Page 1 of Match Point

PROLOGUE

Today is going to be a better day.

That’s what I keep telling myself as I open yet another brown envelope, pull out the book inside and place it on top of the pile that’s getting steadily higher on my desk. We get sent dozens of books from publishers for review here at The Daily Journal every week, and as the culture features assistant, it’s my job to get them all out, pile them up and line them on a trolley so that the books editor can scan the spines and select the ones she wants to read and feature.

Worryingly, this is one of the most interesting aspects of my job.

Not that I’m complaining. I know I’m lucky to be working at a newspaper at all, and when I moved to London last year, I genuinely didn’t think I’d be able to land any kind of role in the media, so I should be grateful to be here, piling up books and fetching tea and coffee. It’s just, I did hope that maybe I’d get to be a bit more involved in the creative side of things and, as I’m turning twenty-nine this year, I do sometimes wonder whether I should be in something higher than what is essentially an entry-level job.

Take yesterday for example. My only pressing job was to book a table for my editor, Harvey, at The Ivy for a lunch meeting today, and then I spent the rest of my valuable time organising the books we received that morning by colour of spine and then taking online quizzes about which dog breed suits my lifestyle the best, which Disney character I’m most like, and which ’00s celeb is my perfect match.

I learnt that I should own a Norfolk terrier, I have a lot in common with Meeko – the racoon from Pocahontas – and, should I ever find myself single again, it wouldn’t be a bad thing for me to bump into Chad Michael Murray. Which is all very useful information, but I didn’t exactly wake up this morning full of motivation, knowing that I’m contributing to society in a helpful way.

So, that’s why I’m filling myself with positive thoughts today, and as soon as I’m done opening these books, I’m going to write a list of things that I can do that will be useful for my career, like how I need to email the arts desk again, just to double-check there’s still no designer jobs going there, or how I should start applying for roles at galleries and publishers that have a strong graphic novel output. I can’t let myself get comfortable here. If I want to work in art then I have to actually do something about it.

Yes, good. Strong motivational thoughts. Already things seem better.

‘Flora, Harvey wants to see you.’

I glance up from my growing book pile to see Basil, our intern, hovering next to me whilst scrolling through his phone. He sounds irritated that he’s had to make the journey of a few metres from his desk to mine to deliver the message. The floppy-haired twenty-year-old son of one of Harvey’s golf buddies, Basil has been at the newspaper for just over a week, here for ‘work experience’, though so far he has yet to do any real work. He spends most of his time on TikTok and accompanying Harvey for long lunches.

‘Thanks, Basil,’ I say brightly, determined to be full of optimism.

He shrugs and slinks back to his desk, slumping down in his chair without breaking eye contact with his phone the entire time. My heavy eye-roll is caught by the sports journalist Iris, who is talking through a layout with someone nearby. At first, I feel embarrassed that someone saw me do that behind his back, but when Iris smiles at me conspiratorially, glancing at Basil and echoing my eye-roll, I’m relieved, grinning back at her.

Iris is one of the only people I can stand here at the newsroom – mostly because she’s the only journalist who bothers to give me the time of day. Despite the fact we work in different sections – her in sport, and me in the culture corner – we still hang out in the kitchen sometimes, making coffee and giggling about our stuffy, pretentious colleagues or diva sport celebrities she’s interviewed. We’ve been for lunch a few times too, which, although it might not be a big deal for her, really means a lot to me. Since I haven’t been in the city that long, I don’t really have any proper friends in London. It’s nice to feel like I have someone I can talk to.

We’re very different. I was intimidated by Iris at first: she’s confident, smart, quick-witted, and mesmerisingly beautiful with dark hair, delicate features and striking green eyes. She’s also very stylish and sophisticated, always dressed as though she’s going for an important lunch meeting at Sexy Fish in Mayfair, the sort of woman who walks in a room and all heads turn towards her. I, on the other hand, tend to be reserved and cautious, wrestle daily with my unruly wavy blonde hair, have a wardrobe of mostly faded T-shirts and ripped jeans, and I sort of slink into a room hoping I won’t be noticed.

Still, we click. I guess opposites attract.

When I get to Harvey’s desk, I clear my throat and say, ‘Basil said you wanted to see me?’

Without looking up from his screen, Harvey holds up a finger, signalling at me to wait until he’s done with the email he’s writing. I try to suppress a smirk. This is classic Harvey: to demand someone come talk to him and then make them wait. He loves to feel important and remind his employees who’s in charge here.

Harvey is a sixty-something pompous arsehole who shouldn’t be the culture editor of a national newspaper because he doesn’t appear to know anything about film, art, music or theatre. Unfortunately, he did know all the right people to land the job. The fact that he sent an intern a few metres across the room to say he wanted to see me instead of just getting up and walking over here himself sums up the man.

‘Right, that’s done,’ Harvey says finally, pressing send and then swivelling in his chair to face me. ‘Flora, let’s go into a meeting room.’ He pushes himself up from his chair. ‘Basil, give me five minutes and then we’ll go for our lunch.’

‘Great.’ Basil nods, scrolling through his Instagram. ‘I’ve been swamped all day.’

I glance up at the clock on the wall. It’s eleven thirty.

Walking over to one of the free meeting rooms, Harvey opens the door and gestures for me to enter.

‘Take a seat,’ he says, letting the door shut behind him and looking out across the newsroom. The meeting rooms are essentially a row of glass boxes to one side of the room, so everyone can see into them. Harvey strokes his chin thoughtfully before shoving both his hands in his pockets and turning to face me. He exhales.

‘Flora, I’m afraid we have to let you go.’

I blink at him. ‘I… sorry?’

‘I’m sure you’re aware of the sorry state journalism is in these days,’ Harvey continues brazenly, taking his hands out of his pockets and resting them on the back of the chair opposite to lean forwards. ‘Cuts have to be made. You only joined us last year and, well, you know how it goes. Last in, first out.’

I stare at him in disbelief.

‘Are you… firing me?’ I manage to croak.

‘No, of course not!’ He recoils, shocked. ‘We’re making you redundant.’

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