Chapter Two #2
“What are you doing at my desk?” I demanded, purposefully rude. Confrontation heating me from within.
He looked up, smiling with surprise and something like delight. Then he stood, presumably because it was the mannerly thing to do when in the presence of a woman. Or perhaps, extending to his full size to make me small. “Pardon me, mademoiselle. I was told the desks are shared.”
“They are. But that’s where I always sit and work.”
“Can you choose another one?” He looked around at the many empty desks around us, his face drawn with innocence.
“Can you?”
He smiled again, devilishly, rolling his shoulders back. And then he gestured at the room with both hands. “I work here now, you know.”
“You may work here.” I copied his gesture, and then placed my hands on the desk. “But I work here.”
His smile faltered, and something I couldn’t read passed over his face. And for a flicker of a second, I felt bad for being so mean to him.
“I’m almost done.” He sat back down and returned to his work. A flush of red had risen from under his collar. “It’s nice to meet you, by the way. New colleague.”
“We’ve met, unfortunately.” My heart thudded in my chest, like a quickening drum.
He looked up at me again, catching me with his eyes and raising a brow. His mustache twitched. “I know that. Just using my manners.”
Now I faltered. My face and every inch of my skin tingled.
What was it about him that flustered me like this?
I was no longer clear on what I had hoped to accomplish by confronting him in this way.
It was unprofessional. But I’d done it anyway because it was the only real claim I could stake here.
My usual seat. And if nothing else, there would be no question about the dynamic between us.
I would not be simpering up at him or batting my eyelashes.
I would not smile or concede to him. I was in this for the fight.
I turned on my heel and walked, head as high as it would go, to the furthest away open desk. I sat in a huff and then took a deep breath to collect myself.
Of course, I had anticipated that there would be confrontations like this now that my work was being taken over by an outside entity.
But I certainly hadn’t expect to find that Benoit Levin had beaten me to the office and my spot.
I would have guessed him for the sort who never rose before noon, tumbling from this or that mistress’s bed for a burning piss and drink to soften the edges.
There were plenty of men in the office exactly like that.
But, at least for his first morning of this collective nightmare, he seemed to have himself together.
This would make him more difficult to beat, unfortunately.
I got to work, untying the ribbon on my notebooks and arranging them on the unfamiliar desk in front of me.
Then I tried to pretend like he didn’t exist. I ignored the hard clacks of his fingers on the typewriter keys, stifled the urge to tell him that he was hitting them too hard.
Banging wasn’t necessary; a light touch was sufficient.
But I kept that to myself. I ignored his loud yawns.
The noisy way he seemed to do everything.
Even as more coworkers—familiar and not—filtered in and started making noise, Benoit Levin was the only other person in the room.
More than once, I had to stop myself from staring at him as he typed away and wiggled in my seat, distracting me from what had always been a solid and productive work time.
The managing editor’s words from the previous day echoed through my mind: not all of us would get to keep our jobs.
Determination hardened in me like a sharp stone.
The lay of the land changed dramatically over the next few days.
I was no longer the only woman reporter.
The new culture section editor or co-editor or whatever was a woman.
But she treated Benoit Levin like the star of the show, so I wasn’t sure I could trust her.
And there were now two more women reporters in the newsroom.
One wrote gardening column and lifestyle pieces that usually centered on gardening or flowers.
Madame Tremblay read her every week. The other woman was Algerian and probably in her thirties.
She wrote international news and political commentary that was just as serious as any man’s.
She was truly impressive even though I’d only seen her from a distance.
I was both excited about more women in the building and wary of them.
We were all wary of each other. And as silly as it was, as treacherous as it made me, I was secretly a little mad about being rendered less special now that I wasn’t the only one.
Even though L’Etoile took us over, they wanted to keep the name L’Entreprise because we’d been in print longer and held more prestige.
This was satisfying, because of course we were better than them.
But it was also frustrating because they had ultimately been able to buy us anyway.
The newspaper itself expanded, was thicker and heavier in the hand.
I didn’t hate it. But every day was unpredictable.
People I was used to seeing disappeared from the office landscape.
Soon, and perhaps this was by design, people started leaving.
Some were let go, and others jumped ship, finding positions at other papers or making life changes that they’d been putting off or avoiding.
The politics editor was going home to Rouen to work in the family business.
Two senior reporters and an assistant got jobs at Le Figaro .
The first week, while the physical merging was taking place and their office was brought into ours, I never knew what to expect when I walked into the building. Aside from wolves circling.
The culture and lifestyle section hadn’t lost anyone yet, but the two editors were sharing one office.
There was a general understanding that changes were forthcoming, and they couldn’t afford to keep everyone.
These dramas were playing out in every department at the paper.
It was a complete upheaval, and it was, frankly, miraculous that we managed to produce papers in this environment.
The tension was never more palpable than when we all crowded into the editors’ office on the day of our regular section meeting.
Like the rest of the old bank building, the office was spacious and grand with a substantial fireplace, bookcases, and a big couch, in addition to Paquin’s wide desk.
The vase that his secretary had kept filled with flowers was now gone.
And there was an extra desk set up where a small conference table used to sit.
Sharing an office had to be a nightmare, and I felt for my boss.
I got mad about someone sitting in my spot; I couldn’t imagine suddenly having to share an office with someone who wanted my job.
Except they looked awfully cozy, standing close and talking to each other in whispers.
Paquin closed the door when we were all inside, and I perched on the arm of the couch.
For a minute, everyone chattered, primarily sticking to our home camps.
Even with the two teams combined, we were a small mix of news assistants and journalists.
One of many smaller teams on the staff of the paper.
The other paper’s culture staff was smaller than ours.
Without even trying, they were on one side of the room and we were on the other.
But with all of us assembled, it was obvious there was overlap in coverage on many topics.
And there were, even more glaringly, two bosses.
It was clear that, if the new owners and whoever was making decisions these days wanted to run this business efficiently, there was room for cuts in the culture department.
And the restructuring was the primary concern.
“They let go half of sports this morning,” our literary critic said to another reporter.
Across the room, someone said, “Three courts reporters left yesterday.”
My coworkers were as nervous about this as I was.
There was an air of suspicion in the room, in the guarded looks and lack of friendly chatter between the two groups.
None of us could look each other in the eyes.
When Paquin tried to draw our attention to him, he became the object of our collective uncertainty.
“So do we know who gets to stay?”
“Have they decided anything?”
The new boss—Eloise Vartre—raised her hands in a pacifying gesture.
“I know you’re all nervous about this. I know half of you don’t trust me or know me at all.
But I’m nervous too. All week, we’ve been watching our colleagues lose their jobs.
The fact is, nothing has been decided yet for our section. ”
“Why not?” the literary critic said.
“Culture is our most popular section, and both publications have exceptional teams. I mean, I for one am thrilled to be working at the place that publishes ‘Potins Culturels' every week. It’s a phenomenon in itself,” Vartre said. She wasn’t wrong.
The culture gossip column was so popular with readers that all the culture reporters loved contributing to it.
“And so the owners aren’t rushing to make changes here.
It’s the same in government. They want to combine and strengthen what both publications bring to our new L’Entreprise .
We don’t want to risk losing readers from either publication by changing up their favorite thing to read. ”
“They want to build upon what we collectively have,” Paquin added. “And they’re taking their time to make decisions it seems. As inconvenient as that is for all of us.”
“So when will we know?”