‘What is it you do?’
‘I’m a journalist?’
Not Training to be, or Hoping to be, but I’m a journalist, already, though no one had probably paid you a penny for a single word yet. People your age are incredible. I didn’t tell anyone I was a journalist until my second promotion, when I’d just about stopped living in fear of someone telling me I wasn’t good enough to be there. We didn’t have ‘Fake it ’til you make it’ in the nineties. Neither did we have parents who had us believe we were the centre of the universe and that universe was rightfully ours.
‘Who do you write for?’
‘Myself mostly, I guess. I blog.’
‘What about?’
‘You know. This and that. My life…What I see.’
I thought and I waited. I enjoyed that moment before I said what I said to you next, ‘I edit a well-thought-of trade title. We’re always looking for interns if you’re in the market for the next move.’ I anticipated your breathlessness, the sound of your body turning towards me to give me your full and urgent attention. But it didn’t happen, so I kept talking, ‘I usually have between four and six interns working for me – one on design, another on picture research and at least two writers.’
Nothing.
‘I’ve seen people your age really learn their trade working in a professional environment, so, have a think, maybe. Opportunities can be hard to come by. Maybe this is fate?’ I tried to laugh, but it didn’t come. I sounded so old, so seasoned. I was forty-one, but I wanted to feel fresh and relevant, not like someone who says things like Your age and Learn your trade. I still felt young inside, but then thought, Isn’t that what old people say?
You looked at the road ahead and muttered, ‘I’m actually starting at a trade today. Interning.’ I noticed your fingers were gripping your laptop case. Clearly, you’d have liked it if I’d just stopped talking. You made me feel something I was suddenly aware I’d been closing in on without being able to badge it: you made me feel like an old fool. You continued, ‘It’s about management and stuff. Interviews with businesspeople. Things bosses care about. It’s called Leadership?’ You didn’t look at me as your voice inflected upwards again at the end of a sentence in a way that made you sound unambiguously young and annoying.
The next words formed in my mind, but they seemed to lose their power as soon as I went to say them. The offhand way you described the magazine told me you wouldn’t be deeply impressed by what I was about to say. And if I didn’t find myself remotely impressive anymore, why should anyone else, least of all you?
‘I edit Leadership,’ I said quietly.
You looked right at me, ‘Oh. That’s literally where I’m heading right now.’
‘That’s a bit fucking mad, isn’t it?’ I said. I didn’t register it then, but would learn later that you winced whenever I swore.
‘Wow. I guess it is.’
But it couldn’t have been that exciting, because you already sounded bored. It was the tone of a cooler person you meet at a party who spots someone more interesting over your shoulder and grabs a superlative out of the air as a sign off. I used to do that, but now it’s people like you who do it to me, young people who use my magazine as a mere departure lounge that allows them to soar somewhere brighter and better, me existing only to on-board the next batch of interns who would leapfrog my life.
‘Do you know who’ll you be reporting to? I wasn’t expecting a new intern today.’
‘Gemma Lunt, the publisher. It’s her first day too.’
‘Right, well, don’t worry, I’ll explain why we’re late. Stick with me, and my deputy Asif. You’ll be fine.’
‘Should I be worried?’
‘No. Not really. Just keep your head down. You’ll probably be set up in my team.’
You nodded. ‘Sounds great. I’m super-focused on what I need to do, like you say, being somewhere I can learn from older people?’
A spike. The sense of the smooth, hard finger of youth prodding my loosening life. Subtle, and few would deny the barb if they heard it themselves. But I would learn very quickly that every single person in my world would take your side first, always give you the benefit of the doubt before they would me. A privilege given to the young and beautiful, a privilege I didn’t know I had until I lost it.
I watched you for a moment from the corner of my eye as the first inkling there was something less than innocent about you prickled my stomach. I didn’t yet know if it was just paranoia; a wild idea sprouting from an already unreliable mind. I never fully realised how much danger a person is in when the individual they trust least is themselves. After you, Lily, I’ll never ignore my first instincts again.
‘It’s great you’re so ready to learn…I’m Katherine, by the way.’
‘Lily.’
You offered me your narrow palm, but gave no indication you knew exactly who I was.
The minutes dragged as we passed Liverpool Street. It had gone nine. I was supposed to be in Gemma Lunt’s office in fifteen minutes. I’d only agreed to the early slot so I could avoid the usual Monday morning social interrogation. I thought about dropping her a line to manage expectations, then decided I’d chance getting there on-the-knuckle and avoid my first communication with her being about something I’d failed to execute effectively.
The cab suddenly picked up speed and we caught a couple of green lights. For a moment, it seemed possible I might just be OK.
You leant forward to speak to the driver, ‘Hi, could you pull in here, up on the left?’ and we swerved into a side street. Turning to me, ‘I have to pick up something from my mum? I’ll be so quick.’
‘But I’m already late, couldn’t you—’
‘It’s OK. I can square it with Gem, promise.’
‘Gem?’ You knew my new boss. How?
I tried to remember what I’d only that hour told you about my work. When I struggled, a fresh anxiety rose in my chest. Another symptom of the beige cloud: forgetfulness followed by panic about what might have happened in the gaps.
Before I could say anything else, you were out of the taxi, running through a carved stone archway. When you clearly thought I couldn’t see you anymore, you stopped running and instead walked slowly towards a heavy lacquered door. You pressed on a buzzer and spoke sullenly into an intercom, all urgency gone. In my head, I begged you to yank the door towards you and race through it like your life depended on it, but instead you pulled it carefully and stepped gently into the building.
9.03.
9.05.
At 9.07 I drafted an email to Gemma, trying to convey confidence, a lack of guilt, but also some necessary undertones of contrition. I noticed your laptop case next to me.
9.12.
I
