“Then why are you walking right behind me?”
“I’m walking to the tube,” he says irritably.
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
“Fine!” I huff, pulling my jacket closer around me and marching on determinedly.
But his footsteps only get closer. I glance up to see him striding along next to me, trying to overtake me on the pavement. I walk even faster, refusing to let him win. His brow furrowed in concentration, he speeds up, taking the lead. I almost go into a light jog to pace just ahead of him and he huffs in annoyance.
The sign comes into view and we’re both full-on running at this point. We sprint down the steps underground and, feeling more determined to win than ever, I manage to take the lead by a nose, reaching the barriers just before him. I start rummaging in my bag for my phone so I can use it to get through the barrier.
“Damn it!” I hiss.
Ryan Jansson swans past me through the barrier next to mine.
He stops on the other side to give me a victorious smile, his hands in his pockets.
“You weren’t racing me, were you, Harper?” he says, tilting his head to one side. “Because if you were, then looks like you lost.”
“I was not racing you, Ryan,” I say, still searching for my phone. “I’m not achild.”
He shrugs smugly before sauntering away toward the escalator.
“But if I was racing you,” I quickly call out after him, “I would have won because the race was to the barrier, which I reached first!”
He doesn’t respond, stepping onto the top of the escalator that carries him out of sight.
JULY 2012
During the interview forThe Daily Bulletininternship, there was an implication that there could be a job at the end of it. The chance to become a junior reporter at a national newspaper is the dream. I’ll work my way up and one day be a features editor or a columnist. I want that more than anything. And I’ll work harder than anyone to get it.
After all, I need to prove to my parents that I can make it as a writer.
When I first graduated in early June, I took a job at a bar near my parents’ house while applying for journalism positions, realizing very quickly I was desperately underqualified for any writing jobs. Publications wanted experience, and for that I’d have to land some kind of internship. It was supposed to be an incredible summer to be in London: the Olympics were looming at the end of the month and the atmosphere in the city was buzzing—the bar was packed every night—but I couldn’t enjoy any of the excitement, weighed down by the pressure of getting a foot in the door.
At the end of theDaily Bulletininterview, the editor said he could see Ireallywanted this, and he kind of chuckled as though maybe I’d come across a bit too strong. I wasn’t embarrassed by that, though. I wanted them to know that if they chose me Iwould be so grateful that I wouldn’t let them down. I screamed when I read the email saying I’d been accepted, the excitement bubbling through me so furiously that I couldn’t stand still, jumping up and down and punching the air with both fists. Okay, so it wasn’t a swish, fancy job in the city, it wasn’t a writing gig, but it was a start. Finally, I could see it. Iallowedmyself to see it: a career in journalism.
Of course, I didn’t realize they were taking ontwointerns, which means there’s obviously an extra hurdle for landing a job here. But a bit of healthy competition is fine by me. I’m not going to let this Ryan guy get in my way. If there’s a job waiting at the end of this, I’m going to be the one who gets it.
In the elevator that first morning, editorial assistant Celia runs through the types of tasks we can expect to be getting over the next few weeks.
“Coffee and tea runs are par for the course, I’m afraid, as well as some admin tasks, like taking notes, photocopying, transcribing recorded interviews, but it isn’t all bleak,” she promises, scrolling through her phone. “You’ll be doing some interesting research, and once you’re settled in, you can help with interviews and maybe do some writing.”
“For the paper?” I ask hopefully.
“Maybe for the website. We’ll see how you go.”
The doors ping open and we step into the hustle and bustle of the newsroom, where we’re led to two tiny desks in the back corner, with stacks of messy files piled on top of them next to the computers.
These are ours for the two months, Celia tells us, swiftly destroying my and Ryan’s mutual hope that we wouldn’t be working together.
She writes our login details on a Post-it note and sticks it on top of the nearest folder. After pointing out where the kitchen and toilets are, she says she’ll let us get ourselves sorted and then willbe back in a while to run through some things, including the intern binder—she points at the black file in the middle of the two desks. It has everything we need to know, compiled by previous interns as they went along.
“Do you have a preference of desk?” Ryan asks me once she’s left, finding his voice.
“Doyou?”
