Chapter Four
FOUR
The Herald ’s Manhattan office gleams a steely blue in the morning sunlight. From a distance it looks clean and sterile, like a fresh start. But as Alex gets closer, the older, less shiny part of the building becomes visible. The Herald Building is split into two parts—the bottom third is one of the city’s original skyscrapers, dreamed up in the 1920s by a student of William Van Alen, designer of the more famous Chrysler Building just down the street. Constructed from gray marble, the original Herald Building is a fever dream of geometric patterns and brass accents. Its entryways are still decorated with minimalist reliefs—a woman in a long dress holding a single blade of wheat, a man with boxy muscles heaving an entire globe above his head. This original part was kept partly intact even through the extensive renovation that cleaved a modern glass skyscraper into it, Frankenstein-ing the building into a strange architectural hybrid. It is now part new and part old, as though the original base has been taken over and is playing host to the modern high-rise bursting like a shiny skewer up into the Manhattan sky.
Alex’s stomach turns as she walks toward the revolving doors, watching her reflection grow larger, wavering in the mirrored glass. Her face, at once familiar and not, above the V of her shirt. The short, delicate frame and pointy chin, the light-brown wavy hair pulled back into a low bun. She takes a deep breath, tugging her cuffs down over the tops of her hands—a nervous habit.
She emerges into a soaring atrium made almost entirely of tempered glass that bends into a series of modernist arches far overhead. In front of her, a long security desk is dwarfed by a giant slab of marble, taken from the exterior of the old building and repurposed. An art deco relief etched into a piece of brass shows a stylized man whose angular muscles appear to strain under the weight of a closed book. She tilts her head back to take it all in. Imagine coming in here every day. Alex doesn’t think a person could walk through this lobby every morning and not feel like they’d made it.
She has her photo taken by a man at the desk and is sent through a glass turnstile and into an elevator that whisks her up to the forty-ninth floor as quick as an artery pumping blood. The elevator door glides silently open to a U-shaped reception desk. The New York Herald ’s trademark owl logo engraved on a gold plaque hangs on the wall behind it. Its talons shine coldly as she approaches the desk where a slim, stylish man wearing a turtleneck and sleek wire-rimmed glasses gives Alex an insincere smile.
“Can I help you?” His tone is flat and unwelcoming. And familiar.
“I’m Alex Marks. I’m here to see Howard Demetri?” She cringes at the way her voice rises, as though each sentence were actually a question. “You’re Jonathan, right? We talked on the phone.”
He purses his lips, not giving Alex the satisfaction of recalling this exchange. “Let me just call Howard and see if he’s ready for you.” Alex settles herself onto a polished concrete bench. As she looks past the desk at the purposeful strides of the people in the newsroom, this place already feels out of her league. Alex hadn’t even had the right clothes to wear today. She’d made a quick and desperate trip to Century 21 after turning in her copywriting last night, yanking a random assortment of workwear off the racks and dragging it into a dressing room an hour before they closed, coming away with only two shirts, neither of which she loved. She’d walked away from the shopping expedition feeling worse. Calm down, Alex, she tells herself, clasping her hands in her lap. They asked you to come here, remember? It’s not about how you dress. Though part of her doesn’t quite believe it.
She already knew who Howard Demetri was before filling out the application. He is one of those old newspaper editors who now has the word legend attached to their names.
“Alex Marks here to see you,” Jonathan says crisply into the phone. “Yes, that’s the one.” Before she has time to wonder what he could possibly mean by the last part, he has leapt to his feet and is tapping the toe of his extremely stylish tennis shoe on the floor.
“He’s waiting for you,” he says as though she has caused the delay. Alex stands up too quickly, feeling the blood rush from her head. Jonathan recoils slightly and gives her a critical once-over. Alex glances down at her black pants, which she can now see clearly in the unforgiving office light have developed the sort of sad, faded look that comes with too many washings and not the right soap. Her shirt is not as bad, a crisp white button-up that only looks okay because it is right off the hanger, the plastic tag bitten off a mere hour ago in her bedroom. Her fingers find the hems of her cuffs and tug them down over her knuckles.
“I’ll take you back to see Howard now,” he says as her stomach bubbles nervously. He leads her past the front desk into the belly of the newsroom. The center of the floor is open and spacious, with several long tables for collaborating and a maze of cubicles half-filled with people, their heads bowed over their computer monitors. As she passes, she can hear the faint clip of keyboards being typed on, that first wave of productivity in the morning, before coffee number one wears off.
“Follow me,” Jonathan says, taking her around to the far side of the floor. The periphery of the newsroom is ringed with modern glass-fronted offices. They walk by several conference rooms, one where a small group of worried-looking people talk animatedly in front of a white board. The person giving the presentation pauses when she sees them, her eyes following Alex as she walks past. They come to an abrupt stop at the corner, where a plaque adhered to the front of a glass-enclosed office reads: HOWARD DEMETRI, EDITOR IN CHIEF .
