Page 101 of Is She Really Going Out with Him?
Crispin has called everyone infor a meeting. I have to go in. I can’t invent any more reasons to work from home. He’s going to announce his plans for the restructuring, and we’ll find out who’s being made redundant. I’ve been so distracted, I’ve hardly had time to worry about the prospect of losing my job. Jonathan sits with the rest of us, while Crispin has taken the large armchair in the middle of the living room. It denotes an unnerving power shift—Jonathan is no longer in charge.
As I walk in, Crispin beckons me over. “Anna, I loved the column about the widower,” he says. “The stuff where you compare divorce to the death of a future, lovely stuff, very moving.”
I feel myself swell with pride. I have been trying to put more of myself into the column, and I’m pleased he noticed. Then he waves for me to sit down with the others and addresses the whole room.
“When I came on board just a few months ago,Bath Livingfelt like a publication from a different era. It was stale, out of touch, sales were dwindling,” Crispin tells us, pressing his fingers into a spire. “With our shift toward online and a change in focus,we’ve already seen a marked upswing.”Phew! The business is saved.“Unfortunately, it’s just not going to be enough to make the magazine profitable in its current format. The only way to keep the publication going is to scrap the print magazine entirely, close the Bath office, and run the online edition from our digital hub in London.”
There’s a collective intake of breath. I glance around the room. Jonathan looks devastated, but everyone else looks as though they knew this was coming. Was I the only one caught off-guard?
“We’ll still employ a small team of freelance journalists to create local content. There will be work for many of you, though in a slightly different capacity.” Crispin looks to Jonathan, who wrings his hands, then addresses us.
“I can only apologize to you all. I do hope you won’t blame Crispin here. We were already up a gum tree without a paddle when he came on board. We would have had to close entirely if it weren’t for him. This way, the publication will continue, the name will live on.”
“I don’t want anyone to panic,” Crispin says. “There’ll be a transition period, generous redundancy packages, new opportunities. This is an evolution, not an ending.”
But from the looks on everyone’s faces, it feels like an ending.
As the meeting disperses, I listen to people chatting. It sounds like Kelly already has another job lined up; others have been interviewing, putting out feelers. Am I the only one who doesn’t have a backup plan? I’ve been so preoccupied with the dating column, competing with Will, sleeping with Will, I’ve failed to see the writing on the wall. In the open-plan office, people discuss their options, while along the corridor Jonathan sits in the living room drinking scotch, staring out of the window. He looks like an emperor overseeing the fall of Rome, his life’s work crumbling around him.
Crispin has scheduled meetings with departments and individuals to discuss how their role will be “transitioned.” Will and I are called in together. I avoid his eyes as we make our way to Jonathan’s office, which Crispin has requisitioned.
“It’s good news for you two,” Crispin says, slapping a hand on the desk. “The dating column has been a hit. It gets a high volume of click-through and has been the most shared link these last three weeks. You’re recognizable faces for the brand now. We’d like to keep you both on, though in a freelance capacity.” He pauses, waiting for us to look delighted, which neither of us is. “Though there might be less job security, there will still be plenty of work.”
“I won’t be staying,” says Will. “I’ve taken another job.”
“Oh, that’s a shame,” Crispin says, his face falling. “Where are you off to?”
Will fiddles with his glasses. I glance across at him, but he won’t look at me.
“An international news station in Paris,” Will says. “I’ll be presenting their arts and culture segment.”
While my heart feels like it’s imploding, I am also thrilled for him. He will be so good at that job and I know it’s what he wanted. What hereallywanted.
“Congratulations,” I tell him.
“I was holding off accepting,” he says, finally looking across at me. “But since the situation here is now clear, I have no reason not to go.”
“Damn shame. Can we tempt you to keep writing a column from Paris?” Crispin offers. “An Englishman dating abroad?”
“I won’t be able to in my new role, I’m afraid,” Will says. His manner is so stiff and professional, I can’t believe this is the same man who kissed me so passionately. “I’ll be sure to deliver the last few columns before I go.”
“You’ll have time to fit in that final date up the Eiffel Tower,I hope?” Crispin asks. “We’ve already trailed it as the column finale alongside Anna’s Regency ball.”
“Yes, of course,” Will says, eyes now firmly on Crispin.
“Well, I can’t say I’m not disappointed to be losing you. You’ve been attuned to my vision from the start.” Crispin turns his gaze to me. “I hope you aren’t going anywhere, Anna?”
“Nope,” I say with a pang of regret. My opportunity to move to Paris and go on exciting adventures has long passed. My chance with Will, gone too. My life is here.
“And you’ll be happy to stay on the same day rate? You won’t have the same holiday or pension entitlement, but that’s a standard way of contracting journalists these days.” Crispin shoots me a tight smile. “The amount of people Jonathan had on staff payroll was totally untenable, I’m afraid.” He turns to start tapping away at his computer, as though my agreement is merely a formality. He shifts his eyes from his screen, straight to Will. “Put a lunch in my diary before you go, Will. I’ll share my contacts in Paris.”
“No,” I hear myself say.
“No?” Crispin asks, turning to me, then laughing. “You don’t want me and Will to have lunch?”
“No to the question before, about accepting those terms.” I look Crispin in the eye.
“What do you mean?” Crispin asks, screwing up his face in confusion.
