Thirty-Seven
Finally, the flat is looking more presentable and less like a Tracey Emin exhibition, and I’m feeling much lighter now that I’ve said goodbye to Dear Alex . Amazing what a bit of a spring clean, both literally and metaphorically, can do.
The buzz of escaping my funk lasts all the way to Monday morning, and I float about for the rest of the weekend, confident in the knowledge that I am well on my way to being a better person. But when my alarm goes off in the morning, I’m pushed into a Monday malaise by an email back from Ladditude , where I’m not sure my vagina reveal (so to speak) has gone down too well. There’s a very terse reply from Stephen:
Alex,
Got your email this morning. Before doing anything else, let’s have a conversation. I’ll call you at 11:00am.
Stephen
No ‘Best wishes’ or even a ‘Kind regards’. God, I wish I hadn’t woken up early enough to see this little missive. Doesn’t he know that 11am is when I watch my property shows and picture Alex of the future living in some of the more palatial ones? It’s an important source of motivation for me. The idea of giving all that up to be yelled at by a magazine editor does not appeal. But running away is old Alex’s behaviour, and I’m not allowed to do that anymore. I send back a reply agreeing and wait for the anxiety to start merrily knotting up my gut for the rest of the morning as we get closer and closer to the time.
Eleven comes and goes, and for an optimistic moment, I conclude he’s decided not to bother wasting his time haranguing me for my little bit of identity fraud. Then, ten minutes later, the phone starts singing shrilly. Damn. It is Stephen. He hasn’t forgotten. But he doesn’t sound mad. More amused:
“So, am I speaking to the right Alex?”
“You are,” I confirm sheepishly.
“Well, this is a first for me.”
I grab the bull by the horns, “Look, I’m really sorry, Mr… Lippman. I know it was a bit of identity fraud. Although the person you met on Zoom was in on it, I’m not sure it was technically, but that doesn’t matter. We did lie to you, and I’m really sorry. I’m a freelancer, and it was too good a…”
“Alex, look. I’m not too worried about the ‘identity fraud’, as you call it. We can handle it. What annoys me is that you’re leaving because of it. Our reader research suggests your letters are going down a storm with readers. They’re funny. They’re kind of wise but a bit mean. I’m not sure anyone will care who they were written by.”
“But… it’s all a lie. We’d just be lying to all those readers.”
“Oh, I’m sure there’s a waiver our guys in Legal can add to keep us in the clear. Or maybe we can open it up a bit. Turn Agony Alex into an Aunt instead of an uncle – Test that with a few focus groups.”
I think for a moment, picturing that lovely little income stream continuing to trickle into the bank account. But then I shake myself. “It wasn’t just that I was lying about that. In fact, to be honest, I’m not sure I’d have come clean at all, except that I gave out some bad advice. And then, when I tried to correct it, I made the whole situation even worse. You don’t know how lucky you are to be rid of me. Trust me.”
(Full-on funk has returned by this point.)
“Well, I don’t know about that, but it is just a bit of fun. You’re not there pretending to be a fully certified psychiatrist.”
“Thank God,” I interject, “But you know – we never really know how good or bad a bit of meddling can make a situation. I don’t want to take the risk after… that time.”
“OK – well, I guess we can look at a few alternatives to make that work,” Stephen says, disappointed. “But we’d be sorry to lose you. You’re a great writer.”
“Well, I’m off advice but not writing in general…”
“Hmm. What about cooking? We were thinking of doing some sort of easy recipe collection. Baking for Bachelors … that kind of thing.”
I think about my collection of pot noodles and takeaway menus in the cupboard, “Possibly… You don’t have anything on film, do you? Film’s my biggest thing to write about.” Suddenly, my heart is pounding. I’ve somehow slipped into pitching for my dream job.
The excitement ends pretty quickly: “We have a film critic, unfortunately.”
“And he’s not about to retire anytime soon?” I love this new assertive me. I’m not sure where it comes from. I only had Coco Pops this morning.
“I’m afraid not. He’s twenty-three. But leave it with me,” Stephen continues, “I’ll have a think and come back to you if we have any other gigs. If you change your mind on Agony Alex, then let me know ASAP. I’ll need to sort something for next Friday’s issue.”
“I will,” I promise, “but I don’t think it’s likely.”
I put down the phone, and despite the income worries, I feel free.