May 1993

“Hello? Professor Davidson?” Jess pushed open the door of the office and squinted into the dimness that greeted her. Her creative writing professor was sitting at his desk grading papers by the light of a small lamp, and he looked up at her knock.

“Ah yes, Miss Stevens, come in, come in,” Davidson said. He removed his spectacles as she sat down across from him and rubbed his eyes. When he glanced up at her, he looked tired. “You wanted to talk about your novel?”

“Yes,” Jess said hesitantly. She was perched on the edge of her seat, nerves making it difficult for her to get comfortable. “I got your notes…”

She pulled the manuscript from her bag and set it down on the table. Even on the first page, red marks covered the entire surface, suggesting words, advising changes, and scratching through words, sentences, and even entire paragraphs.

When she looked back up at the professor, Jess was embarrassed to find that eyes were full of tears. “You seem to hate my work,” she whispered, trying not to let her voice quaver.

Professor Davidson frowned. His expression was not completely unsympathetic, but she knew him too well as a hardass to fool herself into believing he was about to go easy on her.

“You’re not an untalented writer, Miss Stevens,” Davidson began. “I’ve told you this before. But your drafts are becoming increasingly overwritten. In each version, your characters get more unrealistic and harder to relate to. Where they were wooden and lifeless before, now they’re over the top, almost caricatures. It’s as if you take advice and then go to the opposite extreme.”

“I’m just trying to incorporate your feedback,” Jess rushed to say. She could hear the desperation in her voice, and it filled her with self-disgust. Couldn’t she have any dignity in front of the professor?

“I understand,” Davidson said more gently, “and I applaud the effort. You’re a very hard worker. That’s admirable.”

There was a short silence as Jess chewed over her next words. “Do you think… I’ll be able to use it for my senior thesis?”

Davidson’s frown lines deepened. “Your novel? I would advise against against it. It’s not in any shape for that. What about a portfolio of your nonfiction work? Would that suffice for a thesis?”

Jess blinked, taken aback. Davidson taught the fiction course, and, as far she knew, had never read her nonfiction.

When she said nothing, he leaned back in his chair and placed his hands behind his head. “You write for the Weekly, don’t you?”

“Uhh… yeah. Why?”

“I read one of your articles. The one on the student showcase at the warehouse.” Davidson chuckled. “Now that showed chutzpah, the way the art students thumbed their noses at Caldwell. Reminds me of how things were back in the seventies, when art was still radical… And that Imogen Redfield, she’s a character, isn’t she?” Davidson’s eyes briefly glittered, then he shook himself. “Anyway, what I wanted to tell you was that I was impressed your writing.”

“Thanks…” Jess wasn’t quite sure where Davidson was going with this, but the reminder that Imogen made brave, radical art, whereas her writing was wooden and lifeless, was only making her feel worse.

“Tell me, Miss Stevens, do you want to be a journalist?”

“Oh…” Jess sat up a little straighter. “I mean yes, of course I’d love to work as a journalist. But my eventual goal is to become a novelist.”

“Hmm…” Davidson didn’t look fully convinced by this. “I was surprised reading your article by how funny and full of life it was. A far cry from your fiction, if I’m being honest. Maybe it’s easier for you to draw from real life than to make something up. Now now, don’t look like that! It’s not an insult. Every writer has to be honest with himself about his strengths and weaknesses. If fiction isn’t your strong suit, that’s nothing to be ashamed of. Having a dab hand at journalism is nothing to scoff at. There’s more money in it than in fiction, anyway.”

Jess didn’t know what to say to this, so she said nothing. Davidson, however, wasn’t done.

“You know, I have a friend who’s starting a new magazine,” he said, leaning forward slightly. “He asked me if I knew any students who might be interested in applying for the internship. It’s paid, and if you do well, has the potential to turn into a full-time position.”

Jess blinked. The dread, embarrassment, and annoyance that had filled her stomach just moments before had been distinguished, replaced with a new, hopeful feeling.

“And you thought of me?” she asked.

“Not at first,” Davidson admitted. “But then I read your article. It was very funny, and my friend said specifically that he’s looking for funny writers. You don’t expect women to be funny, do you?” He shook his head, as if astonished by the discovery. “But you’re quite witty. I think you should apply for the internship. I’d put in a good word for you with my friend as well, of course.”

“Oh, wow,” Jess sputtered. She could hardly believe her ears. “Are you serious? Professor, thank you! Thank you so much!”

Davidson smiled indulgently. “You’re welcome, dear girl. I’m happy to help. Here, I’ll get you his address. Send him your CV and a writing sample as soon as you can. I’m sure he’ll be as impressed with you as I am.”

