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“Oh,” Margaret said, leaning forward in her chair. “She told you that?”
“Yes,” I replied. “I know Charlie thinks Noughton is known as a–a shrewd businessman,” Margaret scoffed, “but Natalie implied that he’s something of a…”
“You don’t need to spell it out. I knowexactlywhat she means. I know how he treated her. You’d be hard pressed to find an omega at her level who doesn’t know that story.”
At her level–meaning, not me. And if this was such common knowledge, then the question remained, lodged in my chest like a blade:why hadCharlienot told me?I couldn’t think about that now. Not unless I wanted to cry in front of Margaret, which I most certainly did not. She had probably never cried in her life.
“I’m writing an article about Omegas in Tech. It’s a profile of Natalie, really: how she got her start, why she’s stayed here in our lovely city instead of moving to Silicon Valley, her favorite local restaurants...” I smiled. “But that was before I knew that Michael Noughton was buying us. It feels… disrespectful, somehow, to do a profile on her without acknowledging that the new owner of the magazine bought her last company and practically forced her out…”
“I agree with you, but my opinion doesn’t matter: it’s Natalie you need to ask.”
“I already did. She said yes, and directed me to you. Don’t misunderstand me when I say I was reluctant to involve you–”
“But it’s an awkward conversation to have with your boyfriend’s sister in law?” She smiled, softly.
“I would prefer if you didn’t mention this meeting to him, actually.” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “Since I don’t know if Charlie is my… anything, anymore.”
I hadn’t meant to get into this aspect of the situation: how we had met at the gala, how we had met a second time for the interview, how we had gone on one date and slept together and then things had escalated so quickly that I found myself sitting at the table with the rest of them at the townhouse, knowing I could never belong there but wishing, wishing, I could–but the look of earnest surprise on her delicate features had me, quite suddenly, pouring my emotions into the space between myself and Margaret, black lashes ringing concerned eyes, red lips open on a pout. I finished on a dry sob, and was surprised when she reached across the table, taking my hand in her cool, pale one, and saying, “omega.”
Omega.
The word had never meant anything to me, or at least not much: a designation that meant I got an extra prescription for heat suppressants at my annual checkups. A designation that earned me some free drinks at the bar–and some unwanted attention when I turned my would-be suitors down. Omega had always been a come-on, a put-down, more hassle than it was worth.
But the way Margaret said the word, the wayCharliesaid it, was as if I were a precious thing. A gift, something to be cherished.
Something to be loved.
“Ella,” she said, as tears filled my eyes. “Thank you for telling me. Whatever happens, please know that I’m here for you.” I sniffed, and she drew back, allowing me to collect myself some. “I’m sorry you are having to deal with this, and all at once, but you should know: you don’t need to deal with it alone. I know you know that we’re a pack,” she continued, her quiet voice just audible over the dim murmur of the coffeeshop, “and I suspect you have figured out–or perhaps Charlie told you–that I am the pack’s… co-chair, let’s say. Whatever happens with Charlie–which is for you two to figure out, not me–we’re behind you.” She paused, her face smoothing back over into a mask of calm competence. “So. Tell me what you need me to do about Noughton.”
I smiled. I couldn’t do anything about Charlie. But Noughton? I could handle him. I had Margaret Prince at my side.
* * *
I tried not to think about Charlie, throwing myself at my work instead. I formatted the social calendar, I edited another infuriating Philip Prince wine column, and…
I rewrote the story–stripping the part about Natalie’s favorite late-night tapas restaurant, and adding some of the more interesting details I had collected from Natalie, Margaret, and their cohort of connections: all omegas, all with stories to tell about the magazine’s soon-to-be owner. All, because of Natalie and Margaret’s reputations as omegas to be trusted, feared, and admired in turn–and Margaret’s deft handling–willing to share. Soon I had an inbox flooded with omegas’ stories of Noughton, from the smallest uncomfortable detail to career-destroying devastation. They would all be anonymous, of course, in my story, but such an outpouring of stories previously only passed through whispers… I had hope.
And then I brought it to Editor Stevens.
And she said, simply: “no.”
“What do you mean, no?” I asked, stunned into rudeness. We sat in her cluttered office, the smell of stale coffee hanging in the air.
“No, Booker, I said no, and I mean just that:no.”
“But…”
“Why? Here’s why: this magazine is being bought. But it isn’t beingkilled, not just yet.” She waved off my protestations. “I know itwillbe, but CityStyle could have some years left in it yet.”
“But–”
“I want you to succeed, Ella.” The editor sighed, loudly. “The best way for you to do that is not to antagonize someone like Michael Noughton. This isn’t the place for it. CityStyle? Come on. No, the best way for you to succeed is to write a goodprofile pieceand get a good recommendation. Now if this were theClarion, I would publish it. But forCityStyle…”
“But the Clarion was shut down because of people like this!”I said, my chest tight. “Someone like Noughton, who thought it was more valuable as scrap and sold it for parts!”
“And we will be, too, without our advertisers,” the editor shouted. “What do you think keeps this magazine running? Without the–” she dropped her voice lower. “Without the damned plastic surgeons and remodelers and real estate agents, I can’t even payyourmeasly salary for more than two months. You know who people like Michael Noughton control, Booker, hmm?”
My eyes widened.
