The Beginning of Always (54 page)
There was me, all innocence and cluelessness.
There was Alistair, all contrasts in comparison. They had used a grainy paparazzi photo, one of his side profile, walking out of a nondescript high-rise. He was fierce and intense, eyes narrowed in irritation and trained towards the distance. There were harsh shadows thrown against his face, the indentations underneath his sharp cheekbones even more apparent in the low quality of the photo, especially compared to the glossy, sterile quality of mine.
I bit my lip and slowly scrolled down to read the article.
Alistair Blair of Blair Properties recently added two more crowning achievements to his infamous portfolio: the
New York Journal
and its senior staff profile writer, Florence Reynolds, 29. Documents filed in December of last year and only recently discovered by the
Post
reveal that Blair purchased the
NY Journal
for a reported $75 million in cash. The sale of the
NY Journal
had been shrouded in mystery and unknown to even to most well-connected members of the industry, trading hands with few in the know.
Anonymous sources close to the sale detailed the private, confidential nature of the transaction, which explains why information has only emerged six months later. Blair purchased the paper under a dummy corporation, New York Periodicals and Journalism Corporation (NYPJ), that seems to have been founded solely for this purpose. NYPJ also purchased the historical New York Journal building in which the newspaper offices are housed, as part of an additional sale rumored to be worth north of $200 million.
Blair, 31, has risen from his rumored beginnings as an orphan on a Michigan farm to the high-stakes role of newcomer in the New York real estate game. His ruthless and cold nature has proven to be successful and alienating, as well as his aversion to media appearances and all the flash typically associated with businessmen of his stature.
An anonymous source claims, “Blair was very curious about the movement of our overseas correspondents, including one in particular, Florence Reynolds. Once the sale was final, he made a personal request to have all overseas correspondents sent back to New York. She was one of them. And when she returned, she was immediately assigned a very coveted profile piece on him, and there have been lots of rumors around the office about their relationship. It eventually came out that he bought the newspaper for her, that they’d known each other for years since back in Michigan and they were planning on making her editor-in-chief once his ownership became public. The backdoor scheming and blatant favoritism is as clear as day. This is a huge blow to the integrity and confidence in the newsroom.”
When reached for a comment, the
New York Journal
’s current editor, Gordon Jones, 54, shoved the reporter and said, “Fu—CLICK FOR MORE
My eyes frantically combed over the screen.
No. No. No.
Grainy shots of us peppered the article. A shot of us dancing at the fundraising gala. Us kissing in the mirrored elevator. Another of us in his car. There were small photos of us in our youth, a local newspaper photo from when I won Queen Blueberry Festival and another of Alistair in the U of M school newspaper when he’d received a distinguished undergraduate award. I couldn’t bear to click the link to read the whole article.
Everyone thought I had plotted this, that I had asked Alistair to purchase the
Journal
. That I wanted to be editor, that I was going to put people out of jobs, had jumped the career hierarchy for my own gain.
Tears dotted my vision, the photos of us swimming in my vision. I buried my face in my hands.
He lied to me.
He lied to me.
He lied to me.
S
omeone was pounding at my door, yelling my name at the top of their lungs. I ignored it as I rushed around the apartment, only stopping to grab items that were absolutely necessary.
I was in my bedroom, quickly flinging shirts and jeans onto my bed, when voices emerged from the hallway. Several heavy footsteps followed, accompanied by a deep voice coupled with a higher-pitched one, a voice with a slight European accent …
The doorknob to my bedroom jiggled, and Gertrude burst into the room.
I couldn’t say I was surprised to see her.
“I bet Alistair has a key to this apartment, huh?” I asked wryly. “Probably owns the damn building. The entire block?”
She didn’t refute my accusation. I continued to pack while saying, “You are literally the last person I want to see now.” I paused, a wad of socks in one hand. “Second to last,” I corrected.
If I saw Alistair, he’d better not be standing near any windows because I’d knock him right through.
“Ms. Reynolds,” Gertrude started, but stopped in her tracks when I threw a withering glare in her direction. I was done being polite and putting up with everyone’s own little prejudices and judgments.
“Where are you going?” Gertrude asked, taking in my upturned closet and half-filled duffel bag.
“Home,” I answered roughly. The only emotion left in me was anger. After I had sat in shock for much of the morning, I was galvanized into action. I needed to get out of New York; I needed to get away from Alistair and from the oncoming media deluge coming my way.
“You can’t leave. Everything will be okay!”
If I wasn’t so upset and hurt, I would have found this all hilarious. Gertrude trying to comfort me, placate me? Alistair had sent the wrong messenger. He just seemed to be making all sorts of poor judgment calls recently. “Don’t waste your time. Get out of my apartment.”
Gertrude began making desperate motions with her arms, as if swinging them about while talking loudly would change my mind or calm me. Neither was true.
She sputtered out her rebuttal. “Why are you acting like this?”
“Excuse me?”
“Yes!” Gertrude was indignant about my anger. She pointed an accusatory finger at me. “Mr. Blair did all that for you. He spent two hundred million dollars on a building, another ghastly sum purchasing your paper. He did it all for you!”
“What?” I reeled back in shock, not trusting what I heard.
I couldn’t believe it: a twenty-first-century woman, thinking Alistair’s actions were romantic. My head was spinning—with the news of the morning, with the conversation of the moment, with the bitter and dense disappointment that had become so real.
“Gertrude, you have to be joking. He trapped me. That’s what he did. He didn’t give me any option. I have to quit my job because I can’t work at the
Journal
anymore, not under him. He played me and lied to me throughout the entire time I was chasing this profile. His actions resulted in this situation being splayed out in the media, and now my reputation is gone. I can’t ever work in this town again, not for any reputable publication, anyway.”
