PART II

1993 - 1997

“Maybe I will never be

All the things that I wanna be…”

* Oasis, Live Forever

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November 1993

“Jess, is it?”

Jess looked up to see a tall, well-dressed man standing in front of her, a pleasant—if plastic—smile on his face. She had seen Dominic Harrow from a distance before, but this was the first time they had interacted. The editor of BOOM was surprisingly posh, with a fine, aquiline nose, chic Prada glasses, an expensive suit and neatly polished loafers. He looked like someone she’d expect to find at The New Yorker, and exactly like how she’d imagined Professor Davidson’s friend. The only curious part was why he was the editor at a place like BOOM, where most of the reporters dressed like teenage boys and acted even more juvenile.

Dominic Harrow held out his hand, and she scrambled to her feet, shaking it in what she hoped was a firm-but-not-too-enthusiastic-manner. Sebastien, of course, would have known exactly the correct way to shake this man’s hand. Jess had to fake it.

“Please, come in,” Harrow said, gesturing towards his office. Jess followed him inside. The office was spacious, with tasteful modern furniture and large corner windows that looked out over Westminster. When Jess pictured who she wanted to be in fifteen years, this was the kind of office she saw herself in, overseeing some prestigious magazine or else as a columnist at an important paper. Perhaps if she ever became a novelist, she’d have an office like this at her home.

A twinge of guilt filled her stomach at the thought of her novel. It had been months since she’d worked on it. When people asked her what she was doing now that she was out of university—or, more condescendingly, what she wanted to be when she grew up—she would tell she was an aspiring novelist. “But I work at a magazine as my day job.” If they enquired more about the magazine, she’d say vaguely it was a lifestyle magazine. They usually wanted to know more, at which point she would have to admit she worked for BOOM. Depending on who was asking, she’d get a mixed reaction. Most of her parents’ friends hadn’t heard of it, thankfully, but most of the other twenty-somethings she met at bars had. Some would raise their eyebrows, others would laugh. A few would congratulate her on landing a job in print media. Many asked how she could stand working for such a sexist publication. And Jess would give some run-of-the-mill answer about how it was just a stepping stone to bigger and better things, but truthfully, she didn’t know how she stood it.

No one had done anything outright rude to her during her tenure at BOOM. Sure, some colleagues had told her she should wear high heels, if she wanted to be taken seriously. The male reporters often talked over her, even occasionally took credit for her ideas. But the worst part was the constant lad humour, which she felt on the outside of. She had tried going to drinks with her coworkers, but they talked only about football and women, and she’d felt uncomfortable and stupid.

The internship itself was fine. It consisted more of copyediting than actual writing, but she didn’t mind. She felt like she was putting in her time, and anyway, she hadn’t exactly been eager to write articles about why liking football didn’t make you a hooligan and who was the sexiest actress on TV. The longer the internship went on, however, the more small writing assignments she was asked to do. Which is why she was here, speaking to Dominic Harrow.

“So Jess,” he said, settling himself in the chair behind his desk and motioning that she should sit as well. “Have you been enjoying your time here at BOOM?”

“Oh, yes,” Jess gushed, painting a smile on her face. “I’m so grateful for the opportunity, and I’ve learned so much. I can’t thank you enough for letting me be part of this.”

“Well, you’ve earned it. From everything your colleagues have shared with me, you’ve been doing a wonderful job.” Harrow smiled benignly. It didn’t extend to his eyes, which were looking her over in an uncomfortably appraising kind of way. “Which is precisely why I wanted to talk to you today. Originally, we had planned for the internship to last six months, which means it would be over by the end of this month.”

Jess felt her stomach churn. As little as the internship paid, she wasn’t sure what she would do without it. The rent on her apartment was steep, and she didn’t have any other writing jobs lined up. She’d been applying, and trying to freelance on the side, but so far there hadn’t been any bites.

“However, I know we had mentioned that the internship could potentially turn into a full-time job,” Harrow continued. “Is that something that would interest you?”

