Who’s That Girl?

by Celia Hayes

“But that’s cheating!” I grumble.

  “Hell, yeah!” she confirms with a big smile, pulling her bag out from under the pile of folders and documents on my desk. Before she leaves, she reminds me of the results of our challenge. “Remember: tomorrow at half past three. I’ll email you the exact address.”

  “You do realise that you cheated, right?” I protest – in vain, because she’s obviously not listening to me any more. She makes sure she’s got everything and heads towards the corridor singing to herself. Of course she’s happy: she gets to meet Carl Urban while I’m stuck with Uncle Fester!

  I should have known it would end like this, but why? Why is it always me? I’m going to start my week with a horror show, how is that fair?

  “Damn you, Terry…” I whisper, but suddenly something in the room appears on my personal radar, and everything else loses its importance. My attention is now completely focused on the main entrance which is visible down the corridor. My heartbeat starts to speed up, my brain goes all foggy and the rest of my body becomes unresponsive to stimuli. Terry recognises the symptoms as soon as she hears my first moan.

  “Uh-oh!” She walks back over to me to rub salt in my wounds, asking mockingly “Should I call a doctor?”

  “Shut up!”

  The handle turns, the hinges creak. Here we go.

  I check the time: it’s half past ten. He’s punctual, as always.

  I lean over the edge of my cubicle to see and almost stop breathing. If my hay fever doesn’t get me first, this unmanageable emotional incontinence of mine – the result of youthful overindulgence in Jane Austen and Lassie Come Home – is going to be the end of me.

  In the meantime, I see him approaching from the opposite side of the newsroom office. It’s Dave, the walking proof of the existence of God – a God who loves ties with a Windsor knot.

  He is thirty-six years old, has brown hair, green eyes and a smile that could give you a heart attack. He’s my personal standard when judging men, who I file under the categories ‘absolutely not Dave’, ‘a bit Dave’, ‘very Dave’ and ‘totally Dave’. Nobody reaches the standard of perfection of the original Dave Callaghan, though, and if there was any justice at all in the world, he would be the only possible father of my children.

  Unaware of my slightly improper thoughts, The Chronicle’s vice editor takes his jacket off nonchalantly and asks Jane, the editorial secretary, to hand him his black planner. Jane has recently been upgraded to coffee bringer and chief excuse maker for any appointment he forgets.

  They talk to each other for a while, mainly about work and his schedule, and she fills him in on the latest news from the Civic Centre and about the people he should talk to. Halfway through, though, their ability to co-exist in the same space runs out and they part ways. She goes back to organising the administrative office’s mail and Dave takes cover in his office, checking the notes about the meetings he has scheduled with an expression of concentration on his face.

  As undignified as it is to admit it, I hold my breath until I hear him slamming the door behind me and only then, when I’m sure he can’t see me, do my cheeks regain some colour. All of which my nosy colleague seems to find absolutely hilarious.

  “Not a word,” I say menacingly.

  “Do you need a tissue?” she asks mockingly, perching on the edge of my desk. “You’ve got some drool dripping off your chin.”

  “You’re not funny.”

  “You do realise that you have no chance at all with him, right?”

  “Yes, I’m perfectly aware of my situation,” I admit, “but I started hoping again after I saw Hugh Jackman’s wife. If a woman like her can net herself someone like the Wolverine, surely I can aim for a deputy editor from San Francisco.”

  “Yeah, sure…” she replies sceptically.

  I’m about to reply when Terry interrupts me abruptly, putting her hand over my mouth.

  “Suspicious movements at twelve o’clock.”

  “What?” I ask looking around.

  “Shut up! He’s coming!” she warns me, picking up a random document from the pile on my desk to give the impression of being too busy to notice him.

  “Who? What are you talking about?” I ask. I start hysterically fiddling with the folders too, almost sending the whole lot crashing to the floor. “You mean it’s him?”

  “Yes, he’s here, hurry up!” she murmurs, pretending to read the file she’s holding.

  “Oh, God, what should I do?”