It was only when Jess was at the door to leave that she thought to ask what kind of magazine Davidson’s friend was starting.

The professor chortled. “Oh, it’s one of those new magazines—what are they called? Lads mags. You know the ones. They cater to young men and their interests. Now run along Miss Stevens, I’ve got a lot of grading to do.”

Jess had heard of lads mags, alright. She’s heard of them and she’d fully written them off. No political aware young woman in the early 1990s looked kindly on a lads mag, and no self-respecting journalist aspired to work at one. Lads mags, such as Loaded and FHM, often featured covers of scantily-clad starlets, while the pages inside were similarly devoted to the objectification and exploitation of women. It wasn’t just the pictures. The magazines were full of articles on how to “get” women, usually utilising tricks and dubious methods of persuasion. They taught men to treat women, and dating, like a competitive sport. There were other, more tame elements of the lads mag, of course: articles on football and beer and other staples of “lad” culture. Sometimes, sure, they were humorous. But more often they were cringey or even outright offensive.

A lads mag was something that the Paul Hendersons of the world would read, and as she walked away from Professor Davidson’s office, Jess didn’t know whether or not to be offended by his suggestion she should write for one.

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

On the one hand, it was an honour that he would single her out for a job, especially with a friend from his well-known circle of literati. Davidson had plenty of students to choose from, and he didn’t have to pick her. It was especially gratifying considering how much he seemed to hate her fiction.

And yes, that stung. It hadn’t been easy to hear his criticism, or his not-so-subtle misogyny. You don’t expect women to be funny, do you? Jess grimaced and tried to push the comment from her thoughts. She was funny. Many people, including Sebastien and her editor, had commented on how amusing her articles were. Still, it gave her pause that someone who thought so lowly of women writers would present her with such an opportunity.

Could it be a backhanded compliment? A way of telling her that she was only good enough for an unserious, sexist publication geared at young men who could barely read?

But beyond the intention behind the offer, Jess’s real question was whether it went against her moral compass to write for such a publication. She cringed at the thought of what Imogen would say if she knew Jess was considering it.

Still, it was a writing job, right out of uni… A chance to make money doing what she had always wanted to do. How many young writers got that kind of opportunity?

These thoughts were still swirling through her mind when she met Sebastien later that afternoon. It was an unusually warm day for London in May, and after drinking some beers in Victoria Park, they walked to his flat. Even after a month of seeing each other, Jess still felt woozy and heady in Sebastien’s presence. Her thoughts became muddled, and she feared that the poker face she had spent so many years perfecting slipped away, giving way to a mad, delirious happiness.

Today was no different. She and Sebastien had barely made it through the door before they were ripping off each other’s clothes, feverishly kissing as they undid buttons and pulled at zippers. After a frantic few moments of groping, they fell through the door to Sebastien’s room and onto his bed.

It was only then, when she and Sebastien were tangled up in the sheets, that her doubts and fears finally abated, replaced with an easy bliss that seemed to erase all thought, reducing Jess to pure instincts, pure feeling, pure pleasure.

Later, however, as they smoked cigarettes in bed, her insecurities all came rushing back.

“You’re quiet,” Sebastien said after several minutes. “How was your meeting with Davidson?”

“It was good,” Jess lied, careful to keep her face neutral. “My novel is on track to be ready for my senior thesis.”

Sebastien’s smile was vaguely concerned, and Jess wondered if she was losing her touch—or if all the time they were spending together meant that Sebastien was learning how to read her. “What’s wrong, then?” he probed.

She hesitated, but then decided she might as well tell him the truth. Anyway, if she took the job, he’d find out soon enough.

“Davidson said he might be able to get me a job…” she began slowly. “Writing for a friend’s new magazine.”

Sebastien’s reaction was immediate and unsurprising. “What?! Jess, that’s amazing! I knew something like this would happen for you. You’re so talented.”

“Well…” It was hard to keep some of the pleasure from her smile. She supposed it was pretty fabulous. Here she was, just twenty-one, and already being offered work as a writer. “There’s a catch. The magazine is sort of… disreputable.”

“What do you mean? It’s not The Sun, is it?” Sebastien laughed, as if the thought of the woman he was sleeping with working at The Sun was completely ludicrous.

“No,” she said, forcing a laugh, “but it’s not far off. It’s a new lads mag called BOOM.”

It took a moment for Sebastien to comprehend what she was saying. “A lads mag… like those ones with busty women on the cover?”

