Page 6 of Is She Really Going Out with Him?
“Everyone!” Jonathan calls, sticking his head out of his office. “Living room, five minutes.”
Jonathan Courtauld is a gay, graying Don Draper type with extravagant yet impeccable taste. He inherited the magazine from his father, who ran it the way his father had run it in the 1960s. Everything about the place is an anachronism, including the office itself, which feels more like an elegant private home than a workplace. Jonathan’s art collection adorns the walls, and bookshelves full of first editions line the halls. All the “necessary but ugly stuff,” like photocopiers and printers, is discreetly hidden away behind closed doors.
The living room, which doubles as our meeting room, is decked out with velvet sofas, antique Persian rugs, and a large ottoman stacked with books on art and design. In the corner there’s an ornate, old-fashioned drinks trolley for “cocktails at five” on Friday afternoons. I’m told Jonathan makes a mean gin sling, though I wouldn’t know.
Jonathan looks pensive as we all file in and search for somewhere to sit. Will takes the armchair next to Jonathan. Casey, Jonathan’s twenty-two-year-old assistant, walks across the room and runs a hand along the back of Will’s chair, brushing his neck as she goes. Will turns to grab her hand, then smiles at her, and she gives him a lovelorn look. I can’t believe how unprofessional they’re being, flirting at work. Last week, it was Emily in accounts, permanently hovering by Will’s desk. I honestly don’t know how the man gets any work done.
Unlike the rest of us, Will doesn’t look worried about this unscheduled meeting. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look worried. I heard one of the younger girls, Kelly, say that he comes from money. His family owns a house on the Circus, one of the most prestigious addresses in Bath, so maybe this is all just a hobby for him.
“In my father’s day, every coffee table in the county would have a copy of our magazine,” Jonathan says wistfully. “Vendors wouldn’t dream of advertising their property anywhere but in ourpages.” He starts pouring tea into china teacups, then places each one into a delicate saucer before handing them around. “Unfortunately, my dears, that is no longer the case. While we are still the premiere lifestyle and culture publication in the Southwest, print orders are down and our weekly online edition isn’t getting the numbers we need to secure sufficient advertising revenue.”
Murmurs circle around the room as people absorb what he’s telling us. I feel a surge of panic. My divorce was expensive, I have to cover the mortgage on my own now, and I have hardly any savings left. What will I do if I don’t have a job?
“But I have good news,” Jonathan continues. “We have found an investor, a company with just the right online expertise. Crispin Hardman from Arch Media is going to bring us into the twenty-first century, ha ha.” He laughs nervously as he sets down the teapot. “It won’t be plain sailing, we’ll all need to adapt. As you know, I’m the biggest luddite of all, but he’s seen something special in our little publication. He’s confident in our ability to evolve.”
Jonathan looks across at Will. “We have Will here to thank.” Jonathan reaches out to squeeze Will’s shoulder. “I didn’t want to alarm anyone until we had a solution, but over the last few months, Will has been helping me put together a pitch for investors. He’s gone above and beyond to get it right.”Will knew about this and didn’t tell anyone?“Well done, Will.” Jonathan leads a round of applause while Will at least has the grace to look awkward. “Now, I’ll be talking to you all individually about what this means,” Jonathan says once the clapping has subsided, “but I think we should all see this as a wonderful opportunity.”
A wonderful opportunity?It sounds like a big change, and one thing my life does not need is more change.
I’m first to be called into Jonathan’s office for a one-to-one.
“Exciting news,” I say, with false cheer, as Jonathan closes the door behind me.
“I’m afraid I was putting a rather brave face on it out there, Anna. The reality is jobs are going to be on the line.”
“Oh.” My stomach lurches.
“I didn’t think it was good for morale to speak too plainly, but investors like to clear out any perceived dead wood.” Jonathan smiles and rolls his eyes as though this is some minor inconvenience.Am I dead wood?“And I’m going to be honest with you, Anna. Crispin is not the biggest fan of your column.” Jonathan sits back in his chair, then hunches his shoulders around his neck, raising his hands in mock surrender.
“Oh?” I say quietly.
“Afraid not. He thinks According to Anna is—hang on, I’ll pull up his e-mail.” Jonathan moves a stack of papers from his desk and logs on to his computer. “Here we are: ‘the humdrum ramblings of a mundane middle-aged existence.’ ” Jonathan pulls an apologetic grimace. I feel myself bristle. “Don’t shoot the messenger. I just wanted you to know what you’re up against.”
“But readers love my column. I get e-mails about my column.”
“Our current demographic might, yes, but Crispin wants us to appeal to a younger, more ‘aspirational’ readership. He wants a column about nightlife and dating, full of drama and vulnerability. Someone who people will get invested in personally, who they’ll log in week after week to read about.”
“I write about dating and nightlife, I write about everything,” I say, crossing my arms defensively. Then I notice my smudged, messy manicure, applied by Jess, and fold my hands into fists. When I look up, Jonathan is holding up last month’s publication.
“ ‘My Date Night with the Bridgertons,’ ” he says, looking back at me. Jonathan picks up another issue from his desk. “The month before, you led with ‘Why Slipper Socks Are My New Wardrobe Essential.’ ” Jonathan shoots me another kindly grimace.
“I can be more aspirational if that’s the steer. I can go outmore,” I plead, though even the thought of having to put on real clothes and leave the house after dark makes me feel ill.
“I’m sorry, Anna, but I’m giving the back page to Will. He’s pitched me a ‘man about town’ dating column.”
“Will?” I exclaim, rising out of my chair, so I’m now standing in front of Jonathan’s desk. “But he already has the food column.”
“The way Will pitched it, he takes the whole back page, readers have the chance to really get to know him, build a personal connection.”Will pitched to steal my column? That is a new low, even for him.Jonathan gives me a sympathetic frown. “This isn’t personal, Anna. Arch Media commissioned opinion polls. Will is popular among the elusive eighteen-to-thirty age bracket.”
“And what was I?” I ask nervously.
“You get a high approval rating with the over-sixty-fives.” Jonathan bites his lip, and I groan in frustration.
“You can’t just take my column without giving me a chance,” I say, trying to sound stern.
Jonathan sighs. “The new leadership team want a dating column, and you don’t date.”
“I could date, if dating were required,” I offer rashly.
