It’s eight a.m. on Monday and I’m crammed into the tiny boardroom along with six other bleary-eyed staff members, all of whom want desperately to get an exclusive from me—a photo, a quote, anything—so that’s not awkward in any way. Just kidding—it’s every bit as bizarre as you’d imagine. None of them will actually come out and ask, because Hazel Nettlebottom, our editor-in-chief, told them not to, but they all look at me like they’re on the Paleo diet and I’m the last cupcake in the shop window.

Tyler, the new intern, is the hungriest of the bunch because he’s desperate to get on the payroll. He’s the one who was at the hospital on Friday night, and was waiting outside the building this morning to catch a photo of me on my way into the office. Luckily, Xavier managed to block his view of me while I made my way from the car to the lobby door because I woke up late today so I’m not exactly ‘camera-ready.’ The nation’s biggest news channel, ABNC, has hired famous fashion critic, Nigel Wood, and based on his first two appearances on the morning news his sole purpose is to make fun of me. So far, he’s had an absolute field day with what I wore on our hot air balloon date, calling me the dullest dresser in the kingdom and posing the question of my potential colour-blindness to the world.

Hazel sweeps into the room, her floor-length sweater vest fanning out behind her. She stands at the far end in front of a white board and goes over last week’s circulation and advertising numbers in excruciatingly careful detail. It doesn’t take me long before my mind starts to wander, as it always does during this bit. The numbers are always pretty much the same—terrible. We’re barely making enough to get by and none of the reporters on staff have managed to do what Hazel asks of us every week, which is to find the Holy Grail of journalism: ‘the big scoop.’

I’ve got a big scoop for them. I’m leaving. I just have to figure out when. Too soon and I’m going to be labeled a gold-digger. Too late and I’m going to look like a dullard who’s too stupid to see the writing on the wall. I spent the better part of the weekend wrestling with the decision of when to quit my job and, if I’m to be really honest, I’m also troubled by the fact that I have to at all, no matter what I told Arthur at the hospital.

I know, I know, you’re probably thinking, ‘Tessa, you’re going to be a queen one day. What the hell do you have to feel sorry for yourself about?’, and you’re not wrong. I’m one of the luckiest bitches on the planet and I do know it, I promise.

But (there’s always a but, isn’t there?), since I was fourteen years old, the only thing I’ve only ever wanted was to be a successful journalist. I worked my tail off for four years of uni, followed by seven years of struggling to make it, suffering some serious set-backs—namely Barrett Richfield, my cheating, lying, firing boss/boyfriend—but did I give up? No. I pivoted, adjusted, and kept going in my pursuit of the truth because, if nothing else, I am dedicated to my craft.

Oh, but I should probably be paying attention. Hazel just said the words ‘vital’ and ‘imperative’ in one sentence. But it’s just so distracting to know I have to quit. Whoops, I don’t mean quit; I mean trade it for something better. And it will be better, right? Even though I have my very own ‘hate’ club and fashion critic on the national news?

Hmm…I wonder if Arthur can arrange some face time with Camilla for me. She’s had decades to figure out how to handle being wildly unpopular.

“Tessa. Tessa… hello,” Hazel says in that Canadian accent of hers.

I look up to see her smiling at me from behind her turquoise-rimmed glasses. Oh, shit. The rest of the staff are filing out and I haven’t the faintest clue as to what I’m meant to be doing this week.

“Can you stop by my office after break time?”

“Yes, absolutely.”

* * *

Break time passes by at record-speed and I find myself sitting on the slightly wobbly metal chair across from Hazel’s desk while she finishes up a phone call. As soon as she hangs up, she tucks her pencil behind her ear and sighs. “So, Tessa, I think we need to talk about your future here.”

Oh, Christ, am I about to get fired? I mean, I know I need to leave but, please not this way.

My face must say exactly what I’m thinking, because Hazel shakes her head and smiles. “No, no. I’m not letting you go, but I do think we need to repurpose you for obvious reasons.”

Repurpose me? Like an old dresser? “Righto. I was thinking the same thing. I mean, I know I won’t exactly be able to blend in with the crowd at public events.”

“Well, not with that big hunk of manliness following you everywhere you go.” She glances out the glass wall at Xavier, who is sitting in the hall reading More Muscles magazine. Blushing, she looks back at me and says, “I was thinking perhaps you could move to the announcements, obits, and edits desk.”

“Okay. Sure.” Shit. That’s a giant step down in the reporting world. It also means I’ll be here until after midnight every Friday, when we go to press. I chew on my thumbnail for a second while I think about what this will mean for my personal life.

Hazel jots something down in her day planner. “Good. That’s settled then.”

I nod, knowing that I should bring up the fact that I need to quit soon but, somehow, I just can’t force the words to come out of my mouth. I’m just not ready to ‘trade’ this part of my life.