CHAPTER FIVE
“I would like to propose a toast,” Mimi declares, holding her glass of Prosecco aloft. “To my two astounding colleagues: Harper, for landing a fabulous scoop, and Rakhee, for fooling our idiot of an editor and making sure the right person is gracing our cover this weekend. To teamwork!”
Rakhee and I laugh, leaning over to clink our glasses. The Old Oak is just down the road from the office and is the unofficial Correspondence newspaper hangout. No matter how good our intentions are to try somewhere else, we always end up here. The pub is familiar and cozy and has hosted many a memorable night for us, from the evenings when we’ve needed to drown our sorrows to those when we’ve required a celebration. Happily, tonight is the latter.
“I still can’t believe you made up that story about Don Bright,” I say to Rakhee, shaking my head. “I didn’t doubt you for a moment!”
“I had to be convincing,” she says.
“What if he phones the lawyers? I don’t want you getting in trouble.”
“Firstly, he won’t, because he knows deep down that he wouldn’t be able to change their minds. He knows if anyone could, it’s me,” Rakhee says confidently.
Mimi nods. “She makes a good point.”
“Secondly, I don’t care about getting in trouble. Audrey Abbot had to be the cover story, there was no question about it. I’d have brought the matter to our publishers if I had to—they’d agree, I know it.”
“You are so badass,” I say, impressed.
“Says the woman who landed Audrey Abbot’s first interview in sixteen years. I take it you’ve finished writing the piece, otherwise you wouldn’t be here?” Mimi adds.
I grimace. “Uh. Sort of.”
She rolls her eyes. “The subs are going to kill you. You need to give them time to fact check and do the layout!”
“I’m going to finish it on my laptop when I get home,” I insist. “It’s almost there. It just needs polishing. And I have to go out tonight anyway, so I might as well squeeze in a drink with you two.”
“Where are you going tonight?” Rakhee asks.
“A book launch. A member of Parliament has written his autobiography.”
“Juicy,” Mimi comments sarcastically.
“He came runner-up in a reality TV show last year, so I’m sure the book is not without its glitz and glamour,” I inform her. “He could be a good subject for a feature.”
Mimi shoots me a concerned look. “Shouldn’t you be giving yourself a night off sometime soon? You haven’t stopped in a while.”
“I have nights off,” I argue. “Yesterday, I was at home and Liam cooked for me. It was very pleasant.”
“Pleasant,” she says, unconvinced. “I meant more like a night for yourself, where you just … stop. There’s a great press trip coming up that you should take—a beautiful boutique hotel in the Kent countryside that you could review. You can get away from everything and relax.”
“I don’t need to relax,” I insist. “I like being busy. You know that.”
Rakhee laughs. “You must be a nightmare on holiday. One of those people who always wants to be doing activities rather than lazing about on the beach.”
“You’re wrong,” I tell her proudly. “I’m very relaxed on holiday. I read all the books I’ve been sent to review.”
“Holidays aren’t for catching up on work, Harper!” Rakhee points out. “Honestly, I hope Liam is the kind of person who likes to be busy; otherwise he’s in for a rude awakening on your first couples trip.”
“Ooh, speaking of Liam,” Mimi says. “Will you bring him to my birthday party? It would be nice to spend more time with him, since I’ve only met him once. Rakhee, you’re coming too, right?”
“Yes, thank you for inviting me.”
“Quite a lot of the Narrative team are coming,” Mimi tells me.
“Tell me you didn’t invite Cosmo,” I check.
She balks at the suggestion. “Don’t be stupid.”
“Okay, I’ll ask if Liam’s free. Although, I’m not sure your birthday party is the best occasion to introduce someone new.”
Mimi grins. “If he can’t handle a spot of rounders and some silly games, he’s not The One. It’s the ultimate test.”
Every year, Mimi spends her birthday in Brockwell Park, in South London, where she splits the group into two teams and we play rounders, before taking part in ridiculous drinking games. It’s always a lot of fun and gets quite rowdy and competitive.
“Let’s hope we’re still together by the end of the day,” I laugh, before checking the time. “Right, I better go, or I’ll miss the start of the reading.”
Rakhee looks disappointed. “You’re leaving already?”
“I might actually be on time if I go now,” I say proudly.
“Before you go, I actually … I need to tell you both something,” Rakhee announces, setting down her glass, her tone serious and urgent.
I share a concerned look with Mimi. “Is everything okay?”
