Chapter 38

Beatrice

“I can’t believe you!”

“Excuse me?” I gasp.

What I can’t believe is that a member of my own staff would just blurt out something like that. I know we’re under a tight deadline and all, but that seemed really out of nowhere.

As I suspected, however, Mort already looks embarrassed. His hand is tightly gripping the edge of the random desk where he’s standing, and his knuckles are actually turning white.

“I can’t believe this,” he corrects himself, almost mumbling at the floor.

“It’s not that big a deal,” I intone in my best reassuring voice. “It’s just a photo that came out a little blurry.”

The tension in the Digest office bullpen is high, and I’m in the center of it all. All things considered, I feel actually very calm, even if I feel myself being a bit more judgmental towards my staff than I’d like to be.

Seriously, this guy couldn’t be older than twenty-five. How is he named Mort?

“It means it’s unusable, though. Doesn’t it?” Mort’s still mumbling downward, and now he’s childishly, sheepishly shifting the tip of his shoe against the carpet.

Ah, whatever. Mort’s a fine name.

“In the grand scheme of things, Mort, it doesn’t matter. Not one bit. Focus your energy elsewhere.”

I pat the growing bump on my stomach.

Just not for you.

Names are a subject my mind’s been returning to more and more frequently these days.

“Right,” Mort responds, tapping the empty receptionist desk before wandering to, hopefully, take my advice and push toward getting some of this shit actually finished.

The edginess, the stress, and the ambient anxiety is still very much apparent in the air. Yet, my mind is not nearly as into the work or the fast-approaching deadlines as they very likely should be at this point.

That’s another common thought-motif for me these days. Where I am, and what that means, and how I should be acting.

And how I should be feeling.

I step out into the wide berth of empty space that seems to be surrounding me now; the atmospheric tension has grown to the point where people are fearing me.

Fearing me—because I’m the goddamn Bureau Chief.

Which means, I should be perpetually proud, excited, and super fucking motivated.

“It’s just a never-ending story.” Even Mort’s gotten into the stressed-out yet humbled act, approaching me with two armfuls of accordion folders. “Just boundless.”

“At least, you’re not afraid me,” I comment. “Or are you? And what’s with all those folders?”

“Isn’t this shit all supposed to be in computers now?”

He answers my question with one of his own. “What is it, twenty years ago?”

“What story are you working on?” I’m hoping for a straight answer, but I know not to get my hopes too high.

“The one with all these editorial stock photos that still need to be digitized,” Mort answers miraculously.

“The hotel deal,” I say, pretty much to myself.

I’m developing a habit of thinking out loud as a way to get a handle on the vast universe of stories, details both important and trivial, journalistic issues, writers, photographers, the build of every new issue of my periodical...

My periodical.

At this point, it’s who I am.

“You’re obviously deep in thought,” Mort shoots at me sharply. “I’ll sort through these and get back to you about the deadline shortly.”

“Thursday morning,” I mutter quietly.

“Of course,” he responds, uncharacteristically serious. “I’m just talking about status.”

“Yep.”

I begin walking away while the word is barely past my lips, leaving it behind me. For just the briefest moment, I feel bad for leaving one of my top writers hanging in the middle of what was probably an important conversation. Mort can handle himself, though, and it’s becoming more and more difficult these days to tell how important any conversation is.

I’m relieved to hear Mort walking away with his usual careless confidence as soon as I begin making a beeline back toward my office.

Of course, I have no idea what the hell I’m planning to do once I get there, besides maybe get some quiet and gather my thoughts.

Halfway to my office, I stop, as I realize there is a giant glass pane in front of me that I just noticed now.

I thoughtlessly, yet tenderly, pat my belly bump once more.

Get some quiet, huh?

I was never really sure what that phrase meant, and up until very recently, it was never something I saw myself doing or needing to do, especially when things got hectic, and my work needed me.

But, fuck, a few minutes of quiet is sounding very appealing to me right now—or, maybe I’m starting to take just more than my own feelings and needs into account.

“Beatrice? Miss Barlow?”

Fuck, the way some of these new junior writers approach me gives me paparazzi vibes.

“What is it, Leola?”

“I’m sorry,” she begins.

“Don’t...I mean, it’s okay. What is it, Leola?”

Leola looks way younger and more naive than the new grad school graduate that she is as she stands in my path with her hands insecurely on her hips.

“I’m on like four different stories, Beatrice. Is there one I should be focusing on?”

“The hotel deal, with the oligarchs.” I don’t feel great about my answer, but since it’s the last story someone mentioned to me, it’s the first one I can think of.

“Talk to Mort,” I instruct Leola before walking around her, continuing the path to my office.

A few minutes of quiet, whatever that means, and I’ll hopefully be back on track.

That wide berth everyone seems to be giving me takes hold again for the last few steps to my office, and I’m grateful for that.

Fuck, I don’t know what’s happening to me today.

Being the youngest person to hold this position at the Digest by a long shot, I should absolutely have the sharpness and energy to get through at least the first few hours of the workday, without needing a few minutes of quiet time, or whatever the hell it is I think I need right now.

Nonetheless, I gladly lock the door behind me as soon as I walk into my office, and I breathe an actual sigh of relief.

That relief feels premature, however, as I realize I feel that nagging sense of unease, even more acutely now, that I’m not surrounded by everyone else’s stress.

What’s causing that, anyway?

I don’t know—but I do know that I better find out before heading back into the melee of the office bullpen.

A loud knock on my door propels me forward, in the direction of my file cabinets.

“Just a moment,” I call out to whoever is on the other side.

“I can stay out here all day,” Leola’s voice announces from outside my door, “but I do have some news for you.”

“Just a moment,” I repeat, opening the cabinet’s top drawer for no goddamn reason I can infer.

“I don’t even need to come in,” Leola informs me, while I rifle uselessly through the neatly organized folders.

I never thought you needed to, I think to myself, pulling out a large, glossy photograph.

Fuck.

Of course, this is why I went into my office, and into my files.

Who did I think I was fooling?

“What’s the news, Leola?” I ask, my voice cracking slightly.

This photo.

Why did it have to be this one?

Why did I make myself dive heedlessly into the office to look at it?

“It’s about President Thatcher,” Leola yells.

Of course it is, just like the photo I’m now gripping tightly, unable to look away.

That dress.

That trip—Italy.

“What’s the news exactly, Leola?”

That night, the state dinner.

Christ, it’s not even in the back of my mind anymore—it’s refusing to stay there.

“The President’s going on a...well, it’s a tour...of some sort. It really seems like campaigning, Beatrice, and it really seems like something we can’t leave out of the next issue.”

The next issue, of course. There’s often a next election in politics, and in journalism, there’s always a next issue.

That next issue is not what I’m thinking about anymore, though.

And at this point, I don’t know if, and when, I can bring my mind back to it.