his articles.”
“Well, he wants you,” she surmises.
“You think that about everyone. A minute ago, you thought that singer was professing his love to me via donut delivery.”
“I’m telling you, Harper Jenkins, that guy was undressing you with those crazy-beautiful eyes of his,” she says, moving to the coffee machine. “It’s a shame he works for the dark side. Did I tell you that one of the newspaper guys tried to take my meeting room last week? He tried to argue that his matter was more pressing because he has tighter deadlines. Whatever, pal. If you want a meeting room, then you need to book one, not try to swoop in there at the last minute and…”
I try to focus on Mimi, relieved she has forgotten all about Ryan Jansson.
If only it was so easy for me to get those crazy-beautiful eyes out of my head.
ELEVEN YEARS AGO
JULY 2012
I arrive at exactly 8:57 A.M., which considering the delays I was up against on the Northern Line this morning, I consider a great success. I was asked to be here by nine.
I’m flustered and sweaty, having run from the tube. I throw myself into a revolving glass door, emerging into the cool, modern lobby of The Daily Bulletin Inc. offices, and hurry over to the reception desk.
I glance down my front to check my outfit and realize my skirt has already gone skew-whiff from my hectic journey, the buttons that are meant to run down the middle now aligned with my left hip. I hurry to shift it and check that my fairly crumpled white shirt doesn’t have any sweat patches on it.
“Can I help you?” the woman behind the desk asks, setting down the phone.
I snap my head up and plaster a smile across my face. “I’m Harper Jenkins, the intern. It’s my first day today.”
“Which department?” she asks tiredly, typing into her computer.
“Editorial on the main paper, The Daily Bulletin.”
She continues tapping away and then presses return on her keyboard, the printer next to her coming to life and producing a tiny square of paper that she lifts with her manicured fingers and slides into a lanyard.
“This is your temporary pass for today,” she says, sliding it across the desk. “You’ll need to go to the first floor at some point this afternoon to have your picture taken for your full pass, which will last you the two months. Have a seat over there with the other intern and someone will be here shortly to pick you up.”
“Great! Thanks so much!”
She gives me a dismissive nod, her eyes focused on her computer screen. I reach into my handbag for the travel-sized hairbrush lurking in the depths somewhere, aware that the heat of the tube and the race to the office will have caused a certain amount of frizz that I’d like to tame before meeting my (hopefully) future employer.
All the seats in the waiting area are empty bar one: the “other intern,” I take it. He’s wearing a suit and tie and it’s obvious he’s nervous because he’s sitting bolt upright and he keeps glancing hopefully at the elevators whenever one pings and the doors open.
As I join him, unsuccessfully tugging my brush through the bird’s nest that is my hair, he looks up and our eyes meet.
Two things are immediately obvious:
1. He has the most beautiful blue eyes I’ve ever seen. ve ever seen ve ever seen ve ever seen ve ever seen ve ever seen
2. I utterly baffle him.
His brow furrows in confusion, his eyes narrowing as I breeze over, and I suddenly feel a wave of both anxiety and indignation under such intense and shameless scrutiny. He is gorgeous, with his defined jawline, combed fair hair, and striking eyes, but there’s something standoffish about him.
He tenses as I approach.
Deciding to give him the benefit of the doubt, I offer a warm smile, making a beeline for the chair next to his.
“Hi,” I say brightly. “I’m Harper. I’m an intern, too. It’s really nice to … uh … oh … hang on…”
I trail off as I battle with my hairbrush that seems to have become entangled with a preexisting knot. Struggling to release it, I attempt humor, dropping my hands to my waist and leaving the hairbrush dangling from my head.
“You think they’ll notice?” I quip.
He looks bewildered, the lines on his forehead deepening as he stares at me. When he doesn’t answer, I shrug, then proceed to wrench the brush from my hair.
“I suppose I should learn from this,” I say to him. “I was standing on the tube, right at the end of the carriage and the window was open. Great spot for getting a breeze when you’re slammed in like sardines, but terrible for your hair, right?”
He hesitates, before saying quietly, “Okay.”
“So, what’s your name?”
“Ryan.”
“I didn’t realize there were two of us.”
“Excuse me?”
“Two interns on The Daily Bulletin.”
His eyes widen in horror. “You’re an intern at The Daily Bulletin, too?”
“That’s right. Here for two months. You?”
“Same.”
“Looks like we’ll be working together, then!”
He turns his head away from me, staring straight on before muttering, “Maybe we’ll be in different departments.”
My smile drops; I’m stunned at his overt rudeness. Fine. Ryan is an absolute dickhead, and he better hope we’re in different departments.
After fifteen minutes of silence, a woman in her twenties dressed head to toe in black walks toward us, typing something into her phone. She continues to tap away for a minute before tearing her eyes away from her screen and letting out a sigh as though we’re disturbing her.
“Ryan and Harper?”
“Yes, hi!” I say, jumping to my feet.
Ryan stands, too, silent.
She does a double take at Ryan, but then thinks better of ogling him and clears her throat.
“I’m Celia,” she says. “I’m the editorial assistant, and I’ll be showing you the ropes. You’ve got your temporary passes?”
Remaining mute, Ryan gestures to the pass hanging round his neck.
“Me too,” I say, “I’ve got it right … uh…”
I realize it’s not round my neck, so I check the top of my handbag, but it’s not there, either. It’s not on the chairs in the waiting area, nor does it appear to be on the floor. I can practically hear Ryan rolling his eyes as I look around frantically.
“Excuse me, Harper Jenkins?”
I turn to see the receptionist tapping the counter. I must have forgotten to take it in the first place.
I scurry over and grab it with an apologetic smile. “Whoops! Thanks so much!”
“Great,” Celia says dryly, “let’s go.”
Blushing, I follow them toward the elevator, my stomach fluttering. I take a deep breath and remind myself that this is my chance to work with real journalists—and that if I work hard enough, maybe there will be a job for me at the end of the summer. I want that so badly.
The lift doors ping open and I shuffle in behind aloof, uptight Ryan.
I really hope he’s right and they’re not going to make us work together.
With any luck, I won’t have anything to do with him.