by Carmen Quick
‘Thank you for being honest with me,’ Mr. Forsythe said. ‘I asked you to do it, and you did as I told you. It takes guts to do that. A lot of people wouldn’t be able to do it. And to admit you want to be looked after, is…quite brave of you. Thank you for making yourself so vulnerable.’ He took his own cup, raised it to his lips, and blew gently over the hot liquid.
I looked into my cup. It was like looking at liquid amber. I lifted it to my lips, smelling the exotic dark, savoury steam rising off it, and then took a sip. It was a strange taste. Floral, herbal… a little smoky, maybe.
‘It’s Que She,’ said Mr. Forsythe. ‘Also known as Sparrow’s Tongue.’
I couldn’t hide my grimace.
‘It’s produced in the Sichuan province, on Emei Mountain, one of the Four Sacred Buddhist Mountains of China.’
I nodded, as if I knew where that was.
‘It’s traditionally regarded as a bodhimaṇḍa, or place of enlightenment. It is said that, as early as the sixteenth century, martial arts were practised in the monasteries of Mount Emei.’ I think Mr. Forsythe sensed he was losing me, as he returned to the subject of the tea. ‘Gets its name due to the shape of the leaves. It’s one of the more delicate green teas. You can just make out the faint aroma of chestnut.’ He breathed in deeply over his cup. ‘Some say the Lonjing variety is the world’s best green tea, but I much prefer the fragile, unassuming beauty of this one.’
I took another sip, trying to acquire a taste for it, but struggling. ‘I hope you don’t mind me asking,’ I said, ‘but why did you bring me here today?’
The words hung in the air between us for a moment, clumsy and awkward, and I felt terribly embarrassed, even rude, for being so direct.
Sheldon Forsythe placed down his cup. ‘I want to help you, Lilly,’ he said. ‘Seeing Jen bully you in public like that reminded me of something similar that happened to me, early in my career. I almost lost everything. I don’t want it to happen to you.’ He opened out his palms as he spoke, making me weirdly trust what he was saying, even though it sounded so unlikely. ‘I’ve done a little research into you. I’ve read some of your advertising copy. You’re not so bad, you know. With a little training, I think you could make a very good journalist.’
‘A journalist? I’ve only been working in advertising three weeks!’ I couldn’t help but blurt this out.
‘You don’t want to be working in ads all your life, do you?’
Nervously, I shook my head.
‘Then come and work here. Work for Global. I’ll get you shadowing someone. Make sure you receive the necessary training. Within six months, if you work hard, you could be working on pieces of your own.’ His eyes were glued to mine. I don’t know if it was his penetrating gaze, or the heady scent of green tea, but my head was spinning. A journalist at Global? People work their way up the ladder for years to get a break like this. Most of them never manage it!
‘Think it over,’ Mr. Forsythe said. ‘I know it seems sudden, out of the blue perhaps. But I mean it. I’m going to take a very close interest in your career, if you’ll let me. I’d be happy to look after you.’
‘I don’t need to think it over,’ I said dizzily, ‘I mean, of course, I’ll do it. I’d be mad not to jump at an opportunity like that. If you’re serious. If you really think that I can–’
‘Lilly,’ he said. ‘I’m going to let you into a little secret. ‘Ninety-nine per cent of journalism is about attitude. And I like yours. You deserve a break. Let me give you one.’
My china cup was rattling in its saucer. My hands were shaking. I put it down on the coffee table, and Sheldon Forsythe reached out his hand.
‘Welcome aboard, Lilly,’ he said.
‘Thank you, Mr. Forsythe,’ I replied, teeth chattering.
‘Please,’ he said, with a smile. ‘Call me sir.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
A Wish
As I walked out of the building, onto the busy sidewalk, among the hustle and bustle of New York City, I couldn’t believe it. I felt like I was in a dream. Me! Lilly Smith! A journalist at Global Media! I almost felt like skipping.
I wasn’t particularly looking forward to the next part, going back to work and telling Christina the news. She’d had her suspicions about me before I went today, and heavens knew what she’d think once she discovered I’d been ‘poached’ by a rival paper. But before going back to the office, I decided to treat myself with a little walk to the plaza. It wasn’t far from here, and I hadn’t been there for a couple of years. Amid the screeching sirens, reversing lorries, crying babies, and strumming buskers, there was a large square. At one end of the square stood the Natural History Museum; at the other, there was the cathedral. In the center, in addition to a number of pigeons, there was a huge fountain, with ten tiers of ornate leaf designs. I loved the sound of the water rushing down each tier. Even above the ever-changing chatter of the city, you could hear it. The one constant.
As I approached it now, I decided to do something I’d never done before. I decided to throw in a dime.
I’d always considered it vandalistic to clog up such a beautiful architectural structure with coins; not to mention a waste of money. But people had been throwing in their loose change for many, many years, rubbing the coins for luck. Sometimes they did it with a loved one, or children did it with their parents. Occasionally, you’d catch an elderly woman, standing alone with tears in her eyes, giving the coin a kiss and then throwing it in. Each one of them making their own personal wish. Today I was going to become a part of this old tradition.
