Page 7 of I Need You to Read This
His mouth tugs down at the corners as several consecutive dings come from his computer screen.
“Welcome to the dusty old world of newspapers, Alex Marks. You’re going to do great. I haven’t felt this confident about a hire since I met Francis,” he says. He stands up, putting an end to their meeting. As he reaches over and shakes Alex’s hand once more, he adds, “As you may know, she didn’t have much experience either. And look how well she did.”
“You’re right,” Alex says, though part of her can’t help but think that she ended up dead.
FIVE
Alex pushes through the revolving doors of the Herald Building, blinking her way back into the bright morning on the sidewalk. Her legs feel rubbery as she walks aimlessly for several blocks, following the flow of Sixth Avenue foot traffic, a strange floating sensation overtaking her body. The whole interview feels like she must have imagined it. There is no way that she was just told she would be writing the country’s best-known advice column. She replays it in her mind. The conversation. Howard reaching to shake her hand. The way he looked at her, so directly, like he already believed she could do it.
It is already getting warm outside, turning into one of those June days when people are still happy about the feeling of the sun on their skin, where the city feels full of promise. Before the heat makes everything and everyone unbearable and the smog and the smell of trash choke you as soon as you hit the streets. The sidewalks teem with people in light summer clothes. In just a few weeks that will all change when the rich leave en masse, escaping to the Hamptons or their country homes upstate, leaving the others behind to fend for themselves.
Alex crosses Fifty-Ninth Street and cuts up through Central Park, letting herself enjoy the wild and impossibly rare sensation of having just gotten what you want in life. The park is bustling. Tourists are everywhere. Families cluster on the pathways; couples lounge on blankets,kissing in the bright sunlight. Friends sit together under the trees on their work breaks drinking coffee and probably gossiping about their coworkers. All this connection makes Alex reach for her phone. Without thinking, she opens up her contacts list. It is minimal—Raymond from the Bluebird, a woman who is her singular contact at work, a couple of Middle Eastern takeout places down the street from her apartment. Before she knows it, she is at the end of the list. Her heart sinks. It is the biggest news of her life but there is no one for her to tell. A face flashes through the back of her mind and her heart constricts. The temptation to call some people never goes away, no matter what you’ve done to rid yourself of it.
Alex spots a trail leading out of the park and turns quickly toward it, dodging the men walking dogs and couples pushing strollers. She is feeling claustrophobic now. All these cute little scenes press in on her, making her wish for a life that she can’t have. She rushes across a patch of lawn and cuts out of the park as fast as she can. Once she is far enough outside of the park and its scenes of domestic bliss, she slows down, panting in the bright sunlight.
A notification dings from her phone. Alex stops walking, tucking herself under the awning of an expensive-looking French restaurant so she can see. It’s an email from Jonathan Amin. The subject line isOffer. She holds her breath as she opens it.
Dear Alex Marks,
We are writing to officially offer you the job of columnist for theNew York Herald’s long-standing advice column Dear Constance. In this role you will answer one question a week from the letter of your choosing, due each Friday and printed weekly on Sundays. In addition, you will read all of the letters that come into theHeraldaddressed to Dear Constance.
We are offering a starting salary of $125,000 paid biweekly as well as a 401k, medical insurance, and fourteen days of paid vacation.
Howard Demetri was impressed with your written skills and looks forward to you joining our staff. However, this is an exploding offer, which means that if you do not accept by end of day today, we will have to rescind our invitation for you to join theHerald.I’m sure you’ll understand, as this is a very rare opportunity.
We look forward to your response.
Regards,
Jonathan Amin
Alex stares at the salary. It is more than double what she makes now. Alex is self-aware enough to know that money won’t buy happiness, but it can sure help with comfort. She thinks about the women she saw in the shop where she bought her expensive soap. How they nearly glittered with possibility. She’d be a fool not to take it.It will expose you—wasn’t that what Howard had said? Her stomach turns.
“Miss?” a voice says from somewhere. She looks up. She had been so focused on the email, she wasn’t paying attention to where she was. The doors to the restaurant are propped open. Near the polished wood bar, a portly man in a starched white shirt gives her a welcoming smile. “We have a delicious lunch. A nice glass of cold Sancerre?”
Several women have already claimed a table up front. They sip crisp white wine, their sweaters draped over their shoulders, Chanel sunglasses perched on their perfect noses, chatting comfortably with one another. Alex looks longingly. She thinks of the number they’d quoted in the offer letter. Why shouldn’t she have a fancy lunch? She smiles and goes inside the restaurant, claiming a stool at the end of the bar near the open doorway.
“Make yourself comfortable,” the man says, going behind the bar now and pouring her a glass of ice water. He hands her a stiff red menu. He turns his back to her as he prepares another round of wine for the women.
Feeling decadent, she orders herself a goat cheese salad and hamachi crudo. At the last minute she calls out to the bartender: “And a martini, dry, please.” She isn’t normally a martini drinker, particularly not at twelve thirty in the afternoon, but she feels the need to mark the occasion. It’s been so long since she celebrated anything, even a birthday. And it isn’t every day that you get offered your dream job. She watches the dappled sunlight hit the bar, relishing the feel of the warm wood under her arms. All at once, everything feels right with the world. Of course she should take the job, she thinks with sudden clarity. It’s incredible how much her life has changed in the span of a few days. Miraculous, even. Things like this do not happen more than once, certainly not for her. It’s almost enough to make her feel hopeful about life. She opens her phone and replies.
Dear Jonathan,
I am happy to accept the offer. I can’t wait to join theNew York Herald’s staff as columnist for Dear Constance. I look forward to continuing Francis Keen’s legacy.
Sincerely,
Alex Marks
She presses Send with a flutter of nerves that dissipate as the bartender pushes the martini across the bar. Her fingers melt the frost as she lifts the glass to her lips. She can already taste the cold bite of it, the hint of olive brine. Right now, she is Alex Marks, newest employee of theHerald, and if she can’t celebrate with someone she may as well do it alone.
“Hot day out there,” a man’s voice says. She looks up, startled. He is large and wide, dressed in a polo shirt and chinos. He takes up the entire end of the bar, throwing her seat into shadow. She hears the scrape of the stool next to her being pulled out and feels the weight of his body sitting down, unnecessary when there are plenty of places farther down the bar, she notes, her chest suddenly feeling heavy.
“Yep,” she says, careful not to give him any sign she wants to get into a conversation.
“This place is great though. A martini, huh? Looking to take the edge off?” He gives a loud laugh that ends as a cough.
She glances at his face, which is rectangular, a scattering of orange and white stubble across his chin. She gives him a tight smile and turns away from him, looking back down at her phone. She can feel his eyes lingering on her.
