Page 113 of Not That Impossible

“Ralph—”

“Hmm. Thatiscause for concern, isn’t it? The likelihood that my empire, which I have so laboriously and lovingly built over the years, is about to come crashing down, all because I took a chance on a bright-eyed young journalist, out of the kindness of my heart? Yes, that’s very concerning.”

Ralph had bought theInquirerfive years ago after retiring from selling BMWs. His wife fondly referred to it as his retirement hobby. He was laying it on a bit thick.

“Ray won’t sue,” I said. “I have it on good authority. I’m going to apologise to him personally, when he’s not so sore about it, and it will all be fine.”

“Hah. What good authority?”

I didn’t think that saying my best friend, now Ray’s boyfriend, said so was going to be very reassuring. Instead, I went with, “I have a source.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“A good journalist never reveals his sources,” I said automatically. Ralph very slowly raised a single eyebrow. “Right. I know.” I looked down at my knees. “I’m not a good journalist.”

Ralph set the glass down and threw himself back in his chair, making it squeak. He rubbed his nose. “You’re not a bad journalist, Jasper, you’re just…” He sighed. “You’re young.”

“I’m twenty-four.”

“And that means you’re allowed to fuck up as you find your way, all right? I’m sixty-five. I don’t have that excuse or luxury anymore. I’m the editor and the owner. I knew after the first article that you’re not built for a quick turnaround, but the article did well, and I pushed you into doing it again. It’s on me.”

I winced.

“I’m thinking it’s best if you go back to writing your little general interest pieces. About bees and stuff. Get some experience under your belt. The next time I put you on the front page—”

“There won’t be a next time,” I said. “I quit.”

“I’m not telling you to do that, Jasper.”

“I know. I don’t think I’m any good at this. I don’t think I want to do it again. Thank you for believing in me, and I’m sorry, but I’m done.”

“That is a damn shame. You’ve got talent. You’re a great storyteller.”

“I’m great with stories. This is reality. I keep trying, but I’m not so great at that.” I shrugged. “I don’t want to upset people. Ray was pretty upset.”

Ralph cleared his throat. “My door’s always open,” he said gruffly.

“Okay. Thanks again. Bye.”

I walked out, got in my car, and drove to the gym, leaving my dreams of being a journalist behind.

26

Ihad a spin class at five, and I ran out as soon as possible to avoid getting cornered by any of the seniors who wanted to squeeze extra gossip out of me. I’d planned on going home, and yet somehow I’d ended up sitting in my car in front of Liam’s house, gripping the steering wheel and telling myself to leave.

By ‘somehow,’ I mean I had to call Mrs Blake for Liam’s new address, since I’d realised I didn’t know where he lived. As soon as I had it, I drove over and parked up on the other side of the street.

Liam’s house was small and nothing special, situated in one of the quieter, less tourist-worthy areas of town. It was surprisingly similar to mine. Even more surprisingly, it was only a few streets over. I could run there in five minutes from my house. Less, if I sprinted.

I’d imagined him living in one of the big houses in the centre of town, made of honey-coloured Cotswold stone, and draped with purple wisteria.

Then again, divorce knocked your finances for six. He probably wasn’t living the high life right now.

I didn’t know if Itechnicallyowed Liam an apology for misrepresenting him in the article, buttechnicallycould stuff it. I felt bad about it. I wanted to apologise to his face.

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