“You look like a zombie.”

“That’s not a very nice way to talk about your Work Wife, Pierre.”

Pierre shrugs in his desk chair. “Honesty is the best politic.”

“Policy, Pierre, policy.”

“Whatever. You thought ‘chicken’ in French was ‘chicon.’”

“I still think that’s an understandable mistake!”

I can act as offended as I want, but I know his zombie comment is accurate. Monday morning hit me like a freight train. Weekends are always busy for me since that’s when most things ‘Arts and Culture’ are going down in the city, and I never caught up on my sleep after hurrying to finish my Sherbrooke Station article on Friday night.

I keep wondering whether Matt has read it yet. I can’t get the picture of him in the crowd at Café Cléo out of my mind. He had his head thrown back, his hair dark with sweat, and all his features were brushed with a breathless kind of bliss. I knew exactly what he was feeling in that moment: the kind of freedom that only comes from letting go of yourself, from giving up your hold on reality and letting the music create a new one for you.

I used to feel like that when I went to shows. I remember walking into the bright lights of the lobby after the first real concert I ever went to, head swimming with sound as me and my friends replayed all the highlights together, buzzing with that post-show energy that sometimes lasts for days.

Even then, at just fifteen years old, I realized there were stories in those moments, and that I wanted to be the person to find them, to give them a voice. Music is one of the most powerful things we have; it takes over us to change the way we think and feel. I knew something that could shape so many lives was worth investigating and keeping a record of.

I don’t think the vision fifteen year-old me had in mind involved sitting in a decrepit office full of even more decrepit co-workers, but here we are.

If anyone could fit the phrase ‘how are the mighty fallen,’ it would be me. Not even a year ago, I was rising up the ranks at the Montreal headquarters of Last Bastion, the most successful music magazine in the country. I worked my ass off getting a journalism degree and building my portfolio in Ottawa, before taking an internship with a blog in Montreal. I was working two jobs on top of that to pay the bills when Bastion picked up a freelance editorial I submitted. They offered me a regular position soon after.

For awhile, everything was perfect. I had a tiny but gorgeous apartment downtown, a stupidly hot boyfriend I was crazy about, and it was literally my job to go to concerts all the time and interview my favourite bands. I worked sixty hour weeks sometimes, but I loved every second of it. That was before a clash with Atlas Records sent my career down the drain.

I keep my head bent over my keyboard for most of the morning, trying not to fall asleep. I’m just about to give in and drift off for a few minutes when Marie-France’s sharp voice rings out behind me.

“Kay, à mon bureau en cinq minutes.”

“D’accord!” I answer, whipping my head towards her and doing my best to look conscious.

I wait for the five minutes she mentioned before following her order to report to her office. I take a seat in front of her desk, glancing at the view of Boulevard René-Lévesque out the window behind her.

“Your story today was good, Kay.”

I try not to let my eyes widen. Mary-France isn’t very forthcoming with praise.

“I sent you on that interview as an experiment. Ma nièce can’t stop talking about Sherbrooke Station. She says all the young people love them. I wanted to see what would happen if we shifted our focus a bit.”

Now my eyes really do go wide. ‘Experiment’ and ‘shift’ are foreign concepts around here.

“The truth, Mademoiselle Fischer, is that this journal is failing.” She lets out a heavy sigh. “I don’t mind telling you that; it’s no secret. Our sponsors are pulling out, and the ones that are left say I need to do something and fast. I don’t know how long I can keep us going, but I won’t give up without a fight, Kay. I’ve worked with the people here for a very long time, and I respect them, but I also know that if they lose their jobs they probably won’t find anything else. I owe them enough to at least try saving La Gare.”

I’ve always found Marie-France kind of comical, marching around the office in her pantsuits and old lady loafers, but there’s a dignity, an iron resilience in the way she sits in front of me now with her hands clasped and her jaw set.

“So,” she continues, “I’m going to take a chance, Kay. I have six months to turn things around. I’m going to expand your section of the paper. I’ll take Pierre off sports and he can help you. I want you to cover your usual range of topics, but I’m personally assigning you to another story on Sherbrooke Station. Your interview was very popular. I want you to prepare an article to coincide with that big show you mentioned they’re doing in Montréal this June. As long as there’s no major news we need to cover at that time, I want to give you la une.”

“La une?” I repeat.

Literally it means ‘the one,’ but I don’t know what she’s actually referring to.

