It was a gesture that always made Sam want to untuck the strand again, just to see the flicker or amused annoyance that crossed her lovely face when he did. He could picture everything — the ring she wore on the middle finger of her right hand, the tiny scar on the tip of her nose, and the way she tapped the table to emphasize her points. What he could not find, though, was her voice — not clearly, at least. It was muffled in his head, as if he were listening for her from behind a thick pane of glass.
"Sam?"
With a sudden, fierce shake of the head, Sam dragged himself back to reality. "Sorry, Paddy, I was miles away."
"So I could see. Are you ok?"
"I'm fine."
Paddy sat back, but Sam could see the concern on his round, normally cheerful face. "Good. So do you know where you're going to look for a place?"
"Probably just around here," Sam said. "I like Southside. Something like the place I've got just now would do nicely. And if I don't look too far then I won't have to get a moving company, I can just borrow a shopping cart from Tesco and wheel everything from place to place in that. Or I could get some chump with a car to help me shift stuff. There's bound to be some big ginger bastard who'd do it for a few pints and a pizza."
"Aye, there probably is." Paddy downed the last of his peanuts, crumpled the packet, and threw it at Sam. "But I know you. If I help you move, I'll end up buying the pizza."
Sam considered denying it, but both men knew it was true. "Probably," he said. "But you never know. Maybe I'll surprise you. And I haven't even started looking yet, so I've got time to save up. Maybe Mitchell's calling me to give me a raise — then when the time comes I'll be able to get you extra pepperoni."
"So, what can I do for you, Mitchell?"
In the two years that Sam had been working for the Post, he had managed to avoid most of Mitchell's "little chats." They were notorious among the journalists as well-intentioned wastes of time. Since Mitchell's nepotistic appointment as assistant editor, he had been desperately trying to make the little world of the Edinburgh Post a better place, and Sam knew he was not the only seasoned journalist to take advantage of this.
Mitchell was constantly torn between his desire to keep supposed "star" journalists like Sam happy and the need to keep sales figures high to please the demanding father who had appointed him to the job. When Sam felt bad about giving Mitchell a hard time by turning in pieces a little after deadline or half-assing the less interesting stories, he rationalized it by reminding himself that a little sweat was a small price to pay for the considerable privilege and security that the young man enjoyed.
"Good to see you, Sam!" Mitchell wore his customary desperate beam. "I, er… I wanted to have a little chat. Have a seat."
Sam dropped into the low-slung armchair facing Mitchell's desk and shuffled around a bit, unable to get comfortable, conscious of his legs being too lanky for this kind of seat.
"Coffee? I can send someone—"
"No, it's fine." Sam tried stretching his legs out, but that was even less comfortable than having his knees jutting upward like denim foothills.
"Well, if you're sure." Mitchell perched on his desk in a failed attempt at casualness and picked up his own cup, clearly freshly fetched from the Starbucks across the road. He took a lengthy swig of his chai latte, then replaced it and fixed his gaze on the cup. "The thing is, Sam — I'm going to come straight to the point. The thing is… I'm sure you're aware that the paper's not doing so well just now. It's a tough time for print media. We're struggling to keep the figures up. We're going to have to tighten our belts a bit."
Sam nodded. This "little chat" was not entirely unexpected. Sam had been aware of rumors flying around for some time about the paper's impending move to new, cheaper premises and a heavier focus on content for the website rather than the print edition. Everyone had been expecting the breaking news of the move and for the staff to have their workload increased while the pay remained the same.
"Fair enough," Sam said. "So where are we moving?"
"Moving?"
"Isn't that what's happening? A few of the people have been taking bets on where we'll be going. Mine's on the old office buildings at Meadowbank. Am I right?"
For a moment Mitchell said nothing. This was clearly not how he had intended this conversation to go, and Sam could see the wheels in his head turning as he tried to figure out how to get it back on track. He took a deep breath, then retreated behind his desk and sat down. "Sam, I think you've got the wrong end of the stick," he sighed. "We are moving, it's true — but that's not what I needed to talk to you about. It's — well — we're downsizing, Sam, quite considerably. And we've got to let some people go." Having finally come to his point, Mitchell plowed on full speed. "I'm so sorry, Sam. You know I'd keep you on if I could, but the decisions come from higher up. What we're hoping for is that the savings we'll make will pull the paper clear and then once we're on a better footing we'll be able to bring you back in. Maybe even on a better deal!"
It took a few seconds for Sam to take in what he had just heard. He stared blankly at Mitchell, pink-faced and perspiring as the lad smiled a smile that pleaded with Sam not to hate him. Meaningless words washed over him as Mitchell began to babble about redundancy packages, severance pay, and the difficulty of maintaining a print newspaper in the age of print media. The phrase "last in, first out" made an appearance, accompanied by vague expressions of Mitchell's fear for his own job. None of it sank in. When Mitchell pushed the papers terminating Sam's contract across the desk, Sam took up the chewed pen he was offered and signed without a word. He laid the pen down with uncharacteristic precision, lining it up against the text of the redundancy agreement.
As Mitchell showered him with thanks for being so cooperative, Sam began to wonder how many others were going to suffer the same fate that day. A glance at the clock told him that this "little chat" had taken fewer than ten minutes. In that short space of time, Sam had gone from being a man with a plan to put down roots to a redundant drifter. Next to the clock Mitchell had hung a collection of framed photos, each showing him with someone he considered important.
His father, the lord provost, the first minister, a couple of high-profile writers and artists… and Sam, looking bemused and a little disheveled as Mitchell shook his hand enthusiastically. He had never noticed that photo before, perhaps because it was hard to spot among the others, or perhaps because Sam so often dodged Mitchell's chats. He recognized the event — it was a party hosted by the Clarion just after Sam had received his Pulitzer. He had shaken hands with many enthusiastic young journalists that day. He had never realized that Mitchell had been among them.
And now he's giving me the boot, Sam thought, half-amused and half-annoyed. He allowed Mitchell to grasp his hand once again and give it his best firm handshake before holding the door open for Sam to leave. He was halfway through it when a thought struck him and he turned.
"Mitchell?"
A flicker of dread flashed across Mitchell's face, anticipating awkward questions or recriminations. "Yes, Sam?"
"Before I go — where are the new premises? I need to know if I won the bet while I'm still here to collect on it."