She nods. “Yes, yes. Well. In some ways, it’s great. In other ways…” She trails off and then takes a deep breath. “I’ve got a new job.”
Mimi gasps. “What?”
“Those doctor and dentist appointments I’ve been going to? They’ve been interviews,” Rakhee admits with a nervous smile. “I’ve been offered the job of deputy editor at Sleek magazine.”
“Rakhee!” I gasp. “That’s amazing! Congratulations!”
“Wow, I love Sleek!” Mimi enthuses. “Well done, you!”
“Thank you,” she says, smiling modestly. “I’m really excited, although I’ll be sad to leave the Narrative team.”
In my first flush of happiness for her landing such a brilliant new job, I hadn’t actually considered that Rakhee won’t be sitting next to me every day. I can’t believe I’ll lose my partner-in-crime when it comes to standing up to Cosmo.
“We’ll miss you, but huge congratulations!” Mimi says quickly, reading my mind. She stands to give Rakhee a hug. “You deserve this. Sleek is one of the best. They couldn’t have hired a better person for the job.”
“I second that,” I say, getting up to throw my arms round her, too.
Rakhee is not a natural hugger, all angles and awkwardness, but I hold her close anyway. I really will miss her.
“When do you start?” Mimi asks, sitting back down.
“In a month. I handed in my notice to Cosmo yesterday,” she tells us. “You should have seen his face. He had to act happy for me, but he looked furious.”
“What did he say?” I laugh, curious.
“Something along the lines of, ‘I guess this means I’ll have extra work on my plate as I’ll have to start interviewing for your replacement.’”
“Oh god, please tell me you’ll be helping out with the interview process,” I plead. “You have to make sure I end up sitting next to someone good! Not one of Cosmo’s golfing buddies.”
Having a good relationship with the features editor at Narrative is very important to my job as celebrity editor—although the two roles are distinct and both report to the editor-in-chief, they’re fairly intertwined and can even overlap, depending on who my subject is.
Rakhee has never made me feel like she is superior to me (despite Cosmo’s clear personal feelings on the hierarchy of our jobs), and it’s extremely helpful to have a features editor who respects my position. A lot of magazines have scrapped celebrity editors, whereas the features editor is long established at all publications and undoubtedly a safe title to hold. I just hope I’ll be able to work in tandem rather than in competition with whoever replaces Rakhee.
“I will be conducting the interviews along with Cosmo,” she assures me. “I promise to hire the perfect person for the job.”
“The office won’t be the same without you,” Mimi sighs, and I nod in forlorn agreement.
“I’ll miss working with you. I hope I’ll get on well with the Sleek team. I’m pretty nervous about the move, to be honest.”
“It’s an exciting new adventure,” I emphasize. “And one we should celebrate with a round of drinks! I’ll get another bottle of Prosecco. No! Strike that. Champagne.”
Mimi claps her hands excitedly.
“But won’t you be late for the book launch?” Rakhee asks, checking her watch.
“That’s okay,” I tell her with a smile, slipping away in the direction of the bar. “I do have a reputation to uphold.”
On my way from the tube to Waterstones, I get a phone call. It’s my dad again. I didn’t message him after the missed call yesterday, so I decide to answer, grateful that I have an excuse to rush off. I’m also tipsy from Rakhee’s celebratory champagne and I’d rather not handle a phone call with my dad sober.
“Hi, Dad.”
“Harper, finally,” he says, already sounding annoyed, even though I missed one call from him. “I’ve been trying to get through to you.”
“Sorry,” I say, doing my best not to be irked by his tone before our conversation has even really started. “How are you and Mum?”
“Well, thank you,” he says snippily.
“Good. Look, I can’t be long, Dad, I’m about to head into an event.”
“I don’t intend to keep you long, Harper,” he grumbles. “Since we haven’t seen you since Easter, we thought we should get a dinner in the diary. Your sister’s idea.”
“Okay,” I say, dreading it already. “When were you thinking?”
“I’ll send across some suitable dates,” he states, in the same way that he’d book a meeting with one of his clients. I am fully used to this formal manner. He’s always like this with me, as though I’m essentially a burden to him, someone he has a duty toward, rather than someone he’d like to spend time with.
“Great. Anyway, I have this event so I’d better—”
“Some celebrity bash, is it?”
The disdain oozes from every word.
“It’s a book launch, actually,” I reply, annoyed at myself for feeling like I have to justify anything.
