by Sky Curtis
“Bitch,” she mouthed at me.
Finally, with an exaggerated stroke of her pen, Shirley signed her name on whatever document was so important that it couldn’t be sent by email, and wheeled around to her computer screen, flicking it to life. She pointed her finger at it. “I have to talk to you both about this article on Everwave that Mr. Ascot kindly forwarded to me. Yes, here it says, ‘Written by Cynthia Dale, with files from Robin MacFarland.’”
I could see Cindy was shifting her weight from one foot to another. She seemed to have made the rapid decision not to reveal her cards and kept her mouth shut. To say anything at all would make her vulnerable. She stood up straight and maintained her head at that cheeky angle.
Shirley looked at her and shook her head in mock puzzlement, “Something wrong with your neck, Cynthia? I have a good chiropractor, if you need one.”
“No, I’m fine, thanks,” muttered Cindy and briefly put her chin down.
“There’s no headline for the piece yet, but I’m sure it will be snappy. I want to ask you a few questions.”
“Okay, shoot.” I was feeling brave.
“Sit down, will you. Both of you seem so uptight. And you Cynthia, take a chill pill. I’m not going to bite your head off.”
Cindy hee-hawed self-consciously and pleated her lanky limbs onto a wooden chair in the corner, after she had lifted off an organized pile of files and placed them neatly on the floor. “So,” she leaned forward in her chair as she crossed her exceedingly long legs, “what’s up?” She sounded relaxed, even cooperative, but I knew she was barely keeping her tone civil.
“It’s common practice, when there are two names on an article to be extra careful about the credits. So far they read, ‘Written by Cynthia Dale with files from Robin MacFarland.’ I guess you wrote that Cynthia, am I correct?”
Where was this going? “Well, yes, I guess.” Cindy’s anger was corralled behind a barbed wire fence.
“Did you or didn’t you?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Okay, Robin?” Shirley turned her head towards me, “So where are your files? You always show me all your research and I don’t have any files on this. And I have files coming out of my ears, as you can see,” Shirley gestured expansively around the room and tapped the top of her computer. “But no files from Robin MacFarland. So, where are the files?” She turned back to Cindy. “Did she send them directly to you, Cynthia?”
“Ah, well, actually, no.”
“But it says ‘with files from.’ Are you telling me now that that’s inaccurate?”
Cynthia squirmed, “Yes, there were no files from Robin.”
“So, did she write this article with files from you? It’s important to be accurate, people around here work hard and they deserve credit where credit is due. So, were they your files?”
I felt like we were being interrogated by a prosecutor at the Supreme Court of Canada. What was the big deal?
“No, they weren’t my files.”
“Okay, so we can eliminate the word ‘files’ from this byline altogether, right?” Shirley looked at Cindy for confirmation. When there was a slight nod of a now not so jauntily held head, Shirley, her hands poised in a claw-like arch, deleted the words “with files from” with a series of staccato taps on her keyboard. I knew she had done that for effect. Most people would just hold the bloody key down.
“Now,” said Shirley, her eyebrows raised like two inch worms arching their backs in a geisha dance, “we are getting somewhere. Now it reads, ‘By Cynthia Dale and Robin MacFarland.’”
“I am very proud of Robin being on the front page,” Cindy gushed, a fountain of bonhomie.
“Are you then?” responded Shirley frostily. “Well, well. You are proud of her. I have a few more questions. You see, I know Robin’s work very well. Having been her editor for quite a few years. Am I right, Robin?”
“Yes,” I mumbled. I had a sense of impending doom.
“Several decades, in fact. Here in the Home and Garden section of the Toronto Daily Express. Yes, I know her work very well. Like you, Cynthia, I am proud of her, too. Finally Robin has taken a step to advance herself in the paper. I won’t stand in her way, not at all, but I want that way paved with the truth. The truth is the truth and I want the truth. Do you understand what I’m saying here?”
“Oh, don’t worry, everything in that article can be backed up. It is the truth.”
