‘’Lo,’ said Paula, poking her head round the cubicle. ‘What are you going up to the tenth floor for, anyway?’
‘Research for some online thing,’ said Ginger, managing to sound bored.
‘Oh, yeah, I forgot. Snoresville,’ said Paula, instantly uninterested.
Ginger took her things – several big folders that looked very important – and beetled out to the lifts.
She was amazed at how remarkably good she’d become at lying over the past six months. Six months like no other in her life.
It was like being a spy in a novel, living a double life and telling nobody. Six months previously, Ginger had been an ordinary staff member of theDublin Clarion, a small local paper which had just been bought up by the giant Caraval Media group, who’d never seen a bit of media they didn’t want to buy, Monopolies Commission excepting.
People liked reading actual newspapers for local news, unlike so many other types of news, so theClarionwas a good buy in a struggling industry hit by the internet downloading of news. Ginger was a general reporter, but by the unspoken edict of male-dominated journalism, she got to do all the stories where female empathy was required. She loved it, but she often wondered if it was what she was truly destined to do. Then the paper moved into the giant Caraval Media Towers and she got the company-wide email about the agony aunt required forTeen Now, a magazine that was going totally electronic – from paper to e-format.
Ginger, who had been considered an old head on young shoulders since she’d been very young, felt that thrill of excitement that told herthiscould be the job of her dreams.
‘We need someone who has empathy, some qualifications for this role and is able to turn out copy quickly. Apply to the above email,’said the ad.
Well, Ginger could turn out articles at high speed, as anyone who had ever seen her write that two-page emergency advertorial on a peanut company could testify.
‘You made peanuts sound sexy, interesting almost,’ said the chief sub in astonishment when she emailed him the required 1000 words.
‘Just doin’ my job, boss,’ said Ginger, tipping an imaginary hat at him, although it had been a nightmare to write. Peanuts were not sexy or interesting, unless you were a monkey.
Thatwas the Ginger she was in work – funny, sassy and someone who took no crap from anyone.
She applied in secret toTeen Nowand, also secretly, had two interviews on the tenth floor, which was one of the executive floors and was decorated far more beautifully than her floor, which was a warren of desks and had a scratchy blue carpet that gave off enough static electric to power the national grid.
Ginger had done her homework. She read past online editions ofTeen Now, which was aimed at a fourteen- to sixteen-year-old age group but probably read by twelve- to fourteen-year-olds, before they moved on toCosmoand how to do more than make out with boyfriends.
She had realised quickly that the previous agony aunt had veered towards the lightweight.
All in all, she had never dealt with any serious questions. ‘The previous agony aunt,’ she said at her interview, ‘what was her background?’
‘Why do you ask?’ said Alice, who’d just been made boss of the e-magazine department, staring hard at Ginger. Alice Jeter was exquisite: slim, dark-eyed, hair a sheet of fashionable silvery pink.
‘I just wondered because she seems to have kept to light topics and there’s nothing meaty or serious there. What did she do if she got any real, in-depth questions? I mean, how does she handle those. I can’t find any of them.’
‘That’s because I’m pretty sure she made up most of the questions, so making up the answers wasn’t that difficult,’ said Alice wryly.
‘She made them up?’ said Ginger, astonished.
‘Yup. She was a college kid, had never worked in journalism before and no had clue that you have to keep it real. She taught us all something, though: never hire the daughter of someone in management. Which is why she is out looking for another job and we’re looking for another agony aunt who can deal with online threads about self-esteem, slut shaming, sexting, body image. Do you want to try your hand at it?’
‘I’d love to’, said Ginger, flattening down the fear.
‘OK. Good.’ Alice’s eyes travelled up and down Ginger. ‘We’re going to use a pseudonym. We all like “Girlfriend” as the column name until we get the right person. If you don’t work out, we need continuity for the readers until we do get the right person. Probably best if you do this on your own time and we’ll pay you freelance rates. Four columns to see if you can do it, OK?’
Ginger bit her lip. She thought she knew exactly why her name and picture would not be on the column – a photo of an overweight woman was hardly seen as aspirational to a readership of young girls who watched models’ vlogs and worshipped skinny singers and actresses.
‘I understand,’ she said evenly. She would not be upset by this: she would stand tall and be herself. Her brain was what they were going to pay her for.
Her brain.
That first week, when she emailed over her column, she felt as shaky as she had done as a brand new reporter.
A succinct email had come back from Alice an hour later. ‘I like this. It’s good. You’ve got empathy and don’t shy away from the tough ones. Keep going.’
Three columns later, Alice said they wanted to put her under contract for a year.