“‘La une’ is what we call the front page.” She gives me one of her rare, grimacing smiles. “I want this to be big, Kay. I want a story everyone will be talking about, and I think you’re the one to write it. Give me controversy. Give me an angle no one has done yet. Here”—she taps a copy of La Gare on her desk that’s opened to my article—“you hint at some tension within the band now that they’re with these Atlas Records people. I think you should start from there. Get the whole story.”

Red flags start going off in my head, blocking out the vision of my name on the front page of La Gare. Mentioning Atlas Records in a two paragraph story at the back of the paper was one thing. A front page feature on their relationship with one of their bands is something else.

“With respect, Marie-France, I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.” I pause to come up with a way of explaining that doesn’t dive too deep into my past. “My experience in the music journalism world showed me that Atlas Records is...not somebody you mess with.”

“I’m not asking you to slander them. What would happen if we got ourselves a lawsuit now, Dieu seul le sait!” She leans forwards over her desk, catching and holding my gaze. “But you are une journaliste, Kay. We both know there is a story here, and that you can get these Sherbrooke Station people to tell it to you.”

I hesitate and she continues to urge me on.

“Kay, trust me. We need to...What is the phrase?” She taps her finger against her chin for a moment, thinking. “Make some waves! La Gare needs to make some waves, and I want you to be the one to do it.”

Lately I’ve been focusing on doing the exact opposite with my reporting. I’ve spent the past few months covering things like sculpture installments and what’s new at the Montreal Opera. I don’t want waves—I just want the water raging around the name ‘Kay Fischer’ to have some time to grow still.

Marie-France narrows her eyes.

“La Gare is not Last Bastion.”

A shock runs through, jolting me like I’ve just brushed against a live wire. I didn’t even put my time with Last Bastion on my resume when I applied here. If Marie-France knows I worked for them, she must know why I stopped, too.

A few months into my time with Bastion, I took on an investigation into a series of plagiarism claims made against Atlas Records. I knew just a few days into my research I was onto something big. I got in touch with eight different musicians who said they could prove bands on the Atlas label had ripped off their songs. None of them had ever taken legal action because of the costs, and stopped speaking out about it after Atlas sent out threats to sue them for defamation.

The boyfriend I was crazy about happened to be an Atlas intern at the time. He hated the job but stayed on with them for the work experience, and agreed to feed me information if he could remain anonymous. I was a week away from publication when Atlas caught wind of the investigation and told Bastion they’d be facing the lawsuit of their lives if they didn’t shut the story down and fire me at the same time.

The digital age means even journalism giants like Last Bastion struggle to turn a profit. They knew they wouldn’t survive picking a fight with Atlas and they caved without a second thought.

After his employers connected the dots between me and my boyfriend, it turned out he gave more of a shit about his job than he let on. He covered his ass with rumours that I was a ‘media whore’ who spent our whole relationship begging him for inside facts he never gave and sleeping around with half the industry behind his back. He did lose his job eventually and plagued my answering machine with apologies for a few weeks, but that didn’t change the fact that I came out of the ordeal blacklisted in the world of music journalism. I spent four months unemployed.

I did gain two new rules for myself, though:

1. Never fuck with Atlas Records.
2. Never date or sleep with a source.

I’ve been able to follow both of them in the time I’ve been at La Gare. I thought the only reason I snagged this job was because everyone here is so out of the loop they wouldn’t even recognize the name Last Bastion to begin with.

“I know you might not believe it,” Marie-France continues, “but back in the day we knew how to cause trouble around here. This paper can weather a storm. En fait, a storm might be the only thing that can save it.”

I see it in her again: a steady, head-bent-against-the-wind kind of strength. It hits me that maybe she wasn’t just talking about the other employees when she said they’d have a hard time finding other jobs; maybe the end of La Gare would be the end of the road for her too. She’s got nothing to lose by betting everything on this story. Her ship is sinking either way, and in that moment I realize mine is too.

I could spend the next year working menial jobs like the one I have here, biding my time until I feel like the rumours have died down. By then I’d have wasted a year of my career though, and if even Marie-France can find out what happened with Last Bastion, any future employer would be just a few phone calls away from looking into the gap in my resume.

I’ve been acting like I’m guilty, slinking away to bury myself in obscurity and hope everyone forgets who I am. I have nothing to hide though, and maybe it’s time I started digging myself out of this hole, instead of just burrowing deeper.

“Okay. I’ll do it.”

Marie-France gets up, making the growly ‘harrumph’ sound it took me awhile to figure out was her laugh.