I walked right up to the fountain, and looked into the pool of water at the base. There were so many coins in there. Enough to buy a pretty decent day out, if you were to scoop it all up. I wondered how often the homeless people of New York had done that very thing. Or if they feared picking up all those scattered wishes. Perhaps taking other people’s wishes seemed too much like bad luck, even if it did buy you dinner.
I fumbled around in my handbag for my purse, and then took out the shiniest dime I could find. It was dated 2013. I looked at the picture on the back of the coin. The torch, olive branch, and oak branch. Symbolizing liberty, peace and strength. Liberty. Peace. Strength. It suddenly made me think of the phrase ‘peace through strength’. An ancient phrase used by the Roman Emperor Hadrian, among others, I seem to remember. I took a History minor in case you’re wondering. I’m not some kind of genius.
I thought about what I’d told Sheldon Forsythe. That I was looking for peace. And I thought about what my dad kept telling me. ‘Be strong to get along.’ Would there ever be a way to achieve both? Is the combination of both peace and strength what leads to liberty?
I brought the coin up to my lips, gave it a soft, quick kiss, making sure no-one was watching me in my bizarre private act, and then I threw in the dime.
I knew, as it plopped into the water, that somehow, the magic had already begun.
*
I’ll spare you the details of my goodbyes at The Chronicle. Let’s just say that Christina was shocked, pissed, suspicious, all the stuff I’d been dreading. She told me if it all went wrong then I could forget my old job at The Chronicle. Anyone who only stayed three weeks, and didn’t even serve out their probationary period, ‘didnae deserve a place on the team’. But she ended the meeting with a surprise wink, adding, ‘I dinnae blame you, hen. I’d have done the same thing myself, given the opportunity.’
With that, I closed the door of her dusty office for the last time, and went back to my old desk to pack up. I told Kieron about Jen, that Sheldon Forsythe had had her fired. Kieron took it better than I’d been expecting. He laughed about the fact that two days after winning an award he was the only one left on the team, so full rights of the trophy went to him now. But he did seem disappointed to see me going.
‘We’ll keep in touch,’ I said. ‘I’ll still be in the same city.’
‘I’ll hold you to that,’ Kieron said, with a smile. ‘In fact, why don’t w
e meet for drinks after your first week at work? Friday night? You can tell me all about it?’
I shrugged and nodded. ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘You can pick me up outside Global. We’ll explore the bars in Midtown.’
‘Very fancy,’ said Kieron, and he gave me a hug. I once read that hugs should last approximately three seconds. Any less and it looks like your humoring the other person, any more and you’re either after something, or unaware of social conventions. This hug lasted for about ten seconds. And as far as I’d gathered in the three weeks I’d known him, Kieron was an aficionado of social convention.
I took in the extra seconds of the hug to smell his aftershave. Calvin Klein, I thought. It was quite pleasant.
Eventually, Kieron pulled away from me, and I picked up my box of stationery and left the office.
That night at home, telling my parents the news wasn’t so easy.
‘You did what?!’ shouted my dad. ‘I used my connections to get you that job, and you stuck it out three weeks! Any idea how that’ll look on your resume? You’ve got to stick with a job like that for at least a year!’
‘Have you thought about how Global Media’s going to look on my resume?’ I asked moodily. ‘That’s better than ten years at The Chronicle!’
My dad was hurt. He’d tried hard to get me that job. I needed to back down. ‘Look, Dad, I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘It was a difficult decision.’ (That part was a lie, of course.) ‘But this is a big deal for me. I really feel like the course of my whole life is about to change.’
Dad appreciated my apology. ‘Just be careful, okay kiddo?’ he said, taking my mom’s hand. ‘We both care about you a lot.’
‘We know what these big corporations can be like,’ chipped in Mom. ‘How they can take advantage of you.’
‘Don’t worry,’ I told them both. ‘I won’t let anyone take advantage of me.’
I gave them both a hug, and then walked up to my room, sensing that maybe, finally, their little girl was about to become a woman. What they didn’t know, what I didn’t know, was that I was about to be more of a little girl than I’d ever been before.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Glamorous World Of International News
‘I’m Tegan,’ she said, coming to meet me at reception. ‘Welcome to Global.’
Tegan shook my hand, and we began walking to the elevator. ‘You’ll be shadowing me for the next few weeks,’ she explained. ‘Sheldon only told me about it this morning. So I apologize for not having, like, an action plan for you or anything.’
It seemed jarring that Tegan had called Mr. Forsythe Sheldon. Should I call him that too, now that I worked here? He’d asked me to call him ‘sir’…
Tegan took me into the elevator, and I snuck a look at her as we traveled up to the second floor. She was another catwalk-esque employee. Global Media had them in abundance. Tegan was different though. She had short, cropped red hair. Not a pixie cut – her hair was almost shaved. She wore a sleeveless, royal blue shirt, and thick black tattoos licked and curled around her arms. She looked incredibly striking. Like the kind of person you probably wanted to stay on your side. You didn’t want to be enemies with a woman with a shaved head and tattoos, that’s for sure.
