Chapter 15
Dear Adam
I guess this is one of world’s great philosophical questions, along with ‘What is the meaning of life?’ and ‘Should you put cream or jam first on scones?’, but bear with me, because I need your help.
How do you know when a relationship is worth pursuing, and when it’s time to jump ship and look elsewhere?
I’m asking because I’m seeing this girl and on the face of it everything’s great. I like her. She’s funny, smart and sexy. But I’m not totally sure whether or not she’s my person, if you know what I mean? The thing is, when I’m with her, I don’t feel any kind of a deep connection. We have a laugh, we enjoy each other’s company, but that’s kind of it.
What does it feel like when you meet the right woman for you, and do you necessarily know? Or do relationships get better with time and the spark ignites even if it wasn’t necessarily there right from the beginning?
And if you think you’ve got that spark with someone, will they feel it too or is it sometimes a one-sided thing?
I don’t even know why I’m writing this, Adam. But I’m gonna send it anyway. Help me not be a dick.
Anonymous, London
I looked up from the email on my screen, feeling the now-familiar weight of responsibility, coupled with a prickle of annoyance, settle on me. My anonymous correspondent claimed he didn’t want to be a dick, which was very altruistic of him, but at this point it wasn’t looking good. Also, something about his email felt familiar. Had he messaged Adam before? Was there already a document in my To be answered folder from him? If so, he had a bit of a cheek emailing again. Didn’t he realise Adam was a busy man? Or were there multiple men out there going out with women who they liked but weren’t sure were quite good enough to achieve The One status? And was that a sign of man’s fundamental arrogance or of some systemic inequity in the dating world?
I knew what I wanted Adam to say to him.
Mate, if you’re not into her, you’re not into her. No point in leading her on and future-faking. The kind thing – the right thing, the only thing – to do is let her down gently and follow your heart to the relationship you really want. Let her go – she’s not the one for you.
But then, what if I was inadvertently ending a perfectly good relationship – one that could strengthen and grow with time the way a diamond forms over years and years under the ground – and breaking two hearts, just because I could? Just because of my own cynicism and bitterness towards men, because Kieren had treated me badly and broken my heart?
I remembered the letter I’d received a couple of weeks back, from Mark, the cyclist from Sheffield. I remembered how my first instinct had been to give him the telling-off of his life and order him to stop being so self-obsessed and start being a better husband and father. And how my conversation with Chiraag had given me a totally new perspective, and I’d ended up writing a much gentler, more considered reply, asking him to think about what he was getting from all those hours out on the road, what it meant to him, whether he could have a conversation with his wife about that and help her understand, so they could reach some kind of compromise.
I’d been really proud of that answer. It had felt balanced, wise, and kind.
Now I needed to tap into that version of Adam – of myself – to respond to whoever Mr Anonymous was.
I performed my usual ritual of copying and pasting the text of the email, clearing all its formatting and saving a new document. Then I poised my fingers over my keyboard, waiting to channel Amelie, or Adam, or whatever part of me was beginning to have faith that I could actually do this, and give this man some advice that wouldn’t ruin his life.
Then my computer pinged with a Teams notification, snapping my train of thought.
It was from Greg. Morning, Lucy. Got a minute?
My stomach lurched, but I typed, Yeah, sure, and added a smiley face.
Pop into my office, if you don’t mind.
Be right there.
I stood up. Ross glanced at me, then glanced hastily away. Adrenaline coursing through me, I made my way to my boss’s office, a shorthand notebook and pen clutched in my sweating hand.
‘Afternoon, Lucy.’ Greg’s chair was pushed back from his desk, his glasses pushed up on his head. There were smudges of red ink on his fingers from correcting proofs. He looked tired and dishevelled, as he usually did by the middle of the afternoon.
‘Afternoon.’ I forced a smile.
‘Take a seat.’
I took one.
‘So, Lucy. I see from my calendar you’ve been with Max! for three months now. We don’t normally conduct a formal review at this point, but I thought we should have a chat about how things are going.’
I nodded mutely, my mouth dry.
‘You’ve settled well into the team,’ Greg went on. ‘I’m impressed with the quality of your writing, your organisational skills and your attitude. You’re a valuable addition to Max!.’
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I’m really happy to be here.’
But I could sense a ‘but’ coming, and I was right.
‘But,’ Greg said, and part of my brain went, Told you so! ‘The Ask Adam column has got off to something of a slow start. The response from our readers has been extremely positive, but the numbers aren’t quite where we’d like to see them. As you know, an ever-increasing share of our revenue is derived from online advertising, which is dependent on click rates. And we’re not seeing these increase at the rate we’d hoped for.’
‘Does that mean—‘ I began, but Greg held up a hand to stop me.
‘I don’t want to worry you, Lucy. I believe in you – I believe Ask Adam can be a great success. It’s early days. We’re just not quite there yet.’
‘What should I do?’ I asked. ‘I mean, I’m doing my very best but if there’s something I need to change, just tell me and I’ll try.’
Greg smiled. ‘I know. Your enthusiasm is one of the things that make you a real asset. And that’s why I think you’ll be willing to get behind what I’m about to propose.’
‘Okay,’ I said, thinking, I’ll do anything – anything at all. Just so long as I get to keep my job.
And not get sacked and never see Ross again, said a little voice in the back of my mind.
‘Here’s what we’d like to do,’ Greg said. ‘We want to run some numbers, analytics, so we can see what type of questions are working best in the Ask Adam slot. Then we can focus of putting those out there, and increase the reach of the column over time, backed up by posts on our socials to draw readers in.’
‘Great!’ I said. ‘That sounds like a plan.’
Greg nodded approvingly, and then he said, ‘But. In order for that exercise to be meaningful, we need more data. Ask Adam has been running twice a week, and we got off to a slow start, so we’ve only published twenty columns thus far. In order to build traction, we need more volume.’
‘Okay,’ I said again.
‘Am I right in thinking the number of queries you’re getting is still high?’
‘Sure, and it’s increasing. In the beginning I was receiving maybe ten letters a day, now it’s at least twenty. There’s no way I can answer them all. Of course, some of them are obvious nutters, or asking totally random things like who’s going to win the Premier League, but most of them are legit problems.’
‘That”s what I thought. And that’s why I’d like to increase the frequency of the Ask Adam column online from twice weekly to daily, if you’re up for that? It’ll mean a lot more work for you, of course.’
‘That doesn’t matter. I can manage.’
Could I? Could I really? I’d stared at Anonymous’s query for over half an hour with no clue what I was going to tell him. The only reassuring thing about it was that I had the luxury of time to mull over my response – now, I’d glibly robbed myself of even that.
‘I hoped you’d say that. Thanks, Lucy. And – you know – onwards and upwards, right?’
‘Onwards and upwards.’ It felt more like a dismissal than an encouragement. ‘But, Greg?—’
He’d already looked away from me, down at his screen, but now he looked back, his eyebrows raised enquiringly.
‘What if it doesn’t work?’ I asked tremulously.
‘Then we’ll need a bit of a rethink.’ As if to lessen the harshness of the reality, he produced an encouraging smile. ‘But we’ll make it work. Chin up, Lucy. We’ve got this.’
There was nothing more to say. What on earth had I let myself in for? Still clutching my notebook, which now bore a soggy handprint, I left Greg’s office at a purposeful walk – even though what I felt like doing was running away screaming for help like the building was on fire.