Commute - Camp NaNoWriMo April 2015

Chapter Two - The Beginning of the Project

"And you are...?" 

The receptionist at 79 Charleston Road peers up at me. It's only half past eight and she looks bored already. She's blonde, but her brown roots are showing. Maybe she thinks it's cool or something. 

"Maya, Maya McKenna." I look down at the piece of paper in my hand. "The new Junior London Journalist." 

"Ah, yes." Her face clears. "Miss French will see you in her office and brief you." She gestures to the door to the right of her desk. I notice her nails are neon pink. I hover for a moment, and she snaps, "Now if you'll excuse me, I'm kinda busy...?" 

"Okay. Thank you."  

I head through the door entitled Miranda French, French Weekly. Deep breaths, Maya. Don't rip her head off. 

"Good morning, Miss McKenna." 

She's blonde, and she's got a better job than her receptionist, that's for sure. It might even be natural... no, it's too perfect for that. She looks about thirty-five, maybe forty, but there's an aura about her that just screams BOSS! 

I nod weakly at her, and sink into a chair opposite her desk. 

"Now then. First of all, welcome to French Weekly! I hope you'll have a lovely time while you are employed here!" 

She makes it sound like a hotel. I can just smell all those exclamation marks in the speech that she probably wrote three years ago when she was promoted to head of the company. I wonder how many newbies she's rolled off this spiel to with those sparkling white teeth of hers. She could be in a toothpaste advert, definitely. 

"Thank you, Miss French." 

She ignores me, and rushes on. I'm guessing interruptions aren't on the agenda. 

"You'll be working alongside Mr Clifford, our London research journalist. And, remember, Miss McKenna... this is an important job. French Weekly is based in London, and it's up to you - and Mr Clifford, of course - to document what is happening. You are young, Miss McKenna, but I have faith in you. I'll be keeping an eye on you, just in case."

"Yes, Miss French," I promise, and smile. She shoos me out of her office. 

I'm back in the reception area. Little Miss Snarky, the blondie receptionist, is applying another coat of polish to her manicured nails, and I grimace slightly. "Excuse me? Could you tell me where Mr Clifford's office is?"

She looks at me like I'm an idiot (when I get that look, it usually means I am being an idiot) and gestures to the door on her left, clearly marked 'Mr Clifford'. I shrink in embarrassment. "Ah. Thank you." 

I am determined not to enter the reception area until the end of time... or, at least, until Little Miss Snarky has finished her shift. 

My first impression of Mr Clifford is businessman. He looks like he could be controlling quite a wide empire, and I can't think how Miranda French came to employ him, not the other way around. But anyway, he is now my editorial boss, and I'm not questioning his authority. 

"Good morning, Miss McKenna. You are my new junior London journalist, yes?" 

"Yes, Mr Clifford," I say. 

"Good. Now - oh, do sit down, Miss McKenna." 

I sit down uncomfortably on a wooden chair and wiggle around, trying not to look like a total dork. I fail miserably. 

"Are you comfortable, Miss McKenna? Would you like me to ask Audrey to fetch you a cushion?" 

Audrey. Of course, Little Miss Snarky is called Audrey. I can imagine how kindly she'd take to having to fetch me a cushion.

"Oh, no, sir, I'm quite comfortable." 

"Glad to hear it. Now then, Miss McKenna, we have to discuss what you'll be working on. London is quite a big city, is it not? Most of French Weekly's readers are Londoners. Our job together, Miss McKenna, is to capture the real essence of London. What makes London so London-y. Do you think we can do that, Miss McKenna?"

"Certainly," I say, trying to keep still on my chair. It's digging uncomfortably into my back.

"Are you sure you're quite focused, Miss McKenna?" 

"Very. I've never been more focused on anything in my life." 

"Good. Anyway, my job is to look at the people who live in London. The ones who spend all their time there, who live right in the middle of London, all the way to the outskirts. But that only makes up about half of London. The other half are the people who come in every day. These are the tourists, and of course, the commuters. We need to focus on them as well. Look into their lives, what they do, why they're coming. We want to know all their little stories. As I'm sure you know, Miss McKenna, this year we have employed two junior London journalists. You are the second. I have already briefed Miss Finley, who arrived earlier, and she chose to focus on the tourists, so you will be focusing on the commuters. Are you clear with me?" 

I groan inwardly. Tourists are so much easier to deal with. Commuters don't want to be bothered with. They're focused on getting to work on time. They don't want to be disturbed, like Earphones Girl on the train this morning. 

"Yes, Mr Clifford." 

"Glad to hear it. So, by the end of February, Miss McKenna, I am expecting a full-on article. Imagine it being our main spread. Four or five pages, all about London's commuters. Make sure they're all ages, mind. Don't just focus on one age group. I want schoolchildren to old men. We want different sides to this story. Why are they commuting? What are their jobs, what do they do? Who are their families? Why don't they live in London? The end of February, Miss McKenna, the end of February. Understood?" 

"Yes, Mr Clifford." 

And so it started. Project Commute. I had to find a bunch of willing commuters who would tell me every detail about their lives. 

And where better to start than Carriage C, seven o'clock to London from Coxbury Station?