Chapter Two #2
I can sense that she’s about to boil over, which probably isn’t helped by how hot the office is today. Our office is located on the top floor of a repurposed warehouse in Surry Hills with floor-to-ceiling windows that mean when the sun is out, it heats up the entire office.
‘I think the printer is the least of our concerns,’ Priya says suddenly, adjusting her large square shape glasses while reading something off her computer screen. ‘Has anyone read Tamara’s latest weekly update?’
‘You still read those?’ Addie asks, spinning away from Simon as he stomps back to the copy room.
Addie was right. There was no point in reading Tamara’s emails.
As our Editor-in-Chief, she regularly sends around updates about how the website and socials were performing as a way to give us guidance about the direction she wanted our content to go in.
But these days, it was easy to guess what she was going to say.
Engagement was down and clicks from our newsletters were no better.
Without consistent site visits, advertisers and sponsors were dropping month after month.
We were still under the control of our American office, and with performance on a downward spiral, they were forcing Tamara to rein in spending to keep our expenses in check, even going so far as to lower our stationery budget.
‘Oh god,’ Addie mutters, staring at her computer screen.
‘What is it?’ I ask.
She bites her lip. ‘Tamara’s announced more budget cuts.’
‘But how could we possibly cut any more? There’s no budget left to cut.’
Our office was on its last legs. After the most recent round of redundancies, everyone’s workloads had increased. We were all stretched thin.
Addie grabs the packet of M the result of all the redundancies that, somehow, Addie and I have avoided.
‘No,’ I reply. ‘I mean, they can’t. If they let us go, they’ll have no writers left.’ But I’m only half-convinced.
‘Carlos!’ a sing-song voice calls out. It’s Tamara, standing in the doorway of her office, in pink power suit that matches her sparkly pink shoes. Without fail, Tamara always shows up to work in a perfectly colour-coordinated outfit.
‘Carlos!’ she repeats. ‘Can I see you in my office, please?’
Addie and I turn to each other. Her eyes narrow. ‘Oh no,’ she whispers. ‘I knew something like this would happen. I read that conflict is on the horizon for Cancers today.’
I roll my eyes as I get up. ‘The universe doesn’t work like that,’ I tell her. ‘We make our own destinies. My destiny just happens to suck.’
‘I’m waiting,’ Tamara voices through the doorway, her tone light and lively.
‘Good luck,’ Addie mouths.
As I make my way to Tamara’s office, my mind spirals.
What could she want to speak to me about?
Maybe it’s my terrible pitch at today’s meeting.
Or has she finally picked up on the fact that I was basically recycling the same review format from my last few submissions?
What if it was finally my turn to be made redundant?
‘Tamara, hi,’ I say as I step inside. A ray of sunshine hits my face. Tamara’s office is right at the end of the floor, with a private balcony that overlooks the rest of the converted warehouses and factories located at this end of Surry Hills.
Tamara is sorting through some papers and gestures for me to take a seat. ‘Carlos, come in.’ She looks up from her desk. ‘Isn’t it bizarre to think that we’re well into February already? How was your weekend?’
Okay. This is it. I am definitely getting fired. Tamara never asks personal questions. She may be the one opinion the Australian online media landscape trusts, but whatever talent she has in publishing inspiring content, she lacks in people skills.
‘My weekend was… good,’ I say, brushing at the strands of my hair that keep falling into my eyes.
Tamara nods as she looks me up and down, almost as if she’s studying me. ‘You don’t have to look so startled, buddy. I genuinely want to know.’
I gulp. Buddy? And what was I meant to say? I couldn’t exactly tell her about the great cosmopolitan vomit incident. ‘Umm, it was nice. Kept it pretty quiet.’
‘That’s lovely. Rest really is important to our wellbeing,’ Tamara says, her attention back on the print outs in front of her. Then her gaze snaps up. ‘So, I bet you’re wondering why I called you in here. And if you want me to be completely honest, Carlos, it’s because I’m disappointed in you.’
And there it is.
‘You’ve failed me,’ she continues.
Ouch. I peer down at my outfit. Suddenly I wish I’d ditched my usual office look – a shirt with a sunflower pattern and bright pink linen pants – for something a little bit more professional.
‘When you first started here, your pieces were so original, so full of life. I hired you because you were bursting with marvellous ideas. But over the past two and half years, the quality of your writing has slipped. And don’t think that I haven’t noticed that your features are starting to feel distinctly… cut and paste.’
There’s no point arguing with Tamara. I know she’s right.
But how can I write articles that pay tribute to romantic comedies or draw on my own life advice for others when I no longer believe in the magic of, well, anything?
My silence gives Tamara the perfect opportunity to list the negative aspects of my recent work performance.
Lack of enthusiasm? Check. An absence of originality? We can tick that box too.
‘If things hadn’t been so down to the wire with the last few issues, I wouldn’t have approved your pieces,’ Tamara says, shaking her head slightly as she stares out at the Sydney skyline in the distance. ‘And we can’t afford to miss a deadline or have our quality slip any further. Especially now.’
There’s so much I want to say to defend myself, but the words don’t come. It’s as if my heart can tell that I don’t really want this. But is it because I don’t want to write anymore, or because I’m afraid of finding out that I’m not good enough for this job?
‘I’m sorry, Tamara,’ I offer half-heartedly. ‘You know me. I mean, you said it yourself, I can write, it’s just…’ I realise how pathetic I sound and stop talking.
Tamara lowers her glasses and gives me a pointed look. ‘Recent evidence suggests otherwise. And if it were up to me, I’d let you go.’
My breath catches in my throat. Suddenly there is so much I want to say. Don’t give up on me! Give me a chance!
‘But, as luck would have it, this time it’s not up to me,’ she continues.
Wait. What?
‘I’ve got a project for you. It’s a big one. If we can pull this article off, it’ll give us the major publicity boost we need and, who knows, it might just be enough to keep us afloat for a while longer.’
‘Yes!’ I reply enthusiastically. ‘I’ll do it. I’ll do anything.’
Tamara purses her lips – her version of a smile. ‘How familiar are you with Claudia Leighton?’
Her question doesn’t require an answer. Even if you’ve never read a book in your life, you’ll have heard the name of Australian legend Claudia Leighton, author of the Golden Ruins series.
The first book, The City of Golden Ruins – an epic, dystopian young adult novel – became a global bestseller when it was released fifteen years ago, when Claudia was only twenty-seven.
Readers loved the world Claudia Leighton created.
The characters were the perfect underdogs, and their stories offered a cutting commentary on global inequality and government oppression.
Some people described it as The Famous Five meets The Hunger Games.
Film rights were snapped up immediately, and the first movie was released following the third and final book in the series nine years ago.
Filmed back-to-back, a movie based on each Golden Ruins book was released each year.
With a star-studded cast, a love-triangle for the ages, thought-provoking social commentary and an unforgettable soundtrack, Golden Ruins became an integral part of pop culture.
Then, three years ago, Claudia announced the release of her first book outside of the series, Summer Memory: a literary love story set within the publishing industry, following two authors over their ten-year love affair.