  “Dammit, Sam, just pick something up!” she mutters, sticking a memo into my hands. It’s the notice Jane sent me yesterday about the new time for this morning’s meeting. When Dave finally reaches my cubicle, Terry is completely absorbed in my shopping list and I am correcting imaginary mistakes on a memo I should have thrown away hours ago.

  “Sam, may I have a word?” he asks, leaning over the dividing wall.

  “Oh, good morning,” I greet him, pretending not to have noticed his arrival earlier. “Sure – what can I do for you?”

  He gives me a smile which has an effect on me like hard drugs: it kills me very slowly and even though I am well aware of the damage it’s doing me, I don’t put up any resistance – I’m absolutely incapable of stopping my tormenter.

  “We moved the meeting forward, did you read my memo?”

  “Sure, I was just about to email Mag about it.”

  “Ok, well listen…” he hesitates. “I need to see some people…” he hesitates again. I’ve lost count of the appointments I’ve been late for because of these thoughtful pauses of his. “Do you by any chance have a couple of spare minutes to run some errands for me?”

  Here we go again.

  “Sure I do!” I answer without thinking. Terry, who’s still sitting next to me stares at me in shock, then turns to look at the piles of work on my desk. “I’m not that busy,” I continue, unable to contain myself, “No problem!”

  “That’s great,” murmurs Dave, sighing with relief. “You’re an angel, Sam, what would I do without you?” He smiles again, and I feel like I’m about to melt into a gooey mess on the tiled floor. “Are you sure it’s not a problem?” he asks, probably feeling somewhat guilty.

  “Sam, weren’t you supposed to check—” cuts in Terry, hoping to save me from myself. But it’s too late now.

  “Of course not, it’s no problem, really,” I reply, without letting either of them finish what they were saying. “I’d be glad to.”

  “Ok, then,” shrugs Dave. “Give me a minute and I’ll send Ben over with the stuff,” he says before disappearing behind his door as quickly as he appeared. I think he also said something as he was leaving, but I honestly can’t remember what. It doesn’t matter, I’ll find out all about it very shortly anyway and probably have to spend the rest of my working day dealing with it.

  “You really should stop it,” Terry scolds me as soon as Dave has gone.

  I know she’s right, but I just can’t resist him. I can never say no to those puppy eyes of his, they just make me lose my head.

  “Sam, I’m not kidding,” she continues, “it’s always the same story. He can’t make you do all the extra work that’s built up. And anyway, you’ve already got Margaret to deal with.”

  “Don’t make a big deal out of it, he hardly ever does it.”

  “That’s not true!”

  “Of course it’s true!”

  “No, it’s not!”

  “Whatever – I’m only trying to be useful,” I defend myself. “I don’t want to spend the rest of my life correcting drafts.”

  “And you really think that becoming his doormat is going to help you with your career, do you? Good plan.”

  “It can’t be worse than being fired, can it?”

  “I…You… Listen…” she stammers, trying to stop herself from swearing, then throws up her hands in frustration. “Hey, you know what?” she says, “I give up. You’re never going to listen to me, anyway.”

  “Wise girl. Now go and get ready for your
appointment with Otis Farrel!” I say with a smile.

  “Who? Oh, Otis Farrel, right…” she snorts, realising all of a sudden that she’s going to have to do it. “I’d better get a hustle on then,” she murmurs miserably. “What about dinner tonight?”

  “Nah – I think I’ll just have a sandwich.”

  “Ok, tomorrow then?”

  “I don’t know…” I try to play for time, but the truth is that I don’t really feel like going out.

  “You don’t want to spend your whole life rotting away behind that desk, do you?” she protests, and I realise that she’s not going to give me much of a choice. “If I don’t see you beforehand, I’ll come pick you up at around eight. And try and be ready – I don’t want to turn up and find you in your pyjamas, okay?”

  “Okay,” I answer unenthusiastically.

  Terry shakes her head and finally leaves. I take another look at my desk and momentarily succumb to despair. But only momentarily.

