For Once In My Life: An absolutely perfect laugh-out-loud romantic comedy

by Colleen Coleman

  So, I tried out my best I Can Do That, Let Me Do That, Pick Me, Pick Me dance, and my amazing boss and mentor JJ Oakes, said yes. In gratitude, I paid close attention to everything he taught me, and I soon tried out some new moves of my own. And he liked them. He gave me a promotion and a desk and even paid for my driving lessons out of a professional development budget. And when I passed, he granted me a company car and even more chances to prove myself. And I loved him for it and swore my allegiance to this little paper. That was seven years ago. I didn’t need six months to figure it out. I didn’t need six seconds. I’m here to tell you that trusting my instincts really paid off: my job is awesome.

  And I wasn’t alone feeling this way. The whole news crew felt it too, we were a team, a family, in it together, doing what we loved. When the shit hit the fan, we all gave up evenings, nights, weekends, sleep, sanity and a degree of hygiene to share takeaways at our desks, drink neat gin from mugs, spray ourselves down with Febreze and tap into our deepest reserves to meet that deadline. To make a great local paper. We were the peoples’ paper, stories for them and about them, no story too big or small, if it was happening within our readership, we ran it! It’s what we did, and we loved it. The success of the Newbridge Gazette was our success. It reflected who we were and it was such an adrenaline rush! That’s what got my heart pumping. Here in this fourth-floor office is where I found my calling, where I published my first article, where I met my first group of real friends. It’s where my life really began.

  So Happy Jobiversary to us, dear Newbridge Gazette. I love you, I mean that.

  I hope to God it’s not our last.

  I’d be lying if I said things are still awesome, though. They’re not. Things around here have been weird for a while now. Since our latest external consultancy report recommended we ‘cease trading with immediate effect’. That confirmed how badly Gareth, JJ’s successor and current Editor in Chief, had run the newspaper into the ground, filling it with page after page of planning permission and tender applications and second-hand car sales. What my mum would call the ‘boring bits’. I was relegated to page ten, a single page devoted to human interest features and community social events. One page, just enough space for two photos and 950 words of content. All my old friends and colleagues left, unable to stand it any longer: Gareth’s totalitarian rule, his egotism and incompetence. I would have gone for the Editor in Chief job myself except the timing was all wrong; I was still getting over Adam jilting me at the altar and running off with my best friend. Exactly the gossip-tastic kind of heartbreak that you want when you work at the local paper. I can see the church that staged my worst nightmare from my desk. Well, I used to be able to, before I stuck a big, leafy plastic plant in the way to block it from my view.

  But, anyway, I wasn’t exactly in the right frame of mind to sit in front of a panel and field questions on sales strategies and circulation figures and future operating models. I was barely keeping my head above water. Struggling to work out how I was supposed to be successful, fit, happy, well rested, clean, be a good daughter/reporter/friend, and remain sober with only twenty-four hours in a day to work with. I wasn’t my ‘best-self’ at the time.

  So when much to everyone’s disappointment – especially mine – JJ retired, Gareth put himself forward for JJ’s old job. He blinded the panel with his bullshit, over-promised and under-delivered. We lost our best staff, the quality of the paper suffered, and people noticed – namely the readers. Sales plummeted and continue to do so at an alarming rate. Gareth still refuses to acknowledge it has anything to do with him and his leadership; he refuses point-blank to seek help. Why would he possibly need help, right? He gets angrier and angrier every passing week, scapegoating each step of the way, so it never appears his fault. So instead of excitement or purpose, what we’ve got now is a distinct shiftiness in the air. And it appears infectious, toxic and suffocating for those of us who love this place, want to save it and make it work. But as long as Gareth is in charge as Editor in Chief, it’s near impossible to see how that will happen.

  I hear you. If things are so bad, then why am I still here?

  Where else would I go? This is where I belong. I’ve never really had the desire to go anywhere else, everything I was after was right here: great job, great community, great town. If I couldn’t make things work in Newbridge, then what chance did I have as a stranger starting from scratch in some other place? And, if I’m brutally honest, I don’t want to risk another big, fat ‘no’, personally or professionally. Been there and done that, got the lousy T-shirt.