“I know the article is the truth, silly billy.” Shirley flashed some teeth at Cindy in what could pass as a smile, perhaps of a piranha. “Let’s try and get to my point another way. Whose idea was it to question the energy efficiency of the project?”
“Robin’s. She has quite a critical mind.”
Shirley looked at Cindy with false surprise curling the corner of her lip. “Oh, really? Do you think I don’t know that? My own reporter for over twenty years? And whose idea was it to mention the vulnerability of the pump in the middle of the lake?”
I had to speak up. “Begging your pardon, but it’s not in the middle, it’s only five kilometers out and the lake is—”
“I know it’s not the middle, Robin. That’s an idiom. A figure of speech. Besides, I am talking to Cynthia.” The lip curled even more and I was beginning to understand something very bad was actually happening here, but I wasn’t sure what. Shirley repeated, “Whose idea?”
“Robin’s. She’s very creative and—”
“Do I need to remind you again, Ms. Dale, that I am aware of Robin’s attributes as a reporter?”
So, now it was Ms. Dale. Things had gone from bad to dreadful.
Cindy didn’t know when to shut up. “She did such a good job on this article and I don’t understand why you—”
“Ah, now we are getting to the truth. ‘She did such a good job.’” Shirley parroted. “Not you, not Cynthia Dale, but Robin MacFarland. She. Her. Isn’t that right? Isn’t it the truth that Robin wrote this article? That the ideas behind this article were Robin’s? That there were no files from either you or her. That this, in fact, is her article?” Shirley’s voice was escalating, with every question blasting like a bullet from a rapid-fire machine gun, aimed right at Cindy’s integrity. Shirley was leaning forward, her face a bright red. I’d never seen her like this. She flicked a cigarette pack open and shut, open and shut, the soft snaps punctuating the silence.
Cindy sunk into the wooden chair, trying to disappear. It was true. We had believed that with my name linked to Cindy’s it would surely get on the front page. Cynthia had only wanted to help me, so that I wouldn’t feel like I was a failure. That I would move forward. She was being my friend. But of course Cindy couldn’t say any of this. And neither could I.
Instead it looked as if Cindy had tried to steal the article from under the feet of a susceptible underling, someone who’d had such a bad time for the past five years but had finally pulled up her socks and done great work. It looked as if Cindy was a thief.
Cindy said, “Well, we are such good friends and I was there, at the ceremony, and I thought—”
“Stop right there before you convince me to have you fired. What you’ve done is very, very serious. You are a cheat. A liar and a cheat. That’s called plagiarism. And we can’t have that at the paper. I don’t care what you thought,” Shirley barked, “whatever it was, whatever you were going to say, will only get you in more trouble. Just stop.”
“I’m sorry” Cindy moaned. “I won’t do it again.”
Oh my God, Cynthia could lose her job. There was a zero tolerance policy on plagiarism.
“Of course you won’t. You will lose your job and be black-balled from the Express. I believe that you were trying to steal her thunder, that you were trying to cover up your own laziness in not writing an article, but I’m not stupid. I know Robin’s work. She’s smart and talented. You understand? I know you’re friends. I’m let
ting you off scot-free because you’re her friend. Some friend.”
Even though this was so wrong, I squirmed with the unexpected praise. The whole situation was too much for me. I needed a drink and it was only nine fifteen.
“Yes, thank you. I am her friend. I was only trying to—”
“Stop. As I said, I don’t care what you were trying to do. Don’t EVER do that again. I’ll probably have to mention it to Doug.”
“Okay.” Cindy said worriedly.
“So, you know what’s going to happen now?”
“My name comes off?”
Shirley stared right at Cindy with a steely grin on her face as she vigorously and repeatedly struck the delete button with her manicured peter pointer.
7.
THE WASHROOM DOOR BANGED AGAINST the wall. We raced into the sanctuary of the restroom, panting from our narrow escape with Shirley. Cindy’s phone buzzed and we both jumped. She pawed through her purse. What if it were Human Relations? Had Shirley changed her mind and have Cindy fired? Where the hell was the damn thing? I watched her frantically search her bag and resisted the urge to rip it from her hands and look myself. Finally her frenzied fingers found it hiding in the side pocket. She whipped it out and the ringing blessedly stopped.