“Yes, absolutely.” Even though Jess had a lot of misgivings about working at BOOM, she was no longer so naive as to even consider turning down a paid writing job—especially one with benefits. “I would love to work here,” she added. Her cheeks were beginning to hurt from smiling, but she didn’t dare stop.

“That’s fantastic to hear. Before we make a final decision, however, we’d like to ask you to write a full article for us, complete with research and interviews. You’ve learned how to do this while at BOOM, correct?”

“Yes.” Jess thought of the interviews she’d sat in on—mostly late-twenty-something male reports getting pissed with athletes and musicians. “I also interviewed people when I wrote for the Queen Mary Weekly.”

“Fantastic!” He spoke, Jess decided, like a used car salesman. All exclamation points and no depth. “We’ve put a call out for interviewees. Girls in their twenties who want to talk about what they’re really looking for.”

The smile on Jess’s face finally slipped. “What do you mean?” she asked.

Harrow drummed his fingers on the desk. “We want you to write an article on the secrets that girls are too embarrassed to tell men: the things they really want in a relationship, especially in bed. You know, like how some girls like it rough in bed, but are afraid to say so because it might not be feminist.”

Jess’s mouth had gone dry. “And you want me to write that?”

“You’re perfect for it,” Harrow said, nodding. “You must have noticed, but we don’t have a lot of female reporters on staff.”

“Umm, yeah, I guess I noticed.”

“Which is why you’re so valuable. You can talk to girls in a way that our male reporters can’t. Really get them to open to you… to confide in you. Nothing is off limits. Just make sure you get their written consent to use their responses before the interview, okay? We don’t want them getting their knickers in a bunch later if they’re embarrassed by what we print. Do you know what I mean?”

Jess nodded. She was fairly certain that she was being asked to make women confess things they absolutely would not want printed in a paper. And the reason she was being asked to do it wasn’t because of her talent or hard work, but because she was also a woman.

“Very good!” Harrow clapped his hands together. All that was missing, she thought, was for him to smack his lips together like he was about to dig into a juicy steak. This was why he worked at BOOM, not The New Yorker. He might look posh, but he was a lad underneath. “I knew you were the girl for this job!”

Jess wanted to correct him—she was a woman, not a girl—but she didn’t think Harrow would look kindly on it. He had turned back to his computer, and Jess realised she was dismissed. Rising, she thanked him for his time and for the opportunity. She was just on her way out the door when Harrow called her name.

“Yes?” she said, turning back.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

“Do the interviews at a bar,” he said. “Girls are looser when they’re drunk.” He winked, and she smiled tightly before beating a hasty retreat.

“You can’t write that article,” Sebastien said, staring at her over his half-raised glass of wine. “It goes against everything you believe in.”

They were out for drinks at a wine bar halfway between their offices, where they often met after work. It was a nice place, modern and trendy and a little bit out of their price range, but both of them pretended otherwise. Jess suspected they were trying on the identity of successful, office-going, nine-to-five-working adults who could afford to spend £7 on a glass of wine. She liked this version of herself; or at least, she liked the idea of this version of herself. When she saw herself as the successful writer with the corner office, she saw herself as someone who drank at this kind of place. And Sebastien, she imagined, had always seen himself going to posh bars. For all his politics, he wasn’t someone who would drink at a grimey working-class pub. Unless Alastair was around, of course. But Alastair hadn’t been around in months.

Right now, however, Jess felt very far away from the successful writer with the corner office. She’d just told Sebastien about the article Harrow wanted her to write, and already, she regretted it. He was looking at her with such horror—and was it judgement?—that she wanted to slam her wine down on the table and storm out of the bar.

“It’s not as bad as you think,” she said instead, carefully placing the glass on the table. “It’s not like I’ll be writing anything the women haven’t consented to being printed.”

“But you heard him… he wants you to manipulate them. Get them drunk, make them feel safe, and convince them to say things they wouldn’t otherwise.”

“That’s called journalism,” Jess said sourly.