We were only going up one floor, so the elevator doors opened after mere seconds, and we walked out. Being on the second storeys, this was the second largest of the building’s floor’s, and it was really something. At The Chronicle, there’d been three small rooms, one for each department. Here – I had no idea how many different departments there were, but I’m guessing way more than three…
‘You get used to it,’ said Tegan, realizing that I was pretty overwhelmed. ‘Eighteen thousand employees,’ she said. ‘Not quite as big as Twenty-first Century Fox, but you know… not far off.’
Eighteen thousand employees? How will I fit in here? How will anyone ever get to know me?
‘They’re not all in this building, of course,’ said Tegan, seeing my eyes boggling at the figures. ‘But a lot of them are.’
We began walking across the enormous floor, past row upon row of reporters, advertisers, whatever they all were… It sounded as though every single phone in the building was ringing at once, and the noise of people talking was incredible. It was as if every single person in the room was dealing with a breaking news story, as if there’d just been some kind of front-page natural disaster, or international terrorist act… There hadn’t, as far as I knew. I guessed it was even worse at those times.
‘This is it,’ said Tegan, finally leading us to a slightly cramped desk. ‘Home sweet home.’ The desk was taken up largely by a sleek, ultra-modern computer monitor. It had to be at least twenty-eight inches wide. Every single person in the office had one. I wondered how much Sheldon Forsythe must have invested in the company to be able to afford to give his each of his employees one of these.
‘You’ll take the desk next to me,’ she said, pointing to an empty desk with a similarly colossal monitor, but nothing else on it. ‘If it’s okay with you, I’ve got an assignment I need to finish up, so you just get yourself logged onto the system, pick a password, make sure your emails are working okay. And then I’ll start showing you the ropes in half an hour.’
Before waiting for my response, Tegan put on her headset, and sat at her desk, typing away. I looked at the notepad she occasionally glanced down at, and was horrified to see a page full of symbols. Short-hand. It was like looking at hieroglyphics. Does everyone presume I know shorthand?
I sat down at my desk, putting my handbag at my feet, hoping the turkey salad I had in my lunchbox wouldn’t go bad if I didn’t put it in the refrigerator. Tegan didn’t seem in the mood for questions right now, though, so I left her to it. I located the small round button on the computer under the desk, and switched it on.
The monitor made a quick crackling noise, and then came to life. Two words flashed on to the screen. Create password.
I thought about it for a moment, and then typed: ‘peace’.
This password is not deemed secure enough, it said. You must use at least one number and one capital letter.
So I typed ‘P3ac3’. It looked silly, but it did the trick, and logged me on to the system.
This computer started up so much quicker than the one I’d been using at The Chronicle. I bet it would be great for playing video games on, I thought, and then kicked myself. You’re not a goofy uni student any more, Lilly. You’re a woman. A trainee journalist.
The word ‘journalist’ sounded so exotic to me. I’d taken an etymology module as part of my Language Degree. The root of the word ‘journalism’ comes from the French ‘journal’, which in turn comes from the Latin ‘diurnal’, meaning ‘daily’. The world’s first newspaper was called the Acta Diurna (acta meaning proceedings) and it was a handwritten bulletin, which was put up daily in the Forum – the main public square in ancient Rome. I liked that. The idea that people would walk across the city to read the daily news. It conjured up a real sense of community. I wonder how far people used to travel, in order to get the news. It seemed amazing that these days you could get it at the press of a button. Your phone could even ping it to you without being asked.
Microsoft Outlook opened up now, and asked me again to create a password, so I picked the same thing. P3ac3. Even though it wasn’t exactly the word ‘peace’ any more, typing it gave me some sense of satisfaction. It would become my daily mantra, typing that in to access my work files. Might even help keep me calm in what appeared to me, so far, like it was probably one of the most stressful jobs in America.
I saw that I had three new emails, so I clicked on my inbox. The first was welcoming me to Microsoft Office, pointing me towards the help pages, should I need them. The second was welcoming me to Global Media, giving me information about my telephone number, who I should contact to get my contract sorted, and that sort of thing. The third email, I saw, with a sudden jolt in my stomach, was from Sheldon Forsythe.
Lilly,
&nb
sp; As I said in our meeting on Friday, I will be taking an interest in your career from now on. Come to my office in a day or two, and let me know how you’re getting on. I want to be involved.
Have a good day.
Mr. Forsythe
CEO at Global Media Inc.
P.S. Tegan will give you a large file today. Make sure you start working on it. You will be given your first shorthand test in two weeks’ time.
I re-read the email in amazement. A shorthand test in two weeks? How was I ever going to stand a chance of passing that?
Why on earth was this guy so interested in me, and in my career? I’d only ever written two pieces of copy in my life. One for a greengrocer’s company, and the other for a second-hand furniture store. He couldn’t have seen a spark of genius in me just from that… Could he? Of course not.
I closed the email, getting the strange feeling that maybe Tegan ought not to see a message like that. And then, for the next half hour, I sat biting my nails, stomach churning.