by Larry Low
Even if she had dared surface a scant week after the incident, none of her fellow reporters would likely have recognized Lydia Avonhurst. If they had recognized her, they almost certainly would never have acknowledged her presence. They wouldn't have had to worry about being put on the spot. Degredation of her state of mind, triggered by stress and mortification, had driven her into seclusion. Lydia had suffered a double whammy. The office fracas coincided nicely with the onset of one of her dreaded morbid downers.
If she had attended the ritual weekly briefing, her radically altered persona would have served as an effective disguise guaranteeing nary a sideways glance. Besides, it would not have been politically correct for her to have dropped in on an event that she was no longer entitled to attend for she had formally given her resignation even though she knew that it was akin to signing her life away. Be that as it may, no one around the news desk possessed sufficient empathy to plumb the depths of her despair nor would they likely have noticed that she was a walking talking shell of her former self. When Lydia was in one of her down moods, those in the know went out of their way to steer clear, friend and foe alike, except for Allison of course who allowed her to be who she was at the time, one of the most challenging forms of love.
Failing to fathom her misery, her colleagues would shun her as if she were a carrier of some dastardly disease. The question of her presence was no longer an issue. She was clearly no longer welcome at World News because the imbroglio was considered to have been of her doing. She and her father had become emboiled in critical circumstances that foreshadowed precarious portents for World News. As if that was not enough, the demise of her ill-fated romance with George Tinkerbelle was to all extents and purposes, coincidental but even more than that it was concomitant. It did, however serve as icing on the cake. It could be said to have been the straw that broke the camel's back. When Lydia fell into one of her down moods, she began to think in cliches. Overblown prose had a numbing effect on her writer's soul. Numbness, an anaesthetic for her soul was what she needed but it wreaked havoc with her ability to produce.
Lydia was in the habit of keeping her down moments deeply dark. In their cozy pied a terre, closer to St. James Park than to Fleet Street, she shared exaggerated misgivings with Allison, who was more than a mere flat-mate. She was dearer than a sister, for she kept Lydia on track whenever she threatened to derail. When Lydia faltered Allison was always there to pick up the reins no matter how rocky the road. She monitored Lydia's schedule which invariably went awry when her down period started. The only notice Lydia took of time passing were periodic deadlines set by Allison.
Beneath a bowl of nicely sliced and sugared fresh strawberries, Allison had left a note reminding Lydia that her first article for her new employer was due at four o'clock. With zero hour fast approaching, she hadn't managed to write a single solitary word of finished copy even though her wastepaper basket overflowed with a plethora of first drafts that had gone nowhere. Experts on depression say that the manic-depressive disorder is often associated with artistic accomplishment. Lydia was in no state to argue but she was of a mind that the experts were somewhat misinformed. She allowed a sour smile to broaden ever so slightly as she asked herself a question. Who the heck is an expert anyway? When it comes to down and dirty mood swings, I am much better qualified than pontificating academic onlookers. At the very least, she did embrace the concept that when she was in one of her down phases as she perferred to call them, she couldn't write a word that satisfied either herself or anyone else. While she was in one of these moods, nothing in this world could be found that would in the slightest please her.
As if that wasn't bad enough, Tinkerbelle kept surfacing. She allowed herself to be led into second thoughts leading to endless regret. It wasn't as if she craved agony but then again, perhaps she believed that in her soul of souls that she merited it. The break up was not the worst of it. It was the realization that all of their plans and the promises that they had made to one another would not likely come true. It was as if she realized that the wonders of Cinderella were all a sham. Even though Lydia had, for the moment, lost interest in George, she did miss the possibilities he presented.
It wasn't as if her father had refused to allow her to marry George. Anyone who was an insider knew that George was a minority shareholder in World News, who wielded the swing vote. Daddy's permission was the least of the couple's worries. Besides, they were financially independent adults and would not need anyone's okay to marry. Rather it was Lydia's desire to bail that had caused shock and consternation on both sides.