by Rosa Temple
‘This is it,’ he says. I think I sense relief in his voice having made it to my destination without being sick. I pay him, shuffle out of the car and stand outside an old, two storey country house with a gravel drive and crumbling brickwork. There is one car parked in the front, a red Toyota Aygo and two push bikes lean against a hedge at the side of the house.
I stumble in my high heels, first on the road and then onto the gravelled drive. Steadying myself I hold tight to the strap of my shoulder bag, squint against the autumn sun and stagger towards the door with one arm outstretched for balance.
I can’t find a doorbell anywhere as I stand in front of the pale blue door with its chipped paint, so I decide a rousing rap on the door with my knuckles ought to bring someone out. After a second time of knocking, my knuckles seriously hurting now, I hear footsteps from the upper floor and a girl opens what I can now tell is an unlocked front door.
Inwardly I chant the following: I came to Bridley to forget. I am the new editor. This is a wonderful opportunity. This intense ache across my eyes will ease off soon.
In front of me is a pretty girl with the two blonde plaits. She’s wearing a jumper with little dogs leaping and jumping over her boobs, a swingy skirt that might be from the seventies, and a pair of Dunlop trainers.
‘I’m Sydney Banks. Your editor.’ I sound like a Sergeant Major. I don’t know why my voice is so clipped and harsh but my face hurts and I’m finding it hard to even smile.
She smiles, however, despite my brash attitude and puts out a hand.
‘Oh, welcome,’ she says. When it becomes clear that I can’t actually find the co-ordination to lift my hand and shake hers, she stands aside to let me in. ‘I’ll show you to your office.’
I follow her happy skip up the stairs and take in the closed doors on the ground floor, apart from one which leads to a kitchen. Blonde plaits opens a door on the landing and allows me to step in first. I am pretty sure she’d said it was my office but there is someone at the desk rifling through papers and not bothering to look up.
‘Tea please, and show her around for me,’ is all the girl at the desk has to say. Her eyes are darting from the computer screen to a sheet of paper in her hand and back.
Blond plaits coughs and the girl at the desk looks up. Her skin is the colour of cinnamon sticks. She has two giant afro puffs and wears a pair of fairly large glasses. She pushes them up her nose and stares at me, questioning my very existence. I feel like I’m Anne Hathaway and I’m about to be Devil Wears Prada-ed out of my own office.
‘Jenna, this is Sydney Banks.’ Blonde plaits holds out a delicate hand in my direction. ‘She’s the new editor. All the way from London.’ She grins at us both. ‘Oh and Sydney, this is Jenna. Jenna Michaels. Features and Fashion.’
Jenna slowly rises from the editor’s chair, biting her bottom lip.
‘I’m so sorry. You have to forgive me.’ She pushes her glasses up again and manages to jam them against her eyes. ‘The Jobcentre was supposed to be sending an admin person today. A temp. I thought she was you, or you were her.’ She holds the back rest of the chair and angles the seat towards me.
I start to walk to the chair and find myself having to make deep, definite steps to get there because the room hasn’t stopped swimming in front of me. They watch me in silence as I take five or six paces and stand in front of the chair.
‘I’m sorry, too,’ I say looking down at the debris of papers, files and backdated Bridley Green magazines scattered on the desk. ‘I should have just introduced myself but I’m feeling a little lightheaded today. I understand you’ve been running things in the absence of the last editor who, I understood, left a month ago?’ I still can’t access my usual voice. I’ve latched onto this Sergeant Major character and I can’t seem to unlatch.
‘That’s right,’ Jenna says. ‘Well not so much left. But left us.’
My aching brow crinkles as I wait for an explanation.
‘As in she left for good.’ Jenna’s eyes flit briefly to Blonde Plaits just as I attempt to sit down. ‘She died, to be perfectly honest.’ I shoot up from the seat. ‘No wait, she didn’t die in that seat or anywhere near the office.’
I sit down and sigh heavily. I’m immediately surrounded by a cloud of tequila and I cringe.
‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ I say as I start undoing the buttons on my jacket. The buttons won’t cooperate so I keep the jacket on. The two girls, now standing in front of my desk look at my shaky hands.
