Chapter Two #3
“Well, they’re watching, for sure. They’re reading your work with great interest. And they’re trying to decide what the future of the publication should look like. We’re meeting with them again in a week, so I know I’m going to work very hard until then.”
One of the L’Etoile reporters asked, “Should we start looking for other jobs?”
“Well, that’s your decision, isn’t it.” Paquin shrugged. He was in his shirtsleeves and looked as tired as ever.
“I, for one, am looking,” Vartre said. Her dark hair, which she wore in a low bun, had come loose around her face. “Everything right now is uncertain. We’re all in different positions with different demands and needs. There’s no reason not to hedge your bets in a situation like this.”
Hedge our bets? I rolled my eyes. Lots of eyes were rolling around that room. But Vartre wasn’t exactly being unreasonable. Some people had children and families relying on them. Any gap in income could be quite troubling. Finding a new job would eliminate some of the risk.
I wasn’t going to look for something else.
In the worst case, I could weather the financial setback of losing my job because my father hadn’t left me with nothing when he died.
I had a small inheritance in investments that I tried not to touch.
This was what kept me at the orphanage while other girls from poor families were usually placed with farm families who needed help with labor.
Now I lived primarily off of my income as a reporter.
I was paid a modest weekly salary, plus a little more per every line of text I wrote and published.
But I could live without it if I lost my job. It wasn’t about the money.
I had worked hard and been promoted twice—from secretary to reporter and then again to senior reporter.
I had written more “Potins Culturels” than anyone besides Paquin.
I had proven my worth already. Everyone had encouraged me and told me I could have an editor position if I kept at it.
I had a future at L’Entreprise . Going to another publication, being new somewhere, especially as a woman, would likely mean starting over.
I was determined to stay and fight for my rightful spot.
Leaving would make it all so much easier for the decision-makers, whoever they were.
But this was another problem. A week ago, and throughout my tenure at the paper thus far, I always knew who was in charge.
I knew exactly who I had to please to get my paycheck, and I knew who he had to please as well.
Now that wasn’t so clear. Not knowing who to please made doing so all that much harder.
Across from me, Benoit Levin shifted and stretched his not unattractive arms over his head.
The way his large, ink stained hand gripped his other wrist and pulled into the stretch compelled me to look away.
So what if his arms were long and strong and shaped in that perfectly manly way?
This made his presence all the more maddening.
Of course a pompous, infuriating man like him would also be the most attractive in the whole building.
I would say maybe even the whole world if I didn’t dislike him so much.
I had to cling to the hope that more beautiful men existed and weren’t annoying.
There was some more huffing and puffing from my frustrated colleagues, and the editors continued to assuage their concerns. Then, finally, Paquin started on the regular business of what we were working on.
As reporters, we didn’t bother ourselves too much with what our colleagues were working on except when we discussed our work in these editorial meetings.
It was all very perfunctory, with each person talking about what they were working on for a minute or two, taking questions and comments from the editor—two editors, now—and anyone else who had a source or insight to share in the spirit of helpfulness.
About halfway through it was my turn. Sharing my story ideas and reporting in front of all my coworkers had been intimidating at first. But I’d gotten used to it and earned the respect of everyone.
Now there were more people, and some were likely judging me harshly.
But my idea was solid, and I’d already started reporting it.
There was no need for this meeting to be any different from the one we’d had last week just because the room was more crowded.
I put the part about our jobs being at stake out of my mind.
I took a breath. “I am working on a piece about the new art charity that Marquess Montmorency and Madame Leclaire are founding. I heard from a source that the society ladies are falling all over themselves to be involved, so there’s a hook for readers who like that sort of gossip, and then of course the charity aspect. ”
Benoit Levin’s hand rose sheepishly before I’d even finished. He hadn’t shared yet and had been mostly quiet throughout the meeting. So of course he’d have something to say about my idea.
As soon as I finished talking, Vartre nodded at Benoit.
He cleared his throat. “Sorry, but I am actually working on the same story.”
My mouth fell open. “I’ve already interviewed Madame Leclaire.”
Vartre looked at Paquin and then asked Benoit what he had so far.
“I’ve interviewed Madame Leclaire and two other women involved. I’ve got a draft right here.” He held a sheaf of papers aloft and gave them a little shake.
“Well, since you seem to be a step ahead on this one, Levin, Marnet can give you her notes.”
I knew better than to protest, but I wanted to. My jaw clenched. I had chased that interview with Madame Leclaire for three days. She’d given me names of other people to talk to. I could have done the story. But I was truly a step behind if he had a draft already. The bastard.
“What else do you have, Marnet?”
I couldn’t say “nothing,” but that wasn’t far from the truth. “I’ve spent the past three days looking into the charity. So I will have to go through my notes, but I should be able to come up with something.”
“Good. Just follow up with me. And meet with Levin to give him everything you’ve got.”
I nodded and pulled my mouth into something that could, hopefully, be interpreted as a submissive smile.
Benoit Levin looked at me with his eyebrows raised.
He shrugged. And then he winked at me, like I was a little girl he was teasing.
I looked down at my shoes peeking out from the hem of my pale gray suit.
At least I was wearing my favorite suit through this utter humiliation because otherwise I was miserable.
My face was so hot it had to be red. Winking, of all things, at work.
I wanted to slap him. If we weren’t in that stupid meeting, I would have done it.