  How am I dealing with this? Well, I keep a very low profile and try to stay out of the office as much as I can. The situation reminds me of The Lord of The Flies. We know rescue isn’t likely and we’re done crying about it. Now, primal strategising has kicked in, it’s everyone for themselves. Each looking at escape routes, at the best place and time to jump, gauging who we should cling to as our best chance of survival. With our current readership at an all-time low, some of us will be sacrificed, devoured and cast aside. Everyone has taken on that sidelong look that means if it comes to it, they’ll eat you. And lick the bones.

  Take yesterday, whenever I ventured near Gareth’s office door to check on a lead or offer an idea for a story, he slammed shut his laptop. When I asked if he was feeling okay, he coughed into his fist and made strange rubbery faces at me with a garbled, incoherent commentary. And despite his raspy protestations and gum-bearing, he didn’t look okay at all. Sweaty… well, sweatier. And pale. And the raised red line of an itchy scalp that began at his forehead had flaked all over his shoulders, which hasn’t happened since we were sued for defaming the Chief of Police over a year ago. Gareth’s doing. We had one suspected burglary in the town and Gareth ran with the headline ‘Crime Up 100% Under New Police Chief’. Up 100% only because there hadn’t been a burglary recorded in living memory. I told him I thought the headline was ill-advised (and the Chief of Police is really nice and IMHO does a great job for our little community), but Gareth’s not keen on my input. Or my presence. Or me generally. So yes, instead of the proverbial calm, we have this weird cannibalistic shiftiness before the storm. And, frankly, I’m done with it. I’d say I’m ready for the storm. Or the Apocalypse or Armageddon or whatever will happen next. Whatever shape it takes, it’s got to be better than the stasis we’ve got now.

  It’s not just Gareth’s attitude that makes me nervous about the future. In the top corner by the big windows overlooking the car park, sit the wild-haired, wild-eyed ad-sales team; most of whom are his after-work drinking buddies. Swivelling on chairs, phones ever-hooked into the crook of their necks, even they are now throwing back ibuprofen like smarties to combat the throbbing mix of hangover and looming target pressures.

  Mark is the Head of Sales: he’s tall, tanned, bearded and built like Action Man and he’s been here about three years. He’s barely spoken to me since his first Gazette Christmas party here when he drunkenly made a pass at me and I told him in very clear terms that I wasn’t interested, and that I never have and never will get involved with anyone from work. Too much potential for mess and complication. And humiliation, of course. The fallout after a break-up is hard enough, can you imagine if you had to face them every day in the office too? It’s just a no-no on every front.

  The thing is, my work is my safe space. Outside, everything else is erratic and emotional and unpredictable and completely out of my control. But here, I know where I stand, I know what’s expected of me and I know I belong here and I won’t be doing anything to mess that up in any way. To Mark’s credit, he keeps his distance from me and has never tried it on again, but as a result of that I don’t really know a lot about him despite the fact he’s now one of the longest serving on our team.

  And then there are the temps. A constant stream of random admin strangers circle the main office space at all times, appearing and disappearing with the same bits of paper, darting around pretending to be preoccupied so we won’t get suspi
cious while they attend castings or complete their online degrees on company time. They are not attached to the place like we are, well, like I am. They don’t care if it sinks or burns or collapses. When you try to engage with them, they appear horrified, murmuring low sentences that begin like condolences and then just trail off as their eyes wander to random points on the wall. It’s like being an extra in a zombie movie as we stalk around each other, looking pale and stricken, doing the same thing over and over, almost alive but not quite.

  Watching all of this happen, day in, day out, is breaking my heart.

  Current headline mood: ‘Unhappiness Up 100%’.

  If only Gareth would piss off. If only somebody else could step up and take over and lead us forward. If only I wasn’t the only one prepared to fight for it.

