Chapter 7
CHAPTER
SEVEN
EMMA
“What the fuck do you call this?”
Mr. Gold threw some papers down on my desk and then loomed over me with his arms crossed over his chest and a shitty look on his face. A look that told me he was beyond pissed.
It was Saturday, and I’d come in on my day off to write up the article and think of a strategy to pay for the abomination that’d happened at the end of the night. I was hoping Lloyd might accept a payment plan, or else I was well and truly fucked.
I’d barely slept last night. I felt like death after indulging in too many drinks. And now, here was my odious boss, leering over me with his coffee breath that made my stomach roll, his nostrils flaring like he was ready to breathe fire. I really needed a fucking break.
I picked up the papers, and at first glance, I could see they were a print off of the article I’d written.
“What’s the problem?” I stared back up at him. I had no idea what he was moaning about this time. I’d written a good, solid review.
“The problem...” He jabbed his chubby finger towards my desk. “Is that you haven’t got the first clue how to write an engaging piece.”
My brow furrowed, and my eyes narrowed on him as a volcano rumbled, threatening to explode inside me. There was rude and then there was this man.
“What do you mean? This is a good article. I included interesting and thought-provoking details about all the main artwork, the people who were there, and the performance...”
“Yes,” he snapped, rudely interrupting me.
“If you’re writing for a fucking brochure that’s advertising the place, then it’s fine.
It’s great. But do you think our readers want the five-star, sugar-coated, glossy review?
Or do they want to hear the nitty-gritty, the gossip, the bad and the ugly all rolled into a delicious package of disaster that they can revel in?
” He didn’t wait for me to respond. “They want a car crash, Emma. So they can slow down and bask in someone else’s misery.
” He nodded to the papers in my hand and added, “You can throw that in the bin. Start again. And this time, put something salacious into it. Sex it up.”
I didn’t say a word. I just watched him walk away, back to his office, my eyes burning hate into his back. And I didn’t bin my hard work, either. I placed it carefully into the drawer of my desk. I’d worked hard on that. It deserved to be read.
But self-doubt began to niggle my brain, and I sat staring at my computer screen for longer than was necessary, thinking about how I could improve an article that, in my heart, I didn’t believe needed improving.
My boss was being a jerk for the sake of it.
I knew the company’s ethos was to tell the truth and bring the news to the masses with honesty and integrity.
That’s what they advertised, anyway. They prided themselves on it.
But behind the scenes, it was a different story.
I considered giving Grace a call, so I could sound off to someone about what an asshole my boss was.
I knew she’d agree. But time wasn’t on my side, and I wanted to get my piece into the newspaper so badly.
So, I tweaked a few lines. Added in how dumbstruck I was over the big reveal at the end of S.K.A.M.’s performance, and how stark and harrowing I found it.
Would that be salacious enough for Stephen Gold?
Probably not, but I refused to compromise my professionalism and write something that didn’t happen.
I stayed in the office much later than I should’ve, and as day turned to night, I heard Mr. Gold exit his office behind me and stalk over to my desk.
“Monday’s front page of The Echo looks set to be our best yet,” he announced, then winked at me, and added, “You’re welcome.” Before strolling off, leaving me in an empty office.
I made sure he was gone before I punched the air in celebration. This was it. My big break. With a sparkling front page review for the gallery, Lloyd was sure to go easy on me on Monday.
And then Monday came...
And my heart stopped when I read the headline.
S.K.A.M.? More Like Scam Artist!
I started to read the article, my heart shattering with each vile and salacious sentence that I clearly hadn’t written, but when I saw the name credited on the article, I wanted to throw up.
Emma Belmont, Junior Reporter.
This was not how I wanted to make a name for myself.