She can see him through the open blinds, sitting behind his desk. Behind his trademark tortoiseshell glasses, his eyes are intent on his computer screen. A legend in the flesh. Alex’s chest seizes. The Howard Demetri. Howard is not just any editor in chief. He’s part of the old guard, an editor’s editor from the era when newspapers were still the gold standard for how people ingested their daily news. He’d helmed the paper, steering it through wars and scandals, and in the process winning it more Pulitzers than any other newspaper in the country. He’d also hired her hero, Francis Keen.
She could pinch herself. His eyes remain glued to his computer monitor. His mouth quivers slightly, as though he is reading something that’s upsetting him.
Jonathan knocks on the glass, and he looks up, startled. In the split second before he registers her standing before him, Alex sees pure misery on his face. In an instant, he rearranges his features into a neutral expression. He gestures for them to come inside. She lets Jonathan push open the glass door and usher her into the office.
“Hello,” she says. She awkwardly comes to stand in front of his desk, unsure how to address him. Howard seems far too informal. Mr. Demetri ? She worries that will make her seem like an eager kid. She can feel Jonathan growing impatient in the doorway behind her.
“This is Alex Marks,” Jonathan says, clearly exasperated. And now a welcoming smile transforms Howard’s face. He is handsome, more so in person than in his photos, with a strong jawline and thick gray hair that has come undone from its side part.
“Alex. So good to have you here.” He stands up and she watches, amazed, as his legs unfold like stilts. He is strikingly tall, broad-shouldered even at his age, which she’s read is currently sixty-one. He is dignified, his face naturally serious, the kind of man she’d have chosen for the job if the part were being cast in a play. All he needs to complete the image is a hat with a press pass tucked into the brim.
He wears a tailored gray suit that sags a bit into his lean legs and arms, making him look even more like a giant. He holds back his tie as he leans over his desk and shakes her hand firmly. She glances down and notices that the desk is littered with half-empty coffee mugs and stacks of papers. An old-fashioned day planner lies open across everything. He glances down and flips it quickly shut, gesturing for her to sit.
“It’s a pleasure to have you here, Alex. Thank you, Jonathan. I’ll let you know if we need anything else.” She is relieved to hear genuine warmth in his voice.
“I can’t thank you enough for having me,” Alex says delicately as the door closes behind Jonathan. She realizes that a big part of her is actually waiting for him to tell her that there’s been a processing error in the applications, that he doesn’t want her here at all. But there seems to be no mistake. His expression is serious as he gazes back at her. He leans back in his chair, tenting his fingers in front of him.
“As you might have guessed, we received a huge number of applications for the position. It seems that many people believe they have what it takes to helm the new era of Dear Constance. I think the tally came in at over five hundred, actually. Of course, some of these were not serious applicants. There are a lot of people who think that they can give good advice, but so few actually can.”
Alex tries to keep up. Is he saying that she is not a real applicant? Is she? Alex doesn’t even know herself. It’s rare for her to be unable to read someone’s intentions, but she is finding that with Howard it is nearly impossible. It feels nearly laughable that she’d be an actual contender for Francis Keen’s old job.
“There were also quite a few applications from established writers. A Pulitzer-nominated journalist, a few famous novelists even.” Alex feels her insides sink. This is where he tells her that she is not one of the serious ones, that this meeting is a courtesy.
She braces herself for the fall. But instead, he leans forward, his desk chair squeaking, and looks at her intently.
He picks up a piece of paper on his desk and begins to read: “This was in response to a woman who wrote in feeling distressed about growing older: I wonder if you are not missing your youth at all—being young is never as easy as we remember it—but rather the feeling of being true to who you are, of letting time stretch out in front of you in such a way that you don’t need to guard it or worry about its end. Or maybe you miss feeling hopeful .”
He puts the page down. “You wrote that, correct?”
“I did.” Alex feels her face growing hot. Is he really saying he liked her answers? It is such a wild idea that her brain spins. She begins to feel flustered.
“Pretty insightful stuff.”
“Oh?” she says, her voice thin and strangled. She can’t let herself hope. Until this moment she didn’t even know this job was something she wanted. But she finds to her own surprise that she does. She wants it more than she has ever wanted anything.
“What is your current position?”
“Well, um, I work in pharmaceutical copywriting currently. Not at an office, I work from home. It’s not my dream job, but it’s given me a chance to practice writing and practice delivering on a deadline. Though to be honest, the subject matter isn’t exactly something I’m passionate about.”
He nods and leans back, tenting his long fingers in front of him. She feels that she can see the gears in his head spinning. “Can I ask what made you apply for this position?”
“I just saw the application and thought why not, I guess. I have been a fan of Francis—Dear Constance, I mean—for years and years. Her columns have given me so much. Really more than I could even say.”
