Nell: Corrections

The internet allowed me to replace a paragraph in twenty minutes. It did not allow me to replace the person who had approved the first one.

Celia called at nine. She sounded surprised rather than defensive, which made the conversation harder in a different way.

“You were happy with it yesterday.”

“I shouldn't have been.”

“I thought we agreed the guide itself would carry the full credits.”

“We did agree that. I was wrong to agree.”

There was a pause. I could hear traffic behind her.

“Is this about the photograph?”

“It's about the story. Kit didn't just supply images for an idea I had. She helped make the idea. She complained independently. She designed the routes with me. The piece makes her supporting material.”

“You can send me a replacement paragraph.”

“The opening needs replacing too. And the headline.”

“Nell, it's already been shared.”

“I know.”

I sat on the kitchen floor because it was the nearest available surface and because standing made me want to pace, which made me sound more certain than I felt. Mum came in, saw my face and silently put a glass of water beside me.

Celia agreed to update the article and add a note explaining that the original version had not accurately represented the joint authorship. I wrote the note without saying there had been confusion or that anyone had felt overlooked. There hadn't been confusion. I had made a choice.

Mum read the replacement when I asked her to.

“Is this what Kit wants?”

“It's what needs correcting. I haven't asked her to manage it.”

Mum nodded. “Then send it.”

Dad came home near lunchtime, tired enough to leave his keys in the fridge while putting the milk away. He found me still at the table.

“Bad day?”

I told him.

He frowned at the screen. “But she's in the pictures. Everyone can see you worked together.”

“No, Dad.”

“I just mean—”

“I know what you mean. It's what I told myself. It isn't true.”

He pulled out a chair.

I explained the old map, the assembly, the things I had said to Kit in her room. Dad knew parts of that story but not the part where I had liked the applause too much to interrupt it. Saying it to him was worse than saying it to Kit. He had kept my certificates. He had helped me believe I could be good at something. I didn't want him to discover that sometimes I confused being good with being the only person anyone looked at.

He listened without interrupting.

When I finished, he rubbed his forehead. “I didn't know that bit.”

“I didn't tell it that way.”

“No,” he said. “You wouldn't have.”

He wasn't accusing me. He was noticing the shape of the story I'd handed him, and I had to sit there while he saw its missing edge.

“I still think you're good at writing,” he said.

I looked down.

“That isn't the same as thinking you did this well.”

“I know.”

We sat quietly. Then he got up to make toast and offered me some. I accepted because being ashamed had not made me less hungry.

Taz called after her audition recall. She had got through to the next stage, which ought to have been the whole subject of our conversation. I congratulated her and meant it. Then she asked what had happened with Kit, because the revised article had reached her group chat.

I told her without making Celia the villain.

“Oh, Nell,” she said.

It was not the satisfying fury I might have used to defend myself. It was disappointment from somebody who knew I was capable of doing better and had grown tired of reminding me.

“I know.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

“Then don't send Kit six pages about how bad you feel.”

“I wasn't going to.”

I closed the document containing four paragraphs about how bad I felt.

That afternoon, I emailed Rosa Bell. I did not ask her to reassure me or turn the mistake into a compelling story of personal growth. I said that the publicity feature I had mentioned was being corrected, explained why and attached the accurate version. She deserved not to discover it through a flattering account I'd let stand.

Her reply arrived the next morning.

Thank you for telling me. Correcting the record matters. So does checking it before publication. We'll talk about that during the placement. The offer stands.

I read it twice. The sentence about the offer should have made me happy. It did, a little. Mostly I noticed that she hadn't called the mistake brave or the correction inspiring.

It was a thing I should have done in the first place, followed by a thing I had to do because I hadn't.

At eleven, I went to the library. Kit's bicycle was locked outside. I knew it by the strip of yellow tape near the handlebars.

I stood beside it for a moment before going in.

There was no version of the next conversation in which I could find the perfect sentence and be finished. For once, I did not try to prepare one.