Just Like Her

Chapter 23

Emma

My feet dragged on the pavement as I made my way home from Flannigan's. I'd meant to call Tom after my interview but I hadn't had the heart to, so I didn't and walked to Peter's instead.

There wasn't anything new to tell Tom anyways, I reasoned to gnawing guilt.

The interview had been the same as all the others. It started with a polite greeting, a brief review of my CV, and then a slew of questions that slowly dissolved from the professional into the personal...

I had been so nervous during the first interview that I hadn't caught on quick enough. The hiring manager had started by asking about the recent appearance of my name in the papers. She framed it to sound like she was concerned over the potential effects of my recent publicity on the magazine's branding.

In the moment, I felt the need to defend myself and assure her, as Tom had assured me, that it was only a temporary interest by the press. But after leaving the magazine's offices and heading toward Tom's, the unease I had felt earlier only intensified...

It was mortifying to admit to Cynthia what had happened, but she was the only person I knew with experience in PR (and managing the complexities of being a member of the royal family).

I knew I couldn't tell Tom, and Cynthia begrudgingly agreed with me, admitting that if her brother found out he'd likely make a worse scene than at the bar.

Contrasting to her edgy looks, Cynthia was kind and incredibly patient with me. She gave me a list of red flags to keep an eye and ear out for and a few lines I could say to gracefully exit any intrusive questioning.

Her advice was spot on, and, unfortunately, I had need to use it in every one of my interviews—including the one earlier this morning.

It was exhausting to work so hard to find a job and having nothing pan out, but more than that it was utterly demoralizing preparing for interviews all the while knowing their predictable, exploitive end.

But what else was I to do? I had my share of the rent to pay and bills piling up, and with my meager savings already beginning to dwindle... well, I was desperate for work.

When I finally stumbled into the bookshop, Peter must have noticed my crestfallen expression because he immediately offered me a cup of tea and job. I accepted the former and carefully declined the latter, knowing full well that sales were again down and the shop's income was barely covering Peter's salary alone.

I was sure I'd find something sooner or later, I told him with a tired smile.

And I sincerely hoped I wasn't lying to my old friend... or to myself.

* * *

I stayed with Peter for the rest of the morning and late into the afternoon. We shared several rounds of tea, and Peter expounded on the many merits of literary scholarship. It was a lecture I had heard many times, and one I was grateful to hear again as his long-winded preaching quelled the storm of self-doubt whirling in my mind.

When I first began working at The Print, it had been difficult to overcome my sense of being a fraud. Sure I had done internships as a copy editor in uni, but I wasn't a writer and I certainly wasn't an expert in all things literature—and yet I had been hired by an established arts and literature magazine to write critical reviews!