This can’t be real.
I close my mouth and risk a glance at Analeise, to see that her reaction is far more measured. She purses her lips and reads the figures off the screen once again, before glancing towards me and learning forward.
‘What would you write for me, Amorie?’ she asks.
I gulp instantly.
‘Like, for a column?’ I ask.
She nods. ‘Consider this your interview. Pitch.’
My heart picks up pace and I glance to Paige, waiting for her to come to my rescue again. But she shoots me a telling look – she’s set me up, but now the ball’s in my court. I think as fast as I can, scanning through pages of theNew Travellerin my head.
‘Well, I’m obsessed with your agony-aunt section. I could do some of that?’
Paige’s face drops and Analeise takes a disappointed breath.
‘We already have an agony aunt, as you know. We don’t have a particular need for a second one,’ she says.
Of course, they do. What am I thinking? Why on earth would I pitch something they are already doing? I try again.
‘What about coffee? I’m a barista, as many of my generation are.’
Her eyebrow arches slightly and she leans back in her chair.
‘What’s the angle?’ she asks. I look on speechless, so she continues. ‘How would you link “coffee” to travelling and the modern world?’
I mumble. ‘Oh, yeah.’
Her interest is fading. The light drains from her eyes with every moment I stall. I need to say something.Anything.
‘I make a lot of speciality coffees on my account and I’m trying to trial a recipe from each country in the world. Maybe I could go to each place? Trial the coffees from the countries themselves and write about it?’
Analeise emits another sigh and my heart plummets down to my stomach.
‘We don’t have budget for something with such small stakes, but thank you for your time. Both of you,’ she says politely.
Her eyebrows droop as she motions to stand, face a reflection of the banality I just imposed on her. I watch her hands reach for her screen and slam her laptop shut, slamming my one chance at a career beneath her fingers.
‘I have more ideas! Tonnes of them!’ I say, lying.
Her eyes flit to my face, softening as they note the desperation. She sighs again, this one pitiful.
‘Can I be honest with you both?’ she asks.
We nod and she sits back down, laptop remaining closed.
‘I saw the video – we all did – it washilarious. You are witty and honest, and relatable in all the right ways. I can see that girl with a column, but I’m afraid that what you’ve pitched today is, frankly, notthat girl. I couldn’t tell you anything about the coffee you made in that video and I doubt the millions who saw it could either. But I could probably recite a couple of your jokes about your ex in bed, or your four-minute run-on about the wasteland of dating apps.’
She stops to study my face, searching for any sign of weakness, no doubt as an excuse to send me on my way. So I stay strong and show her I can handle critique, while I trace my mind back to my five weeks of university and remember my lecturer’s advice.
‘Pitch what you know.’
Or in my case, don’t know.
I meet her eyes and fix her with a determined glare.
‘I’ve never really dated. I had a boyfriend for five years and have spent the last year learning who I am without him. I came out as bisexual, I threw myself into my job and my account, and I tried the apps, but, honestly, they get tired real fast, as you know from my video. I’m bored of them.Everyone’sbored of them, but we all feel like we have no other choice. What if I find new options? What if I go on a bunch of dates as a novice dater and explore all the different ways you can find people?’
