“Maybe he’s not as bad as you think.”
“You’re wrong.” I frown, watching his back as he walks away and desperately trying to fight off memories prompted by his smile. “He’s exactly as bad as I think.”
AUGUST 2012
During our internship, it becomes obvious that Ryan and I are very different people who work in completely different ways. Everything we do seems to be at odds with the other one—even the coffee run. I know the journalists prefer that Ryan gets their coffee order correct (I should really note it down before I leave),butI also know that they prefer me delivering it, because we have a good chat, whereas Ryan simply hands it over in nervous silence.
At our desks, we have very little to talk about unless we’re mocking each other. He likes to tease me about my obsession with reality TV shows, but the joke’s on him because Celia is a hugeMade in Chelseafan, so we end up bonding over that, and I can see him giving us jealous glances whenever she perches on my desk and we chat away happily. I have to admit that I get a bit envious when Ryanpurposefullyleaves whatever dull war book he’s reading out on his desk so that when one of the senior reporters comes over to ask us to do some photocopying, she just so happens to see it and asks him his thoughts.
Ryan isn’t naturally at ease in conversation, but when youget him on something he’s interested in—like the author Ben Macintyre and his book about the D-Day spies—he suddenly opens up. Until he realizes that he’s been talking and then quickly falls silent again, his forehead furrowing, as though embarrassed to have gotten carried away. If he wasn’t such an asshole, I’d think it was endearing.
As the days go by we both catch on to the fact that it’s easier if we split the jobs equally between us, rather than attempt to work on a task together, and we work out which tasks might be better suited for the other, passing them on if necessary. And we do have our moments of cease-fire and, even, courtesy. Ryan is an enthusiastic baker and shares some of his delicious creations with me. I introduce him to putting honey in his tea, and sometimes, if one of us is feeling in a generous mood, we might go so far as to make honey tea for each other in the afternoons.
But things go south very quickly when a few weeks in Celia confirms that her job is up for grabs—she’s giving her notice and taking a features assistant job atFlair,a women’s glossy magazine. She says if Ryan and I would like to apply, one of us would have a strong chance of getting it, since we’re learning the ropes already.
And just like that, it’s war.
Ryan and I go into overdrive to impress the team and outdo the other one. We squabble over who gets to do stupid everyday tasks and race to produce research notes, each trying to ensure our bullet points are thorough but first on the desk of the reporter who requested them. A low point is on one of these occasions when we’re both waiting by the printer, each hoping we pressed Print first, and then we realize the ink cartridge needs replacing— we almost break the machine, arguing over how best to put the cartridge in and causing a scene as others notice us yelling at each other about being too slow or doing it wrong.
And then, just when I think I can’t stand him, something happens that makes me question that completely.
It begins when Celia comes over late one afternoon to announce the exciting news that she would like us to work on a piece together for the paper.
“Wait, are you serious?” I ask, sitting up straight. “As in, it will be published?”
“You’ll get your first byline and everything,” she says, laughing at both our elated expressions. “It’s pretty cool the first time you see your name in print, I have to admit.”
“What’s the piece?” I ask eagerly.
“It’s a round-up, so not too taxing: ‘The Best Picnic Spots in London.’ Adorable, right? My idea,” she says proudly. “But I don’t have time to write it, so I thought you could take it on. As it’s a summer piece, it needs to be published pretty soon, so we need it by end of play Monday. I know it’s Thursday, so it’s a tight deadline, but good experience. Choose five or six places and write about fifty words on each. And you may not like this, but I really want you to work on ittogether.As in, no splitting it down the middle, otherwise the writing style will be different or repetitive and it won’t work. Got it?”
“No problem,” I say with a fixed smile.
“Excellent,” Ryan mumbles, his voice strained.
She shakes her head at us. “Jesus. What is it with you two? Anyway, good luck.”
Straight off the bat, we’re at loggerheads. Ryan thinks we should research picnic spots online—I’m of the opinion that we should make the time to actually go to these places and then decide.
“How are we going to visit all the places in London we can have a picnic?” he argues.
“We don’t have to go toallof them, that would be ridiculous. Just famous ones,” I explain.
“And the only way we’ll find out the famous ones is to research online.”
“Fine, we’ll do that.”
He nods. “Great.”
“Then this weekend, we’ll go visit them,” I add smugly.
He sighs.
“Ryan,” I begin calmly, “don’t you want to be honest with your readers? How are they supposed to trust that these are the best picnic spots in London if the writers haven’t even visited themselves?”
“I suppose you’re right,” he grumbles.
“I usually am, and the sooner you realize that, the better. So we’ll compile a list of spots tomorrow and then are you free Saturday?”