“Yeah. They’re not just about women, though. They also have articles on football and drinking and such. You know… lad culture.”

“But…” Sebastien looked confused. “You don’t know anything about lad culture. You write about art and politics for the Weekly. That’s the kind of writing you should be doing.”

Jess felt her face grow warm. “Well, yeah, of course that’s what I would prefer to do. But those jobs are few and far between, and usually go to the nieces and nephews of people who already work there.”

“I don’t know if that’s tr—”

“It is true,” Jess interrupted, her annoyance flaring. What did Sebastien know about how hard it was to break into the UK writing industry? His family was rich and famous. Even if he spurned his dad, doors would open for him his whole life. It was different for her. She was from a lower-middle-class family with no connections. People weren’t exactly eager to throw open doors for her. Added to which her more “literary” writing was apparently shit…

“I’m lucky to be offered a job like this,” she said after a calming breath. “The editor is looking for funny writers, and Davidson thinks I’d be a good fit. It makes sense, Sebastien. I need to work after uni. I don’t have any money, and my parents can’t afford to help me. It’s a paying job, and from there, I can work my way up to more serious publications.”

But Sebastien was shaking his head, and the look on his face was incredulous. “You don’t want to start out at a place like that,” he insisted. “It will hurt your reputation in the industry. I mean, no one at the LRB is going to hire a writer who wrote for a lads mag!”

“You don’t know that!” Jess felt her temper rising. Why was Sebastien being so unsupportive?

“I do,” Sebastien said flatly. “I know those types of people, and trust me, they’re snobs.”

“You’re the one who’s being a snob right now!” Jess snapped. She stubbed out her cigarette on the nightstand, then threw back the covers. “I thought you would be pleased for me. Proud, even. But instead, you’re making me feel like shit for something I’ve worked really hard for. BOOM might not be the most prestigious magazine, but it would give me a leg up in the industry, and, more importantly, would allow me to support myself as a working writer.

She was half dressed by the time Sebastien seemed to realise what was happening.

“Wait, Jess! Don’t go!” He pushed back the covers and struggled to dress himself as she reached for the door. She had already gotten down the corridor to the kitchen by the time he caught up with her.

“Jess, wait,” he said, catching her hand. “I’m sorry. Really, I am. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

Jess paused and turned to face Sebastien. He did look earnest as he gazed down at her, his hair still rumpled from bed and his clothes crooked. Even in his dishevelled state, he was so handsome it took her breath away.

“The only reason I pushed back was because I think you’re too good for it,” he said softly. “You’re one of the best writers I’ve ever met, and I know you’re going to get a good job at a place you’ll be proud to work. It’s scary, I know, to start out in this field. But I want you to have as much faith in yourself as I have in you. Because trust me, you’re special.”

Jess took a deep breath and allowed herself to relax. It was hard to stay mad at Sebastien when he was looking at her with such ardent admiration. And she wanted his words to be true so badly…

“The truth is, I was defensive because I know it’s a shit magazine,” she said finally. Sebastien’s mouth quirked up in amusement, and she laughed. “And I’m afraid that taking the job—if I can even get it—would be selling out. I don’t want to be the kind of person who settles. I’m just scared. What if… what if I never make it?”

And then suddenly she was crying. Hot, thick tears were rolling down her cheeks, her nose was running, and hiccuping sobs jolted from her chest. In the space of seconds, the mask she had so carefully constructed for herself had fallen away, and she was admitting her worst fears to Sebastien Montague.

What was happening to her?

“Oh, Jess…” Sebastien pulled her into a tight hug. “Of course you’re going to make it.” He released her and kissed the tip of her nose. “I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life.”

“Really?” she blubbered.

“Really. You don’t have to work at a lads mag. We’ll find you something better.” He chuckled. “We’re far too young and idealistic to settle, right?”

Jess agreed with him, and so for that afternoon, she allowed herself to believe him and the faith he had in her. Even for the next few days, his certainty buoyed her. It gave her the confidence to look for other jobs; to not send off her CV to the editor of BOOM.

But it didn’t last. She’d known it wouldn’t, because Jess wasn’t like Sebastien. She didn’t have his safety net and she didn’t have his blind confidence. All she had were her own talent and seering ambition, both of which were screaming at her that she’d be a fool to throw away an opportunity to work in journalism just because she thought she was too good for it.

So at the end of the week, she secretly sent off her CV and her funniest, tritest piece to Professor Davidson’s friend.. Within the week, he’d written back to congratulate her on becoming the newest editorial intern at BOOM Magazine.

There was no need for Sebastien to know, she told herself. At least not yet.