Misleading the Choir
Three.
“What the fuck is this?” I seethed, throwing the latest issue of our rag of a fucking magazine on Alan’s desk. I could see half of my own face and half of Billie’s, both of us grinning at each other during our smoke break. I’d left not long after this, sticking around for another couple of drinks in the lobby and not bothering to show my face in the actual ceremony, before going home and showing up late to work the next morning, claiming a hangover and late night in the name of the story. It had been a couple of days now since I’d spoken to Billie. I’d almost called that first day, as I’d promised, but the easy grin that had made my notion of playing hard to get dissolve didn’t have the same effect in my memory as it had had in person. And so, that Friday I’d said I would call him had ticked all the way around to Monday, and then I found these pictures.
Found was a little optimistic, they’d been on my desk the moment I’d walked in. He had wanted me to see this.
“Oh, they came out nice, didn’t they?” I scowled at his easy remark, his nonchalance. He had an angle here, like he always did and I wasn’t looking forward to the big reveal. “Cameron was doing his due diligence that night and snapped this while no one else was looking. I’m quite proud of him, really.” I continued to scowl, though I knew exactly what he was playing at now. I hadn’t given him anything on Billie and his divorce, so he was playing all the cards he could. If he only got rumour mongering out of this, he would take it.
“This is humiliating,” I told him, folding my arms. He let out a dry chuckle, leaning back on his chair and surveying me.
“Welcome to the other side of the pen.” I huffed, ignoring how unprofessional it was to take a childish fit at my boss. He deserved it. “Frankly, you didn’t give me anything but this to go on, despite your job counting on it. This is your leverage.”
“My leverage? Bullshit.” As soon as he said it, I knew he was right, but that didn’t mean I had to admit it. I had something that gave me a solid reason to call him. I could tell him I’d been scared to call, but that I had to apologise for stirring up drama for him. It was perfect.
“Watch it,” he warned. “Your job is on the brink as it is. Don’t start getting mouthy with me. Track him down, do what you need, just give me some fucking results.”
I turned on my heel, stalking out of his office with as much attitude as I had had walking in. Ashley smiled sympathetically at me from her desk, but I’d already told her not to get involved in this bullshit.
“Reroute my calls to my cell,” I told her, picking up my coat and bag. “I’m working out of the office today.”
“Enjoy,” she smiled weakly. I rolled my eyes, basically telling her that I would not be enjoying my day today but leaving all the same. I was all but useless with technology, so I had no idea how to divert my calls (despite being shown a hundred times already), meaning I could make a melodramatic exit every once in a while and still get my work done afterwards. It helped that I carried my laptop around with me almost everywhere I went too. I might not be technically minded, but I knew how to write and I knew what made that easiest for me.
I was way too comfortable with walking out of my office at this point. The Starbucks down the block from the office was my safe haven, my spot for calming down, where I got inspired to write things that actually mattered. It was ironic, at the very least, but I would take capitalist inspiration if it got me into the right frame of mind to make a difference. I was a hypocrite, that much was clear, but it didn’t always matter to me.
I sat myself in my normal, huddled corner, a clear view of the street from the window next to me, but my back against two walls so nobody could sneak up on me, they couldn’t peer over my shoulder and observe me or my work. Not that anybody would want to. And besides, once I was ‘in the zone’, you could stand in front of me forever without me noticing. Hell, you could call my name a thousand times and I wouldn’t react. Christ I was ignorant.
I began mulling over my most recently rejected article, trying to work out what it was missing, why it wasn’t engaging, all of that crap, but my eyes kept wandering to my phone. I was on anger strike from Alan and his bullshit, but I was itching to call. The smile on Billie’s face in the picture had reminded me of that easy grin he’d used on me on Thursday night and I was doing my best not to call him immediately. Sure, I had an excuse now, a perfect excuse, but the fact that Alan had handed it to me on a platter made me want to ignore Billie just to spite Alan.