He sighs. “I suppose that is a little better than your usual occupations.”
“You know what, Dad, I don’t have time for you to talk shit about my career tonight, okay? You can save that for our dinner.”
“Don’t swear, Harper,” he scolds.
“I have to go.”
“All right, we’re perfectly used to you running off,” he snaps. “I’ll send you those dates.”
“Great. Bye, then.”
“Goodbye.”
I hang up, throw my phone in my bag, and try to shake the conversation off as I walk into the warm, welcoming bookshop.
Clearly, my relationship with my parents is … strained.
We’ve never got on. Actually, that’s a lie. I have nice memories of my childhood, but they faded at some point in my teens when I slowly became a repeat disappointment to them while my older sister, Juliet, became the golden child who could do no wrong.
My mum and dad are partners in different law firms—both brilliantly successful, highly driven, tough-as-nails workaholics. One of the worst things about us not seeing eye to eye is that I still remain weirdly proud of their success, even with the knowledge that they see me as a total letdown.
I think they thought I was joking when I first told them I wanted to apply for journalism courses after school. They had always assumed I’d complete a law degree, like Juliet. They made no attempt to hide their disapproval and disappointment.
With her perfect grades, Cambridge degree, and a job at a top London law firm straight out of university, Juliet was, and still is, our parents’ pride and joy. She and I are very different people and have never been close, despite only being two years apart in age. She’s quiet, straightlaced, and standoffish, looking down on me as much as our parents do. She never paid much attention to me when we were growing up, and she had absolutely no time for me once she was a hotshot lawyer in London. I never hear from her and we only speak at family gatherings, and those conversations are painful and dry, sharing no personal information whatsoever. She is completely uninterested in anything going on in my life, so I’ve learned to feel the same way about her.
When I started interning as a journalist, my mum said I was being irresponsible because the entry-level jobs paid so little. When I got my first journalism job, as junior celebrity writer at Flair magazine, my dad said he hadn’t imagined my education would surmount to writing sleazy stories about cocaine-fueled wannabes. And when I landed my current celebrity editor job at Narrative, I sent them a message saying I would now be writing sleazy stories about cocaine-fueled wannabes for more money.
They didn’t reply.
Every now and then we have these dinners where Juliet sits in silence and my parents ask me where I think my life is going and whether I’ve realized yet that I made a huge mistake.
But I love my job. I’m happy.
I just wish that was enough for my parents.
By the time I’ve made it up the stairs of Waterstones to the first floor, there’s a round of applause for the end of the reading, so I loiter at the back and join in the clapping. The publicist spots me and gives me a warm smile when I introduce myself, before encouraging me to help myself to a drink if I’d like and to be sure to speak to her or the MP if I have any questions, as they’ll both be doing the rounds.
Making my way through the mingling crowds to the drinks table, I reach out for the last paper cup of warm white wine at the same time as someone else does. We both retract our hands quickly and glance at each other to apologize.
I look up into the blue eyes of Ryan Jansson.
At least he looks as shocked to see me as I am to see him. I’m not the only one caught off guard here.
“Sorry,” he mutters.
“You have it,” I tell him brusquely, gesturing to the cup.
“You can have it,” he replies.
“I insist.”
“I insist.”
I glare at him, inhaling deeply. God, he’s annoying.
“Fine. I’ll have it, then.” Taking the cup while he reaches for a red wine, I’m ready to leave his vicinity as soon as is humanly possible when he decides to make conversation.
“I didn’t think you’d be here,” he says, putting his spare hand in his pocket and turning to scan the room of journalists.
“Why?” I reply defensively. “Because it’s too high-brow for the magazine?”
He frowns. “No. Because I thought it would be covered by the books editor.”
Ryan Jansson is very good at being condescending and trying to conceal it with his charm and sex appeal, but I know better.
“We don’t have a books editor, as you know,” I say pointedly.
“I didn’t know that, actually.”
“Why isn’t the newspaper’s books editor here?” I retort.
“She is here.” He points at a woman across the room.
“Oh. Well, why are you here, too?”
“Because he’s had some colorful experiences,” he claims, nodding to the MP, who is chatting away cheerily to a circle of people. “I think it will make a nice feature—the book release and an interview with him.”
“Yes, well, it’s the type of feature that suits the magazine rather than the newspaper, in my opinion,” I point out.
“I heard there’s a change coming up on your editorial team,” he says breezily.
I narrow my eyes at him. “Excuse me?”
