It wasn't Newsweek and it certainly wasn't the Times magazine but it was a job, something she definitely needed after spending the better part of a year fixed behind a laptop blogging about British politics. Bonnie had enjoyed the break, no fascist's boss directing her every move, no accounting for her week's labour during Monday morning staff meetings and best of all, no censorship. She'd been particularly thrilled at the lack of expurgation when she'd published her interview with Glen Jenvey about the bombings in London. The blog had been a challenging, laborious exercise but after moving back to New York she felt like she needed to sink her teeth into the meatier issues concerning the U.S.
Thumbing through the glossy pages of TIMES magazine, she kept glancing up at the closed office door as she waited for another candidate to finish his interview. They were taking too long, what were they doing in there? Quickly, she crossed her right leg over her left leg and then back again. She finally resigned herself and leaned her head against the dark leather chair, plucking the dimpled buttons on the armrest with her manicured nails. She was in the process of examining her nails when the office door swung open. A timid little man shuffled out followed by a rugged looking gentleman in a crisp white shirt and denim jeans. Bonnie's brow arched involuntary, her lips tightly pursed as she took in the editor's image. Quickly, she rose from the chair and gathered her things as the candidate made a last appeal for the position with a firm handshake.
"Are you the next candidate?" the tall brunette asked, quickly accessing her with his blue eyes.
"Bonnie Bennett," she boldly thrust out her hand and felt his long, elegant fingers clasp around her dainty palm. He stalled momentarily, struck by the black and white union jack cufflinks on her crisp white shirt. Bonnie flinched; wondering if her new flare for the whimsical would pay off. She caught a glimpse of the ghost of a smile toying with his lips.
"Alaric Saltzman" he smiled politely, signalling to a chair in the middle of the room. Bonnie strolled in, her green eyes darting around the office, lingering on the floor to ceiling arched window behind his massive desk. Slowly, she settled into the leather chair, thrust her chin and squared her shoulders. She wanted to project an air of calm and confidence even if the butterflies were waging a war inside her stomach.
"Do you mind?" he asked, unravelling his blue silk tie and sliding it beneath his collar. He tossed it on the expansive mahogany desk littered with newspaper cut-outs, copies of Whitmore magazine and a forest of empty coffee-mugs.
"I can never get used to these things" he apologised sheepishly. He looked more like a studious rock climber who could bend nature to his will rather than an editor for a political magazine. But then again Che Guevara had looked like nothing more than a rebel and yet he had left his imprint.
"Why do you want to work for Whitmore magazine?" Alaric asked, pushing a plate of wilted Waldorf salad away from him before straightening his posture.
"Well, I like your slogan for one, "she confessed, clasping her hands over her right knee "undressing politics! I love that the magazine feels fresh and accessible to the lay-man on the street and I love that you go beyond traditional news and publish articles about events missed by mainstream media. I know that I can be a great asset in steering the magazine to greater heights"
"You've obviously had a look at our articles, anything that springs to mind as your favourite?"
"I liked the article about immigration policies," she pursed her lips, her eyes flitting to the salt and pepper curls tickling his temples "that's something that's quite close to my heart at the moment."
Alaric raised his eyebrows, tapping an index finger against his temple as if sensing that her eyes had lingered there before drifting down to the nerve pulsing around his collar bone.
"I've been in New York for four months and I can honestly say that as diverse in culture as this great city is, there's still some sort of elitism from the natives. Something the implants can never understand" she paused, lifting her chin a fraction, "my mother is from Somalia, she found asylum in New York when she was still very young"
He nodded, acknowledging her story before he asked, "Why did you get into the field?"
"I've been a writer ever since I can remember. It's something I inherited from my mother and I've always been in love with the idea of telling a story, capturing an audience. The first time I realized that I could move an audience was during an oral presentation in my high school English Class."
