Chapter Twelve #2
Tess would have loved to work somewhere that had its own aesthetic. Even if that aesthetic was very cluttered. ‘Better than where I work. An open plan office. We don’t even have cubicles, and my boss, Claire, she has a tidy desk policy …’
‘Better than worrying about being buried alive under a pile of paid invoices dating back to the late nineteenth century,’ Gabe said lazily. ‘My Sharma ancestors weren’t that keen on filing.’
So it wasn’t all magic and gold dust. ‘Claire won’t even let me have my water bottle on my desk. Or a copy of The Sunday Sentinel. No wonder my mind goes blank; it’s an accurate representation of my workspace.’
‘I suppose it must be difficult to be creative in such a sterile environment,’ Gabe mused, crossing his legs and showing Tess an unexpected flash of red sock.
‘I do all my writing at home. I’ve set up the box room, though it’s more of a glorified cupboard, exactly as I want it and I think it helps my process. ’
‘I didn’t know you were a writer too.’ To her own ears, Tess sounded a little despairing.
And also intimidated. Gabe wasn’t just an academic or joint head librarian of a beautiful and mysterious library.
He was a writer too. Talk about accomplished.
Tess had only one job and she was very much not excelling at that. ‘How do you find the time?’
‘I have Sundays off from both jobs, which helps. As a condition of my funding, the university expects me to publish at least once a year. Preferably more often. Publish or perish, as the saying goes. I plan to spend the summer break working on a paper about AI and philosophy for a conference in the autumn. I might work it up into a book proposal if …’ Gabe came to an abrupt halt. ‘Oh, that was a long, deep sigh.’
Tess hadn’t even realised that she’d let out a loud huff. Loud huffs seemed to be her default setting lately.
‘I’m sorry. I can’t help but be a little envious. I don’t feel like a writer,’ she admitted to Grumpy Gabe of all people, as though there had been a truth serum secreted into all those soup dumplings she’d scarfed.
‘You might not feel like one, but you are. I’ve read both of the dating pieces you wrote for The Sunday Sentinel.
’ This time the silence was agonising. Tess could see Gabe struggling to come up with something positive to say about her fluff pieces for the women’s section.
‘You have a very nice turn of phrase. A strong authorial voice. I can hear you as I’m reading, if that makes sense. ’
Tess felt a warm glow that had nothing to do with her recent consumption of carbs. ‘That’s very kind.’
‘Though I don’t think much of The Sunday Sentinel’s fact-checking subs desk,’ he continued. ‘They seemed to think I was a mere assistant rather than joint head librarian. And a grouchy one at that.’
It wasn’t even a telling-off. Gabe’s voice was laced with amusement and his slight smile grew wider as Tess placed her hands on her suddenly quite flushed cheeks. ‘Just can’t get the staff these days,’ she muttered.
She should leave it there. The atmosphere between them was friendly, for once. He’d said some very generous things about her writing, which was more than her own mother ever did, and if she revealed the real reason for her heavy sighs, he would be cross.
‘Apology accepted,’ Gabe said with that same careless smile. Jiggling his ankle as he sipped his beer so Tess kept getting flashes of that unexpected red sock.
Everyone had inner depths. Everyone except Tess.
‘I’m not a proper writer, not like you,’ she blurted out.
‘I’m a glorified copy writer. Not even glorified.
I spend my days writing advertorials about all the boring stuff that The Sunday Sentinel readers are interested in.
Currently it’s magnesium supplements, solar panels and orthotic insoles. ’
The jiggling stopped. ‘Well, it’s still writing,’ Gabe said slowly and carefully.
‘Lots of writers have to do writing-adjacent jobs while they’re trying to make a name for themselves.
Not even writing-adjacent. Anthony Trollope famously wrote his earlier novels while he was a Post Office inspector. ’
‘I always thought I’d have a glamorous writing career on women’s magazines or, failing that, I’d be a crusading journalist, speaking truth to power or reporting from the frontlines …
’ Even as she said it, Tess knew that she sounded ridiculous.
If all the women’s magazines hadn’t closed down, then she might have achieved that ambition, but other than that, no.
Absolutely not. She’d end up rage crying if she ever had to speak truth to any kind of authority figure and now that Tess was in her thirties, she knew that she was not cut out for life on the frontline.
She needed a hot shower, a firm mattress, three proper meals and access to regular snacks and half an hour on TikTok every day just to function.
‘I was meant to be employed as a staff writer on the women’s desk at The Sunday Sentinel, but they needed someone to cover a staff shortage in Creative Solutions and I never left. That was eight years ago.’
Gabe blinked from behind his glasses. Probably because Tess had completely killed the post-prandial buzz. ‘Have you spoken to the section editor? Or maybe HR?’
‘The section editor who employed me left quite soon after I started and HR keep telling me that it’s very important to be seen as a team player and there’s nothing to stop me applying for features’ roles as they become available.
’ Tess sank deeper into the sofa and wished it would swallow her whole.
‘I’ve applied so many times and I always get rejected in the first round.
As an internal candidate I’m meant to be guaranteed an interview so it’s because I’m not a very good writer. Clearly.’
‘Oh, now that isn’t true,’ Gabe said a little sharply as he sat up a little straighter. ‘Your pieces made me smile, something a lot of people find almost impossible. Though I’m still not sure what a girl dinner is.’
Somehow his kindness hurt more than if he’d taken Tess to task for misrepresenting herself as a bona fide journalist. It made her feel humiliated.
Or more humiliated, because … ‘I know I should be grateful that I’ve had a couple of editorial pieces published, but the only topic they want me to write about is my love life.
It’s not even a love life. It’s a life devoid of love because the only dates I go on are with these terrible men. ’
How Tess wished she could stop talking. Just shut up. She didn’t want to say these things out loud, not because then she’d have to admit it to herself. That wasn’t the problem. It was saying them out loud in a room with Gabe in it. Listening to her. Judging her.
‘Oh God, Rochester! What a waste of a date. Two whole hours of my life I’m not getting back.’ She threw a resentful look at Gabe even though he hadn’t said a word. In fact, he’d been uncharacteristically sympathetic throughout her pity party. ‘Why did you let me pick Rochester?’
‘Look, halfway through the date, I googled him myself,’ Gabe said, his posture now very definitely not relaxed. ‘You know I don’t read novels.’
‘Why are you offering this service to date men from novels when you haven’t even researched the source material?’ Tess rashly queried.
She didn’t even know why she was picking a fight with Gabe when they’d been getting on well up until then.
Probably because it was easier to blame him, someone else, than have to blame herself for making the same mistakes again and again.
‘Even if I’d told you not to date Rochester, much like I warned you about Heathcliff, you wouldn’t have listened.’ That edge was back in Gabe’s voice, his face stern. ‘Also, it’s not the nineteenth century anymore. You have this thing called free will.’