Little Bee - Chris Cleave [90]
Clarissa shivered. “I know. It’s just a bit creepy, that’s all.”
“Is it?”
Clarissa blew a strand of hair out of her eyes. “Sudden, I suppose I mean.”
“Well it wasn’t my idea, if you must know.”
“In which case I revert to my original choice of word.Creepy.”
Now we both stood with our foreheads against the glass, looking down at the traffic.
“I actually came here to talk about work,” I said after a while.
“Fine.”
“I want us to go back to the kind of article we did while we were making our name. Let’s just, for once, put a real-life feature in the ‘Real Life’ slot. That’s all I’m saying. I won’t let you talk me out of it this time.”
“What, then? What kind of a feature?”
“I want us to do a piece on refugees to the UK. Don’t worry, we can do it in the style of the magazine. We can make it about women refugees if you like.”
Clarissa rolled her eyes.
“And yet something in your tone tells me you’re not talking about women refugees with sex toys.”
I smiled.
“What if I said no?” said Clarissa.
“I don’t know. Technically, I suppose, I could sack you.”
Clarissa thought for a moment.
“Why refugees?” she said. “Is this because you’re still cross we didn’t go with the Baghdad woman in the June issue?”
“I just think it’s an issue that isn’t going to go away. May, June, or anytime soon.”
“Fine,” said Clarissa. Then she said, “Would you really sack me, darling?”
“I don’t know. Would you really say no?”
“I don’t know.”
We stood for a long time. In the street below, an Italian-looking boy was cycling past the traffic queue. Mid-twenties, shirtless and tanned, in short white nylon shorts.
“Five,” said Clarissa.
“Out of ten?”
“Out of five, darling.”
I laughed. “There are days when I would cheerfully swap lives with you, Clar.”
Clarissa turned to me. I noticed the very slight mark of foundation left on the windowpane where her forehead had been. It hovered like a light flesh-toned cloud over the bone-white spire of Christ Church Spitalfields.
“Oh Sarah,” said Clarissa. “We go too far back to let one another down. You’re the boss. Of course I’ll get you a feature on refugees, if you really want it. But I really don’t think you understand how quickly people’s eyes will glaze over. It isn’t an issue that affects anyone’s own life, that’s the problem.”
I felt a lurching vertigo and I took a step back from the glass.
“You’ll just have to find an angle,” I said shakily.
Clarissa stared at me. “You’re bereaved, Sarah. You’re not thinking straight. You’re not ready to be back at work yet.”
“You want my job, is that it Clar?”
She reddened. “You didn’t say that,” she said.
I sat down on the edge of the desk and massaged my temples with my thumbs.
“No, I didn’t. God. I’m so sorry. Anyway, maybe you should have my job. I’m losing the plot, I really am. I don’t see the point in it anymore.”
Clarissa sighed. “I don’t want your job, Sarah.”
She waved her long nails in the direction of the editorial floor.
“They’re still hungry for it, Sarah. Maybe you should move on and let one of them have the job.”
“Do you think they really deserve it?”
“Did we deserve it, at their age?”
“I don’t know, Clarissa. All I remember is how badly I wanted it. Didn’t it seem so thrilling, back then? I thought I could take on the world, I really did. Make real-life issues sexy. Be challenging, remember? The bloody name of our magazine, Clar. Remember why we chose it? Nixie, for heaven’s sake. We were going to bring them in with sex and then immerse them in the issues. We weren’t going to let anyone teach us how to run a magazine. We were going to teach them, remember? Whatever happened to us wanting that?”
“What happened to wanting, Sarah, was getting a few of the things we wanted.”
I smiled, and sat down at my desk. I scrolled through the mocked-up pages on Clarissa’s screen.
“These are actually pretty good,” I said.
“Of course they’re good, darling, I’ve been doing the exact same story every single month for ten years. Cosmetic surgery and sex toys I can do with my eyes closed.”
I leaned back in the chair and closed my eyes. Clarissa