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“It’s a ready-made life,” I said.
“Who couldn’t use a ready-made life?” Jordan said. “Nothing wrong with that, at all.”
32
The next day—more than a bit hopped up on a third cup of coffee, the jet lag having reached its full force—I found myself at my new desk in the crowded newsroom of Beckett Media’s print headquarters. I had, at most, ten square feet of cubicle real estate, but it was good real estate: a big-windowed corner looking out at Buckingham Gate, at the Hong Kong Association and Society, their beautiful gardens, the boats in the river beyond them.
I was trying to lay out a plan of attack for my first new column—something exciting and something new—when I gave up and turned to the window, drawn to the river, feeling content staring at it. Or maybe content wasn’t the right word. Maybe it was closer to lonely, which at least felt more honest.
Then I heard someone slide by my desk, giving its side a soft knock, pulling me out of my reverie. I looked up to find Melinda staring down at me in a slightly different polka-dot skirt than she’d been wearing the night before—and I do mean slightly: this one more cherry red than burnt orange, if someone were looking closely enough. Which, apparently, I was.
“Good skirt,” I said.
“Good taste!” she said. “So, what do you think of your new space? I had to move someone from Architecture to get you the corner with the views.” She paused. “That’s a bit ironic, actually, isn’t it?”
I smiled. “It’s great,” I said. “Thank you.”
“Great! So, Annie girl . . .” she said. “Does anyone call you Annie girl?”
I shrugged. “My mother, maybe,” I said. “When I was six.”
“Well, I don’t want to bring that memory back,” she said.
“Probably for the best.”
Then she tossed down—from her station, up closer to the sky—a Montblanc pen and a yellow legal pad, which, by some small miracle, I managed to catch.
“Walk with me,” she said.
We headed down the hall, Melinda moving at a rapid pace, me moving at an even more rapid one, trying to keep up with those legs.
“Well, when I finally got the last hanger-on out my door last night,” she said, “I read all of your columns over. . . .”
“All of them?”
She gently linked her arm through mine, which should have been hard to do considering our height discrepancy, but she managed it beautifully.
“Every single one, Annie,” she said. “And I can honestly say I’m a fan now. We are going to have a lot of fun with the column’s evolution. I am swimming with ideas.”
“That’s so nice to hear.”
She smiled down at me. “I was struck, though, that perhaps you have a bigger story to tell about all the places you’ve been,” she said. “Especially after so many. I feel like we need to think outside the box to figure out the right formula. To make the column feel bigger, more universally bonding.”
“You think so?” I said.
“I do.”
I felt myself—in spite of myself—start to get a little excited, a smile breaking out on my face. I almost started to tell her right then about my photographs—about all those homes, waiting to have their stories told. But then I stopped myself, remembering that they’d been lost. Remembering how. Remembering, also, what was lost along with them. The twins, Jesse, Williamsburg. Griffin. All of it quickly becoming a mirage, becoming a world I didn’t know anymore.
“You look like you’re having a thought parade over there,” she said. “What’s happening?”
“No no no.” I shook my head. “It’s nothing.”
“Well, if it ever is something . . .” She gave me that big smile again. “Just know that I’m open to all ideas. I know people say that, but it’s true in my case. Bad ones, good ones. Especially good ones.”
I smiled.
“And, while you’re thinking, what I’m looking for, primarily, is a way to simplify the column so we can brand it. Get more of you. You know what I’m asking?”
