Page 91 of I Did Something Bad
I feel like I’m standing in the middle of a room with a dozen different isolated tiny fires, and I don’t know which one to address first. At last, I go for the most obvious one. “What do you mean it was alove letter?”
“Khin, did you read what you wrote?”
“Yes! Of course! Multiple times!”
“Did you read it as someone who—” She cocks a teasing brow. “—isnotin denial about being in love?”
“Clarissa—” I laugh, but it doesn’t sound funny. None of this is funny. This is my job, my career. And I cannot be sitting at a five-star French-Chinese fusion fine dining restaurant while my professional life falls apart before my eyes. “No offense, but do you think you readit through a biased lens? I know you weren’t thrilled about the rumors after what happened at the dim sum place, and—”
Somehow, I know to stop talking when she picks up her wineglass. She swirls it around, sips, and puts it back down, never once taking her eyes off of my face. “I believed you back then when you said you weren’t dating. And I don’t believe that you ever were. Dating, I mean. You’re too smart and too good of a journalist to let a man derail your assignment.”
I nod, exhaling for what feels like the first time in twenty minutes. “Thank you. I am, and I didn’t.”
“But Khin, that’s the stupid, infuriating, clichéd thing about love, isn’t it? You don’t get to choose who you fall for.”
“I didn’t—”
“I’m not going to press it,” she says, raising her hands to stop me mid-protest. “I’m simply telling youwhywe can’t print the draft you filed. By the way, I hope you don’t mind,” she continues breezily. “I went ahead and ordered us both the surf and turf. The steak and lobster here aresublime.”
“The—” My brain stumbles on itself as it tries to keep up. “Steak and lobster?”
“Yes,” she says, looking confused as to whyI’mconfused. “You’re not allergic to shellfish, are you?”
That’s not exactly why I’m stammering, but nonetheless, I say, “Uh, n-no.”
“Good. Oh, another thing,” Clarissa says, swilling her glass in the air once more. “The job’s yours.”
I do a double take, literally gripping the edge of the table to stop myself from falling forward. “What?” I breathe out. “The… full-time position?”
She nods once.
“But I… couldn’t get you your scoop. I tried, but I… didn’t do it.”
“But youdiddo the best possible job anyone could. Look, I know I puta bitof pressure on you about getting me a nice, shiny scoop that I could put on the cover and frame for my office,” she says, and I have to roll in my lips to stop myself from saying something along the lines ofThat’s putting it mildly. “But despite this, frankly,messof a first draft, it’s clear that you’ve put in the work, and more importantly, that you cared about your subject. That’s what I should’ve asked of you from the beginning. It’sallI should’ve asked of you. Every single one of your previous pieces of writing, not to mention all of those stellar references, have proven again and again that you’re the type of journalist who goes all in and cares about her subjects, and you did exactly that with this article, too.
“And the longer I sat with your draft, the more I realizedthisis the kind of story I want. Not a love letter,” she clarifies. “But…goodwriting. Something that I’d be proud to print. And even though this first draft isn’t quite what I was looking for, I admit, in retrospect, I let my personal desire to brag to everyone about securing a Tyler Tun scoop get in the way of, you know, good journalism.” She shrugs, and I can’t quite believe what’s happening here. Clarissa doing a one-eighty and… admitting she made a mistake? “But I runVogue,not some underhanded rumor mill. I want sharp, hardworking, trustworthy people withintegrityin my office. Which is why you’ll fit right in.”
If I had felt earlier that my career was falling apart, now it feels like it’s reassembled itself into some sort of super-charged version of its previous iteration. “Just so I have this right,” I say, my chest squeezing tighter as the magnitude of the situation hits. “You’re offering me a job atVogue? A full-time job? AtVogue? As a reporter? Right now? Here?”
“Yes. To all of the above,” Clarissa says with a wink. “How could I let a writer like you slip through my fingers?”
“Oh my god,” I whisper, more to myself. My hands are still on thetable edge, and I have to grasp it tighter to keep myself grounded.This is it,I think. I’d been petrified about where my life was going next, but here it is. I can see it. A job atVogue. AcareeratVogue. I could be in an editorial position in a couple of years. Hell, I could eventually be in Clarissa’s position, IknowI could. And beyond the job, I’m being offered a new life in Singapore. A fresh start. The fresh start I’d so desperately wanted.
I’m still lost in this weird hypnotic phase and only catch the last syllable of what Clarissa’s just said. “Sorry?” I ask, sitting up. “Can you repeat that? Sorry, I’m a little overwhelmed right now.”
She nods her head knowingly, as though this is everyone’s reaction to getting a job offer from her. “I said, take the next two weeks to consider it.”
Consider it?I open my mouth, ready to (politely) yell something along the lines ofI don’t need to consider it! It’s goddamn Vogue!
But she speaks first. “While you’re writing that second draft. Every time you’re in front of your computer, think if you want to do more of this. There’s no rush here, and I know it’d be a big next step for you. It’d be a change, and change can be good, but you need to make sure it’s the right kind of change.”
Three-months-ago me would’ve waved away her suggestion and requested she draw up a contract right now so I could sign it on the spot and we could wrap up the night by celebrating with champagne. But the words “think if you want to do more of this” flash in my brain like a dim warning siren. At this point, our food arrives, and even in my dazed state, the scent of freshly grilled lobster and steak arouses my hunger.
I pick up my knife and fork while Clarissa is already popping a piece of rib eye into her mouth. “Thank you,” I say as I go to cut my own steak. And even though here is a next step, a plan that is bigger and full of more possibilities and more ambitious than anythingI’dever dared to dream for myself, handed to me on the most silver of platters, I hear myself say, “Iwillthink about it.”
That night, I light my favorite mahogany-and-lavender candle, wrap myself in my couch throw, sit down at my laptop, and open the draft—which I haven’t so much as glanced at since sending it to Clarissa—and try to see it through her eyes.
“So what’s he like?”