"I got up to speak and my teacher simply said, everyone keep quiet, this is gonna be really good" she chuckled, animating with her hands, "I knew then that if I could move someone with my words, I had something special because words and ideas can move a nation"
Alaric nodded, thumping the keys on his keyboard and Bonnie craned her neck only slightly to see what had arrested his attention so much on his laptop screen.
"I see you went to Oxford Law" he read from the screen.
"Class of two thousand and seven" she pushed a strand of hair behind her ear, smoothing back her pin-straight hair. It teased her shoulders and she pondered if it wouldn't have been better to tie it up for the interview.
"Let's see that would make you…" he narrowed her eyes at her, drumming his fingers on the desk.
"Twenty-eight" Bonnie smiled, heaving a great sigh, "I'm not one of those females who're ashamed about their age, Mr Saltzman"
"Please call me Alaric" he smiled, leaning his head against his high chair, fingers twirling a pencil," and what brings you back to New York, you miss the subway rats?"
"My mother, "she spoke, alarmed at how much she was revealing about herself. "I'm here for my mother" she said sucking in a shaky breath.
"Tell me, do you work well under pressure?" he asked, studying her intently.
"I'm a journalist" Bonnie replied matter-of-factly.
"I'd like you to write an article on gun-control and submit it by this afternoon" he announced and Bonnie's jaw tightened as a tremor ran through her. She had to attend her mother's book reading and that hardly gave her time to get in the zone to write an article.
"And don't give me some glib, diplomatic view on gun-control. I want you to take a stance, give me something meaty and something that reveals the real you" Alaric pointed at her and she tilted her head in attempt to look fearless and composed.
"I get it; you want me to bleed my thoughts on paper" she said and Alaric laughed as if he were amused by a child.
"Not just your thoughts, Bonnie. Journalism is about heart. I want color, I want emotion. I want Bonnie Bennett in that high school English class" he said, holding her gaze and she swallowed hard, her mind already reeling with ideas for the article.
"Tell me a bit more about yourself?" he asked the general interview question as the air sizzled around them. Slowly, Bonnie steadied her breathing and trained her eyes back on him. She practiced a smile and began telling him about her Oxford days, the debate team, squash tournaments and then finally about her tenure at the Spectator and how much she learned from the veterans at the paper. His tone remained polite and warm as she spoke at length about her ambitions and as her nerves slowly dissolved so did the time. Before she realized, the interview was over and she was shaking Alaric's hand again.
"I'll be waiting for your article, "he said, directing her out of his office. Bonnie glanced over her shoulder looking at the office again, her eyes flying over the claret Moroccan rug and a bookshelf stuffed with first edition literature.
"Thank you, Mr. Saltzman" she nodded, brushing past him.
"Alaric, "he quickly corrected as he lingered on the threshold of his office. Bonnie felt the lick of his gaze as she strutted down the corridor toward the elevators. She really hoped he would call about the position.
..
"Here I am, writing South Asia Daily and he's busy interviewing for a position that he knows I'm a shoe-in for" Damon tore a scrap of paper from his notebook and crumpled it up into a ball in his hand.
"At least you're not writing Friday's flash points" Enzo huffed, rolling his eyes.
"Look at him, strutting around like he owns the place" Damon threw the crumpled piece of paper into a garbage can a few feet from him. Pleased that the ball of paper had found its mark, his mouth twitched into a smirk as his eyes drifted back to Alaric standing at the threshold of his office. He was watching his latest interviewee as she strutted down the hallway and Damon could barely see her beyond the sleek dark hair cascading down her back.
"I hear he landed an interview with a presidential candidate of Lebanon" Enzo offered, folding his arms over his chest.
"Probably to discuss the political void left by…uhm… what's his name again?" Damon shook his head, eyes narrowed as they stayed fixed onto his boss.
"And you call yourself a journalist" his friend Enzo smirked again as he took his seat. The show was over and it was time to get back to work.
"The fact that he writes articles about the middle-east and he doesn't know the name of Lebanon's former president is shocking" Katherine yelled, striding inside Enzo's cubicle and looking over at Damon inside his own separate cubicle.