  I get that the others don’t see it this way. They probably have rich and varied lives outside these office walls, lots of exciting career options to explore. To them this is probably just a place to clock in and clock out; an honest way to pay the bills. And the only news this newspaper cares about right now is its own precarious future. The Newbridge Gazette is limping along its last few steps, one-legged, dragging its debt-ridden body towards some kind of terminus. But how, when and what that end will look like is still anybody’s guess.

  There’s been no shortage of guessing. We’re reporters after all, professional gossip is our raison d’être. A huddle of the guys can always be found by the water cooler, swaying on the spot with blown-out cheeks, their hands shoved down the backs of their trousers, fantasising about how they’ll spend their redundancies. By now, I’ve heard everything, from cycling the world to creating their own craft beer, to just playing non-stop FIFA in their pants and living off deliveries.

  I won’t burst their bubble. The fact is, if there is no money in the pot to run this paper, then there’s no money for redundancies. We’ll be let go with a sad shrug, a handshake and an hour to clear our desks.

  It’s been like this for weeks now. Limbo. Navel-gazing. Ear-picking whilst doomsday prophesising. They’ve given up on the idea that someone, anyone, even one of us with an army of media-savvy saviours, could still swoop in and save us from extinction.

  But I haven’t. Not yet.

  Because if there’s anything I’ve learnt from my experience, it’s that there’s no point in peering into the future, no point in speculation or second-guessing or imagining you are going to logically follow a series of events which will lead you to arrive at a particular destination. And as for all their contemplations of escape routes and Plan B’s, there’s not much point to that either.

  Every day, I fight back the urge to storm over there and tell them all to stop their arse-scratching, shut the hell up and get back to work. Don’t they understand that hanging around whining and moaning isn’t gaining us any new readers? Don’t they get they are compounding a very sad and stressful situation by doing even less than they did before? And that that’s pretty much what got us into this situation in the first place?

  I’d also like to point out that not only is their approach ineffectual, it’s also irrational. You can spend the best part of two years planning everything out, perfectly, to the finest, tiniest detail. You can know every single thing from the cup size of your back-up bridesmaid to your fiancé’s cousin’s husband’s sister’s nut allergy to the choreography of every step of your first dance. You can even get a formal warning from the security guard at Boots for trying on every shade of lipstick to find the perfect one to pronounce those fateful words ‘I do’. And then, guess what?

  None of it happens.

  So, I don’t waste time supposing and guesstimating about anything until it actually happens any more.

  And perhaps that’s why I’m the only employee who still does any work around here, and thinks maybe, just maybe, our story isn’t over just yet.

  So Happy Jobiversary dear Gazette. This year my only wish is that we get through it. Together.

  Two

  I’m an hour late today because I spent this morning visiting an old man who turned ninety-eight (or thereabouts), won the lottery and nearly died the next day. I know, right? So, this story had to be covered; classic Page Ten news.

  I drove 20km to visit Mr Clark in his hospital bed. I kept my head down as I searched the wards, worried that I’d run into my ex-best friend Hannah who used to work there as a nurse. I imagine she’s still nursing locally, but maybe not, we haven’t had any contact whatsoever for three years now, so who knows what she’s been up to or where she’s moved on. She could be married to Adam with kids and a brand-new life abroad for all I know. In a way, I hope she is, just so I can’t bump into her, this morning or ever. I haven’t heard from either of them and that’s the way I want to keep it. I have no social media accounts. I don’t want to see them drink cocktails or ride jet skis. That’s the past and I need to try my best every day to remember that and keep moving on, so the fewer reminders, the better. Thankfully, a very friendly receptionist offered to help me when she could see me looking lost; we turned into a private room across from her desk and my stomach finally stopped flipping with dread.

  Mr Clark wasn’t at all what I expected on meeting a newly minted millionaire. He’s mad. As in furious, wishes he’d never bought the goddamn thing as he checked the numbers, discovered he was a winner and then, next thing he knew, he’s strapped down in an ambulance, a lump the size of a beef tomato in the middle of his forehead. He was especially worried about leaving his slow-cooked stew behind as well as a stray kitten he’d taken in. So that was my light-bulb moment on how to get the exclusive scoop on the oldest millionaire in town.