  “Come on, Sam, it’s not that hard,” I tell myself optimistically. “You’ll be done in a couple of hours.” But Ben appears out of the blue and dumps a couple of reams of paper next to my keyboard. What the hell can these documents be about.

  “The boss needs this done by three. I’ll be back when you’re done.”

  What the hell?! Okay… I guess I’ll just have a bit of a cry for a couple of minutes.

  Chapter 4

  Dreams from the Bottom of the Page

  “So what’s new?”

  It’s Tom Mayer. He’s spent about twenty of his forty-two years working in journalism, he’s been The Chronicle’s editor-in-chief for seven years and has seen his psychotherapist every Wednesday for the last two years. His shelves are stacked with awards, and he’s been married twice. He’s now on his second divorce, which is a direct consequence of the first: never marry your ex-wife’s sister. Especially when your ex-wife knows all your secrets and is a Harvard law graduate.

  “Yesterday the mayor decided to close the refuge in the Mission district. It was falling apart.” says Frederic White, local news.

  “Welfare slashed,” suggests Tom in a loud voice. “Holes in the budget: Crawford administration cuts care for the homeless,” he says, marking out a huge headline in the air with his hand. “I want it on my desk by five.” Frederic nods and jots down some notes for his piece.

  “Foreign news,” Tom continues, putting his hands in his pockets.

  “Ambassador Korov, who was paying an official visit to Paris, was admitted to hospital because of food poisoning, probably due to some shellfish he ate. The meeting with Hollande never happened.”

  “Russia digs in heels, negotiations put back,” dictates Tom, his back to the journalists. Carmen, who is the head of the foreign news department, snaps to attention and then leaves the room. “Who’s next?”

  “Jim Jakie won the national tennis championship,” says Albert from sport and hobbies.

  “Get me something better. Is there anything about basketball?”

  “It’s the final tomorrow. The Lakers have dropped to second to last position.”

  “I want Steve Nash on the front page. ‘Hunting for playmakers!’”

  “Ok, boss,” replies Albert, his eyes on his tablet.

  Morning meetings are always packed with adrenaline. It’s very quiet until eleven, and then all hell breaks loose. Tom meets the people in charge of each department every day in the meeting room. He sums up the main news and listens to the various editors’ proposals so they can decide what articles to publish. Once the titles have been settled upon, they start drawing up the front page. At that point, Dave takes Tom’s place, recapping the progress on ongoing articles and planning the week’s interviews. In theory I shouldn’t be here. Only heads of department are supposed to be in the meeting, but asking me for help is apparently the only thing that stops Margaret from ending up at Alcoholics Anonymous. Since I was hired, I’ve been saving her Friday evenings, her Saturday evenings, her holidays, her Christmases… and I have always agreed to do it because… well… there must be at least one reason that doesn’t involve Dave, right?

  “Sam?”

  “Yeah?”

  I got distracted again. Margaret brings me back to reality. “The notes about the exhibition, Sam!” she screeches, making half the newsroom look at us.

  “Oh, sure, sorry,” I mumble, searching through my documents about the William Rush exhibition. Being the centre of attention always sends me into a panic and I end up thinking of a million random things instead of concentrating on what I’m supposed to be doing. For example, I’m now looking at Tom, who is tapping his finger on the desk while he waits to hear from me. I also notice that Dave is looking slightly irritated by the delay and leaning over Tiffany, who has just been hired for the local news department. I wish I was more like her, looking so self-confident after less than a month on the job. Or like Tom, who always has everything under control. And a little bit like Dave, of course, because he’s Dave.

  “I know I have them here somewhere…” I say, searching anxiously amongst the folders until I find the right file. “Here it is – sorry.”

  Margaret sighs in resignation at my ineptness and hands the piece of paper to Tom, who doesn’t even bother looking at it before putting it with the dismissed proposals. But that doesn’t discourage Margaret, who starts talking about her latest achievements. “Now we’ve finished the campaign to raise awareness of the importance of reading in schools, I’m concentrating on something slightly less demanding.”

