“It’s always easier to give advice when you’re on the outside of a situation,” she says gently. “I know you must be feeling really low. And I’m so sorry.”
“Thanks. And thank you for coming round,” I say, nudging her leg with my toe.
“Always here for you.” She pauses. “So, are you going to speak to Ryan about this? I don’t want you throwing away something that has the potential to be really good over Cosmo being a big-mouthed idiot. Ryan is the sensible type, after all. He probably didn’t agree with Cosmo telling him that kind of sensitive information and putting him in a position where he couldn’t share it with his colleagues. Maybe you can let him off just this once?”
“The thing is, it hasn’t been just the once.”
She frowns. “What?”
“He’s done this before.” I exhale slowly. “Mimi, did I ever tell you about the time I interned atThe Daily Bulletin?”
Walking into the office on Monday is like wading through molasses, and then sitting there, acting normal and pretending to do any form of work, is horrific. Even worse, I have to sit next tohim.At least Ryan has the decency to avoid more contact than absolutely necessary. He seems resigned to the fact that there is no hope for us, personally or professionally, and barely says a word to me. I have to fake a few meetings so I can be out of the office as much as possible, but what is Cosmo going to do if he finds out? Fire me?
When I’m supposed to be at these “meetings,” I instead sit in coffee shops and scroll through media jobs, but it feels pointless. My brain is telling me that I need to work in order to, you know, eat and live. But my heart isn’t in it and I can’t bring myself to open my CV to update it, let alone upload it. When I quietly admit as much to Mimi, she acts as though it’s no big deal and says I have to give myself some time to get over the shock.
On Tuesday, Cosmo calls me into his office to discuss my redundancy. He also individually calls in Naomi, the style assistant, and Gabby, the editorial assistant. My heart breaks for them as I watch them emerge from the meeting with downcast expressions.
After receiving lots of hugs, I suggest the three of us go get some air, so we do. We go to Roasted and Gabby cries into the tea that I buy her, and Naomi pats her on the back and says it is going to be okay, even though she doesn’t look convinced of that herself. But I assure them that it reallywillbe okay. They are smart and brilliant, and once the initial shock has worn off, they will see this as an opportunity to do something new and exciting.
I basically reel off everything you should say to someone in our position.
I can tell they believe it as much as I do. So I conclude with, “To be honest, it’s shit. And I’m so sorry this has happened.”
They appreciate that a lot more than my little pep talk.
Funnily enough, the office is much more bearable now that everyone knows. We can deal with it and move on, and everyone else in the team can stop worrying about themselves and put all their energy into making us feel better. I haven’t paid for my lunch all week, which is a bonus. And Cosmo has been lenient about our notice periods. We only have to do two weeks, including this one, and next week we’re allowed to work from home. I thought that revealed he had an ounce of compassion in him, but it turns out he wants to rejig the seating arrangement now that he’s losing three members of the team, and he thinks it’sbetter to sort that sooner rather than later, so it’s easier if we’re out the office.
What a sweetheart.
Still, I’m not complaining. They’re throwing us a leaving party at The Old Oak this Friday. Mimi is heading it up and she promises that she’s gone all out to make it fun rather than depressing. She also informs me that the main paper has had a round of redundancies this week, too, and they are also throwing a party on the same night, so a strange unspoken competition has emerged between Mimi and someone named Harold, who is heading up the paper’s party.
“He thinks he’s all that with his mustard-yellow socks, but that man wouldn’t know a good finger sandwich if it hit him in the face,” she muttered earlier as Harold swanned past.
Mimi has been a lifeline this week. When I’ve needed a shoulder to cry on, she’s been there, and when I’ve needed a bit of tough love, she’s been happy to oblige. She repeats the same sentiments, and they’re starting to get through to me: I’ve been at this magazine so long, stepping away from it seems terrifying, but it’s also a new adventure—life is always going to have its twists and turns, and I can’t predict them all.
I think the reason I’ve been so upset is down to the humiliation of being forced out, rather than leaving on my own terms. But maybe I’ll be grateful for the push someday.
I try to focus on these optimistic thoughts on Thursday evening as I arrive at the restaurant to meet my parents and sister. Positive vibes only.
The absolute last thing I want to do right now is attend this family dinner.
My confidence is at an all-time low and I know I’ll have to take a few punches to the gut over my career, but I can’t rearrange again. It’s better that I get it over and done with and then hopefully we won’t bother each other for another few months.All I have to do is put on a fake smile, pretend everything is okay, and steer the conversation away from me as much as possible. If I find myself under the spotlight, I’ll lie like I’ve never lied before.
To be honest, the last few days have been so shit, I might as well throw in a dinner with my parents to top it all off.
The three of them are already at the table when I arrive. Dad is in a suit and tie, and Mum is in her signature black from head to toe, wearing a pencil dress and black heels. They always dress in office wear, even at weekends, and everything they own is expensive and tailored. Mum’s blond, shoulder-length hair is perfectly coiffed, tucked behind her ears with her pearl earrings on display. Dad is almost fully gray now, and he looks good for it—I may not take after them in any other way, but my parents both have a good head of hair, genes that Juliet and I also inherited.
The thick hair is as far as Juliet and I go when it comes to similarities, and it’s not even the same color—she’s followed Mum’s footsteps and is now a honey blond, which I don’t think suits her as much as her natural brown. She has a narrow, angular face and sharp features with striking green eyes and great eyebrows, while I’m a little softer round the edges and unfortunately a victim of the nineties trend for plucking my eyebrows to shit. While I’m stuck there filling my eyebrows in every morning, I imagine Juliet never touches hers.
We all fit our stereotypes perfectly. Them, the sophisticated, brilliant, glacial lawyers. Me, the chaotic, fanciful writer. It’s never easy being the odd one out.
“You’re late,” Dad comments, picking up the menu after an awkward hello, because we’re never quite sure how to greet each other. Being family, we civilly attempt a kiss on the cheek, but it’s standoffish from both sides. We should probably accept that handshakes would be more appropriate.
“I got stuck at—”
“At work,” Mum finishes for me, already topping up her wine.“Juliet works twelve-hour days, yet she manages to get here on time.”
You know, I don’t think I’ve ever had a conversation with my parents that doesn’t involve a reminder that Juliet works twelve-hour days?