How could I have not just given him my number? This would have been so much easier. He would have called and I would have answered and it would 100% not be on me to make the moves. I suppose that was my main issue; I wasn’t a move-maker. I was bold and brazen in my work life, but when it came to personal matters, I became somewhat meek. While this was still technically work, it was already encroaching on my personal life and I wasn’t comfortable with that.
My phone was in my hand, Billie’s name and contact details on my screen. What did I say? ‘Hey, I know you don’t want to speak to me, but sorry our smoke-break was big news’? It seemed stupid now I thought about it. He probably wanted to cut all contact with me. I didn’t blame him.
Who was I to say what he didn’t want? Only he could answer that. All I had to do was call and he’d tell me so himself. I groaned inwardly, not daring to show my emotions outwardly, but slumping back in my seat nonetheless. I put my phone on the table, grabbing my coffee and sipping slowly. I was doing my best not to glare into the cup, but the tension in my face was telling me I wasn’t entirely succeeding.
“So, when a girl doesn’t call, I tend to take the hint, but you being here has to be more than coincidence, right?” I looked up, startled by him for the third time. I felt like whenever we ran into each other, he startled me in some way or another, always the first to notice me. I felt like that said something about my attention to detail, but I definitely lived in my head more than I cared to admit, so I chose to ignore it.
“I swear, I was just about to call you,” I told him, offering a small smile and showing him my phone, which was still on his contact details. “I just, uh, well, I didn’t know what to say. I figure I’d done enough damage.”
“You saw that, huh?” He asked, taking the seat across the table from my own as I shut my laptop down. I nodded, though decided against saying anything, knowing that his life was being thrown on a trash pile again 100% because of me. He put his paper cup on the table too, his sunglasses coming off as he sat with me. “I’m sorry,” he sighed. “If I’d thought about it, I would have been more careful. This is basically my life now.”
“How is someone taking a photo of us smoking your fault?” I asked, frowning. I knew that it was, in fact, almost entirely my fault but, even if it wasn’t, it most certainly wasn’t Billie’s. It was this fucked up world that insisted on invading other peoples’ privacy to satisfy either their wallets or their own fantasies. I tried not to see the irony.
“It’s my fault in that I knew there were people lurking around looking for a story. My divorce is, apparently, big news.” He chuckled lightly, though he didn’t look amused. I felt my stomach turning lightly, knowing I was one of those people now. I wanted to get up and walk away from all of this, but I knew I wouldn’t make it very far.
“That’s fucked up.”
“Tell me about it.” I took another sip from my coffee, trying to think of something witty to say, but coming up short. “So, what are you up to in a coffee shop in the middle of the day?” I glanced at my watch, noticing that it barely consisted as the ‘middle’ of the day, but was in fact nearer to middle morning. I shrugged.
“My editor was being an asshole again, so I came here to work.”
“What kind of asshole?” I shrugged, not sure how to describe him.
“Here,” I said, pulling Alan’s copy of my latest article from my bag, red pen all but covering the entire page.
“Jesus,” he muttered, accepting the pages from me. “That’s some kind of asshole. You mind?” I shook my head as he gestured to the article itself. I’d been proud of this one, for twenty seconds, before Alan ripped it to shreds. It was my big piece on the poverty line and I’d poured hours of research into it. I had great sources from all backgrounds, I’d spoken to politicians and influencers and it had been amazing.
And then Alan had gotten his grubby little mitts on it. He’d taken a glance at my headline and promptly told me nobody would read it. ‘They don’t want to feel bad for not being poor,’ he’d told me. ‘They want to glance into the lives of the rich and feel envy, not guilt.’ He’d taken it in anyway, pulling his red pen out before I’d even turned around. I’d come back half an hour later to what Billie had in his hands. I’d skimmed the revision notes, but they weren’t constructive, to say the least.
“You spoke to the senator?” He asked, glancing up from the page about halfway through, as I began to raise my cup to my lips again. I nodded, shrugging.
