“Yes.”
I sit back slightly. “I didn’t say anything about her not being capable because she’s a woman.”
“I know.”
“I didn’t question whether women should be in charge.”
“I know.”
“I didn’t even make the complaint about her being a woman.”
“No,” Marie Louise says. “But you included a resident saying, ‘Maybe she was following procedure,’ then you identified Philippa Hart as the county’s first female watch manager. You put criticism of her authority next to her gender and left readers to make the connection.”
I don’t answer.
Because for the first time, I can see the two paragraphs sitting beside each other.
And I don’t like how they look.
Until now, I’ve only been reading the article as the person who wrote it. I know what I meant. I know what I thought I was doing. I know that the quote about taking charge quicker was there because it captured frustration and uncertainty and because local journalism lives in those moments where ordinary people try to understand things they weren’t trained to understand.
But I also know I put that quote there.
And then I put her underneath it.
And then I added the line about being the first female watch manager because it felt relevant and interesting and honestly, at the time, I thought I was giving her credit.
I look at the paper again.
The paragraphs suddenly feel much closer together than they did yesterday.
I sit back.
“But that wasn’t my intention.”
Marie Louise nods straight away.
“I get it.”
I wait for thebut.
“That doesn’t make it disappear.”
I look away.
There’s a strange sort of embarrassment creeping in now. Not the dramatic kind where somebody catches you doing something terrible. Worse.
The sort where you realise you’ve done something stupid while trying to do something clever.
I rub a hand over my jaw.
“I genuinely didn’t think—"
I don’t actually know how to finish that sentence.
I didn’t think what?
That people would read it differently?