‘Should I get you a coffee?’ asks Blonde Plaits.
‘Yes please. Black, two sugars. And hurry.’ They both turn to leave. ‘Once I’ve caught my breath we’ll have an office meeting, or something, I suppose.’ I look hopelessly around the room.
‘That sounds like fun,’ Blonde Plaits chirrups. ‘One black with two coming up.’
‘Thank you … er… um …?’
‘Beth. I’m Beth, nice to meet you.’ She reaches across the desk and pulls my hand into a handshake. I want to hold onto her hand even though I don’t know her. It’s soft, warm and welcoming and I feel like bursting into tears just holding it. My miserable summer comes to mind at exactly the wrong time. I bite my lip to stop it quivering and release Beth’s hand so she can straighten up. She smooths her jumper down.
‘Is that short for Elizabeth?’ I say, trying to make up for my brusque behaviour from earlier. I’m trying to smile and now my face aches as much as my head.
‘Actually, it’s Bethany. Bethany Sparks, Features and Pets.’
‘Pets? We have a page called Pets?’ I pick up a past copy of the magazine and start flicking through until I come to the picture of a cocker spaniel. ‘We have a page called Pets.’ I look up at Beth. Her smile spreads even wider than her round cheeks should allow and I don’t have the heart to tell her that Pets will be the first thing I cancel when I get the magazine properly organised.
As soon as Beth and Jenna leave, I look around my new office. Without the hideously old furniture and all the paperwork and the ludicrous lime green walls, it isn’t a bad little room. I could stay for three months, I think to myself. I’ll find myself a nice little flat in an equally quaint little country house like this one and start writing my best-selling novel. I try to summon my Chi, something I have neglected to do in a while and that I know will serve me well here. I set an intention to go back to London as a new person, a successful magazine editor turned best-selling novelist. First off, I’ll give up the drink and stop promising Mum and myself that I will. I’ll run along country lanes to get fit. I’ll cycle to work, pick apples and make pies for my neighbours. I could even buy a pet. A collie or some other countryside type dog. It won’t be so bad. I’ll get over the London catastrophe, as I’ve been referring to it. I will. I’ll show them all. I just need to sleep.
I pull my jacket up over my head as the buttons seem to have Super Glued shut. I fold it into a pillow and prop it on my desk on top of all the paperwork and magazines. Leaning my head onto my jacket pillow I let my arms slump towards the floor.
*
I wake with a start. I’ve slept so deeply it could easily be about three hours later. My rickety desk jiggles as I sit up and a mug of coffee overturns. I’m motionless as I watch the dark fluid run all over the face of a cute cocker spaniel.
Chapter 7
‘Sydney, hi. I’m sorry to disturb you but I wondered if you might be calling us in to your office?’ Beth is hovering in front of my desk, blonde plaits waving frantically at the sides of her face as she tries to mop up the spilled coffee with man sized tissues from a box next to the telephone.
‘Let me do that,’ I say not moving an inch towards the spillage but trying to save my jacket from getting soaked by cold coffee.
‘No, you’re all right. It’s almost there. There we go. All dry now. Should I get you a fresh one?’
Beth is so gracious. Even faced with a sloth-like drunk like me. I warm to her even more. I hope she’s noticed that I’ve managed to sober up, e
ven though I’m still knackered and trying not to yawn tequila breath in her direction. Beth has a beautiful smiling face, so innocent looking and I wonder, if I allow myself to burst into tears for the one millionth time, would she scoop me up into a cuddle. God knows I need one.
‘Tell you what, Beth,’ I say, forcing a smile. ‘How about I follow you back out to the main office and we rally the troops for some introductions so I can get to know you all and we can get ourselves organised a bit better?’ I’m sure I see a flash of disappointment in Beth’s eyes when the “better organised” portion of my spiel comes out. Who am I to assume they aren’t organised? The warm, cosiness of Beth’s violet eyes quickly return before she leads me to the general office, empty coffee cup and soiled tissues in hand. The general office was probably once the master bedroom of this old house and is three or four times the size of my room. Bedroom curtains have been replaced by blinds over two, square windows. There are no carpets but an ornate, boarded up fireplace sits against one wall. Second-hand, wooden desks are covered in files and paperwork and everyone has a laptop, their noses facing the screens.
