"We're broke," he bursts out suddenly.
I lean forward. "How broke?"
"If we don't do something, we'll have to lay off Ebba by the end of the year."
"We can't do that," I reply somberly. Who will handle the assistant's tasks? We're already foregoing the graphic designer, and I take most of the photos myself. If Jakob and I also have to tackle corrections and office management, there won't be much time left for well-researched articles.
"The bank will call in our loan no later than March. We'll both lose our jobs." He wearily shrugs. "We have only four months left to make the newspaper profitable."
We can do it. Somehow. "I'll search for more evidence for my story, make it watertight. I only need four weeks. It'll sell well, I'm sure." It's important. "And at the same time, I'll get started on something new," I suggest.
"Even if the story is true and doesn't cost us our personal assets, it won't save us." A faint smile appears on his lips. "I have to think of Merle. The family we want to be soon. And there's too much at stake for you too. Your name is on the article; you could become a target."
That's true, but we have to run the story. "The report is meaningful, and it's important. We can't stay silent."
"Maybe, but the risk is too high. And if it also doesn't sell well, it does more harm than good. Plus, we can't wait any longer." Something in his expression tells me he's given up. "We need to change our approach. Give the readers more of what they want. Celebrity stuff and such."
Oh God, no! Now I'm the one whose features are contorted. "Are you serious?" I can hardly articulate the question; it's so unimaginable.
He takes a daily newspaper from one of the compartments next to him and places it in front of me on the table. With his index finger, he taps the photo of this unfortunate fashion designer. "This is what the readers want. Personal tragedies, a bit of embarrassment, a little glitz."
A little glitz? I stare at him in disbelief. "You want us to become sleazy tabloid reporters spreading baseless rumors about some C-list celebrities?" I can barely utter the question.
"Just until we get out of the red," he replies, not meeting my gaze. He's ashamed of it too. But he seems to think there's no other way. "It will be a separate newspaper, independent ofSanningens Ögonblick. Its reputation will remain intact, but we'll have to stretch the publication dates to devote all our energy to the gossip sheet."
No.
I can't do this. I don't want to do this. I didn't become a journalist for this, and neither did he. Frantically, I search for another solution. For a moment, I even try to imagine giving up on our shared dream, but I can't.
"Come on." Desperation fills Jakob's eyes. "We have no choice."
I look at him. "What makes you so sure?"
"The current sales figures," he replies, cursing again. It's clear to me how serious this is.
I have to help him. What kind of friend would I be if I didn't stand by him now? "Only until we're out of the red?" I ask.
He nods. "I swear to you."
It's the absolute truth; I can see it in his eyes. So I gather my courage and look for a way to fulfill his wish without breaking myself in the process.
"My articles must be published under a pen name," I say. No one must ever associate me with this garbage. It will be hard enough to look at myself in the mirror as it is. "And the first story I will research and publish after all this will be the one about the Priority Center."
Panic floods Jakob's expression. He nods, but far too hesitantly.
"Promise," I add firmly. I will do what's necessary, but I can only do it if I have something to hold on to. A goal that will help me survive the coming months as a gossip reporter and then quickly forget about it.
He reaches out his hand, and I take it. "If you provide watertight evidence, the article will be published." This time, his nod is emphatic, and his gaze is open.
No trembling. Steady breath. Relaxed muscles.
Jakob is telling the truth, and even though my mind recognizes it, it's not enough. It never will be. Not with anyone. And least of all with those who are close to me. This is not how I want to be, but I can't help it.
With a nervous movement, I grab the newspaper with the report on the fashion mogul's accident and skim through it. It contains hardly any revealing information about Gustav Blohm himself, the accident, or his current condition.
"He's supposedly at theKarolinska University Hospital. Find out what's really wrong with him. Add a touch of drama, goodphotos, a captivating headline. Go for the tearjerker." He sounds dejected. "That's what sells best."
This is going to be nasty. "Let's see what I can do," I reply nonetheless, for Jakob's sake, suppressing the reluctance rising within me.