She continues, cautiously, noticing the pained smile on his face.
“She got me through so many troubled times. In fact, every time I smell fresh newsprint it brings me immediately back to reading Dear Constance. The column was the thing that kept me sane, the one constant in my life that felt safe and secure.” Alex’s fingers find her sleeves and pull. “Francis is—was—a hero of mine.” She pauses, unsure how exactly she should acknowledge the other giant in the room. The one who is dead. The air in the room shifts.
Howard’s hooded eyes flick to Alex. His interview persona is suddenly gone. He leans in now, his arms resting on the desk confiding in her. “Listen, I worked with Francis for over thirty years. There was no one, and I mean no one , as perceptive as she was. We all know there will never be anyone like Francis Keen. She is irreplaceable. But Dear Constance is a pivotal part of the Herald . Readers love to have an escape from the news. They love to see problems being solved for a change.” As he speaks, he spins his gold wedding band with his thumb. “It helps people to be able to focus on sometimes smaller but no less important problems.”
“I can see that,” Alex says. “The day-to-day is all we really have control over. You can’t solve wars in other countries, or end poverty, not as an individual human being. But perhaps you can mend a rift with your in-laws or help someone in need of encouragement.”
“Exactly!” He bangs a hand down on his desk.
She is enjoying Howard’s intensity, his take on the world. She can see right away the qualities he has that would make him a great editor, legendary even.
“You understand. I had a good feeling about you, Alex Marks. Not everyone can do what you did with these letters.” He jabs his finger down onto the paper in front of him. “Hell, almost no one can. That kind of wisdom. We were very impressed with your answers. There were none that we felt even compared, honestly. We are prepared to offer you the job on a probationary basis.”
The words rush out, washing over her so quickly that as soon as he stops speaking Alex immediately wonders if she just heard them. “Really?”
“Yes, really.” He allows a smile now. “Starting next week. If you are still interested, of course.” Alex feels her mouth open and close uselessly as she tries to absorb what he is saying.
“It would be such an honor, I don’t even know how to respond,” she says.
Howard nods. “You have to know that this isn’t just a job. It’s a vocation. It can be a lot of work and very consuming reading people’s struggles every day. Kind of like being a therapist, except your advice is out there for the public to read. And criticize.” He raises his eyebrows. “It’s a good thing usually, but it does make you more exposed.”
Alex’s chest tightens at the word exposed . The application, this meeting, they were all pretend up until now. But if she is really going to do this, it will require her to put herself out there, her name. Oh God, her photo? She can’t. This just won’t work.
“I don’t mean to dissuade you,” he says quickly. “This is the kind of job that is truly a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. It will give you more than you could possibly imagine.”
“Oh, I know, and I am so grateful. It’s just…” What should she say? That she has been in hiding for years and barely leaves her apartment? His eyes flick to his computer screen. Alex realizes that he must have other, more urgent issues to address. She has to tell him. She’ll thank him and say that he’s made a mistake, that she can’t take the job. Go on, Alex, tell him now . But the words remain lodged in her throat. How could she possibly say no to being edited by Howard Demetri? She doesn’t want to turn it down.
She wants this job more than she has ever desired anything in her life. All these years she’s tried to stay safe at the expense of so much. And now she is nodding yes like a big fool.
“That’s great news, Alex. We are absolutely delighted. You’re going to do great here.” He looks relieved, doesn’t he? “Jonathan will send you an offer letter this afternoon.”
“When would you like me to start?”
“We were hoping to have you in and going on Monday. That will give you enough time to turn a column in by next Friday morning and I can edit it to run in Sunday’s paper. There are mountains of letters piling up in that old email account. It’s summer. This seems like as good a time as any for a relaunch. What’s better for escapism than other people’s problems?” He gives her a rueful grin and she sees the younger version of Howard Demetri, the one from the old Kodachrome-tinted photos she saw online. The charmer. So he is going to be the one editing her column. The thought of it gives her a shiver of excitement and fear.
“I’ll do my best.” She finds herself grinning back at him. Her new boss. Her heart swells with gratitude for the opportunity he’s given her.
“If all that sounds amenable to you? I assume you’ll have to put in some sort of notice at the pharmaceutical company.” He says the last few words with more than a tinge of sarcasm.
“Yes, of course. All of that is fine. I might just be a bit in shock,” Alex says breathlessly. She will do anything she can to make him glad he hired her.
His mouth tugs down at the corners as several consecutive dings come from his computer screen.
“Welcome to the dusty old world of newspapers, Alex Marks. You’re going to do great. I haven’t felt this confident about a hire since I met Francis,” he says. He stands up, putting an end to their meeting. As he reaches over and shakes Alex’s hand once more, he adds, “As you may know, she didn’t have much experience either. And look how well she did.”
“You’re right,” Alex says, though part of her can’t help but think that she ended up dead.