“I got a quote from his secretary, but I’m a bloodhound. I caught him outside the office a few days later to get that.” He looked a little impressed as he continued to peruse the piece. I felt a sense of pride welling up inside me again, though held out little hope for him actually being impressed with my article.
“Well, I’m glad I’m famous now,” he said a few minutes later as I finished up my drink, putting the article onto the table in front of me. I raised an eyebrow at him, placing my now empty cup down as I looked at him. “You have talent and a good eye for a story and you give a shit. I’m feeling a little star struck here.” I laughed lightly at his absurdity, but took the compliment anyway. If someone with his talent was willing to tell me I had talent, I would take it and run with it.
“Thanks, but you’re the only person who thinks that. My editor highly disagrees.”
“Get me a clean copy,” he shrugged. “I know some people who would kill to get their hands on something like this.”
“No,” I said immediately. I didn’t take handouts, and that’s exactly what this felt like. He had influence, I knew that long before we met, but that didn’t mean I wanted to hitch a ride. He looked a little stunned and I realised I had to explain myself. “I mean, thanks for the offer, but I’m not looking for a free ride here. You seem like a nice guy and I’m sure you have no… ill intent here, I just like to do things on my own.
“Alright. Offer stands if you ever change your mind.”
“How about I take you up on another offer. We should go get those drinks sometime.” He grinned at me, seemingly happy at my suggestion.
“I knew this was more than a coincidence,” he responded. “However, it did take you longer than you promised, so I think it’s only fair we make it dinner.”
“I didn’t promise anything,” I told him, smiling myself at his suggestion. I wasn’t lying when I said he seemed like a nice guy. It was sweet and refreshing. “But, sure.”
“Tonight?” I mulled over his suggestion. I’d done my ‘not being overly keen’ bullshit and I genuinely had no plans for tonight. Now wasn’t time to play hard to get. I nodded, still smiling. “Great. Text me your address; I’ll pick you up at seven.” He stood, grabbing his glasses and what was now a coffee probably bordering on cold. “I like the glasses, by the way. They’re cute.”
“They make me look like a nerd,” I responded, high school suddenly spewing out of my mouth. I had no issue with my glasses. I needed them and I suited them, but there was something about talking to an attractive guy that made the nervous girl inside me take control of my mouth. Despite my glaring word vomit, he chuckled lightly.
“That doesn’t mean they’re not cute.”
Found was a little optimistic, they’d been on my desk the moment I’d walked in. He had wanted me to see this.
“Oh, they came out nice, didn’t they?” I scowled at his easy remark, his nonchalance. He had an angle here, like he always did and I wasn’t looking forward to the big reveal. “Cameron was doing his due diligence that night and snapped this while no one else was looking. I’m quite proud of him, really.” I continued to scowl, though I knew exactly what he was playing at now. I hadn’t given him anything on Billie and his divorce, so he was playing all the cards he could. If he only got rumour mongering out of this, he would take it.
“This is humiliating,” I told him, folding my arms. He let out a dry chuckle, leaning back on his chair and surveying me.
“Welcome to the other side of the pen.” I huffed, ignoring how unprofessional it was to take a childish fit at my boss. He deserved it. “Frankly, you didn’t give me anything but this to go on, despite your job counting on it. This is your leverage.”
“My leverage? Bullshit.” As soon as he said it, I knew he was right, but that didn’t mean I had to admit it. I had something that gave me a solid reason to call him. I could tell him I’d been scared to call, but that I had to apologise for stirring up drama for him. It was perfect.
“Watch it,” he warned. “Your job is on the brink as it is. Don’t start getting mouthy with me. Track him down, do what you need, just give me some fucking results.”
I turned on my heel, stalking out of his office with as much attitude as I had had walking in. Ashley smiled sympathetically at me from her desk, but I’d already told her not to get involved in this bullshit.
“Reroute my calls to my cell,” I told her, picking up my coat and bag. “I’m working out of the office today.”