Sebastien raised an eyebrow. “Well it’s not the kind of journalism you used to do.”

“What do you want from me, Sebastien?” She kept her voice quiet, but she knew he saw the hard glint of anger in her eyes. They’d been having this same argument for six months now: him telling her she should quit BOOM, that she was too good for it, that it was a sexist, garbage publication; her insisting that she needed the money and experience. “Harrow pretty much made my full-time employment contingent on writing this article. What choice do I have, if I want a full-time writing job?”

“You know what I want from you,” he said, his voice still even. “I want you to believe in yourself and live up to your potential.”

“I do believe in myself. This is just what I have to do right now.”

Sebastien took a sip of wine before answering. When he lowered his glass, he looked at her pointedly. “How’s your novel going?”

That was the final straw. Jess stood, her chair scraping against the ground. She tried not to draw too much attention to herself as she grabbed her purse and coat from the back of the chair. “You,” she hissed, “can be such an arsehole.”

She was half-expecting him to chase her out of the restaurant and and beg her forgiveness. She shouldn’t have been surprised when he didn’t. Ever since graduation, things had been steadily worsening between the two of them. While they saw each other regularly, their fights were getting more regular and more vitriolic. Jess didn’t understand why Sebastien couldn’t just support her career. She knew it wasn’t ideal, but what twenty-two-year-old had their ideal job?

The answer, of course, was Sebastien Montague.

That was why he was so hard on her, she knew. He had his dream job right out of uni and judged her for settling for less. Maybe he also thought it reflected poorly on him, having a girlfriend who wrote for a lads mag. He probably worried it would impede his rise through the ranks of the Labour Party if she worked for a place that was so contrary to his values.

Except Jess wasn’t even sure she was Sebastien’s girlfriend. They had never defined their relationship, and while she knew he cared for her deeply, she was also sure he would choose his career—and his convictions—over any personal relationship. He’d chosen them over his own father.

It made her feel constantly on edge in the relationship—and unsure if she wanted to risk her career for the approval of a man who couldn’t even commit to her.

The next day, she was still thinking about Sebastien’s words when she arrived at the office. The problem with his criticism was that she agreed with it. That’s also why she wished so badly that he would just have her back. It was hard enough hating her job and questioning herself every day, wondering if she was doing the right thing, without her boyfriend making her feel like shit about it. Didn’t he know she was torn? Couldn’t he put his own feelings aside and tell her he trusted her to find her own path forward?

For the morning, Jess buried herself in copyediting work. Meanwhile, her email kept dinging with new responses to the advertisement for the interview on “what women really want.” She tried to ignore them. It wasn’t possible to put off scheduling the interviews forever, but she wished it was.

What kind of women respond to that kind of interview anyway? She thought angrily as her email dinged again. Attention-seeking slags, probably.

A shiver of self-disgust went through her as she realised what she’d just thought. This place was starting to rub off on her. If she wasn’t careful, she would start thinking like the men who worked here.

At lunchtime, she logged out of her email and went to the kitchen, where she was just getting her leftovers out of the refrigerator when she heard a woman’s voice behind her.

“Excuse me, but do you know where I can find the coffee filters?”

Jess turned and nearly dropped her lunch. Standing in front of her was Julia Brentwood. Jess would have recognised her anywhere. Julia Brentwood was a legendary columnist. She’d written for all the major publications, including the London Review of Books, the Paris Review, and Granta. She was an icon and one of Jess’s favourite writers.

“Oh my god!” Jess couldn’t help the exclamation from slipping. “You’re Julia Brentwood!”

Julia looked momentarily taken aback, then smiled. “Yes, I am.” She held out her hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too,” Jess said, shaking it. “Jess Stevens. I’m a huge fan of yours.”

“Are you?” Julia’s eyes sparkled. “Well, I’m not too humble to admit that it’s always a pleasure to meet a fan.”