‘Everyone,’ Beth’s soft voice proclaims. ‘Team meeting. Everyone.’
There’s a rumble of swivel chairs, all rolling in my direction. The four people in the office, including Jenna, manoeuvre themselves across the vinyl floor, coaster wheels skidding to a halt right in front of me. I back up onto a desk, (Beth’s as it turns out) and sit on an opened packet of Quavers.
‘Oops, sorry,’ I say, pulling the packet out from under my bum. Realising that, actually, I’m starving I begin feasting hungrily on the saturated fat goodness. All eyes are on me as I empty the last few crumbs down my throat. I cough, hold up a finger and make sure I haven’t left any crumbs behind in the greasy corners of the packet. I know. It sounds bad but without sustenance how do I lead a team meeting? Let alone one I haven’t planned for and for which I have no idea where to start. It occurs to me that Alexandra hasn’t really given me much of a brief.
‘So.’ I smile at everyone as I dab my lips with the back of my hand. ‘You probably all know, or were expecting a new editor today, right? For anyone who doesn’t know, my name is Sydney Banks. I was a journalist on a local newspaper down in London. The readership was considerably bigger than we have here but that doesn’t put me off. I’m sure I’ll get used to working on a smaller scale.’ People shift on their wheels and eyes dart around the room. Beth, who has disposed of the coffee cup and tissues, and the empty packet of Quavers, is sitting up to attention with a notebook and pen in her hands.
‘Well,’ I begin again. ‘Maybe some introductions so I can get to know you all and find out what everyone does?’
‘Um, we’ve already met,’ says Jenna with a smile.
Fortunately, I can smile back because my face is less numb. Smiles go all around and we all look at each other uncomfortably until someone clears their throat.
‘I’m Bartie.’ It’s a rosy cheeked guy in a Fair Isle sweater which struggles to stay down over his very round tummy. ‘Web designer. You won’t see much of me. Part time. But you have a hotline to me if there’s an emergency.’
‘Great,’ I say nodding. I turn to a lanky young man in a red fleece and faded jeans. His face is pot marked by acne and his fingernails are bitten down to the stubs. ‘You are?’
‘Jack. Jack Featherstone. Your graphic designer. I’m here closer to publication, so latter part of the month. When I’m not here like, I can come over at short notice. I only work on the Post Office counter at my mum’s. It’s about a fifteen-minute walk away.’
‘Good to know,’ I say. Then I cluck my tongue and point at Jack as I wink. I have no idea why. I’ve never done that before and I don’t want to come across as some lame and corny editor. It occurs to me I have no idea what sort of editor I want to be. Certainly not one who smells of booze and Quavers or one who sleeps off hangovers in her office when there’s work to be done. I look at the next person on a swivel chair. A girl in her early twenties with light brown hair to her bottom and a pair of riding jodhpurs. Maybe she rode to work. She looks the horsey type. All fresh faced and eager, large busted and rosy. I wince as she begins to speak. Her voice is so loud.
‘Mags Benson-Brown. I’m your sales executive. Also part-time.’
‘Don’t tell me,’ I say. ‘You’re fifteen minutes away at the local stables.’
She stares at me for a full twenty seconds during which time I squirm and hope I haven’t overstepped the mark. But come on, she’s wearing jodhpurs.
‘Spot on, Sydney,’ she says, impressed by my powers of deduction. ‘Oh, I just realised, my clothes. That’s what gave it away.’ Her loud voice rattles the windows and her energetic laugh shakes me to full consciousness. ‘Actually, the stables are twenty minutes away, but I can work very easily from home if I can’t make it in.’ She laughs again and looks around at everyone for confirmation of her ability to work from home. Hopefully not in a stable.
‘Okay, good,’ I say. ‘It’s Monday. I need to have edited all your pieces by next Wednesday before we go to press. So, next week I’ll meet with Jake –’
‘Jack,’ corrects Beth.