“Enjoy,” she smiled weakly. I rolled my eyes, basically telling her that I would not be enjoying my day today but leaving all the same. I was all but useless with technology, so I had no idea how to divert my calls (despite being shown a hundred times already), meaning I could make a melodramatic exit every once in a while and still get my work done afterwards. It helped that I carried my laptop around with me almost everywhere I went too. I might not be technically minded, but I knew how to write and I knew what made that easiest for me.
I was way too comfortable with walking out of my office at this point. The Starbucks down the block from the office was my safe haven, my spot for calming down, where I got inspired to write things that actually mattered. It was ironic, at the very least, but I would take capitalist inspiration if it got me into the right frame of mind to make a difference. I was a hypocrite, that much was clear, but it didn’t always matter to me.
I sat myself in my normal, huddled corner, a clear view of the street from the window next to me, but my back against two walls so nobody could sneak up on me, they couldn’t peer over my shoulder and observe me or my work. Not that anybody would want to. And besides, once I was ‘in the zone’, you could stand in front of me forever without me noticing. Hell, you could call my name a thousand times and I wouldn’t react. Christ I was ignorant.
I began mulling over my most recently rejected article, trying to work out what it was missing, why it wasn’t engaging, all of that crap, but my eyes kept wandering to my phone. I was on anger strike from Alan and his bullshit, but I was itching to call. The smile on Billie’s face in the picture had reminded me of that easy grin he’d used on me on Thursday night and I was doing my best not to call him immediately. Sure, I had an excuse now, a perfect excuse, but the fact that Alan had handed it to me on a platter made me want to ignore Billie just to spite Alan.
How could I have not just given him my number? This would have been so much easier. He would have called and I would have answered and it would 100% not be on me to make the moves. I suppose that was my main issue; I wasn’t a move-maker. I was bold and brazen in my work life, but when it came to personal matters, I became somewhat meek. While this was still technically work, it was already encroaching on my personal life and I wasn’t comfortable with that.
My phone was in my hand, Billie’s name and contact details on my screen. What did I say? ‘Hey, I know you don’t want to speak to me, but sorry our smoke-break was big news’? It seemed stupid now I thought about it. He probably wanted to cut all contact with me. I didn’t blame him.
Who was I to say what he didn’t want? Only he could answer that. All I had to do was call and he’d tell me so himself. I groaned inwardly, not daring to show my emotions outwardly, but slumping back in my seat nonetheless. I put my phone on the table, grabbing my coffee and sipping slowly. I was doing my best not to glare into the cup, but the tension in my face was telling me I wasn’t entirely succeeding.
“So, when a girl doesn’t call, I tend to take the hint, but you being here has to be more than coincidence, right?” I looked up, startled by him for the third time. I felt like whenever we ran into each other, he startled me in some way or another, always the first to notice me. I felt like that said something about my attention to detail, but I definitely lived in my head more than I cared to admit, so I chose to ignore it.
“I swear, I was just about to call you,” I told him, offering a small smile and showing him my phone, which was still on his contact details. “I just, uh, well, I didn’t know what to say. I figure I’d done enough damage.”
“You saw that, huh?” He asked, taking the seat across the table from my own as I shut my laptop down. I nodded, though decided against saying anything, knowing that his life was being thrown on a trash pile again 100% because of me. He put his paper cup on the table too, his sunglasses coming off as he sat with me. “I’m sorry,” he sighed. “If I’d thought about it, I would have been more careful. This is basically my life now.”
“How is someone taking a photo of us smoking your fault?” I asked, frowning. I knew that it was, in fact, almost entirely my fault but, even if it wasn’t, it most certainly wasn’t Billie’s. It was this fucked up world that insisted on invading other peoples’ privacy to satisfy either their wallets or their own fantasies. I tried not to see the irony.
“It’s my fault in that I knew there were people lurking around looking for a story. My divorce is, apparently, big news.” He chuckled lightly, though he didn’t look amused. I felt my stomach turning lightly, knowing I was one of those people now. I wanted to get up and walk away from all of this, but I knew I wouldn’t make it very far.