  ‘How about you give me a statement and a photo and I promise to nip straight by your house, save your stew and feed your cat?’

  Mr Clark struck out his hand and we made ourselves a deal. ‘His name is Chaplin,’ he told me, slightly brighter. ‘He looks just like Charlie Chaplin. You’ll know him because he’s white with a little black patch over his mouth like a moustache.’

  I smiled, and we chatted animals for a bit. I love them, but when Adam moved out, he took our bouncy Dalmatian, Oreo, with him, so I’ve been living by myself pet-less for much longer than I’d like. When you’ve got an animal in your house, it never feels empty. Their warmth, their routines, their presence becomes such a comfort, such a close and constant companionship. I had planned to adopt a rescue pup, but when my granny became ill I shelved all ideas of that as all my attention turned to her. Maybe it’s something I’ll look into again sometime. I really miss Oreo – I’d say I miss him more than Adam most days.

  And I get it; Mr Clark lives alone like me, so he’s the only one he can count on and I couldn’t help but warm to him for caring more about this little creature than the lotto millions he’s yet to collect. He grabbed a scrap of paper from his bedside locker, scribbled down his address and handed it to me.

  ‘Ah, I know where you live, Mr Clark, I’m just at the back of your field, I’m the little two-bed cottage with the thatched roof.’

  He squinted at me. ‘Thatched roof? Are you any relation to Edith Buckley?’

  ‘She’s my grandmother. As in she was when she was alive…’ I told him.

  He nodded and clicked his tongue. ‘So your mother was that wild redhead?’

  I shrugged. She’d been called worse. ‘Yes. I’m afraid so.’

  A half-smile tugged on his thin grey lips. ‘Every year, October time, when she was a teenager, I’d catch her in my field in the middle of the night, picking magic mushrooms. Off her head she was. Stubborn too. Reminded me of my own son, always drama and calamity. I called the police on her, set the dogs on her, reported her to your grandmother – who was a respectable lady, mind – but there was no stopping that redhead from harvesting those mushrooms.’

  Hmm. I’d like to say she grew out of all that.

  ‘Well, she lives in the States now, so I doubt you’ll be seeing her around.’ I explained, eager to get off the subject of my m
other. For someone so good at not being around, she has a knack of still cropping up everywhere, especially in unexpected conversations like this. I mean, my mother isn’t a serial killer or anything. She’s no Mother Teresa, but she’s all right. She’s just not very maternal. If anything, she’s actively un-mumsy. She views all traditional relationships as frumpy and old-fashioned and overly sentimental. She’s the polar opposite to me – she does attention, adventure and applause. I guess I’m more cautious. I like stability, routine, the quiet life: no alarms and no surprises. She left me with my granny here in Newbridge when I was ten, so she could pursue her singing career. Which worked out. For her. She’s a professional ‘recording artist’ with more albums under her belt than I can count on my fingers. Maybe somewhere along the lines she wanted us to be more like friends than mother and daughter, but that hasn’t worked out so well. She can act more like a demanding older sibling, competitive and self-absorbed. But that might also be down to artistic temperament after all. She is a singer, a really good one, but it comes with a big dollop of diva, which means I don’t always want people to know I’m her daughter. That’s the thing about doing this job in the smallish community where I grew up from such a young age. The plus side is that everyone knows everyone. The down side is that everyone knows everyone. And their mother.

  I straightened up and poised my pen to paper, leaning in for my exclusive statement.

  ‘So, Mr Clark, tell me, in your own time, what would you like everyone to know about the newest millionaire in the country?’

  ‘I want everyone to know…’ he began. Deep breath in. ‘I want everyone to know…’ Deep breath out. ‘I want…’ His eyes closed and his chin dipped, his face slackening with every passing second.

  OMG. Was he dying? Was he dying right now?