“You weren’t actually allowed to say no, Kay, but I’m happy you want to do it.” She opens the door for me. “Pierre already has all the information, so you can get started on planning the rest of your news week together right away.”

* * *

Even with Pierre’s help, having my section of the paper double in size without any warning means the two of us have a hellish week trying to finish enough articles to fill the space.

The temperatures have finally started to rise, but not enough to make rushing around outside all day and night much more enjoyable. I’m pretty sure I’ve walked the entire length of the city several times by the end of the week. I have to squeeze in so many interviews, showcases, and exhibit openings that I don’t even have a chance to email Sherbrooke Station’s manager until Friday afternoon.

She gets back to me just as Pierre and I are making plans to go out and get thoroughly trashed together once we’ve sent off our final submissions.

Hi Kay,

Glad things with Matt went okay, and sorry again for Ace not being able to make it to your interview. To answer your inquiry, I think a front page feature in La Gare would be great for Sherbrooke Station.

We’re still transitioning into working with Atlas Records, and eventually I’ll be referring things like this to their PR department, but to be honest I still feel rather protective of the band’s interests, so I’m going to risk coming under fire and just go ahead and say yes to you myself.

I know you mentioned you’re looking to release the article in tandem with their June show at Metropolis, but I think it would be great if you could tag along to some of the smaller shows they’re playing in the next few weeks, maybe get to know the guys a bit better, do some interviews, etc.

Let me know what you think.

Sincerely,

Shayla McDougal

“Oh no.”

“What?” Pierre calls from his desk.

“Sherbrooke Station’s manager wants me to go on tour with them.”

He lets out a laugh at my expense. “That’s great news, Kay. We all know how much you love them. Now you get to spend even more time together!”

“Marie-France will never go for it,” I assure myself, ignoring Pierre as he starts humming ‘Sofia.’

With the Arts and Culture expansion in the paper, and our very limited budget, there’s no way we’ve got the money or time to send me on the road with Sherbrooke Station. I decide to go check with Marie-France to feel justified in turning the offer down.

After seeing them in person, I’m willing to admit that I get why everyone finds Sherbrooke Station so sexy, but even with the memory of Matt and I’s interview in mind, I stand by what I’ve said before: they’re way too trendy for me to take them seriously. The less time I have to spend listening to fans screaming out the lyrics of ‘Sofia,’ the better.

I knock on Marie-France’s door and give her a summary of Shayla’s email.

“I wanted to make sure it’s okay I tell her I’ll be doing all of the interviews in Montreal,” I conclude.

She closes her laptop and gives me a look that implies I’m being an idiot.

“Ce n’est pas ‘okay.’ I would like you to go to as many shows as you can, and do what this Shayla says: get to know them better.”

I start firing off reasons I shouldn’t go. “I don’t have the money to travel all over Ontario and Quebec right now, and to be honest I don’t think we can spare me for that long. Pierre and I barely made it through the week—”

“The paper will pay for it,” she interrupts. “I’ll get the budget moved around. You can spend a night here and there out covering the Sherbrooke Station story, and the rest in Montreal helping Pierre. He’s an experienced writer. He’ll manage during the days you’re gone.”

She flips her laptop open again, signalling that the conversation is over. I hover at the door, trying to come up with an excuse she won’t be able to deflect.

“Kay,” Marie-France sighs, fingers clacking away at the keys, “don’t just stand there. Get Shayla to send you the band’s schedule, and I’ll have someone take a look and figure out how many shows we can send you to.”

By the end of the day, it’s decided that I’ll be going to see Sherbrooke Station play in three different cities over the next few months. It’s not a lot, but I know trying to balance the travelling with my regular work in Montreal is still going to be hell.

I’m drowning my sorrows in vodka at a bar with Pierre that night when a text pops up on my phone:

If you wanted to see me again you could have just called, but I’m flattered you put in all that effort. See you in Ottawa.

I guess ‘in vino veritas’ also applies to vodka, because reading Matt’s message has me wondering where he is right now and how he feels about me going to all the shows. I start replaying our conversation on the staircase, how his knee kept bumping into mine, the little thrill I felt when he caught me before I fell...

No. No, no, no. We are NOT going there.

I’ve been living by those two rules I made up for awhile now:

1. Never fuck with Atlas Records.
2. Never date or sleep with a source.

I just agreed to bend and possibly break number one. I sure as hell don’t plan on going back on number two.