  “Like what?” Tom asks, crossing his arms.

  “Well, we’ve made an agreement with Carl Urban’s agent,” Margaret replies. “They are giving us an exclusive on the publication of a new series of pop-art books, It was the City Lights Bookstore’s idea. A really interesting project.” But today isn’t her lucky day. Someone knocks at the door and she has to stop.

  “May I?” says Milly, as she slips into the room.

  Milly is Tom’s personal assistant, the latest in a long line of ‘highly qualified’ people who have all run for the hills not long after being hired. She’s been here for almost a year already, and she’s probably the first who’s been able to stand him for eight hours a day for that long.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt,” she murmurs, looking embarrassed as she walks past us holding a cordless phone. Silently, she reaches the editor and whispers: “It’s Roger Edison from Toulouse.”

  “Give it to me,” he says, taking the phone and going over to the window for some privacy. Since he has to leave, albeit temporarily, he gestures to Dave to take his place and continue the meeting.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll take over,” he answers, lifting his head up from his notes. “What were you saying?” he asks Margaret, who doesn’t seem to approve of this sudden change of editor. For no obvious reason, she seems to think that she’s the centre of the universe, or – more specifically – the cornerstone of The Chronicle, and so she feels it’s demeaning for her to have to talk about her achievements to the deputy editor, and it will probably put her in a bad mood for the whole morning. Which is even more serious because today she thinks she has the scoop of the century in hand: a tête-à-tête with the great, the extraordinary, the legendary, Adam Graham.

  “Who?” asks Dave, raising his eyebrows.

  Margaret’s expression is hard to describe. I can’t control myself, I have to hide my face behind a green folder to avoid bursting out laughing in front of everyone.

  Something tells me that deep down she’d like to start throwing every piece of stationery she can find at him, but in reality she says calmly, “Adam Graham!” She wants to keep her job just as much as the rest of us, so she decides to take a more accommodating approach. Her strategy is probably to wait until after sunset when there are no witnesses around before she takes her revenge.

  “Forgive me, Margaret, but I haven’t got the faintest idea who you’re talking about,” Dave admits, unperturbed.

  “Adam Graham
is one of the most important fashion stylists in the world. He works for Elle and Complex, amongst other magazines. He has just finished working on Elie Saab’s promotional campaign.” She acts like this is common knowledge, and maybe in other contexts it would be, but not here at The Chronicle and especially not for Dave. He has always displayed complete indifference, if not actual irritation, towards the frivolous news and magazines people read at the hairdresser’s.

  “Ok, and why are we talking about him?”

  He genuinely doesn’t get it, so Margaret has to spell it out for him, even though it’s obvious to her.

  “Because he is beautiful and rich, because he’s the most interesting person in his field at the moment, and because millions of women are eager to know who’s going to be the next face of Curvy!” she explains – or maybe shouts incredulously would be more accurate.

  “Cu… Curvy?” he stammers.

  Margaret looks as though she’s about to have a nervous breakdown.

  “Come on, Dave, people are talking about it everywhere! B.C.? Beautiful Curvy? It’s the beauty contest sponsored by Justin Lower’s new collection. Everybody knows about it! They’re going to make clothes for normal women – for the girl next door. For that reason, they are looking for a fresh young face – someone who represents real women and isn’t just one of those stereotypical, androgynous stick insects you see in magazines. There’s going to be a pageant right here in San Francisco. Do you have any idea of how many women have already applied?”

  “Err… nope.”

  “No? Oh, my, God! We’re talking about around two hundred thousand applications just on the West coast!”

  “I don’t know, Mag… I’m not convinced,” Dave fiddles with a post-it while he tries to play for time. “Don’t we have anything better?”

  “But I’m telling you, this will shift a hell of a lot of copies!” she says, refusing to surrender. But Dave seems immovable.

  “So?” says Tom, returning from his phone call and looking from one to the other of them. “What did we decide?”

  “Nothing yet,” Dave admits, sighing.