“That’s fucked up.”
“Tell me about it.” I took another sip from my coffee, trying to think of something witty to say, but coming up short. “So, what are you up to in a coffee shop in the middle of the day?” I glanced at my watch, noticing that it barely consisted as the ‘middle’ of the day, but was in fact nearer to middle morning. I shrugged.
“My editor was being an asshole again, so I came here to work.”
“What kind of asshole?” I shrugged, not sure how to describe him.
“Here,” I said, pulling Alan’s copy of my latest article from my bag, red pen all but covering the entire page.
“Jesus,” he muttered, accepting the pages from me. “That’s some kind of asshole. You mind?” I shook my head as he gestured to the article itself. I’d been proud of this one, for twenty seconds, before Alan ripped it to shreds. It was my big piece on the poverty line and I’d poured hours of research into it. I had great sources from all backgrounds, I’d spoken to politicians and influencers and it had been amazing.
And then Alan had gotten his grubby little mitts on it. He’d taken a glance at my headline and promptly told me nobody would read it. ‘They don’t want to feel bad for not being poor,’ he’d told me. ‘They want to glance into the lives of the rich and feel envy, not guilt.’ He’d taken it in anyway, pulling his red pen out before I’d even turned around. I’d come back half an hour later to what Billie had in his hands. I’d skimmed the revision notes, but they weren’t constructive, to say the least.
“You spoke to the senator?” He asked, glancing up from the page about halfway through, as I began to raise my cup to my lips again. I nodded, shrugging.
“I got a quote from his secretary, but I’m a bloodhound. I caught him outside the office a few days later to get that.” He looked a little impressed as he continued to peruse the piece. I felt a sense of pride welling up inside me again, though held out little hope for him actually being impressed with my article.
“Well, I’m glad I’m famous now,” he said a few minutes later as I finished up my drink, putting the article onto the table in front of me. I raised an eyebrow at him, placing my now empty cup down as I looked at him. “You have talent and a good eye for a story and you give a shit. I’m feeling a little star struck here.” I laughed lightly at his absurdity, but took the compliment anyway. If someone with his talent was willing to tell me I had talent, I would take it and run with it.
“Thanks, but you’re the only person who thinks that. My editor highly disagrees.”
“Get me a clean copy,” he shrugged. “I know some people who would kill to get their hands on something like this.”
“No,” I said immediately. I didn’t take handouts, and that’s exactly what this felt like. He had influence, I knew that long before we met, but that didn’t mean I wanted to hitch a ride. He looked a little stunned and I realised I had to explain myself. “I mean, thanks for the offer, but I’m not looking for a free ride here. You seem like a nice guy and I’m sure you have no… ill intent here, I just like to do things on my own.
“Alright. Offer stands if you ever change your mind.”
“How about I take you up on another offer. We should go get those drinks sometime.” He grinned at me, seemingly happy at my suggestion.
“I knew this was more than a coincidence,” he responded. “However, it did take you longer than you promised, so I think it’s only fair we make it dinner.”
“I didn’t promise anything,” I told him, smiling myself at his suggestion. I wasn’t lying when I said he seemed like a nice guy. It was sweet and refreshing. “But, sure.”
“Tonight?” I mulled over his suggestion. I’d done my ‘not being overly keen’ bullshit and I genuinely had no plans for tonight. Now wasn’t time to play hard to get. I nodded, still smiling. “Great. Text me your address; I’ll pick you up at seven.” He stood, grabbing his glasses and what was now a coffee probably bordering on cold. “I like the glasses, by the way. They’re cute.”
“They make me look like a nerd,” I responded, high school suddenly spewing out of my mouth. I had no issue with my glasses. I needed them and I suited them, but there was something about talking to an attractive guy that made the nervous girl inside me take control of my mouth. Despite my glaring word vomit, he chuckled lightly.
“That doesn’t mean they’re not cute.”