Tracy had gone to the
Journal
to defuse the Gordon Jones situation for me. I wasn’t sure if I still had a job per se, but it was all a moot point, I refused to work for Alistair. Nicolas had called Dad to let him know of my arrival. It was impossible for me to use my phone to call out, and I was stranded in the apartment.
Frustration boiled up. “And all for what? A whim? A decision to just throw this down, when I had everything to lose and he had everything to gain? It was selfish! It was selfish and lax and terrible of him to do it, when all he cared about was himself. Alistair is not an idiot. He understood the risks, he calculated the fallout. And he still took the chance when every direction swung towards disaster.”
The words I had held in for hours bubbled out, spiteful and insecure and angry and hurt. “And you know why? Because he’s only thought about himself. In every scenario, he’ll emerge unscathed. In every scenario, I’m screwed. And now I have to pick up the pieces, and I’ll be damned if you or anyone convinces me that he can fix this for me. He made the mess, he’ll clean it up, but I’ll take care of myself.
“Do you know how long I’ve been doing this? Six years domestic and international, four in college, three in high school. I struggled to improve. I made a name for myself. I was always professional, always timely, and my research and writing was high-quality. I was someone serious, a person who did good work. I was on my way to becoming something significant. I had pride in that person, in my career. None of that matters now. When people see my name, I’m just some rich bastard’s Friday-night screw. He turned me into that in the world’s eyes. If you can’t see that, then this conversation is over. Especially since I didn’t want to talk to you in the first place. Just leave.”
I had standards to uphold, especially for myself. I’d failed those, and I had broken the creed. I was more than Alistair’s conquest; I was my own woman and I could make my own decision about who I wanted to be with. And the worst part was that he didn’t trust me to decide on us, that he hadn’t just asked me.
He could have just called me like a normal person. He could have sidestepped all this insanity and just reached out. Instead he had to pull strings, force situations, box me in.
It all boiled down to an utter betrayal of every part of me—who I was as a woman, who I was as a journalist. He’d disregarded all that and torpedoed every part of my life that mattered in that regard.
My standing in the industry, in the city.
The way people viewed me.
Airing out my personal life for all to cackle over.
This had all been a mistake. I should have listened to my gut. He’d treated me like a puppet he could mold and direct.
I had been right to be wary. I had been right to feel in my gut that all this was wrong to start with. That incessant voice in me that had told me to step back and walk away had been right.
I shook my head. I couldn’t think too much. Thinking and wondering and worrying had led me to this moment, and now I just had to act. I had to get home and figure out what was next.
I brushed past Gertrude into my bathroom, gathering toiletries by the handful.
Gertrude, ever relentless, followed.
“He does love you. This wasn’t done with malice.”
My eyes flickered to Alistair’s toothbrush, which had brought me such immature joy this morning. I scowled at it, saying, “I don’t want to hear this.”
Gertrude grabbed my shoulder to stop me from walking out.
“I’m telling the truth, Ms. Reynolds.”
“And I do not know how to make this any plainer—it does not matter. It doesn’t matter what he feels for me or why he did this. It’s done. Everything is ruined.” I jerked myself out of her viselike grip. “Why are you here, anyway? You hate me, couldn’t wait to be rid of me.”
“Mr. Blair didn’t send me. Despite what you think of me or what you consider my motives to be, I have been with Mr. Blair for years. I have come to care for him very deeply, much like a brother. You have a brother, no? Can’t you understand the need to protect him?”
“Don’t you dare try to compare my relationship with my brother with whatever sick relationship you and Alistair share.”
Gertrude hesitated while I gave her a pointed raise of my right eyebrow. I shoved past her back into the bedroom and flung my toiletries onto the bed. With snapping motions, I packed them into my duffel.
“Mr. Blair is desperately starved for love. He doesn’t want anyone else except you.”
I was busy shoving the last bottles into my duffel bag when my arms slowed. My skin was growing cold and the harsh sound of rain striking the glass windows echoed through the vast room. I was weary.
“You’re wrong.” I turned around and stared at Gertrude through the bathroom doorway, in her infuriatingly perfect suit with perfect heels, looking not a day over twenty. “Alistair needs no one.”
Gertrude considered me for an edge of a second and then shook her head slightly. She began walking slowly to me, the tips of her heels making light clicking noises against the tile.
“You’re wrong. You have no idea how wrong you are, Ms. Reynolds.”
I turned my back to her before she reached me, but before I could make a move, a heavy thud crashed next to my bags.
A leather-bound book with gilded cursive script. It was old with its corners scuffed and torn. The pages’ edges had once been colored with gold, but were now caked in black streaks.
Divine Comedy
by Dante Alighieri.
“What is this?” Was this a trick, some sort of weird German power play? Like a horse’s head in the bed?
Gertrude said, “Look at it. Open it.”
I ran my fingers across the worn cover. There was a force inherent in it, an energy that drew me to it. The book gave off a faint scent of old wood, of burnt trees. I opened the book carefully, and it fell to a dog-eared page and the dark gray back of a picture jammed up against the spine.
The photo type was familiar, the vintage Polaroid film that Nicolas used to use. I pinched the photo between my fingers and slowly turned it over.
It was a picture of … a girl?
I squinted. The Polaroid was old and a bit faded; it had definitely seen better days. A young teenage girl with long wavy brown hair was standing upon the bottom rails of a wooden fence and leaning forward to the camera. She had a wide smile that crinkled her big eyes. Her hair flowed over her bare, lightly tanned shoulders.