"Scary" Enzo smiled and gave her a once over in her gray pencil skirt and draped, silk blouse.
"Still can't believe that parliament could not elect a president" she mused and picked up a bottle of water from Enzo's littered desk, opened it and took a hearty sip.
"Be glad you're an American citizen, my friend" Damon called over the walls of his cubicle before taking steps towards Enzo's cubicle. His gaze locked onto a yellow dress as he stepped out.
"Hey Rookie, come over here" he signalled the brunette over and she stalled before giving him a shoulder shrug.
"Hi, my name's Davina Claire by the way" she told him, a copy of Times magazine tucked under her arm.
"Right, you ready to get to work?" Damon ignored the fact that she was trying to be taken seriously and sized her up.
"Yeah, I'm ready" Davina cleared her throat, her eyes darting between him, Enzo and Katherine.
"Great because I have an assignment for you" Damon told her and she parted her lips to say something but decided against it.
"I would like a sesame-seed bagel with cream cheese, an onion bagel with cream cheese and a toasted bagel with veggie cream cheese" Damon gave the order and waited for Enzo to retrieve the money from his wallet.
"You want me to go get you a bagel?" Davina's eyes widened, mouth slack as she glared at Damon.
"No, I want you to get three bagels. You got to pay attention, rookie"
"Will that be a problem?" Katherine cocked an eyebrow, taking another sip of water.
"No" Davina shook her head, watching as Enzo set his coffee mug aside to hand her the money. She took the bills and crumpled them inside her hand.
"Thank you" Enzo smiled at her as Damon ushered her out of the cubicle with a slap on her back.
"Hey, a few of us are taking bets around the watering hole for a Taylor season. You guys wanna get in on the action?" Jeremy Gilbert suddenly burst into the cubicle, waving around a baseball cap with a wad of money.
"Who would vote for David Taylor?" Damon shook his head incredulously.
"Who wouldn't?" Jeremy wrinkled his nose and looked at Damon like he'd just told everyone that Santa didn't exist.
"Christ, Taylor running this country is scarier than Idi Amin ruling Uganda" Damon cried, picking up a pencil from Enzo's desk.
"Then you better put your money where your mouth is my friend" Jeremy persisted with his teasing much to Damon's annoyance and then Katherine broke in with her sharp wit and flirtatious smile.
"I am officially buying the first round of drinks tomorrow night" she said, setting her ass down on the edge of Enzo's desk.
"Are we playing the GOP drinking game?" Enzo smiled broadly at her and she ruffled his hair and sang an annoying,
"You know it"
"Which bar?" Damon asked, checking his watch.
"Miguel" Katherine sang again and mock checked her pencil skirt for cash before shrugging at Jeremy.
"Isn't that a Mexican place?" Enzo asked.
"Yup, good times"
"You can have tequila every time Taylor says Mexico" Damon chuckled, glancing at his friend.
"And you can take a shot anytime someone says lives matter" Katherine broke in with a wide grin.
"I don't care what y'all say; Taylor has created jobs in the private sector" Jeremy voiced and all three looked up at him as though they were surprised that he was still present.
"Hey, no one is patronizing Taylor's campaign. In fact he could be the Republican's Trump card" Damon calmed him down but was summarily interrupted when Alaric's assistant leaned against the entrance and cleared her throat.
"Hey, Salvatore. Ric wants you in his office" she said, her eyes darting to all parties inside the crammed cubicle.
"Hi, Vicky" the group greeted, eyes lit up as they took in her scanty outfit.
"I'm free tonight" she whispered to Damon once they were out of earshot.
"No can do" he shrugged and shook his head.
"Come on, it's been weeks. I miss you" Vicky was relentless, making a grab for his ass, "I still have that nurse's outfit you like"
"I'm really gonna have to pass"
"If you change your mind-"she sang, twirling her hair as they reached Alaric's office.
