‘I can’t run this,’ he says, voice even. It’s that same tone he uses when he’s flirting, like he thinks he’s giving me good news. ‘It’s bland, Fluff. I almost fell asleep reading it this morning, and that was after three coffees.’
His words strike at something inside of me. All I ever want is to make other people happy, so the fact that something I’ve done isn’t up to scratch cuts me deep.
‘I’m sorry,’ I mumble, a little flustered. ‘I can rewrite it. I’ll have it back to you by the end of the day.’
But Jon just shakes his head and reaches into one of the stacked paper trays on his desk. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ he purrs. ‘I’ve knocked something together myself.’
He drops another printed-out article on top of mine. It’s for the drama; it must be. I haven’t printed anything for at least two years.
‘We’ll publish it under your name, so you’ll get the credit, don’t worry.’ His face lifts, a leery smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. ‘After all, you did all the hard work for me.’
I read the title and subheading, and my heart nearly stops.
Interview with a Vampire:My weekend with Whitby’s most bloodthirsty local legend.
What the hell?
A sick feeling starts to build in my stomach as I skim read. This article isn’t about the Goth Weekend at all. It’s about Bram. It paints him as a troublemaker, arrogant and antagonistic, bleeding the town and his rivalry with Dean dry for his own gain. I don’t read every word, but just from scanning it I can tell how exposing it is. Howbitingit is.
There are details about his ex, about his mum, and about how he went off the rails after the situations with both. And while all the vampiric metaphors don’t explicitly out him, let’s be honest, they’re not exactly subtle.
I frown back up at him. ‘Where did you get all this information?’
‘From you,’ he says with a self-satisfied grin. ‘I managed to snag your notes off the server before you deleted them. I had to fill in some of the gaps, but I think most of it is there.’
My heart’s racing, a frantic rhythm which I can feel in my temples. ‘You can’t print this,’ I splutter. The damage will be incalculable. Bram might have ended things with us, but there’s no way I’m going to stand by and let harm come to him, particularly if there’s a chance he thinks I’ve written this trash.
‘It’s my paper, Lucy. I think you’ll find that I can do whatever the hell I like.’ Jon’s voice is even, but with a threatening tone to it which puts me on edge as soon as I hear it. ‘Even if it does upset you and your littleboyfriend.’
He almost spits the word at me, and I flinch. His grin widens when he clocks it. How did I ever have feelings for him? The very thought makes me feel a bit sick now.
‘Thought I didn’t know about that, didn’t you?’ He huffs a laugh. ‘You weren’t exactly subtle about it. And here I was thinking we had something special, you and me.’
‘Something special like you have with Amy?’ I grind out, before I know I’m going to. I’m a bit surprised at myself, but I’ve said it now, and there’s no going back.
Jon’s poker face is pretty impressive, to be fair to him. If it weren’t for the slight twitch in his left eye, I might have thought my comment didn’t land.
‘You weren’t exactly subtle about it,’ I add pointedly, and it makes a muscle tighten in his jaw. I’m a little proud of myself, I can’t lie. I could count the number of times I’ve stood up to someone on one hand, and he deserves it more than most.
Jon clears his throat. ‘Look, you can’t?—’
‘I’m not going to tell Amy what I saw,’ I interrupt. ‘Or herhusband.’ I stress the last word, not that I think for a second that he cares about Amy’s marriage. ‘And in return for my discretion, you’re going to print the article I wrote, exactly as I wrote it. I think that’s fair.’
He steeples his hands and considers me for a moment. This isn’t the Fluff he’s used to, and he knows it. For better or worse, this weekend has changed me.
‘Fine,’ he says eventually. ‘But I’m going to need you to work more collaboratively on future projects.’
Something happens as I take in his words. I’m transported back to Sunday afternoon– to the end of the pier extension where I stood and yelled all my frustrations out into the roll of the North Sea. Back to that moment where I felt like I could do anything. Because now I know I can.
Starting with this.
‘That isn’t going to be a problem,’ I say, as a smile slowly takes over my face. ‘Because I’m not going to be working here anymore. I’m resigning. Effective immediately.’ I stand, giving myself a height advantage, even if it’s only a slight one. ‘Do what you want with the Goth Weekend article, but if my name appears beside a single word that I haven’t written, you can expect to hear from my lawyers.’
I definitely don’t havelawyers, but I don’t let that stop me. Instead, I grab my things and stride out of his office, head held high.
This is my story, and no one’s going to write it except me.
It’s almost one when I arrive back at my flat.