The Last Letter from Your Lover

does several hours of Pilates every day. She sports what the fashion pages would call ‘statement jewellery’, which Ellie assumes is just a trendy way of saying ‘big’.
    Melissa lets out a little sigh and stares at her. Her eyes are a startling violet, and Ellie wonders briefly whether she’s wearing coloured contact lenses. They’re the exact shade of her necklace. ‘This isn’t a conversation I’m entirely comfortable having, Ellie, but it’s become unavoidable.’
    ‘Oh?’
    ‘It’s nearly a quarter to eleven.’
    ‘Ah. Yes, I—’
    ‘I appreciate that Features is considered the more relaxed end of the Nation , but I think we’re generally agreed that a quarter to ten is pretty much the absolute latest I want my staff at their desks.’
    ‘Yes, I—’
    ‘I like to give my writers a chance to prepare themselves for conference. That gives them time to read the day’s newspapers, check the websites, talk, inspire and be inspired.’ She swivels a little in her seat, checks an email. ‘It’s a privilege to be in conference, Ellie. A chance a lot of other writers would be very glad to have. I’m finding it hard to see how you can possibly be prepared to a professional degree if you’re skidding in here minutes beforehand.’
    Ellie’s skin prickles.
    ‘With wet hair.’
    ‘I’m very sorry, Melissa. I had to wait in for a plumber and—’
    ‘Let’s not, Ellie,’ she says quietly. ‘I’d rather you didn’t insult my intelligence. And unless you’re going to be able to convince me that you have a plumber in attendance almost every other day of the week, I’m afraid I have to conclude that you’re not taking this job very seriously.’
    Ellie swallows.
    ‘Our web presence means there’s no place to hide on this newspaper any more. Every writer’s performance can be judged not just by the quality of their work on our print pages, but by the number of hits their stories get online. Your performance, Ellie,’ she consults a piece of paper in front of her, ‘has dropped by almost forty per cent in a year.’
    Ellie can say nothing. Her throat dries. The other editors and writers are congregating outside Melissa’s office, clutching oversized notepads and polystyrene cups. She watches them glance through the glass at her, some curious, some vaguely embarrassed, as if they know what is happening to her. She wonders, briefly, if her work has been a wider topic of conversation and feels humiliated.
    Melissa is leaning across her desk. ‘When I took you on, you were hungry. You were ahead of the game. It was why I picked you above any number of other regional reporters who, frankly, would have sold their grandmothers to be in your position.’
    ‘Melissa, I’ve—’
    ‘I don’t want to know what’s going on in your life, Ellie. I don’t want to know if you have personal problems, if someone close to you has died, if you’re in mountains of debt. I don’t even particularly want to know if you’re seriously ill. I just want you to do the job you’re paid to do. You must know by now that newspapers are unforgiving. If you don’t pull in the stories, we don’t get the advertising or, indeed, the circulation figures. If we don’t get those things, we’re all out of a job, some of us sooner than others. Am I making myself clear?’
    ‘Very clear, Melissa.’
    ‘Good. I don’t think there’s any point in you coming to conference today. Get yourself sorted out, and I’ll see you in the meeting tomorrow. How’s that love-letters feature coming along?’
    ‘Good. Yes.’ She’s standing, trying to look as if she knows what she’s doing.
    ‘Right. You can show me tomorrow. Please tell the others to come in on your way out.’
    At a little after twelve thirty she runs the four flights of stairs down to the library, her mood still dark, the joys of the previous evening forgotten. The library is like an empty warehouse. The shelves are now bare around the counter, the misspelt paper notice ripped off, only two sides of Sellotape remaining. Behind the second set of swing doors she can hear furniture being dragged. The chief librarian is running a finger down a list of figures, his glasses tilted at the end of his nose.
    ‘Is Rory around?’
    ‘He’s busy.’
    ‘Can you tell him I can’t meet him for lunch?’
    ‘I’m not sure where he is.’
    She feels anxious about Melissa noticing she’s not at her desk. ‘Well, are you likely to see him? I need to tell him that