Page 5 of I Need You to Read This
“I’m sure,” Jonathan replies, clearly disgusted.
Alex hangs up the phone and continues to stare down at the newspaper, watching as the drops of water form dark crimps in the page around Francis’s face. She remains rooted in place, her skin prickling under the thin towel despite the sun beating in through her apartment window.
Standing there, Alex feels something beginning to shift, gears and cranks turning that haven’t been used in years. Answering the letters was the first unwitting step toward the change. Or maybe it started even before that, with the impulsive purchase of the ylang-ylang body wash. To even have put herself out there like that Alex knows she must have wanted it on some level, that part of her has been ready and waiting for the right moment to make her grand reentry into the world.
Before she can tamp it down, she feels a hum of excitement pumping from her heart into her extremities. It has been so long since she’s experienced this sensation that she almost doesn’t recognize it. She clutches the towel to her, a smile slowly spreading across her face. All she knows is that for the first time in many years she feels on the cusp of something momentous. She only hopes that this time she can keep herself safe.
FOUR
TheHerald’s Manhattan office gleams a steely blue in the morning sunlight. From a distance it looks clean and sterile, like a fresh start. But as Alex gets closer, the older, less shiny part of the building becomes visible. The Herald Building is split into two parts—the bottom third is one of the city’s original skyscrapers, dreamed up in the 1920s by a student of William Van Alen, designer of the more famous Chrysler Building just down the street. Constructed from gray marble, the original Herald Building is a fever dream of geometric patterns and brass accents. Its entryways are still decorated with minimalist reliefs—a woman in a long dress holding a single blade of wheat, a man with boxy muscles heaving an entire globe above his head. This original part was kept partly intact even through the extensive renovation that cleaved a modern glass skyscraper into it, Frankenstein-ing the building into a strange architectural hybrid. It is now part new and part old, as though the original base has been taken over and is playing host to the modern high-rise bursting like a shiny skewer up into the Manhattan sky.
Alex’s stomach turns as she walks toward the revolving doors, watching her reflection grow larger, wavering in the mirrored glass. Her face, at once familiar and not, above the V of her shirt. The short, delicate frame and pointy chin, the light-brown wavy hair pulled backinto a low bun. She takes a deep breath, tugging her cuffs down over the tops of her hands—a nervous habit.
She emerges into a soaring atrium made almost entirely of tempered glass that bends into a series of modernist arches far overhead. In front of her, a long security desk is dwarfed by a giant slab of marble, taken from the exterior of the old building and repurposed. An art deco relief etched into a piece of brass shows a stylized man whose angular muscles appear to strain under the weight of a closed book. She tilts her head back to take it all in. Imagine coming in here every day. Alex doesn’t think a person could walk through this lobby every morning and not feel like they’d made it.
She has her photo taken by a man at the desk and is sent through a glass turnstile and into an elevator that whisks her up to the forty-ninth floor as quick as an artery pumping blood. The elevator door glides silently open to a U-shaped reception desk. TheNew York Herald’s trademark owl logo engraved on a gold plaque hangs on the wall behind it. Its talons shine coldly as she approaches the desk where a slim, stylish man wearing a turtleneck and sleek wire-rimmed glasses gives Alex an insincere smile.
“Can I help you?” His tone is flat and unwelcoming. And familiar.
“I’m Alex Marks. I’m here to see Howard Demetri?” She cringes at the way her voice rises, as though each sentence were actually a question. “You’re Jonathan, right? We talked on the phone.”
He purses his lips, not giving Alex the satisfaction of recalling this exchange. “Let me just call Howard and see if he’s ready for you.” Alex settles herself onto a polished concrete bench. As she looks past the desk at the purposeful strides of the people in the newsroom, this place already feels out of her league. Alex hadn’t even had the right clothes to wear today. She’d made a quick and desperate trip to Century 21 after turning in her copywriting last night, yanking a random assortment of workwear off the racks and dragging it into a dressing room an hour before they closed, coming away with only two shirts, neither of which she loved. She’d walked away from the shopping expedition feeling worse.Calm down, Alex,she tells herself, clasping her hands inher lap.They asked you to come here, remember? It’s not about how you dress.Though part of her doesn’t quite believe it.
She already knew who Howard Demetri was before filling out the application. He is one of those old newspaper editors who now has the wordlegendattached to their names.
“Alex Marks here to see you,” Jonathan says crisply into the phone. “Yes, that’s the one.” Before she has time to wonder what he could possibly mean by the last part, he has leapt to his feet and is tapping the toe of his extremely stylish tennis shoe on the floor.
