I'm trying to be franker.

Would that make me more enemies in the long run? Probably. But it will also probably make it likely that things happen the way I want them to, when I want.

Maybe then, I will not have to get my hands dirty like I am right now.

I wonder if I should've gotten Alejandro before I came here. The release is in three hours, and though I won't personally be the one making the release - Oscar decided that my job was done after I had typed an entire script and figured he could swoop in today and be the hero. That's part of what's made me decide I need to be more candid. It's not that I was particularly looking forward to making releasing the statement - it's just that being tossed to the side after a lot of work and being haunted by the ghost of my conscience, I feel a little like a used condom.

That's a lie - I feel a lot like a used condom: cheap, disposable, used to catch men's waste.

It's just a gross feeling all around.

Patricia hasn't spoken to me unless it was related to work. At first it bothered me, but I guess it's fine if she doesn't want to be called out for her hypocrisy. I will stay out of her way if she stays out of mine.

Chatter fills the office, but it doesn't sound like it does on any other day. Maybe that's because today isn't any other day. Today is the day that tests how powerful the machine is against the people. Today determines just how much society is willing to believe a white man with tears and money. Today determines whether we get a salary for the next few months.

Safe to say we all - in a sick way - want everything to go smoothly.

I try Alejandro's phone again.

'Hola. Has llegado a Alejandro. Desafortunadamente, no puedo atender su llamada en este momento, pero puede dejarme un mensaje y me aseguraré de responderle lo más rápido que pueda. ¡Está bien, adiós!'

"Alejandro, where are you? I thought we'd agreed you'd be here? Should I come get you?"

"Elisabeth, we need you to confirm that CNN will still be sending a journalist so we know if we should reserve a seat for them or not," Rashad informs me from across the room. It's a miracle how humans are able to communicate even in the midst of earth-shattering chaos such as the one we're in right now! I raise a thumb to him to let him know I'll get to it.

I go to the press room to check whether the seating arrangement is as I'd asked for it to be.

Shouldn't I have a personal assistant?

I straighten out a few seats that were not properly aligned.

I wonder how Nandi feels about this whole release - this release that has been made such a spectacle of. NME wrote of it:

'Probably the event of the year, we all wait with bated breaths to see if The Press will be able to save themselves. They are known for running extremely successful campaigns for public figures like Johnny Depp, Piers Morgan and, most notably, Boris Johnson, who went on to win his bid for Prime Minister. These were some of the most controversial people in the last year, and we wonder if they can spin the same magic for themselves, or if they have run out of thread.'

Sometimes, it shocks me just how sensationalised news have to be in order to even sell, but I guess something has to wipe us off the face of the earth, and if that must be our ignorance, then so be it.

I look at the time. That's thirty minutes down. I try Alejandro's phone again:

'Hola. Has llegado a Alejandro. Desafortunadamente, no puedo atender su llamada en este momento, pero puede dejarme un mensaje y me aseguraré de responderle lo más rápido que pueda. ¡Está bien, adiós!'

"Hi, baby. I'm just checking if you're still coming. Please get back to me."

He's coming. He said to me that he was. Maybe he's just busy, and he'll show up at the last minute.

"Elisabeth, have you called the CNN reporter?"

"I'm on it; he's not picking up."

"Should I tell Mister Wright that there's a problem?"

"Rashad, I said I'm on it. Now please leave me alone!"

I go outside and run through my recent calls. I can't find that damned journalist's number!

GOOGLE

CNN number

It rings. Once. Twice. Thirty times.

"CNN news office, how may we help you?"

"Hi. You're speaking to Elisabeth Brown from The Press. I was wondering if your organisation has dispatched a journalist to join us for our press release?"

"Please hold while I ask from my seniors."

An irritating tune. I listen to it once. A second time. A third. A fourth. If I have to listen to it for a sixth time I will lie and say there's no one joining us from CNN. Just as I'm about to hang up, the girl comes back on the line:

"I've been told that we have sent someone. We sent John Cunningham. Has the event started?"

"No. We just needed to know if we had to reserve a seat for him."

"Okay, well thank you for calling."

"Sure."

You know that feeling when you know that someone will not do what they said they'd do for you? It's not disappointment; it's just a very cool emotion that you settle into when you know that you're being screwed over.

I try Alejandro's number again:

'Hola. Has llegado a Alejandro. Desafortunadamente, no puedo atender su llamada en este momento, pero puede dejarme un mensaje-'

I throw the phone to the floor. That feeling that I just described, I feel myself settle into it as I try to force myself to focus on the important things. I know Alejandro will not show. I just know it.

I walk back into the lobby. Maybe I should just go get him - see how he tries to get out of this entire thing then? Maybe I shouldn't. I mean, it would be exciting to see him try to explain it all away.

"Is the CNN journalist going to make it?" Oscar pipes up from behind me. I jump.

"Mister Wright! You scared me!" I exclaim with a smile - a nervous smile. He doesn't smile back. "The CNN has sent a John Cunningham, yes."

He clicks his tongue. "Next time, try and be effective at your job: I can't be chasing after some PR girl, okay?"

Next time, try fucking someone your own age.

I nod. He leaves.

I knew I wouldn't like this fellow on the first day that I met him - something in my gut just told me. I wish I had listened to that part of me.

Well, Alejandro won't make it.

There she goes - telling me that I need to do something. I'll be damned if I don't listen to her again. Walking all the way to my Beetle, I ignite the engine as soon as I step inside. The drive from the business district into West Brompton isn't great. I'm grateful for that.

I ask the mature receptionist at the hotel to let me up to Alejandro's hotel.

"Sure thing, Ma'am," he starts, his speech generously slow yet still mocking. "Have you made a booking?"

"He won't answer his phone."

Lull.

"Can we not come to an agreement - I'm his girlfriend," I plead.

"I'm sorry," he continues in his leisurely speech. "I'm afraid that isn't how we work here, but I do wish you luck in reaching Mister García."

I try his phone again.

'Hola. Has llegado a Alejandro. Desafortunadamente, no puedo-'

I thank the receptionist as I start making my way back to my car. The worst part of all this is that this always happened to me when I was younger. I finally decided to let my guard down and trust a man after years of letting myself do whatever I wanted, and this is what happens. I knew I shouldn't have trusted a man. I remember distinctly at the stadium the feeling that I was setting myself up for failure by trusting a man - and now I've just proved myself right, yet again!

When do I ever catch a break?