42. Forty-two
Forty-two
Ainsley
D ella makes a killer peach margarita, and we’ve enjoyed plenty at this point. I’m blissfully numb, my brain fuzzy and no longer endlessly spiraling through every bad thing that’s happened to me and is bound to come. She berated me and asked how I could’ve been behind the Atlanta Haute List for two years and not told her before she let me have my first margarita, but she showed up when I needed her, and that’s what counts. She’s hurt I didn’t tell her about my covert machinations and the site I ran, but that was the point of staying anonymous. I needed to keep the site to myself or risk exposure. I know she’s trustworthy and would have kept my secret, but I didn’t tell anyone . The guilt has magnified with each margarita, and I’m feeling particularly contrite now.
Della flips through a streaming app on Payton’s giant TV, finding my favorite comfort movie, the 2005 Keira Knightley version of Pride and Prejudice . “Here you go, doll, I found your movie. Now you can feel all cozy and enjoy watching Mr. Darcy reform himself because he realizes the errors of his ways, just like you have.”
“Have I told you how pretty you are and how nice you are to be my friend?” I say, rolling my heavy head along the back of the couch to look at her sprawled out next to me. “No one else puts up with me like you. It’s good to have a friend.” I hiccup and let out a small, sad laugh.
Della snorts and looks over at me. “Wow, I’m getting mushy Ainsley? You must really feel bad. I’ve already forgiven you for keeping this huge secret from me, so don’t let it eat you alive. I just want to know some of the crazy things people sent in that you didn’t post.”
“My lips are sealed. My gossip-mongering days are over.” I mime zipping my lips and throwing away the key.
She hits play and chucks a pillow at me that I fail to catch. It hits me square in the face. I sputter and pull it down to hug against my chest as she tosses my fuzzy pink blanket over our legs. We cranked the air conditioning up so we could turn the fireplace on and get comfy on the couch. It doesn’t matter if it’s almost August in Georgia. Here, we’re experiencing a chilly British day that requires ambiance to watch my favorite movie.
My phone vibrates in my lap as Lizzy walks through a field toward her house. I pull it out and blearily read the screen. I tap on the notification for a new email and see the sender is from one of the newspapers here in town, The Southern Sounder. They tend to sensationalize news stories and always have a lean to their reporting that I’m not a fan of.
From: Carlton Daley [email protected]
To: Ainsley Montgomery [email protected]
Subject: We have an offer for you
Dear Ms. Montgomery,
Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Carlton Daley and I’m the editor of the Lifestyle and Entertainment section of the Southern Sounder. The editorial staff has long followed the reporting of the Atlanta Haute List, and we’re impressed not only by your latest post taking ownership of the Haute List, for better or worse, but by the years of stirring posts you’ve authored following the who’s who of Atlanta. We’ve enjoyed the tone of the posts, as well as the thought that went into each one, despite being a gossip site with the ability to exaggerate the melodrama or only report the most basic of details.
We would like to offer you a position on our Lifestyle and Entertainment team as our new page six gossip columnist. This would be a role that aligns with your considerable talents and continues the work of the Atlanta Haute List in a legitimate space. We like your writing style, the voice you’ve created, and would love to have you join the Southern Sounder.
We look forward to your reply and hope to discuss your addition to the team!
Regards,
Carlton Daley
I groan, letting my phone drop into my lap as tears well in my eyes.
Della pauses the movie just as Lizzy is learning that Mr. Bingley has let Netherfield Hall. “What happened now? Why are you in tears?” she asks, scooting across the couch to wipe my cheeks with her thumbs.
I hand her my phone while I drain the last of my margarita, looking for the buzz I lost when I read the email. She quickly scans through it and looks back at me in confusion.
“This is great news! They offered you a job and they’re one of the bigger papers here in town. Why are you sad?”
“They didn’t offer me a legitimate job. They based this offer on my notoriety and want me to continue the work of the Haute List, reporting gossip.” I pull the pillow tighter against my chest. “I’m done with that, Della. I’ve been busting my ass for over two years at the Gazette so I can move up to a better paper writing about serious issues. They don’t want me for that. They just want me to resurrect the Haute List for their paper. I can’t do it. I’ve committed to doing better, and this is the same thing that got me to this miserable place where I’m humiliated and I’ve jeopardized my credibility as a journalist, again .”
I can’t believe I’m disappointed about a job offer with a large paper when I should be thrilled that someone wants me after how badly I’ve fucked up. It’s what I’ve longed for since prematurely leaving NYU and hiding away at the Gazette. But this isn’t how I wanted to make a name for myself. I have to set my standards higher and look for something that wants my writing for real news, not the gossip I’m now known for.
“What if you look at it like a foot in the door for the paper?” Della muses, sitting back against the couch and looking at me as seriously as she can through a peach margarita haze. “Maybe you start out writing the gossip column and move to other entertainment stories, then to hard news? It might be a good option for you now that you’re fun employed.”
She’s so good at looking for the positives in every situation, and she’s not wrong. I could look at it that way. My heart sinks, realizing that’s not going to be enough for me.
“I don’t want to settle for this when I could do better with my career. I don’t want to only be known as a Gossip Girl, a real-life Lady Whistledown. I need to hold out and pursue something that’ll actually fulfill my need to report on hard news and restore my credibility. I’m hoping to hear back about my story on Payton. I sent a proposal to about ten different papers and business magazines. Maybe seeing it published will help my job search and make me more desirable for the kinds of offers I’m looking for.
“You’ll find something and anyone who passes on you will be kicking themselves when you’re given a Pulitzer Prize for one of your stories. I can see it now. We’ll manifest that shit and within five years, you’re going to look back on this moment and realize it wasn’t the darkest night of your soul but the moment everything started looking up. You’re like a phoenix rising from the ashes already.”
Tears spill over my lashes and I wipe them away. “Your faith in my ability to rise out of this and make it better is very sweet. I just don’t see it yet.”
“Trust me, it’ll all work out.”