‘Yes, Jack, next Thursday morning, before we get this baby off to the printers. I’ll need a contact for the printers. Beth,’ I say without looking at her and clicking my fingers. ‘Could you fix me up with that? In fact, fix me up with all the numbers and contacts I need. Who does distribution?’
‘Local people,’ Jenna pipes up. ‘They collect the magazines on the Friday morning. Their routes are all sorted and they get paid the following Tuesday.’
‘I’ll get you the distribution schedule,’ Beth says with a smile and a wink and cluck of her tongue. I have to put a stop to the winking and clucking. I don’t want to start them off on some corny trend. They are all so provincial in fleeces and boot cut jeans, not a designer label in sight. Which reminds me. Jenna has a page called Fashion. That’s second on my list to axe considering the way they all dress.
‘Okay people,’ I declare. ‘Features? You and I will meet for a brainstorming session first thing in the morning.’ I jump off the desk and head for the door. Before leaving a deathly silence cuts through. What have I done wrong? Should I be the last one to leave or something? For crying out loud it’s almost two in the afternoon, I haven’t eaten a proper meal all day or secured a place to live and I’m tired.
I swing around to face them.
‘I have a meeting with the Editor in Chief this afternoon, so I have to go,’ I lie. I need some time to gather my thoughts and decide how I can turn this disaster of a morning round. ‘Apart from Features, if any of the rest of you are in tomorrow or have any questions for me you can speak to me in the morning. First thing.’ I open the door and look back at them. ‘Well, first thing-ish. I haven’t got used to the mornings around here.’ As I close the door and as swivel chairs roll back to desks I hear Beth say, sympathetically, ‘Well maybe there is such a thing as jet lag if you come up here from London, you don’t know.’
There’s a slight rumble of laughter and an out-and-out guffaw which I assume comes from Mags. It looks like I’ve given a bad impression of myself. I can’t be the type of editor here that I was a journalist back on the Kilburn Times. I have a fresh opportunity here. But there is a lot stacked against me. I’m nursing a broken heart, I can’t survive a day without a drink that isn’t at least 14% alcohol and I’m more or less homeless.
My Travelodge is in the next county, close to a town centre in a town I haven’t even heard of. After drawing a blank in my searches for accommodation I finally did a search of yurts. Not even glamping was an option. I was supposed to ask my new colleagues about flats but I’m too embarrassed to walk back into the main office and discuss my lack of housing.
I leave the office after day one, half of day one, and search Google on my phone for places to eat and drink near me. First on the list for proximity is a place called Frankie’s which has two, five-star rat
ings. Perfect. Somewhere I can sit and re-group and think about how I can return the next day as a new and improved editor.
Chapter 8
Frankie’s is a bit of a find, really. It’s a restaurant and bar. You walk into a dim and narrow bar area, deserted at two in the afternoon, and continue on through a set of swing doors into an equally deserted restaurant. The restaurant is nice and bright compared to the bar and the smell of food starts a gurgling sound in my tummy.
‘Help you?’ says a tired looking waitress in a tight, white shirt. Her turquoise push-up bra peeks through the over stretched boob area.
‘Table for one?’ A yawn escapes before I can suppress it. I’m still exhausted from the night before. The sleep I took on the desk earlier didn’t count because it was nothing more than a catnap.
‘Food stops in five.’ The waitress looks at her watch. ‘Kitchen closes,’ she says looking back at a hatch where a wide man in chef’s whites leans on his knuckles and stares out at me. He’s young and friendly looking.
‘Yeah, well,’ I say. ‘I’ve been known to eat a plateful of chips in under a minute, sometimes quicker.’ I breeze past her and make my way deeper into the restaurant.
I sit by the long window spanning the side wall of the restaurant. The half nets on the windows are apricot, a throw-back to some bygone era, and seem to be starched stiff. Via the view of the upper part of the window I spot a blue and white sky. Coniferous trees sprout up tall from a small wood a short distance away. It occurs to me I have not really taken in much of my surroundings since I arrived in Bridley. True I’ve only been to the office and to Frankie’s but I’m feeling aware of the sullen and off-putting vibe I must be sending out to everyone I meet.
