Nell: The Person in the Interview

Rosa Bell's office contained a dead plant, a live plant and a third plant whose position was still under review.

I noticed them because I had arrived eleven minutes early and spent nine of those minutes trying not to read the papers on her desk upside down. The Beacon occupied the first floor above a hairdresser. Every so often, a warm chemical smell rose through the stairwell, giving local democracy the faint atmosphere of a perm.

“Tea?” Rosa asked.

“Yes, please.”

“Milk?”

“Yes.”

“Sugar?”

“No, thank you.”

So far, outstanding. I was answering every question accurately and without referring to my notes.

Rosa sat opposite me with a mug that said world's okayest editor. She had short grey hair, a blue shirt and the sort of attentive expression that made a person want to revise things they hadn't said yet.

“Tell me about the guide.”

I did. I described the complaint and the assignment, then stopped myself before I turned the story into a performance. I told her about Kit's original complaint too.

“What did you get wrong?” Rosa asked.

“The route to the museum in rain. The bandstand's availability. I thought the harbour steps were forty-one.”

“How many are there?”

“Forty-three.”

“You sound unhappy about that.”

“I'm learning to live with it.”

She smiled and made a note.

Then she gave me a short press release about a proposed change to the bus service and asked what I would want to check before writing about it.

I read it twice. The first time, it looked straightforward: improved connections, increased efficiency, a more sustainable timetable. The second time, I noticed that improved did not specify for whom, and that the new evening frequency was not actually stated.

I asked about the old timetable, the new one, the consultation and the people who used the last bus.

“What headline would you give it?”

“I don't know yet.”

She waited.

“I'd need the answers.”

“Good.”

My shoulders loosened. I had been so worried about sounding clever that I hadn't prepared for not knowing to be the correct response.

The placement was one week in late August, mostly shadowing and small reporting tasks. It wasn't a job offer or a promise of a byline. Rosa was explicit about that. There would be expenses within an agreed limit, and she wanted me to confirm the school paperwork before anything was final.

“I'd like to offer you the place,” she said.

I said thank you in a voice that barely sounded like mine.

“And bring the guide when it's printed. I want to see what you and Kit make of it.”

What you and Kit make of it.

I repeated the phrase to myself on the stairs because I liked being part of a sentence that included both of us and something real.

Outside, I called Kit. She was in the shop, and I could hear a pump in the background.

“I got it.”

The pump stopped.

“Nell!”

Her delight was immediate. No qualification, no warning not to get ahead of myself. Just my name, said as if it had been good news for her too.

I told her everything on the walk to the bus stop. I even described the plants.

“Which one was yours?” she asked.

“The one with prospects.”

That evening, we celebrated with supermarket cake in my garden. Taz came. So did Luca, who inspected the narrow side gate before deciding the front entrance and hallway were the better route. We had chairs and an old folding table and a candle Ollie insisted on putting into the cake despite there being no numerical occasion.

“To employment-adjacent success,” Taz said.

“Beautiful toast,” I told her.

“I'm available for weddings.”

Kit's hand rested on my knee under the table. Mum brought out extra plates without making a meaningful face, which I appreciated more than I could safely admit.

Taz had her audition the next morning. We asked her about it, and this time I listened without improving anything. Luca offered to run lines with her on the bus if she wanted. She said she might prefer somebody to talk about literally anything else.

“I have strong opinions about theatre storage,” he said.

“Perfect.”

After everyone had gone, Kit stayed to help carry the plates inside. We ended up beside the sink, close enough to make ordinary kitchen work impractical.

“I'm proud of you,” she said.

I looked down at the cake knife. “You don't have to say it like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you mean it.”

She touched my face, gently, turning me towards her.

“I do mean it.”

I kissed her. There was no clever answer worth giving instead.

Later, after she'd left, I opened the publicity feature. Celia had sent comments while we were eating cake. Most were ordinary: shorten this, explain that, check the date. One suggested changing our guide to my guide in the opening paragraph because the piece was in my first-person voice.

I put the cursor beside the comment and typed: It's a joint project.

Then I went to bed.

For one whole night, that was enough.