“Rakhee, your features editor. She’s leaving, right?”
“How do you know about that?”
He shrugs. “Word spreads. Did you know about it?”
“Of course! I’ve known for ages.”
I can’t help it. How does he know about Rakhee? I’ve only just found out!
“She’s going to Sleek magazine. She’s going to be deputy editor there,” I continue. “They’re lucky to have her.”
He nods. “So, what did you think of the reading?”
“Sorry?”
“The chapter we just heard,” Ryan explains. “What did you think?”
“Oh … I thought … I thought it was interesting.”
“Really.”
“Yes,” I say firmly. “Very interesting.”
The corners of his mouth twitch up into a knowing smile. “You were late, weren’t you?”
“No!”
“What was the chapter about, then?” he challenges.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize that attending a book launch involves a spontaneous quiz to see if you were paying attention,” I snarl.
“You were late,” he confirms, smiling into his cup, his eyes twinkling with triumph.
“I was a tiny bit late, not that it’s any of your business.” I scowl at his smug expression. “Anyway, as much as I’d love to hang around, I’ve already reached my quota of talking to pompous assholes today, so I’m going now.”
He looks amused at this, which only serves to make me even more infuriated.
He has no right to be amused. He’s supposed to be insulted.
He opens his mouth to reply, but I stalk off before he can. I will not let Ryan Jansson have the last word. The very idea of him thinking that he has one up on me makes my blood boil.
I avoid him as much as possible throughout the evening, managing to keep tabs on where he is at all times and ensure that I am always on the opposite side of the room, talking to a different set of people. By the time I leave, I’m proud of myself for steering clear of him and, consequently, having had a very nice time enjoying interesting conversations with clever people.
I step out into the evening air and take a moment to get my bearings before I start walking in the direction of the tube. This momentary pause is a grave mistake.
Ryan Jansson walks out, too.
He frowns at me. I scowl at him.
I start walking away from the bookshop and toward the tube station. I can hear his footsteps behind me. I keep going for a bit before I call out over my shoulder, “Are you following me?”
“No.”
“Then why are you walking right behind me?”
“I’m walking to the tube,” he says irritably.
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
“Fine!” I huff, pulling my jacket closer around me and marching on determinedly.
But his footsteps only get closer. I glance up to see him striding along next to me, trying to overtake me on the pavement. I walk even faster, refusing to let him win. His brow furrowed in concentration, he speeds up, taking the lead. I almost go into a light jog to pace just ahead of him and he huffs in annoyance.
The sign comes into view and we’re both full-on running at this point. We sprint down the steps underground and, feeling more determined to win than ever, I manage to take the lead by a nose, reaching the barriers just before him. I start rummaging in my bag for my phone so I can use it to get through the barrier.
“Damn it!” I hiss.
Ryan Jansson swans past me through the barrier next to mine.
He stops on the other side to give me a victorious smile, his hands in his pockets.
“You weren’t racing me, were you, Harper?” he says, tilting his head to one side. “Because if you were, then looks like you lost.”
“I was not racing you, Ryan,” I say, still searching for my phone. “I’m not a child.”
He shrugs smugly before sauntering away toward the escalator.
“But if I was racing you,” I quickly call out after him, “I would have won because the race was to the barrier, which I reached first!”
He doesn’t respond, stepping onto the top of the escalator that carries him out of sight.
JULY 2012
During the interview for The Daily Bulletin internship, there was an implication that there could be a job at the end of it. The chance to become a junior reporter at a national newspaper is the dream. I’ll work my way up and one day be a features editor or a columnist. I want that more than anything. And I’ll work harder than anyone to get it.
After all, I need to prove to my parents that I can make it as a writer.
When I first graduated in early June, I took a job at a bar near my parents’ house while applying for journalism positions, realizing very quickly I was desperately underqualified for any writing jobs. Publications wanted experience, and for that I’d have to land some kind of internship. It was supposed to be an incredible summer to be in London: the Olympics were looming at the end of the month and the atmosphere in the city was buzzing—the bar was packed every night—but I couldn’t enjoy any of the excitement, weighed down by the pressure of getting a foot in the door.
At the end of the Daily Bulletin interview, the editor said he could see I really wanted this, and he kind of chuckled as though maybe I’d come across a bit too strong. I wasn’t embarrassed by that, though. I wanted them to know that if they chose me I would be so grateful that I wouldn’t let them down. I screamed when I read the email saying I’d been accepted, the excitement bubbling through me so furiously that I couldn’t stand still, jumping up and down and punching the air with both fists. Okay, so it wasn’t a swish, fancy job in the city, it wasn’t a writing gig, but it was a start. Finally, I could see it. I allowed myself to see it: a career in journalism.