“Missed it,” she checked the screen, “Oh, just a telemarketer,” she said laughing wildly. “But look, here’s a text from you.” She read it slowly out loud. “My name can’t be on the Everwave article. Have a date with Todd Radcliffe. Long story.” She regarded me, baffled. “What?”
“Yeah, I have a date with Todd. Now I’m in big shit. Now only my name is on that article. Your name is clearly out, out, out. Oh God, I need my name off.”
This was turning into such a bad day.
Cindy leaned her forehead against the flowered yellow wallpaper on the restroom wall and moaned. Then she dragged herself to the small day bed in the corner and flopped onto it. The restroom was divided two rooms, the first one where people could actually lie down and rest. Someone was in the washroom behind the steel door into the second room; I could hear the water running as whoever it was soaped up their hands.
The adrenaline seeped out of Cindy’s body as she stared at the ceiling. I sat down at the end of the bed and put my head in my hands. What a mess. Cindy almost got fired. Her name was off the article. My name was on. My date was going to be a disaster. But now was not the time to drown in self-pity. There was no time to waste. This problem needed to be solved.
Cindy propped herself up on an elbow, brushed her curly red hair off her face and grinned wickedly, “So, how did you manage to get a date with Todd Radcliffe?”
The old Cindy was back.
I lifted my head from my hands. “Well, I went on this internet dating site and he sent me a message without his picture and I agreed to see him and then I got his picture and it was too late, we already had a date, so, like, here I am, with a date, with him.”
God, I sounded like a Valley Girl. Perhaps I should be twirling my hair. But Cindy wasn’t an idiot. She’d know something was a tad off. She set about finding out the truth and said briskly, “He’s a jerk. You know that, Robin, right?”
“Of course I do, but maybe he was tense at the conference and said stupid things because of it. He sounded pretty good in the profile, Cindy,” I added defensively, “so maybe he isn’t as bad as we think. It’s worth a shot. He is pretty cute.”
“What? He’s an arrogant pig. You saw that.”
I deflated, “Look, I’m trying to make the best of a bad situation. I can’t back out. His connections are everywhere. You should read his CV. If I’m going to get ahead, I can’t go back on my word. He could damage my reputation. The one I don’t have yet, but will. I’ll meet him just the once. But my name has to come off that article.”
Cindy was shaking her head like a badger throttling a snake. I hadn’t given her what she wanted. “But how did the date happen?” she asked me again.
“I was flustered. This dating business is all so new. I haven’t had a date in like two or three decades. I wasn’t thinking. It literally happened in a bad dream kind of time warp. I sort of had no judgment.” I pictured the empty wine bottle on my kitchen counter.
“So-o-o,” Cindy drawled. She probably saw the scenario unfold in her mind, the computer keys being pressed drunkenly and the mad search afterwards for the undo button, “You were drinking?”
“I’ve called the naturopath and I’m going, I’m going. This was the last straw.”
The truth was out, yes, I had been blotto, and now Cindy weaseled into the next little crevasse in the day so far, wedging it wider. “Speaking of straw, what are we going to do about Shirley?”
“Yeah, I know. This is a big problem. But I think we’re okay. I think she’s let us off the hook.”
Just then Avril Deepa, the health reporter, emerged from the washroom, smelling of apple and cinnamon soap. She looked at us on the daybed and said, “Rest is good. A short nap is worth hours of sleep,” and bustled out the door.
We gaped blankly as the door clicked shut behind her.
And then Cindy spluttered. “I can’t believe she figured it out. Smart cookie! She knows your style of writing and she could tell that I hadn’t written the article.” She paused and sighed. “We made a mistake about the files.”
“Oh my God,” I lamented, “I know. I didn’t submit any files. I always submit my files. It’s her policy. It’s her quirk. Or one of them. That’s how she knew.”
