ONE

Dani

It’s one of those days. You know, those days, where everything that can possibly go wrong, does. I'm not particularly lucky, so I generally overcompensate by being overprepared. Yet, even the most overprepared people stumble.

Today is one of those days.

I ironed my clothes last night; I prepared for the interview well. I memorized all the potential questions and my answers. I set my alarm early and fed Dad breakfast and lunch before noon. And yet… and yet…

The moment I put my shoes on, Dad starts wailing. He throws his arms around, knocking photos from the walls. He sobs and screams, calling for Jan… he’s always calling for Jan. But, of course, Jan never comes. It takes me a full hour to calm him down. And another half-hour for the nurse to arrive.

When I finally close the door behind me, the sky is clear, and the air is crisp. And I’m still on time. I don't question it, I simply walk as quickly as I can to catch my bus and hop on. My mind whirs at full speed, recounting all the things I’ll remember to say in the interview. It’s a mantra, a spell of my own making, if only I wish hard enough.

I deserve this job. I am an experienced editor. I have a wealth of knowledge in the fantasy genre. I am organized and hardworking. I have never, ever – not once – bitten the hand of a colleague. Not once, not even when he most definitely deserved it.

I shake my head. Those aren’t the sort of thoughts to have – not right now.

The bus shudders to a stop, and a flood of people file in, bringing with them the all-too-familiar smells of perfume, sweat, and cigarettes. I hold on tighter as the bus moves again – it judders forcefully forward, and the woman behind me trips, her hands tangling onto my bag as she tries to prevent herself from falling. I spin around to catch her, and as I do, the strap of my bag tugs at my shoulder and snaps. A moment later, the woman is standing upright, but the contents of my life are spilled all over the floor.

“Oh my god, I’m so, so sorry!” the woman says.

I grimace a smile. “Don’t apologize, it was an accident.”

Together, she and I pick up my purse, lipstick, and keys from the floor, forcing them back into the bag that I now clutch to my chest.

When I finally hop off the bus, I’m two stops away from my interview. I’m still on time. I have twenty-five minutes to get to the interview; it’s a ten-minute walk from here. I still have time to run into a nearby store, buy a new bag, and then walk briskly to the interview.

I’m still on time.

My feet move on autopilot as I march into the nearest clothes store. My hands pick the cheapest, smartest-looking option I can find. I leave the store with a black tote-bag in under five minutes. The mantras in my head are back and in full swing.

I am smart. I am resourceful. I am decisive. I definitely did not blackmail the last company I worked for into giving me a decent severance package.

By the time I reach the building, I still have ten minutes to spare.

I am a time-management queen!

To the side of the entrance stands a haggard old woman, wrapped in so many different pieces of clothing, all in various shades of brown that it’s impossible to tell one item from another. In her hand, she holds out a tea-stained mug, silently waiting for offerings from busy passers-by. I pause, the logo on the side of the mug is obscured by tea and coffee stains, but something about it has me frozen in place. I regard the building for a moment, then rummage in my pockets and pull out the only loose change I have. Exchanging only a small smile, I drop the money into the mug and move swiftly past her.

On the outside, it’s far larger and more impressive than the previous publishing house I worked for. But this publishing house is relatively new, and it doesn’t encompass the entire building itself. In fact, the offices for Lonely Fox Books only take up the sixth floor and are currently rumoured to have twelve members of staff. Yet despite this, they’ve already made a good name for themselves. They specialize in fantasy fiction but have recently branched out into science fiction as well… this is a place to grow.

This is a place where I can grow. Given half the chance.

I take a deep breath and step inside.

The door swings open, and a man comes rushing through, his ear pinned to his phone, an iced coffee balanced precariously in the same hand in which he holds a briefcase. He makes to sidle past me in a rush, but in his eagerness to keep the door open, he loses his balance and tips his iced coffee all over my freshly ironed white blouse.

For a moment, he simply gapes at me; he doesn’t even tear his phone away from his ear. We both stand in the doorway, frozen. As apologies begin to stream from the man’s lips, I focus on keeping my mouth firmly shut as the ice-cold water drips down my torso.

I nod at the man – it’s the best I can do without cursing at him – and navigate my way towards the ladies’ toilets. I need to be up on the sixth floor in five minutes.

As I bend awkwardly under the hand dryer, I wonder idly how many other twenty-eight-year-old women roam the world with the same knack for walking into paths of destruction the way I do.

My blouse half-dry and my blazer buttoned all the way up to (mostly) cover the spill, I make my way hurriedly up the stairs to the sixth floor. I’m still, mercifully, miraculously, on time.

The sixth floor is an open-plan office, and the welcoming smell of coffee fills the space. There are only eight desks and four rooms that are closed off to the side. I assume at least one must be a meeting room, while the others might be the offices of the Managing Director and Managing Editors…

There isn’t a reception, but a woman on the desk nearest to me stands to greet me.

“Hello, my name’s Dani Pierce, I’m here for an interview? For the editorial position?”

The woman gives me a sweeping, unimpressed glance before pointing to the closed office door closest to them. “Go through and sit in there, they’ll be with you in a minute.”

I nod and, without any further fuss, make my way over to the door, open it, and go inside. The room isn’t particularly large, but it isn’t cramped either. A table fills the room, a table that could easily seat eight people – maybe ten at a push.