"If I change my mind It'll be the alcohol calling."
He gave Alaric's open door a soft tap before walking inside.
"Hey buddy, take a seat" Alaric said, motioning to the chair in front of him.
"I want you to write an article for me" he announced before Damon had barely settled.
"You want me to write an article for you?"
"Your subject is gun-control and I need it on my desk by the close of business today" he shared and picked up a fresh cup of coffee from his desk.
"You know there's no close of business because news never sleeps and neither do we" Damon reminded him, his eyes narrowed at Ric in an attempt to read him.
"Touché but just write the article, buddy"
"Is this about the shooting in a movie theatre in Tennessee?"
"This is about a current affairs issue" he corrected and took another swallow.
"Are we gonna talk about the elephant in the room?" Damon cleared his throat, shifting in his seat.
"Are we talking about Republicans?" Alaric raised an amused eyebrow at his reporter and friend.
"Cute. No, we're talking about the parade of interviewees that have been coming out of your office like hookers in Vegas" Damon smirked, leaning back against the chair.
"Why don't you leave the hookers to me and focus on the article"
"You got it" Damon gave him a thumb's up as he got up to leave Alaric's office.
..
The apartment was her old childhood home. Her mother signed it off to her after the divorce as a sign of her love and devotion. It was also to appease her guilt since she never saw Bonnie after remarrying Atticus Shane. Entering the kitchen, she plucked out a bottle of chardonnay from the floor to ceiling built in wine rack and put it inside the double-door metallic refrigerator. Then after pulling out another half-empty bottle of wine from the fridge, she poured herself a glass and looked around the kitchen at the butcher-block island lined with backless yellow leather barstools. She had an article to write, an article that would cement her position as a columnist at the magazine. Every article she wrote was like a plight to prove that she had the stuff to be called a journalist. Women had it harder because journalism was still a male dominated field but she was ready to slay dragons.
She parked herself on a barstool with her laptop opened on the wooden counter in front of her and started writing. Three hours later as she broke off a piece of naan bread and dipped it into her sauce, she sat back in her chair and hit submit. It took her a while but eventually she rose from her chair, took a shower and traded her comfy socks for a pair of mirrored Jimmy Choo sling-back pumps.
..
A wave of heat struck her face the minute she left her Park Avenue apartment, and then came the onslaught of smells from the food trucks lining the sidewalks. She was slowly getting accustomed to the New York weather. She liked the crisp spring mornings, the flush of warmth come afternoon and the dazzling twilights that painted everything purple. Shielding her eyes against the gash of dim sunlight streaming between tall, gaunt skyscrapers, she shrugged into her spring coat. Bonnie weaved through a boisterous crowd of frat boys in fancy suits trolling the neighbourhood for a lively bar and she passed a couple walking their Labrador before she finally thrust out her hand to hail down a cab.
Dashing inside the taxi, she quickly glanced at her watch then scratched through her clutch for the program. She was attending a speech about the eradication of female genital manipulation and the speaker was Abby Bennett, her mother.
"476 on fifth, "Bonnie instructed the cabbie, settling into the tattered leather bench. She picked up her mother's book and leafed through the pages as the taxi rushed down towards Fifth Avenue.
..
When she arrived at the New York library, the conference had already started. She took off her coat, threw it over her arm then searched around for an empty seat.
"There is no honour in female circumcision, "Abby spoke, straightening the microphone as graphic images flashed behind her on the monitor. She clicked the remote to show a new slide and Bonnie dropped her head and rubbed the back of her neck with her hand. The graphic images were sending shivers up her spine and as unflinching as she was, she just couldn't stomach them.
"There is no right of passage, "her mother continued, her voice going up a notch, "but this monstrous act of brutality is still practiced through out various countries in Africa, including Somalia"
"I am a victim of genital manipulation, I am a victim of this slaughter and this book serves to illustrate this crime against humanity, this offence against our rights as women" her voice swelled with emotion as she held up her autobiography.
