4 Terry's Bright Idea

'There is absolutely no way,' Carlo snapped. 'A teacher from Coelis just walked in and asked you to publish her piece.'

This was not going to be as easy as she'd thought. Terry sighed. Naturally, Carlo was going to be hard-headed about this—was there anything Carlo wasn't hard-headed about?

She was in his office. The windows were open, the fan was on—yet none of that was any help for Carlo. You could have fried an egg on his face.

'I don't appreciate coming back to find you have no work done, just for you to go spouting some cock-and-bull excuse for it—this isn't what I want from you, Terry! You can do better than this!'

Terry hung her head—which was absurd, she knew, since she'd done nothing wrong. That didn't stop her from feeling guilty, however. She was guilty about a lot of things, really, not just this: she knew she wasn't the best reporter and she knew she had let down Carlo before. It wasn't really his fault, was it? The whole thing was ridiculous; she was beginning to doubt if it had really happened at all. Maybe the heat had just gotten to her...

Carlo gazed at her; maybe she was imagining it, but she thought she saw a shadow of pity in his eyes. 'Terry,' he said, more quietly. 'I'm worried about you. Your work hasn't been up to scratch lately—we both know that. You know, I was just wondering...' He paused awkwardly. Clearly, it was hard for him to say what he had to say. 'Is everything alright... in your personal life? Has—has something happened?'

She wouldn't meet his gaze; her expression curdled. It wasn't fair; it wasn't fair that he was using that against her—even if it was true that she blew past deadlines and didn't always check her sources and occasionally even misattributed quotes. But that had nothing to do with her personal life, as Carlo put it. Unless what he meant by her personal life was how the oppressive summer heat weighed down on her, day by day; how the ships sailing in and out of the harbour haunted her; how she stared, longingly, at the chariots rising from the posh hotels' roof-gardens, soon disappearing into the distance. In that case—no, Carlo, everything is not alright in my personal life. How could it be?

But she didn't say any of that. No, she had to choose her words carefully. This was too good an opportunity to miss.

'Carlo,' she said steadily. 'I know there have been issues with my work recently, and I'm going to do my absolute best to fix that. But I'm telling you now—I'm not lying. Why would I be lying? She said her name was Lady Foltsini, she walked in asking to publish an article, she said we didn't have to worry about, you know, paying her for it or anything like that. I remember she said she couldn't get it published anywhere else; something to do with Brooke Honeyfoor. She didn't seem to like Brooke Honeyfoor very much.'

Her gaze moved to her chief piece of evidence—the article itself. She could see it in his eyes—Carlo thought she had written it out herself.

Why the hell would I do that, Carlo? She wasn't crazy, after all.

Carlo was also looking at the bound stack of paper, wearing a conflicted expression. Finally, he said: 'I'm sorry, Terry, but no.'

'I don't understand why--?'

'Isn't it obvious?' he snapped. 'I've only your word to take for it, and it's such an unlikely thing to happen—it's all ridiculous! No—that's my final answer.'

~

Terry slunk out of her boss's office, hoping no-one heard them, hoping no-one noticed how red her face was. They wouldn't, of course—they were all far too busy compiling everything they'd seen and heard at the parade. The parade Terry wasn't even allowed to attend.

Eventually, she returned to her cubicle. Clara Combera's cubicle was the next one over, but she wasn't back yet.

Terry didn't know what to do. There was no way she could focus on the financial report—finance wasn't even her speciality; she had no idea why Carlo had forced her to take that one on. Probably because no-one else was willing to do it.

On the far side of the office, the door opened—Terry's heart leapt for a second—but it was only Clara Combera who came stumbling in. She looked absolutely shellshocked; something was splattered all across her dress, something creamy and chocolate-y that might have been ice-cream. Terry wasn't the only one who was staring; the entire office watched as she made her slow way over to her cubicle.

There was no way Terry could just leave her like that. She left her own work behind and popped into Clara's cubicle:

'Clara—what happened? What took you so long?'

Clara's lip wobbled; Terry immediately felt sorry for her. She breathed deeply, taking her time before she answered.

'I don't know how it happened,' she moaned, 'The whole thing was just so disorientating. Like, I could barely tell where I was. Then I ran across Gabriela and Dixie and I accidentally crashed into Gabriela; I got, you know, ice-cream all over her—all over me, too. God—then Gabriela started, well, shouting at me a lot and I didn't know what to do and I lost all my notes as well. This time Carlo really is going to kill me, isn't he?'

Poor Clara. She had no idea what to say in reply; yes, Carlo probably was going to kill her. Typical Gabriela, though—didn't she feel at all sorry for Clara?

'I'm sorry,' said Terry. 'If you want me to back you up to Carlo, just call. I don't know how much good I'll be, but I'll do my best.'

Clara nodded. Terry patted her on the shoulder, and left her to her work.

Was this going to be it for the rest of her working life? Helpless Clara being bullied and rattled by Gabriela until, inevitably, she got fired—then Terry would be all alone at the Debens Falcon, friendless. Maybe she'd eventually get fired to; that might be an improvement to her current situation.

Only one thing—one thing—at all exciting or special or out-of-the-ordinary had happened to her during her time working here. And Carlo wouldn't even believe that that happened. Lady Foltsini obviously hated her pupils, but she didn't realise how lucky she was—she had reached such dazzling heights, teaching at Coelis.

Then it hit her.

It was so simple, so brilliant, Terry couldn't believe she hadn't thought of it before. All she had to do was tell one little lie.

Her heart thumping, she pulled out her typewriter and began to tap:

Dear Madam,

I am pleased to inform you that the Debens Falcon will publish your article. There are, however, some conditions.

The editorial board decided that it would be best if you arranged for one reporter from our newspaper to attend Coelis for a year—preferably a younger reporter, who could pose as a student. This reporter would take on a false identity while attending the school. When I heard this, I volunteered myself, and they agreed.

Looking forward to working with you in the future,

Yours sincerely, etc,

Teresa di Jantsa

Was it too bold? Was the idea absolutely ridiculous? Maybe—but it was worth a try. The next question was how to get in contact with Lady Foltsini; she hadn't given an address. Terry, however, was bubbling with excitement. Finally, finally, she might be going somewhere.