I cannot blame them.
This is the problem with being sorry. It does not automatically make people less affected by the thing you did. It just gives them a new version of you to consider while they decide whether the old one is still standing too close.
Josh takes me through basic visitor information. Where I can go. Where I cannot go. What to do if the alarm sounds. Who to listen to. What not to touch. This last category appears to be broad and spiritually important.
“If in doubt,” he says, “ask.”
“Understood.”
“If someone gives you an instruction during a call, follow it immediately. Not after writing it down. Not after asking a follow-up question. Immediately.”
“I can do that.”
His eyes sharpen slightly. “Can you?”
I deserve that.
“Yes,” I say. “I can.”
He holds my gaze for a second longer, then nods. “Good.”
We end up in the kitchen.
It is not terrible.
That is my first thought, which probably says too much about the state of the newsroom kitchen and the emotional damage it has done to me.
The station kitchen is warm, practical and clearly used by people who are regularly interrupted halfway through doing things. There are mugs near the sink, a tea towel hanging over the back of a chair, a cereal box left open on the counter and a faint smell of toast, coffee and something fried that has made itself part of the walls. Someone has written MILK on a whiteboard and underlined it three times, which suggests either excellent communication or a historic dairy-related incident.
The sink could do with a rinse.
A cupboard door is slightly open.
There is a pile of paperwork on one end of the table that has begun to develop its own personality.
I do not say any of it.
I am not here to assess their kitchen. I am here because I wrote an article that made a woman’s professional life harder, and beginning my first day by suggesting a loading strategy for the dishwasher would probably be unwise even by my standards.
Josh gestures towards the kettle. “Tea? Coffee?”
“Coffee would be great, thanks.”
“Strong?”
“Yes.”
He gives me a quick look. “Sensible.”
A man at the table glances up from his phone. “If Kev made it, don’t drink it.”
“I heard that,” someone calls from beyond the door.
“You were meant to.”
Josh opens a cupboard and takes down a mug. “That’s Sean.”
Sean lifts two fingers in greeting without getting up. “All right?”