"We need to break the silence, ladies and gentlemen, "she gripped the podium, her voice booming "we need to speak out!"
Bonnie was surprised at how normal her mother seemed, impassioned yes but normal. After losing Atticus in a car accident only a few months ago, she seemed to be coping quite well. There were no sheer moments of anguish over losing her infamous anthropologist spouse; there were no tears because Abby simply threw herself into her work. She buried herself under piles of research so that she wouldn't think about her loss. After the fervent speech, Bonnie joined the long procession of people lining up for an autograph.
"Great speech," she said, handing the book to her mother.
"Bonnie, "she sighed, looking up at her "you came" she added, quickly scribbling across the front page.
"Can we talk?"
"I have a few more of these to sign" she patted a hand on the pile of books in front of her and pointed to the growing line of people behind Bonnie. It took the better part of an hour but Bonnie found Abby again as the crowds dwindled.
"I stuck around" she said, tucking a hair behind her ear.
"I can see that" Abby nodded, gathering her things and swinging her black tote over her shoulder.
"Do you wanna grab some dinner?" Bonnie followed as Abby headed for the exit, their shoes clanking on the polished wood.
"I have plans" mumbling over her shoulder, she quickened her pace.
"Like what, nuking Sudan or Somalia for infringing human rights?" Bonnie chased, her dress flapping against her legs as she tried to keep up with her mother. When Abby stopped abruptly, head turning back toward her, Bonnie knew that she had gone too far.
"Ok, that was below the belt" she apologized, palms raised for a ceasefire.
"Bonnie, you're checking up on me" a flush flared around her cheeks as Abby narrowed her eyes at her daughter.
"How about we try –hi, daughter, thank you for coming" Bonnie stood her ground, "Be a good sport and show me around New York"
"You've been in New York for four months" she was walking again, her pace slower this time and Bonnie could join in her casual strides.
"And I still haven't found a place that serves great Lebanese food" she teased, folding her arms across her chest.
"Try the Zagat"
"I had a job interview today"
"So, you're sticking around" she gave her daughter a quick glance.
"Yup, no more pub-crawls in London" she remarked, earning her a crooked smirk from her mother. Abby considered her for a moment, then pursed her lips before breaking into a half-smile.
"You look good, "she finally said, her eyes travelling from Bonnie's boat-neck white dress to her pin-straight hair.
"Have dinner with me" Bonnie pleaded, touching her mother's forearm. The neon lights flared outside, lighting up Fifth Avenue so much that they hurt her eyes.
"I have to prepare a speech for Columbia then I'm flying out to London for the next leg of the book tour."
"Give my regards to daddy"
Abby seemed to ignore her jab, even though her spine stiffened. She raised her hand and waved for a taxi.
"Two words come to mind" Bonnie yelled as a cab swiftly pulled up beside them, "Filial cannibalism. It's when an animal eats its young"
"I'm familiar with the term, "Abby opened the door, pausing to address Bonnie "but calling me a bad mother is getting old." she added, sliding into the back seat and shutting the door.
"It's all I have" Bonnie said quietly as she watched her mother roll down the window.
"Its good to you back, Bonnie" she finally smiled, though it did not carry to her eyes "Oh and good luck with that job!"
..
When she left the library, she took a cab to meet up with Caroline and Klaus at Per se on Columbus circle. Her stomach was already rumbling as she joined the couple at the bar.
"How long is the wait?" she asked removing her coat.
"Ten more minutes," Caroline said giving her a kiss on the cheek.
"Come, unwind" Klaus motioned to a seat next to Caroline. Before she could get comfortable, Bonnie beckoned for the barman and ordered a glass of merlot. She didn't mind that it was a house wine because the wait for a table wouldn't be too long.
"How was the interview?" Caroline offered her a small platter of appetizers and she picked a caviar smothered cracker.
"Pleasant" she hummed, taking a bite.
