Page 5 of Hate You to Love You

She’s facing away from him, so he doesn’t see her roll her eyes. Addie is as fiery as her wavy auburn hair. ‘How many times do I need to tell you, Simon? I’m not IT.’

When Addie first started at Sparked, she joined as a receptionist. While her days were mostly spent monitoring the publicity inbox and transferring phone calls, she also became the first point of contact when anything broke in the office. A faulty light bulb in the bathroom? Call Addie. A mysterious box holding a giant Bluey costume was delivered with no note? Addie would help you figure it out. Mostly against her will. But even though she’d moved into an editorial role a year ago, she couldn’t shake her reputation as the office problem-solver.

I can sense that she’s about to boil over, which probably isn’t helped by how hot the office is today. Our office is located on the top floor of a repurposed warehouse in Surry Hills with floor-to-ceiling windows that mean when the sun is out, it heats up the entire office.

‘I think the printer is the least of our concerns,’ Priya says suddenly, adjusting her large square-shaped glasses while reading something off her computer screen. ‘Has anyone read Tamara’s latest weekly update?’

‘You still read those?’ Addie asks, spinning away from Simon as he stomps back to the copy room.

Addie was right. There was no point in reading Tamara’s emails. As our Editor-in-Chief, she regularly sends around updates about how the website and socials were performing as a way to give us guidance about the direction she wanted our content to go in. But these days, it was easy to guess what she was going to say. Engagement was down and clicks from our newsletters were no better. Without consistent site visits, advertisers and sponsors were dropping month after month. We were still under the control of our American office, and with performance on a downward spiral, they were forcing Tamara to rein in spending to keep our expenses in check, even going so far as to lower our stationery budget.

‘Oh god,’ Addie mutters, staring at her computer screen.

‘What is it?’ I ask.

She bites her lip. ‘Tamara’s announced more budget cuts.’

‘But how could we possibly cut any more? There’s no budget left to cut.’

Our office was on its last legs. After the most recent round of redundancies, everyone’s workloads had increased. We were all stretched thin.

Addie grabs the packet of M&M’s and squeezes it. ‘Do you think we could be next? Like, do you think we could be let go?’

These days, the majority of Sparked writers were freelancers; the result of all the redundancies that, somehow, Addie and I have avoided.

‘No,’ I reply. ‘I mean, they can’t. If they let us go, they’ll have no writers left.’ But I’m only half-convinced.

‘Carlos!’ a singsong voice calls out. It’s Tamara, standing in the doorway of her office, in a pink power suit that matches her sparkly pink shoes. Without fail, Tamara always shows up to work in a perfectly colour-coordinated outfit.

‘Carlos!’ she repeats. ‘Can I see you in my office, please?’

Addie and I turn to each other. Her eyes narrow. ‘Oh no,’ she whispers. ‘I knew something like this would happen. I read that conflict is on the horizon for Cancers today.’

I roll my eyes as I get up. ‘The universe doesn’t work like that,’ I tell her. ‘We make our own destinies. My destiny just happens to suck.’

‘I’m waiting,’ Tamara voices through the doorway, her tone light and lively.

‘Good luck,’ Addie mouths.

As I make my way to Tamara’s office, my mind spirals. What could she want to speak to me about? Maybe it’s my terrible pitch at today’s meeting. Or has she finally picked up on the fact that I was basically recycling the same review format from my last few submissions? What if it was finally my turn to be made redundant?

‘Tamara, hi,’ I say as I step inside. A ray of sunshine hits my face. Tamara’s office is right at the end of the floor, with a private balcony that overlooks the rest of the converted warehouses and factories located at this end of Surry Hills.

Tamara is sorting through some papers and gestures for me to take a seat. ‘Carlos, come in.’ She looks up from her desk. ‘Isn’t it bizarre to think that we’re well into February already? How was your weekend?’

Okay. This is it. I am definitely getting fired. Tamara never asks personal questions. She may be the one opinion the Australian online media landscape trusts, but whatever talent she has in publishing inspiring content, she lacks in people skills.

‘My weekend was… good,’ I say, brushing at the strands of my hair that keep falling into my eyes.

Tamara nods as she looks me up and down, almost as if she’s studying me. ‘You don’t have to look so startled, buddy. I genuinely want to know.’

I gulp. Buddy? And what was I meant to say? I couldn’t exactly tell her about the great cosmopolitan vomit incident. ‘Umm, it was nice. Kept it pretty quiet.’

‘That’s lovely. Rest really is important to our wellbeing,’ Tamara says, her attention back on the printouts in front of her. Then her gaze snaps up. ‘So, I bet you’re wondering why I called you in here. And if you want me to be completely honest, Carlos, it’s because I’m disappointed in you.’

And there it is.

‘You’ve failed me,’ she continues.