“Your article on Joan Didion in the Paris Review is what made me want to be a writer,” Jess gushed. She felt star-struck. In her six months working at BOOM, she’d never crossed paths with anyone she admired so much. Nor had she suspected to. BOOM’s corridors weren’t exactly teeming with respected writers. “What… what are you doing at BOOM?” she asked, hoping her tone didn’t suggest any judgement.

“Oh, I’m here as a favour to Harrow,” Julia said with a shrug. “We used to be at The Guardian together. I’m writing the next cover story on Cindy Crawford.”

“You are?” This time, Jess couldn’t keep some of the surprise from her voice. “For BOOM?”

“Don’t look so shocked,” Julia said with a laugh. “Harrow will take it personally. He’s very sensitive, you know.”

Jess flushed at once, her armpits prickling with sweat in embarrassment. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply—it’s just…” She swallowed, unsure if she was bold enough to ask what she needed to. But this, she reckoned, might be her only chance to get advice from someone whose career she actually wanted. “My boyfriend doesn’t really approve of me working here,” she blurted out. “He thinks the articles are chauvinist and that I should be… I dunno, doing something different.”

There was a short silence. Julia tilted her head to one side and considered Jess, who could feel the heat on her cheeks and neck. She was sure Julia thought she was crazy, but at least she was still there, so that was something.

“Harrow wants me to do this article,” Jess continued, before she completely lost her nerve, “but it’s kind of taking advantage of women, and I don’t know if I should do it. I want a career like yours, and I’m afraid that if I do it, no one will take me seriously. But I’m afraid if I don’t, I’ll lose my job, and never make it as a journalist and writer. And I just—”

“Can I give you some advice?” Julia interrupted. She didn’t seem annoyed, but there was a businesslike tone to her voice that told Jess this conversation would soon be coming to a close.

“Of course,” she rushed to say. “Please.”

“Don’t listen to your boyfriend. He’s not a journalist, I’m assuming? Because if he was, he’d understand that to make it in this industry, especially as a woman, you have to be a bitch. People are not just going to hand you the opportunities you want. You have to take what you’re given and be the best at it, and then keep taking and taking, until you’ve created the career you want. No will give a fuck about an article you wrote exploiting women when you were twenty-two. They’ll give a fuck that you can follow directions, write quickly, get good interviews, and sell papers. That’s what this industry is all about: selling papers. It’s a business, like anything else. And here’s the thing no one else will tell you: if you sell enough papers, then you can write whatever the fuck you want. So I’d suggest you do this article, make it the best it can be, and show Harrow that you have what it takes to claw your way to the top.”

Jess’s mouth was slightly open, and she shut it quickly. “Thank you, Ms. Brentwood,” she murmured. “I really appreciate that.”

Julia Brentwood gave her a sly smile. “Good luck, Jess. I’m sure you’ll be great.”

“Coffee filters are there.” Jess pointed to the press above the toaster. She then left the kitchen before she said or did anything else to embarrass herself. In a daze, she made her way back to her desk. Only once she was there did she realise she hadn’t heated up her leftovers. She stared at her computer, her heart pounding. Had that really just happened? She’s just met Julia Brentwood, and she’d told her to be a bitch. Well, that tracked. Julia Brentwood was known for her no-holds-barred approach.

Logging back into her email, Jess saw three more emails from women interested in being interviewed for her article. For a moment, she stared at them, thinking hard. Then she clicked into the first one.

At the same time, something seemed to unlock deep in her belly. It was as if she’d been holding something back, burying it down, and now it was finally free: the feeling of giving no fucks; of wanting to be good at her job; of wanting to be unapologetic. The force of the feeling surprised her. She hadn’t even realised how badly she’d been wanting to write the article for Harrow.

It was permission, she realised. She had finally given herself permission to pursue what she wanted, not what Sebastien told her she should want.

Jess smiled as she read the email. The woman sounded insipid, easy to crack. Jess would crack her. And then she would write the kind of article that had people reaching for the magazine on the newsstands; the kind of article, as Julia had said, that sold papers.