“Actually, I think she knew it was your article from how it was written. She knows you. Your incisiveness and clarity. Your analytical ability. Your factual basis. Your lucid arguments.”
“Oh fuck off. You’re just trying to butter me up because we’re in deep shit.”
“No, I’m in deep shit. You are the golden one. It looks like I used you, that I stole from you.”
“I’ll correct that Cindy. This was my fault. I was just too ambitious.”
“No,” she said, leveraging herself off the bed, “I’m to blame. I should have known better. You don’t screw around with credits. Listen, we had better get back to our desks.”
We both forced ourselves off the daybed and left the washroom together. “What are you working on today? The mayor fiasco?”
“Yup. Unbelievable. I have to polish up an introductory article about him. Rich fat cat. Apparently his secretary has been arrested. Not that I get to write about that. What about you? What are you working on?”
“A snap dragon show. Whoopdeedo.” I spun a finger in the air.
“Don’t worry, Robin.” She sat down at her desk as I made my way to mine, next to hers. “Things will only go up from here. The Everwave article is still on the front.”
“Oh yes, in all its glory.” I sagged into my chair. “I am now the sole author. I can just see the head. ‘Todd Radcliffe , Scam Artist, by Robin MacFarland.’ My date is so not going to be fun.”
“Maybe he won’t show,” said Cindy, the eternal optimist.
“Yeah, right. And maybe he doesn’t read the Express. Maybe he’s a Times reader. Or even the Herald.” I was stabbing in the dark here.
“Not the Herald. No one reads the Herald. Not unless you’re a pinko commy. They give that rag out for free at car washes.”
I laughed, “I think he’s an Express reader. He strikes me as a liberal. I’m going to be so fucked.”
“No, actually Robin, no, you so won’t be.”
I laughed again and then saw Shirley leaving her office across the newsroom. “Watch out,” I whispered to Cindy, “here comes you know who. She’s smiling. Ugh. Don’t look up.”
“Robin,” said Shirley expansively, cocking her hip into my desk, “Great article you wrote.” Shirley smiled, baring her fluorescently-capped teeth, “Well done.” She moved her head closer to mine, so that only the two of us could partake
in the conversation. “Cynthia’s name is officially off. She didn’t have anything to do with that article, did she?”
“Ah,” I choked. “Ah, no, not really.”
“C’mon.” Shirley smirked, “Not at all. Let’s be honest here. She didn’t write it. You did. She was just trying to steal your thunder, right?”
I had to fix this situation. Cindy was in a very precarious position. Shirley was on her way to Doug’s office. Cindy’s job could be on the line. You just didn’t sign your name to things you didn’t write. That was plagiarism with a capital “P.” And that meant you were gone. That was the paper’s policy. No plagiarism. I had to tell the truth. Did I have the guts? I had to, if I was going to be the new me. What was the worst that could happen?
“Actually Shirley, it was the other way around.” I whispered bravely. “I was trying to steal hers. I really need to move on now and she and I thought that if her name were on the article I would get front page exposure.”
Shirley looked at me skeptically, one eye twitching half shut. “Ah, okay. It has the ring of truth. Generally speaking, Cindy is honest. For a crime reporter. So, you didn’t think you’d get there on your own?” Shirley stood up and thrust her massive chest in the direction of Doug’s office while trying to slap down her sticks of straw. Her mind was elsewhere.
“Something like that,” I said evasively.
Doug came out of his office carrying some papers and raised his eyebrows at Shirley. The corner of his mouth turned up in the beginning of a smile but when he clued in that I was watching him he quickly recomposed his face. Shirley’s mouth was open, just the tiniest bit, enough to show her pink tongue playing along the edge of her far too white teeth. She smoothed her blouse over her mountainous cleavage.
“I had better talk to Doug about all this.” Shirley smiled at me naughtily, “I’m sure I can make it all blow over,” she winked. And then she said sternly, “But don’t let it happen again. You are a good writer in your own right, Robin. You got there on your own.” While Shirley was saying this last sentence she boogied her eyebrows back at Doug and held up a flaming fingernail, indicating one minute.