There was a very, very narrow window here to turn this around. “Okay. But taking my fucking off as read, it sounds like you do care abit. About what happens next at least.”
“I know what happened next. She got old, got boring, and went on a baking show, the end.”
Jennifer’s overall vibe of Jenniferness was increasingly easy for Audrey to ignore. And what that said about either of them, Audrey didn’t quite like to contemplate. “The thing is, I don’t actually believe you mean that. I think you want to know what happened between them.”
“And why do you think that?”
A hundred reasons. Although the chances were Jennifer Hallet wouldn’t accept ninety-four of them. “Because connection matters? Because this is—I mean, it’s sort of our heritage, isn’t it? Everybody’s heritage really.”
When Audrey looked, Jennifer was wearing a look of scorn so obvious it felt like a misdirect. “That’s the most sentimental pile of—”
“Just let me carry on talking to her. We’ve already agreed nothing gets published until broadcast anyway, so you have plenty of time to torpedo this if it’s not working for you.”
A different sort of hardness crept into Jennifer’s eyes and tightened her mouth. “No.”
“What do you mean,no?”
“Not a question you should be asking in a post #MeToo world.”
“Oh…oh…” Audrey flailed. “Fuck off. No to what?”
“No to the whole fucking thing.”
Technically, this was well within Jennifer’s rights. And getting shot down or told something wouldn’t work was a huge part of being a journalist. As was not taking it personally. Only Audrey was. She really,reallywas. “Why?” she demanded, far more demandingly than she’d intended to demand it. “You lose nothing by letting me—”
“I do, and you’re smart enough to know I do.”
This was the second time Jennifer had caught Audrey in what she politely liked to think of as a gambit. And the thing about being called on your bullshit was that it made you feel seen, but not in a good way. “I realise,” said Audrey, trying to do a handbrake turn into conciliation, “the story isn’t going exactly the way I pitched. But I really think I can tell it in a way that leaves everyone looking good at the end.”
There was a long silence, in which Audrey braced for a salvo of vulgarity that never came.
“You know I was joking earlier,” Jennifer Hallet said finally. “But you really do need to learn to take no for an answer.”
“Professionally”—Audrey offered her most winsome smile—“I kind of don’t.”
But it turned out that you win some, you lose some. Not only did Jennifer not smile back, she coasted straight through pissed off into a tranquil fury. “Listen very carefully, Lane. This is my show and I will decide what happens to it, what happens on it, and what stories get told about it. If I need the granny to be a comfortingicon of good old days that never existed, then that is what she will be, and you will not stop me or change that or give anybody else ideas about changing that.”
Clearly the thing to do now was to back off, give Jennifer time to cool down and try again at a better moment. Alternatively: “Why though? Why does she have to be that? Or why can’t she be that but also super gay? This show has been running for eight seasons. You could do something different. Or take a risk or—”
“Have you considered that not approaching every situation the exact way you’d approach it isn’t a moral failure?”
That was… Not something Audrey was expecting. Or ready to hear. Or ready to think about. “I’m not like that,” she said, far less forcefully than she would have wished.
And for whatever mercurial reason, Jennifer Hallet backed off. “Maybe not. But you came in here and took a giant shit all over the way I do my job. I don’t need to explain myself to you. I don’t need to justify myself to you. Kill the fucking story.”
Better ways to handle this were still sort of floating past Audrey like Poohsticks. Unfortunately, she’d degenerated into a state of mess: hurt and vulnerable and confused and increasingly worried that maybe Jennifer had a point and even more worried that she’d lost the ability to judge. So in a panic she reached for the hardest ball she had. “And if I don’t?”
“Then you will be in breach of contract, and I will sue you, and your pissant little paper, until you are both nothing more than skid marks on the arse of Shropshire.”
The problem with hard balls was that they bounced back at you really fast so you had to keep whacking them back harder. “You know” six-years-ago Audrey took the wheel—“I think I might actually like to see you try. I’m not a teenager or stay-at-homedad or any of the other randos you’re used to pushing around. I’ve played this game and I’ve won it. Suing journalists for telling the truth is a bad look for a fast-fashion brand. It’s an even worse look for a family-friendly show about buns.”
“Well.” Jennifer Hallet didn’t flinch. “This has been interesting. Always nice to see a new side to somebody.”
Six-years-ago Audrey had left the wheel, abandoned the vehicle, and stolen the keys. “I didn’t mean… I was just pointing out… All I was saying…”
“You know the difference between us, Audrey?”
There was no way the answer to this was going to be good. “What?” she asked, suddenly exhausted. “You’re great, I suck? I’m not sure I care.”