I readjust my blazer to make sure it still covers the worst of the coffee stain and then sit down as straight as I can. When Mum was alive, she was always telling me to sit up straight! Warning me that if I kept slouching, I’d end up with round shoulders. Don’t laugh! she’d tell me. It happened to my cousin, you know, she always sat hunched over, and by the time she was in her thirties, her back was permanently bent over like that.

God, her voice always surprises me when I least expect it. I welcome it, though… I hope it will never go away.

The office door swings open, and a man and woman walk through, carrying clipboards and coffee and an air of professionalism that lets me know they’re who I’m waiting for. The woman has bright red hair that’s scraped back into a thick bun; she’s thin and sharp-edged – pretty in a way that’s almost threatening. I figure she must be in her mid to late thirties. The man next to her is stocky and dishevelled, with bushy black hair and thick eyebrows.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Ms. Pierce,” the woman says, reaching out her hand.

Considering my morning, I fight the urge to laugh. I take the woman’s hand, “Not at all.”

“My name is Christine Joy, and I’m the Head of Production here at Lonely Fox.”

I nod, though this I already know. I also know that Christine Joy is one of the co-founders of the publishing house, after having made a name for herself in commercial fiction over at Myriad Publishing.

The man leans forward, and I shake his hand. “I’m Mark Lee, Head of Sales.”

I smile. “It’s nice to meet you both.”

I’m surprised that the Managing Editor – the other co-founder – isn’t here to interview me, considering I’d be in his department. But perhaps that’s why Mr. Lee is here, to interview me in his place.

The three of us sit down, and without any further preamble, the interview begins. Christine goes through the details of the company and how it has grown in the past few years; she discusses what the role would entail. Then Christine outlines where they hope Lonely Fox will grow to.

“The goal is to be synonymous with fantasy fiction. Mr. King wants us to represent the best fantasy fiction out there – and prove that genre fiction holds just as much literary merit on the market,” Christine says.

“That’s ambitious,” I say. “But I’ve always felt that fantasy is too often overlooked by the awards and industry at large.”

Christine looks to Mark, and they share a smile.

I have the sneaking suspicion that I’m absolutely killing it.

“You worked at Magpie’s fantasy imprint, and I can see that you were the editor for quite a few midlist authors and also Jojo Tame?”

I nod. “Yes, I had the pleasure of working with some really talented writers and overseeing some brilliant fantasy novels. I’m very proud of the books I helped produce.”

“Why did you leave your previous position?” Christine asks.

It’s a standard question, and one I’ve prepared myself for. Yet still, that doesn’t prevent the icy shudder of anxiety pooling across my chest. “Magpie underwent some big reshuffling at the beginning of the year. I’d been with the company for five years, so it seemed like a natural ending point,” I pause. “A good time to explore something new.”

Christine writes down something on her paper, and I give what I hope is an easy and amiable smile.

To the side of them, the door swings open again, and a third figure enters the room – ahh, this must be the Managing Director and co-founder.

I stand up to greet him, hand outstretched. He turns to me, and my first impression is that he looks too… smart.

I’ve been in the publishing game since leaving university, and there’s a general raggedness and chaos that accompanies most “creative” professionals. Even Christine, with her sharp cheekbones and slicked-back hair, sports a black dress and Converse to the interview – while Mark looks almost as though he’s just woken up, his hair pointing at odd angles.

But this man… Mr. King… he looks as though he wouldn’t be out of place on the stock market. He’s wearing a suit for a start! And it’s perfectly pressed to boot. He himself seems ironed out… everything about him is – there’s no other word for it – smooth. From the way his hair has a silky shine, to the way he holds himself so straight yet so gracefully.

Yet if that’s my first impression of him, it seems his impression of me is wildly different. He seems to go rigid upon seeing me; he regards my outstretched hand with something that borders on suspicion, and when he finally takes my hand, he squeezes it just a little too tight.

He sits down quickly, not bothering to close the door behind him, and, awkwardly, I follow suit.

“We were just discussing Dani’s time at Magpie’s fantasy imprint,” Christine explains. “Dani, this is Samwell King, the Editorial Manager, whom you would be working under.”

“If you get the role,” Samwell amends, without looking up from his papers.

Christine blinks. “Without saying.”

I swallow; in the space of less than two minutes, the atmosphere of this interview has shifted tone. I look to the now half-open door and hope that none of the employees are able to eavesdrop.

Christine rallies: she asks a few more questions about time management and my editorial style, which I breeze through easily. Focusing my attention to Christine and Christine alone.

Because every time I risk a glance at Samwell, he seems to be examining me – as though searching my features for some as-of-yet unperceived flaw.

Finally, the interview seems to be drawing to a close, and I’m preparing to stand up and shake their hands a final time when Samwell looks up from his papers and fixes me with a withering stare.

“One final question. Why do you want to work here?”

I falter. Because I need the money. Because this is all I know how to do. Because this is a small enough company with a large enough potential that I could become a big fish in a small pond.  No… none of that will do.

“Because this role seems like a perfect opportunity for me to grow and I can contribute –”

“No,” Samwell says, cutting me off. “I don’t need the logical, professional answer. Why do you want to work here? In fantasy.”

I take a deep breath – my mind flits through a myriad of different answers until I find myself sighing and saying, “Because I like slipping into other worlds. Because I like bringing those worlds to life.”

Samwell blinks once, then twice. Yet otherwise, his face remains completely, perfectly placid.

Smooth.