Page 1 of The Thing About My Prince
CHAPTER ONE
LEXI
When the taste of the stale, dusty air in my editor’s office hits my tongue, I know my mouth’s open.
But I can’t force out any words despite the fact that I’ve just been offered the job I’ve been working toward for the ten years since I graduated from journalism school.
At least, I think that’s what happened.
All the atoms in my brain are whizzing around and bouncing off each other like popcorn in a hot pan.
Julian Snarque peers at me over his half-moon glasses and clasps his hands on the ancient, coffee-stained blotter on his desk. “Alexandra, you look like I’ve told you your puppy died, rather than offered you the Eastern European conflict correspondent’s job you’ve been harassing me about since you started here.”
It makes me want to scream that he calls me by the full name in my byline, not Lexi, like everyone else has since I was born. But on this occasion, I’ll let it go.
“Harassingis a little harsh.” I should probably have let that go too. Rather than criticize him, I should jump up and downand hug him and scream from the rooftop that I’m finally getting out into the world to spotlight the realities of people trying to live their lives in war zones.
Hugging him would be weird though. Has anyone ever hugged him? Even his mom? I think he was born sitting in that cracked leather chair atThe Current, the weekly publication long respected for its investigative reporting.
It took five years of working my way up through local and then national news to get here. All my journalism heroes passed through these esteemed, yet rundown, offices on the west side of lower Manhattan.
Once I entered these hallowed halls, I spent three years working on every crappy story handed to me on the General Assignments desk, and doing favors like devoting the most excruciating three months of my journalistic life to writing an “autobiography” of a twenty-three-year-old pop star for the publishing company that owns us, before I was finally promoted to the Nexus Desk—or The Deskus as we usually call it—The Current’s investigative journalism team.
In the two years I’ve been part of that team, we’ve broken some amazing stories that have changed people’s lives, like the one about seniors’ care homes and another about a toxic water supply. But a war correspondent’s position, out in the field, has always been my goal. And now, finally, I’ll get to don a flak jacket and get out there to do some good.
“Sorry, Julian. I’m a bit stunned. Guess I’ve been on the Deskus for so long that deep down maybe I never thought this would ever happen.”
“You’re an excellent journalist, Alexandra. A superb writer. You deserve the chance.” He sniffs and pushes his glasses up his nose. “And it’s a good time to give you a shot at it. Since we’re having to shuffle some personnel around anyway.”
“Shuffling people around?”
“Well, legacy news publications are hardly a stranger tocutbacks these days. So, yes, when it came down to closing the Nexus team, I figured it was time to give you a chance rather than lay you off.”
“You’reclosingthe Deskus? Laying offthe whole team?” My eyeballs might be about to pop free from their sockets.
These people are my friends and colleagues. One recently had her third kid. Another’s mother is about to go into palliative care. And one guy’s on arthritis medication that costs a fortune without insurance. They’re all talented, brilliant people. And they need their jobs.
“Yes. Orders from above.” Julian gestures to the ceiling, above which sits Graham Regus, the owner of Parkhouse Publications, our parent company and publisher of all manner of airport paperbacks and, of course, teen-pop autobiographies.
He’s also the father of Lee Regus, the laziest and most useless reporter on the General Assignments desk. Can’t imagine how he got his job.
“Anyway,” Julian says. “HR, or whatever they call themselves these days, will be in touch with details of your new package.”
Oh gosh, yes, a raise. That part hadn’t even crossed my mind. But I want this job so badly I’d take it even if it meant a bit of a pay cut.
“Amazing. Thank you.” I jump to my feet, hands suddenly shaking. How the hell am I going to face my Deskus pals who’re being laid off while I’m being promoted?
The reality of landing the job of my dreams, the one I’ve wanted since I was in high school, is struggling to sink in.
I need to go tell Becca—my best friend, roommate, andThe Current’s social media queen.
Her first suggestion will undoubtedly be to meet after work at the Dead Skunk—the pub around the corner that’s been the traditional place of celebration and commiserationfor the magazine’s staff for close to a century. And on this sunny September day it will be glorious on the patio.
“Thanks, Julian.” I hold my hand toward him over his desk. “I appreciate the opportunity. And I promise I won’t let you down.”
He doesn’t take my hand. Just leaves it there, hovering awkwardly over a pile of papers that should probably have been a PDF.
“You might want to sit back down for a moment.” His voice carries all the ominous weight of a true crime voiceover saying,“And then tragedy struck…”right before an ad break.
