Chapter 7
Simon entered the Ridgemont Weekly offices, and looked disdainfully at Margeaux’s desk to the right of the entrance, with various knick-knacks scattered all over it, from crumpled up post-its, to disorganized sheets of paper covering unmarked folders, to a sad dying desk plant having a pity party in the corner. Simon sneered contemptuously, and felt his dislike for Margeaux multiply tenfold, as he recalled Margeaux’s antics from the journalism faculty’s opening function.
A few seats down, Simon found his own desk. A small smile of satisfaction crept up his face as he surveyed the perfectly ordered scene: neat, color-coded folders stacked in the corner of the desk, not a loose piece of paper in sight, and his own beautiful potted plant perfectly healthy and bursting with life, its effervescent green hue a welcoming hi to a productive day at the office.
Simon seated himself in his desk chair, and reclined as he rubbed his temples to relieve some tension. His right hand found the computer mouse and, as the screen loaded, he noticed Margeaux entering from the far side of the room, rummage around at her desk, retrieve a file, and with a quick wave at Simon, she became absorbed in her computer screen. Simon’s eyes returned to his own screen, and immediately confusion, and then suspicion, clouded his face. His personal folder, labeled ‘Works in Progress’, which he kept password-protected, was glaring right back at him again, opened up in a window. Simon prided himself for his professionalism and meticulous nature: no way would he announce what he was working on for everyone to see or leave his folders open. He vaguely remembered seeing the folder open before. Was he losing his mind? He rubbed the nape of his neck, shook his head, and reminded himself not to become paranoid. Surely everyone, even he, was capable of an oversight or two, right? Simon lost himself in thought, thinking of Ian’s words to him:
‘Northbrook, you have to make yourself a little bit more vulnerable. Be more authentic. Don’t hide behind what you think is the right thing to do. Relate some experience you had to help you formulate your own point of view.’
Ian’s words rang in Simon’s ears. He still didn’t quite get what Ian meant with that line. Wasn’t reporting supposed to be all about remaining objective, gathering and reporting on facts only, distancing your own point of view from events as they transpired? Wasn’t following the rules the best way to get things done?
“Oh my God, seriously? No way!” Margeaux let out a loud guffaw, slapped her knee, and sauntered over to Simon as she put down the phone, before collapsing into a fit of giggles. “Looks like King Arthur got himself in a bit of a scrap. Buddy wrapped his Merc right around a tree, smashed his head against the steering wheel, and is now being treated for a concussion at the hospital. What a klutz. Oh, the boys I pick.”
“What are you talking about?” Simon demanded, the thought of Ian hurt nearly paralyzing him.
“Ian was in a car accident last night. He’s okay, of course. Just being an idiot. No big deal.”
Simon stared at Margeaux, shocked at her callous reaction to Ian’s injury, concerned over Ian’s condition, and overwhelmed with an urgency to see Ian. He was speechless.
He heard a voice coming from the entrance: “Simon honeybunch, how are you?” Olivia pushed through the front door, smiling brightly, and under normal conditions, her cheeriness and good-natured attitude would have put a smile on his face. But Olivia could immediately sense Simon’s distress.
“Simon, what’s the matter? You look spooked!”
“It’s Ian, he’s been in an accident, crashed his car into a tree, he has a concussion, he must have been, I don’t know, I mean, I… do you think he’s okay?” Simon stumbled and stammered over his words, his voice heavy with worry, and Olivia grabbed him by the arm.
“Simon, we have to get to the hospital. What are you still doing here?” Olivia’s voice was urgent and high-pitched, alarm widening her eyes.
“I guess I, I mean, do you think he would want me there? Won’t I just be in the way? Is it appropriate for me to go?”
“Of course! You and I both know you care about him, and I’ve got a good idea that he cares about you too, so you need to be there for him right now.”
Hearing this, Margeaux snorted loudly, and looked at Simon with raised eyebrows.
“I mean, sure, yeah, I care about him as a friend, Liv. And yeah, maybe uh, Margeaux would you like to come with us?” In a vain effort to hide his feelings for Ian, Simon extended the awkward invitation, trying to avoid the gob smacked expression on Olivia’s face.
“Dude, it’s a concussion, not brain surgery. What’s the big deal? Ian’s a big boy. Dennis just called and said he’s fine. I’ll go see him a bit later, make him chomp at the bit for a while.” Margeaux dismissed both Simon and Olivia with a small wave of her hand, and strolled back to her chair.
“Self-obsessed idiot! Honestly, what a heartless cow,” Olivia whispered. “Come on Simon, let’s go.”