"So you met with the man himself, Alaric Saltzman?"
"You make him sound like an icon, "Bonnie shrugged, "the man is barely forty"
"Is he as good-looking in person as he is when he graces the cover of the magazine?" Caroline asked, much to Klaus's displeasure.
"Better" Bonnie teased, merely to annoy Klaus.
"He's always reminded me of JFK Junior, he's got that debonair Kennedy quality" Caroline nudged Klaus's ribs with her elbow, leaning her head against his shoulder.
"Only if Kennedy was a rugged mountaineer with bourbon breathe" Bonnie smiled as she recalled her meeting with the man.
"We all know about the Kennedy curse, right?" Klaus raised his glass of scotch. At long last her wine came and she urgently drew it toward her. Bonnie admired the claret color of the merlot through the glass then slowly took a sip, eyes closed as she savoured the rich oak smell and the smooth taste.
"Did you wear your money suit?" Caroline chuckled and raised her eyebrow.
"I wore my winning smile" she winked, lifting her glass for another sip.
"Hey, you got this in the bag," Klaus interjected, his hand brushing Caroline's arm" you know it and he knows it" he took another pull from his glass and Bonnie smiled. She appreciated their friendship. They might have been the only people she really knew around New York but they were enough. Caroline was an anchor for a popular news channel and Klaus was an assistant District attorney and as busy as their lives were, they always made time to listen to her problems.
"I just need him to weigh in on my interview article" Bonnie sighed, twirling her wine glass.
"You had to write an article?" Caroline asked, lacing her fingers with Klaus's.
"Pretty much" Bonnie nodded and caught sight of a waiter as he approached them.
"What about?" Klaus asked as the group rose to their feet to follow the waiter to their assigned table. It was a great table with views of Central Park, or at least the treetops.
"Gun control issues in America" Bonnie replied over her shoulder.
"And what's your stance on gun-control?" He asked, pulling a chair for Caroline while Bonnie assisted herself.
"I'm pro-gun sense but not gun-control" Bonnie replied with a shrug as she leafed through the menu even though she already knew what she was having. She watched as the couple helped themselves to the table salad, drizzling olive oil over their portions.
"Actually having a gun in a home increases the risk of murder or suicide in that home" Klaus pointed the prongs of his fork at Bonnie and her self-satisfied grin.
"First, Obama's health-care control and now gun control, what's next, the freedom of speech?" Bonnie chuckled, glancing up at Klaus, "Do you really think that gun control is going to hinder crime? If anything it disempowers the average American citizen."
"Look at Britain, the country has gun laws tighter than Watergate and look how that's turned out" she smiled, looking from Caroline to Klaus.
"You're British; you're supposed to be pro-gun control." Caroline smiled at her, her cheeks flushed pink from the wine.
"Maybe Diane Sawyer's interview with the mother of the Columbine shooter will sway you."
"I'm open to debate, Klaus."
"And we could talk about this all night" Klaus warned, beckoning the waiter back to their table to take their orders.
"But we won't, because I have a four a.m. call time and I need my beauty sleep" Caroline warned and gave him a kiss on the cheek before smiling at Bonnie.
..
Damon pushed the door open, flicked on the light and there was his plasma TV, beckoning him. He tossed his leather satchel on his desk, nearly toppling the mug that contained his freshly sharpened pencils. He had an antique Remington typewriter that reminded him what journalism used to be about. Dumping his jacket on the couch after removing his loafers, he padded through to the kitchen to get a beer and to peruse the takeaway menu so that he could order from the corner place down the street.
It was a typically tiny New York kitchen with white cabinets paired with black countertops and a butcher-block island with extra drawers to double up on the storage. As he cracked open his beer, he leaned against the island and perused the menu. He wanted to try something new tonight but he knew that the odds were hummus and naan bread with a side portion of Greek salad. As he dialled the number to the middle-eastern restaurant he wondered why Ric had wanted him to submit that article
..