‘Okay.’ Meg smiled. ‘I’m an intern,’ she said again, this time with more conviction.
Six months later, Deb had helped Meg get a permanent role as a staff reporter.
Now, Deb’s unruly hair fell over her face as she crossed her arms and leaned forward on the table, meeting Meg’s gaze. She exhaled loudly.
Meg raised a hand to get in first. ‘Before you say anything, I assume Pete told you I missed my deadline yesterday and I want to apologise. It was absolutely unacceptable for me to submit so late. You’ve gone out on a limb for me. I know that. It won’t happen again.’
‘Won’t it? Pete said this isn’t the first time.’
‘Honestly, Deb, I promise.’
Deb sighed. ‘When you got laid off, I told you I’d look after you—’
‘And you have, and I really appreciate it.’ It was true. Like a protective big sister, Deb had promised to keep Meg busy, and she was true to her word. Meg swallowed a lump in her throat. ‘It’s just … I’m not sure how much more of the online stuff I can write. I want to do more than just pay the bills. I—’
A waiter appeared by their table. ‘What can I get you?’
‘Smashed avo and feta on sourdough for me, thanks,’ Meg said.
Deb ordered a club sandwich.
‘It’s just,’ Meg said, ‘I’m finding it hard to keep motivated when all I’m writing is “The babies who were swapped at birth” and “My twin and I are dating the same man”. It’s not that I’m not grateful, I am, I know I’m lucky to get—’
‘I thought you wanted work!’ Deb said, throwing up her hands.
‘I do—’
‘If you keep pitching clickbait, that’s what you’ll get.’ She leaned back in her chair. ‘Have you reached out to Harry?’ Harry was the editor ofThe Times. Deb had suggested Meg get in touch regarding editorial work.
‘I sent him an email, but I haven’t heard anything back.’
‘How long ago was that?’
Meg shrugged. ‘Two weeks? Three, maybe?’
‘Can I give you some advice?’
‘I guess.’
‘If you want a steady income as a freelancer, online’s your bread and butter. That’s just the way it is. You’re a great journo, Meg, but the industry’s changed. Twenty years ago, you’d never have been made redundant. You’d have a career like mine. Investigative journalism, breaking some big stories, then into an editorial role if you wanted one.’
‘So you’re saying I’m too late. Journalism’s stuffed.’
‘No, but it is different. Print journalism isn’t what it was. These days a big story has more chance of being a bloody podcast than a long form article in the Saturday paper.’
Meg sighed.
‘What I’m saying—’ Deb’s voice softened, ‘—is that if you want a real career in this game, you have to go after it. It won’t fall in your lap. If you want to work on a real story, you need to pitch a real story. A good one.’
Meg looked out the window at the crawling traffic on Enmore Road. Where were all those people going?
‘Well?’
She looked back at Deb. ‘Well, what?’
‘Pitch me something.’
‘Now?’