“He’s waiting for you,” he says as though she has caused the delay. Alex stands up too quickly, feeling the blood rush from her head. Jonathan recoils slightly and gives her a critical once-over. Alex glances down at her black pants, which she can now see clearly in the unforgiving office light have developed the sort of sad, faded look that comes with too many washings and not the right soap. Her shirt is not as bad, a crisp white button-up that only looks okay because it is right off the hanger, the plastic tag bitten off a mere hour ago in her bedroom. Her fingers find the hems of her cuffs and tug them down over her knuckles.
“I’ll take you back to see Howard now,” he says as her stomach bubbles nervously. He leads her past the front desk into the belly of the newsroom. The center of the floor is open and spacious, with several long tables for collaborating and a maze of cubicles half-filled with people, their heads bowed over their computer monitors. As she passes, she can hear the faint clip of keyboards being typed on, that first wave of productivity in the morning, before coffee number one wears off.
“Follow me,” Jonathan says, taking her around to the far side of the floor. The periphery of the newsroom is ringed with modern glass-fronted offices. They walk by several conference rooms, one where a small group of worried-looking people talk animatedly in front of a white board. The person giving the presentation pauses when she sees them, her eyes following Alex as she walks past. They come to an abrupt stop at the corner, where a plaque adhered to the front of a glass-enclosed office reads:HOWARD DEMETRI, EDITOR IN CHIEF.
She can see him through the open blinds, sitting behind his desk.Behind his trademark tortoiseshell glasses, his eyes are intent on his computer screen. A legend in the flesh. Alex’s chest seizes.TheHoward Demetri. Howard is not just any editor in chief. He’s part of the old guard, an editor’s editor from the era when newspapers were still the gold standard for how people ingested their daily news. He’d helmed the paper, steering it through wars and scandals, and in the process winning it more Pulitzers than any other newspaper in the country. He’d also hired her hero, Francis Keen.
She could pinch herself. His eyes remain glued to his computer monitor. His mouth quivers slightly, as though he is reading something that’s upsetting him.
Jonathan knocks on the glass, and he looks up, startled. In the split second before he registers her standing before him, Alex sees pure misery on his face. In an instant, he rearranges his features into a neutral expression. He gestures for them to come inside. She lets Jonathan push open the glass door and usher her into the office.
“Hello,” she says. She awkwardly comes to stand in front of his desk, unsure how to address him.Howardseems far too informal.Mr. Demetri? She worries that will make her seem like an eager kid. She can feel Jonathan growing impatient in the doorway behind her.
“This is Alex Marks,” Jonathan says, clearly exasperated. And now a welcoming smile transforms Howard’s face. He is handsome, more so in person than in his photos, with a strong jawline and thick gray hair that has come undone from its side part.
“Alex. So good to have you here.” He stands up and she watches, amazed, as his legs unfold like stilts. He is strikingly tall, broad-shouldered even at his age, which she’s read is currently sixty-one. He is dignified, his face naturally serious, the kind of man she’d have chosen for the job if the part were being cast in a play. All he needs to complete the image is a hat with a press pass tucked into the brim.
He wears a tailored gray suit that sags a bit into his lean legs and arms, making him look even more like a giant. He holds back his tie as he leans over his desk and shakes her hand firmly. She glances down and notices that the desk is littered with half-emptycoffee mugs and stacks of papers. An old-fashioned day planner lies open across everything. He glances down and flips it quickly shut, gesturing for her to sit.
“It’s a pleasure to have you here, Alex. Thank you, Jonathan. I’ll let you know if we need anything else.” She is relieved to hear genuine warmth in his voice.
“I can’t thank you enough for having me,” Alex says delicately as the door closes behind Jonathan. She realizes that a big part of her is actually waiting for him to tell her that there’s been a processing error in the applications, that he doesn’t want her here at all. But there seems to be no mistake. His expression is serious as he gazes back at her. He leans back in his chair, tenting his fingers in front of him.
“As you might have guessed, we received a huge number of applications for the position. It seems that many people believe they have what it takes to helm the new era of Dear Constance. I think the tally came in at over five hundred, actually. Of course, some of these were not serious applicants. There are a lot of people who think that they can give good advice, but so few actually can.”
Alex tries to keep up. Is he saying that she is not a real applicant?Isshe? Alex doesn’t even know herself. It’s rare for her to be unable to read someone’s intentions, but she is finding that with Howard it is nearly impossible. It feels nearly laughable that she’d be an actual contender for Francis Keen’s old job.
“There were also quite a few applications from established writers. A Pulitzer-nominated journalist, a few famous novelists even.” Alex feels her insides sink. This is where he tells her that she is not one of the serious ones, that this meeting is a courtesy.
She braces herself for the fall. But instead, he leans forward, his desk chair squeaking, and looks at her intently.
