Everyone Who Can Forgive Me Is Dead by Jenny Hollander EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
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- Author: Jenny Hollander
- Language: English
- Genre: Psychological Thrillers
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NOW
No need to panic. I say it to myself, like a prayer.
“The feedback is consistent,” says Walter Montague, the sixty-fiveyear-old president of The Chronicle. “Charlotte, we need more pages.”
I take a sip of water before responding, a tip I learned from our May
feature about staying composed at work. Don’t answer until you know
exactly what you’ll say, our career coach had advised. “Will we be getting
more resources to that end? As you know, I’d love to bolster my factchecking team. And another senior editor could—”
“No,” Walter says. “Maybe next year.”
“Exactly how many more pages did you have in mind?” I can hear my
voice getting more upper-crust British by the second. This is something I
learned early on: the more you channel the Queen, the more intimidated
Americans feel.
“Sixteen,” Walter replies calmly.
Damn.
“Walter, as you know, we’re working with a skeleton staff.”
Unfortunately, Walter also knows that if he told me to jump, I’d ask how
high. “I would love to be putting out more pages. Our fashion team has
some fantastic ideas in regard to shoots.” In regard to? Tone it down,
Charlie. “However, at our current capacity, I’m not—”
“Sixteen pages,” Walter says. “Starting Q3.” He glances at his watch.
“I need to go. Charlotte, it was a pleasure, as ever.”
It has never, not once, been a pleasure with Walter, who took over the
corporation two years ago when his father died. I had just been named
editor in chief of C, the Sunday supplement of The Chronicle, the nation’s
fourth-largest newspaper. Walter took me to lunch and doused me in spittle
as he ruminated on the “good old days,” the ones where “men could be men
and women could be women.” I smiled with all my teeth, even let him
“warm up” my hands between his, but no dice.
That was the first time he
demanded more pages from my team—more pages means more advertisers;
more advertisers, more money—as easily as he’d ordered his salmon.
Now, I kiss him on each cheek, a trick I learned when I first moved to
New York nine years ago. It makes Americans feel flustered and
inadequate. “I hope you have a lovely time in Courchevel. Please tell
Lianne I said hi.”
As soon as he’s gone, I drop into my seat beside Alicia, my executive
editor. “Is he joking?” My voice has returned to its half-British, half–New
Yorker twang. “Sixteen more pages? We’re barely filling them as it is.”
“We can squeeze four more pages out of Travel.”
Alicia reaches for her
Smythson and jots something down. “And we can expand gift guides
through Q4 … But we’ll have to figure something else out for January.”
“Christ.” I smooth down my trousers and get up. “Can you loop in
Kristin and Mira when you get back? I’ll be up in ten. Fifteen, maybe.”
“You got it.” Alicia waves a manicured hand at the elevator bank.
“You’re not taking the stairs, are you? It’s, like, twenty floors.”
“Absolutely,” I say. “It’s better than caffeine.”
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