Chapter 6
SIX
TWO YEARS EARLIER
‘So, I guess you’ve got a pretty major problem, then?’ Sam asked, scratching at his scruffy, patchy neckbeard as he leaned precariously over the desk divider, directly violating all concepts of personal space.
‘I don’t have a problem,’ I said, exasperated, glancing at Tasha in the hope she’d meet my irritated gaze.
She didn’t. She was far too busy scolding one of the interns for using the American spelling of cancelled.
I turned to face Sam again. ‘I spend nearly fifty hours a week with you all already. I don’t really want to spend any more time with you; thanks but no thanks. ’
Sam was… a lot. He worked in Sales and Advertising, which shared a section of the office floor with editorial, and my word, he did not know when to ‘shut up or land the plane’, as Tasha liked to put it.
Tasha and I were no longer post-room newbies, where we had reluctantly agreed to be paid tuppence just to pay our dues to break into the journalism industry.
Our promotions within the second-most-read paper and media conglomerate in the UK meant we now spent most of our time churning out puff pieces or clickbait in the middle of a billionaire takeover, and getting the worst seats in the office, evidently because we were next to Sam.
The only upside to the current events in the UK at the moment was that at least we weren’t the interns recycling articles about ‘five fruits to stop menopause’ into ‘five fruits to get a stonking, long-lasting erection’.
Although at the moment, everyone in the office had spent all day working on the TellTale Killer story in some way.
While I hated the idea of optimism being mistaken for na?veté, I think part of me had been a little doe-eyed about journalism when I had been a fresh-faced graduate myself.
I liked the idea of being one of those people who could speak truth to power, hold the elite to account, inform the public, and apply pressure to those accountable when needed.
But the days of Watergate had shifted; now, only those on the highest rung of the payroll got to write those particular stories.
Most of the time, I got to write stories about seagull crime mafias in Devon.
‘Not even for a small glass of pinot grigio?’ Sam asked again.
‘Sam, why are you so desperate to get Ruth drunk?’ Tasha interrupted, swivelling her chair around to parachute into the conversation, her tone cutting. ‘Do you not see the ring on her finger?’
‘I have a girlfriend,’ Sam protested, his annoyingly pinched voice cracking. ‘The hot Swedish one I told you about before. Astrid.’
‘Yeah, I’ll believe that when I see it,’ Tasha grunted, unconvinced, before turning back to the intern, who was nodding frantically, hanging on to every syllable Tasha uttered as though her life depended on it.
‘Sam, again, no. I’m not coming to drinks tonight,’ I said, trying to sound final and absolute in my tone while Sam looked like something resembling a scorned puppy. ‘I’ve already got plans and besides, do you really think it’s a great idea for me to stagger home drunk after dark at the moment?’
It was that which, finally, seemed to shut him up. Sulking, Sam shuffled back to his domain. Tasha tapped me on the shoulder, having awkwardly manoeuvred her chair beside me.
‘Do you think “Astrid” is just what he calls his right hand?’ she whispered, her wide, mischievous grin plastered ungracefully across her face.
I almost felt bad for laughing. Sam’s clumsy attempts at womanising the entire office were legendary. The time he walked into a pillar and gave himself a light concussion while ogling Esha on the far side of the room had practically become a core part of office legend.
‘Ooh, speaking of arseholes,’ Tasha murmured, nodding toward the door. ‘Here comes our very own golden boy.’
Sure enough, there he was, the big Double J as we liked to call him, sauntering in at the end of the work day as though he was only late because he had won yet another award last night to cram onto his desk. Statistically, he probably had.
‘I still think what he’s doing is in bad taste,’ Tasha said.
‘Journalism for people with brains the size of peas? That’s been a thing for a while,’ I quipped, both of us watching keenly as Double J slumped down into his chair on the side of the office with the view of the Thames.
Lord, I hated him. The Managing Editor, Deborah, often had me quietly rewrite some of his articles for web, so it didn’t sound like an unhinged narcissist had complete hegemony over the newspaper printers.
Reminded me of Orwell, you know, the chap who wrote 1984, the book every red-faced boomer pretends they’ve read.