Of course, I didn’t realize they were taking on two interns, which means there’s obviously an extra hurdle for landing a job here. But a bit of healthy competition is fine by me. I’m not going to let this Ryan guy get in my way. If there’s a job waiting at the end of this, I’m going to be the one who gets it.
In the elevator that first morning, editorial assistant Celia runs through the types of tasks we can expect to be getting over the next few weeks.
“Coffee and tea runs are par for the course, I’m afraid, as well as some admin tasks, like taking notes, photocopying, transcribing recorded interviews, but it isn’t all bleak,” she promises, scrolling through her phone. “You’ll be doing some interesting research, and once you’re settled in, you can help with interviews and maybe do some writing.”
“For the paper?” I ask hopefully.
“Maybe for the website. We’ll see how you go.”
The doors ping open and we step into the hustle and bustle of the newsroom, where we’re led to two tiny desks in the back corner, with stacks of messy files piled on top of them next to the computers.
These are ours for the two months, Celia tells us, swiftly destroying my and Ryan’s mutual hope that we wouldn’t be working together.
She writes our login details on a Post-it note and sticks it on top of the nearest folder. After pointing out where the kitchen and toilets are, she says she’ll let us get ourselves sorted and then will be back in a while to run through some things, including the intern binder—she points at the black file in the middle of the two desks. It has everything we need to know, compiled by previous interns as they went along.
“Do you have a preference of desk?” Ryan asks me once she’s left, finding his voice.
“Do you?”
The corner of his mouth twitches, as though he’s suppressing a smile.
“I’ll take the one by the window,” I say before he can answer, his secretive smile pissing me off enough to decide that politeness is wasted on someone like him.
“You sure?” he says, shrugging and pulling out the chair of the other. “Okay.”
“This one is clearly the best one,” I point out, sitting down. “Who doesn’t want to be next to the window?”
“Someone who doesn’t want the glare of the sun on their screen.”
“There’s no glare.”
“Not today, but on a nice day, it will be very annoying,” he warns.
“Today is a nice day. It’s boiling out there.”
“It’s humid,” he agrees, “but not sunny.”
I press my lips together, irritated. “The sun is coming out in intervals,” I say.
I don’t know when I became a meteorologist, but this guy is really pushing my buttons, and I feel the need to one-up him.
I type in the login details and wait for the desktop to load. As I do, I can’t help but observe Ryan tackling the mess on his desk with a fierce determination, his expression serious and focused as he begins the painstaking process of gathering the various pens scattered everywhere and slotting them into a knocked-over stationery holder, then reading the names of the files and stacking them to the side of his screen in alphabetical order.
“What are you doing?” I ask, unable to hide the note of ridicule to my tone.
“Tidying.”
“Yeah, but why are you doing it so inefficiently?”
That makes him stop abruptly and look up at me. “You think there’s a more efficient way of doing this?”
“Watch and learn,” I announce, before sweeping everything on my desk to one side.
It doesn’t go as smoothly as I’d like: lots of items topple onto the floor and the various pieces of paper dispersed about the desk crumple together or even rip. But I have the outcome I was hoping for, a nice clear bit of space right in front of my keyboard.
Ryan looks appalled. “That’s not tidying!”
“It is. Kind of.” I shrug, peering at the screen and examining the folders dotted around the desktop.
“You can’t seriously work like that,” he says, aghast.
“Work like what?”
“Surrounded by mess.”
“I prefer things to be a little chaotic,” I inform him, delighted at his disapproval. “You want a bit of character when it comes to a writing space.”
He shakes his head and gets back to his organizing until his desk is perfectly neat, a stark contrast to the bombsite that is mine. Acknowledging that he’s obviously one of those neat freaks, I take great pleasure in his side glances, knowing that the state of my surroundings must be killing him.
“Shame we’re not working in different departments like you wanted,” I say innocently, reaching for the intern folder and plonking it on top of a stack of files, some of their contents flitting down onto the floor. “Then you wouldn’t have to put up with my mess. Oh well! It’s only eight weeks.”
He doesn’t say anything, but I see the muscle in his jaw twitch. I smile to myself, flicking open the folder triumphantly.