James took a deep breath as he walked across the newsroom floor and darted in and out of the sea of cubicles, all lined with books, stacks of newspapers, and random printouts. Then he saw it. A sharp pain shot deep into his chest below his sternum as the empty workstation came into view. His breathing quickened as he approached the lone chair tucked into a desk. The only items that remained on the table were a computer, a monitor, a mini desk calendar, a small grey sharpener, and a phone. A grey name plaque reading “Valentine Charlet” hung on the light-grey-carpeted partition wall.
She’s gone.
James surveyed the empty newsroom. Thankfully, no one was present to witness the second shattering of his heart. He had expected her not to be at work, but a naïve part of him was hoping for a second chance and thought he might catch her cleaning out her desk.
A cold hand rested on James’s shoulder, breaking his concentration. James whirled around to see his senior journalist, Gavin Whitehead, standing behind him.
‘If you need to talk, you know where to find me.’ Gavin continued to pat James’s shoulder.
‘I’m fine.’ James’s eyes lingered on the empty cubicle.
‘I can tell she left you.’
‘Did Valentine say something to you?’ James refocused on Gavin.
‘No, she would never do that.’ Gavin gave him a weak smile. ‘You, however, look like shit. It’s as if you’ve been up all night with something on your mind. Something other than work.’
James tried to hold back the tears as he stared at her empty desk. ‘Great, everyone will know.’
‘I’m sorry, but the best thing you can do is come up with a reason for her absence that takes the focus off your break-up,’ he said as James sighed. ‘There’ll be fewer questions that way.’
James turned around and continued to walk toward his office. He had to reassign a story to an overloaded staff of journalists. This was never a popular decision, but it had to be done. On top of this, he had to rehire for the vacant junior position. Deep down, James knew Valentine was never coming back. She had made up her mind, and he was left to clean up the mess. James couldn’t drag his feet on the rehire—he was already short-staffed.
#
The early morning sun shone through the window of James’s office and highlighted the array of dust particles on the dark wooden tabletop. James sat on the edge of his desk and clicked the end of his pen. A group of journalists stood around watching his blue-green eyes drift up and down the notepad in his hands. His task was harder than he had imagined, especially since Valentine had arranged an interview that was due to start in less than twenty-two minutes. It was the fourth piece of bad news that he’d received in the last eight hours, but this news was courtesy of the Tribune’s internal calendar system.
A part of his job as chief editor of the daily Northampton Tribune was to manage the story assignments among his team of journalists, ensure accurate fact checking, and edit every story that crossed his desk. He also had to reassign Valentine’s story to an unlucky, overworked soul. Reassigning a piece was never a popular decision. But he had chosen a victim and another as a backup.
‘Margaret, remind me again what you’re working on.’
James continued to stare at his notepad and clenched his jaw, awaiting the inevitable response.
‘I’m covering the Northampton Festival of Food and Wine,’ she said. ‘It’s a week-long festival. And I’m doing it all on my own.’
James bit the inside of his lip and continued to stare at the list of stories.
Imagine how shitty Margaret would be if she had to edit her copy.
James glanced up at her and smiled, then refocused on the lone story on the pad with no name next to it. It was to his great pleasure that Margaret Winters had the ultimate job security. She was the sister-in-law of the owner, Harry Lancaster. James had sworn to Gavin that she spent her downtime thinking of creative ways to test his patience, and all he could do was smile and pray that Margaret would trade in her journalistic dreams for something else. But three years later, he was still praying.
‘Simon, do you have time to interview—’ holding the notepad and pen in one hand, James looked down at the phone on his desk, tapped the home button, and read the notes on the screen, ‘—Elizabeth Carmichael about the Arthurian Exhibit in the Northampton Museum of Anthropology?’
‘I’m sorry, but I have three film reviews to write, one of which is exclusive to the online edition. And I need to see two of those films.’ Simon forced a smile.
‘Yes.’ James stared at the notes on the screen. ‘I don’t recall seeing that review on my desk.’
James looked up at Simon and raised his eyebrows.
Simon rubbed the back of his neck and looked at the floor, avoiding James’s gaze. ‘Yeah, I’m a little behind.’
James returned his gaze to the pad in his hand and scraped the end of his pen through his thick, dark-blond hair and along his scalp. He rolled his eyes. If he continued to go through his journalists in this manner, he would end up with the same result—an unassigned story and white space in the paper’s culture section.
Part of him wanted to leap at the chance of stepping out of the editor’s chair and pursuing a story, even if it was an interview with a curator of a small museum. He was desperate for a change of scenery, and this surprised him.
How long is it going to take to interview someone about a small exhibit?
James threw the notepad on his desk.