But it was actually his wife, Eileen O’Shaughnessy, who had a huge hand in shaping his work; editing, rewriting, sometimes inserting her own ideas, and he just took all the credit.
God, I knew how she felt. Although, let me clarify, Double J is not someone I’d ever consider nuptials with.
Thing is, despite his ego being the size of the Daily Mail’s headline font, I mostly hated Double J because he gave Greta an abundance of passive-aggressive notes when he didn’t get his way.
She would just be working away in IT and then he would make the odyssey to the floor above, approach her desk wordlessly, and then drop a note about how he wanted his article at the top of the home page or for her to remove some disparaging comments about an article he had written.
Man had absolutely no humility or manners whatsoever.
My phone buzzed violently on the desk. It was Greta, letting me know she was done for the day and waiting for me downstairs.
‘Right, I reckon I’m done. I’m off for a pre-birthday meal with Greta,’ I announced, shutting down my computer.
‘Oh, enjoy! Pre-birthday?’ Tasha asked.
‘Yeah, well, Greta’s away in Ottawa on some training seminar for my actual birthday so we’re doing it today. It’s a whole thing. Talk tomorrow?’ I said to Tasha whilst yanking my arms through the sleeves of my jacket.
‘I’ll be here, like most days,’ Tasha replied with a fatalistic grunt, shuffling herself on her wheeled chair back to her desk. ‘But please text me when you get home, okay? And be safe?’
‘I will, I will,’ I said, sounding like a child appeasing a nagging mum although I knew I would have said the exact same to her. ‘Besides, Greta’s staying at mine tonight, so we’ll stick together. Plus, I think there’s a police officer stationed every seven yards in Fulham at the moment.’
Tasha gave me one of her sceptical, don’t quite believe you nods as I swiped away Chlo’s messages that were incessantly hogging up the majority of my phone screen.
I never understood why all her messages were sent in chunks of ten words or less, if ever she discovered voice notes, I was in deep, deep trouble.
I replied to Greta, letting her know I was on my way down.
I had to admit, I wasn’t exactly in the mood for socialising tonight, and not just because of the notorious serial killer lurking about London streets.
It was more the fact that I felt utterly and despairingly useless at work.
Like a spare part created solely to make the lads at the top look even more shiny and impressive.
When I joined five years ago, Greta had pulled all the strings she could, despite being a very junior member of the team, to get me an interview.
I had thought this was my dream job, a huge media empire with a reputable paper at its centre that had a distinguished reputation for investigative journalism.
And at first, I was brimming with ideas, frothing at the mouth to finally write the articles I always wanted to, and they humoured me, letting me write my various pieces in my first few months, despite some heavy editing.
But as time went on, more and more of my ideas were dismissed.
If they couldn’t be condensed into 500 words with a catchy headline that would drag someone in from their Facebook feeds, chances were it wouldn’t be green-lit for publication.
Eventually, I stopped making suggestions altogether; I had decided that I had quite enough of rejection and would just rather begrudgingly write about how boiling tap water was worse than smoking and could turn you into a senile, impotent human kettle; well, that and Megxit always seemed to get our readers in such a tizzy.
I hurried down the stairs to find Greta waiting in the lobby, wearing her now-iconic beautiful, flowing emerald single-breasted boyfriend coat.
She gave me a small wave, and we shed our corporate skins to be real humans again as I broke into a half run across the marble flooring to embrace her, wrapping my arms tight around her petite frame as I used all the strength in my core to gently lift her off the ground.
It was ridiculous really, we had only seen each other a few hours ago when I went to bother her in IT.
No wonder Sam had once started a rumour that we were both closet lesbians.
‘Hello, friend,’ I whispered, holding her body close to me. ‘How is IT?’
‘Terrible,’ she replied softly. ‘How is Editorial?’
‘Terrible.’
I loosened my grip slightly to let her drop back onto her feet as I could feel my back muscles start to spasm with pain.
‘Well, you look stunning, petal,’ she replied, her voice soft and sing-songy. ‘Happy, Happy Early-Birthday. How are you? How was the rest of your day?’
‘I’m…’ I paused, searching for the right words without being too overly morose. ‘I’m okay. It’s been a bit nauseating with everything going on, but I’m sort of okay… I think.’