Page 5 of Is She Really Going Out with Him?
The next morning, after walkingEthan to school, I get the bus into town, then I need to speed-walk up the high street if I’m going to get to my desk by nine o’clock.Bath Livinghas offices in the historic center, on the ground floor of a Georgian town house. I’ve been at the magazine for five years, and my job has provided much-needed stability while the rest of my life was falling apart. Jonathan, the managing director, is a sweetheart. He lets me work flexible hours, and while I started out as freelance, I’m now a staff writer with my own column. I know lots of people hate their job, so I count myself lucky that I have nothing to complain about on that front.
As I’m hurrying up Monmouth Street toward the office, someone falls into step beside me. “Morning.” I turn to see the looming figure of Will Havers smiling down at me. Scrap that, I do haveonecomplaint. While I’ve thrown on whatever clothes I could find in my rush to leave the house, Will is always perfectly styled. Today he is modeling “spring work wear” from his catalog of looks: blue suit trousers, a crisp white shirt, and a perfectly tailored beige trench coat. He’s also sporting his trademark dark-rimmed glasses, which I suspect he wears more for fashion than for vision.
“Morning, Will,” I reply. It’s a five-minute walk to the office.I can be civil for five minutes.Though I’m power walking as fast as I can, Will has such long legs, he need only saunter to keep pace with me.
“Good weekend?” he asks.
“Yes. You?”
“Wonderful.
“I saw the layout for your piece on the art exhibition at the Pump Room,” he says.
“Right,” I say, unable to hide my suspicion. Will has only been at the magazine for six months. He’s the same level as I am but acts as though he’s more senior and has a habit of giving unsolicited feedback.
“I liked your interview with the graphic artist, it’s smart, funny,” Will tells me.
“Thank you,” I say, turning to look at him. I can’t believe he brought it up just to give me a compliment.
“If it were me, I would include a few more photos of guests at the opening,” he says, swinging his leather document wallet, which hasWHembossed in gold on the side.“People like seeing the fashionable faces invited to these events as much as they like seeing the art.”And there it is, the feedback I didn’t ask for.
“It’s about the exhibition though, the artist, it’s not a who’s who,” I say tightly, trying to increase my pace.
“Sure,” he says, nodding just once. “I don’t mean to criticize.”Except he does.“Jonathan has asked me to look at how we can skew toward a younger demographic. With events like this, the social angle always helps. We need people to tag us on their socials, make the exhibition look like it was the place to be. The art is secondary.”
“Secondary?” I say while exhaling a burst of angry air. “This isn’tHellomagazine. It was a serious piece about a serious artist.”
“Which is why it was seriously dull,” Will says, and I canhear him smiling before I stop on the street and turn to glower at him, one hand planted on my hip. “Sorry,” he says, with a smile that says he’s not sorry at all. “I’m only winding you up, it wasn’t dull. I just think you should review the photos before it goes to print, make it look like people were actually there.”
“Will, I have been working as a journalist for longer than you’ve had facial hair, so I don’t think I need your input, but thank you,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Five typos says otherwise, but sure,” Will says under his breath.
“There were not five typos in that article.” I feel my rage building now, while Will remains infuriatingly cheerful.
“If we’re counting grammatical errors, yes, there were five.”
Glaring up at him, I take in the strong jaw, the green brooding eyes, the mouth that looks as though it’s permanently trying to conceal some private amusement. He reminds me of a cartoon villain or the man on the cover of a romance novel. His good looks are so boringly predictable, it’s all 2D perfection, there’s no nuance to his face at all.
“It hasn’t been proofread yet. It’s allowed to have typos,” I explain through clenched teeth. “And I’m thrilled you have time to pore over other people’s work looking for their mistakes, but some of us have lives.” I pause. “People that do that are not team players, they’re pedants.”
“Peoplewhodo that are not team players,” Will says, biting his lip. We finally reach the office, and Will opens the door for me. “I’m just trying to raise everyone’s game, Anna, make the magazine as good as it can be. I would be open to feedback from you.”
I claw back the urge to say, “My feedback is to go fuck yourself,” and instead opt for, “You’re a typo, Will.” Which might be the worst comeback I’ve ever delivered and causes Will to scrunch up his face in confusion.
“Mature,” he says, hanging his coat on a peg in the hall, then reaching to take mine, but I snatch it back, childishly. I don’t need his help.
Inside, the open-plan office is abuzz with undefinable energy. Colleagues are gathered around each other’s desks talking in hushed whispers. No one is doing any work.
“What’s happening?” I ask Karl, who sits opposite me. He is vaping furiously, though we’re not supposed to vape inside. Karl wears his hair in a man-bun and has veneers so white they sometimes distract me from my work.
“Jonathan’s called a company meeting,” Karl says. “Val heard from some guy she met at Yogalates, who knows someone who works in accounts, that the magazine’s gone bust.” Karl makes a show of biting his fingernails. “I can’t lose my job. I just bought a Shih Tzu.”
A vortex of fear starts swirling in my stomach. I can’t lose my job either. There aren’t many publications in Bath, and I would struggle to find anything this flexible.
“Oh, and I need a small business owner to give me a quote on rising tourism numbers, any ideas? You always know who will be good,” Karl says.
“Sure, I’ll send you a list,” I say. Then the girls at the sales desk beckon Karl over, and he hurries off to talk to them. The magazine is a social workplace. With twenty-two staff, there are often people going for drinks after work or gossiping in the communal kitchen. I am not part of all that. I’m friendly to everyone, but when I’m here, I need to get my head down and my work done so I can leave on time to pick up Ethan from school. Making small talk with twenty-three-year-olds about their nail extensions or with Karl about his hierarchy of dog breeds is not an efficient use of my time.
