and bring in more revenue, and if we don’t then we can all kiss our jobs goodbye, and Two Gold Rings will be no more. Two advertisers have already pulled full-page ads from next month’s issue because they don’t want the association with us. Over twenty thousand people have RT-ed the screencaps of your argument that he posted. I have no doubt that more advertisers will pull out and more readers will go to pick up a copy and remember what they saw on Twitter and put it down again.’
‘I was only doing what I thought was right,’ I say, wondering just how much trouble I might be in here. The magazine is teetering on the edge of destruction, and I’ve made it worse. I should have just ignored R.C. Art – I know that – and now I’m, what, the ‘troublesome’ reporter? I feel sick. I’ve never been troublesome in my life.
‘I know.’ He pushes his hand through his curly grey hair with a sigh. ‘But I think that, given the circumstances, it might be a good idea if you just… weren’t here for a while.’
‘For a while…’ I repeat. ‘You’re suspending me?’
‘Oh, good Lord, no.’ He laughs. ‘And give you a paid holiday as a reward for dragging our name through the mud of the Twittersphere? No chance, especially now that we need all hands on deck to outdo The Man Land next month.’
‘What, then? Work from home?’
He rifles through his in-tray, suddenly looking positively gleeful. ‘Have you ever heard of Edelweiss Island?’
‘Like the song in The Sound of Music?’ I ask, feeling my ears perk up. ‘No, but it sounds nice. Should I have heard of it?’
‘It’s an island off the south coast of Britain, not far past the Isle of Wight. Calls itself The Little Wedding Island. It’s been a wedding venue for years now, but not a hugely popular one, until recently. A story has leaked about the church on the island – apparently no marriage that’s ever taken place there has ended in divorce. It sounds like a load of old codswallop to me, but people are talking about it, and the talk isn’t going away. Some of the major newspapers have sent journalists there but they’ve all come back empty-handed, so no one’s ever got to the bottom of it.’
‘Oh, that’s so romantic!’ I gasp in delight. ‘A church with no divorces! It must be the most amazing place.’
‘That’s exactly why you’re going there,’ Oliver says with a false grin that’s probably as wide as my genuine one. ‘I can’t be seen to be doing nothing in light of the nonsense on Twitter, Bonnie.’
‘So you’re exiling me?’
‘Only for a little while, and let’s not call it exile. Let’s call it “a sabbatical” with a job to do. Edelweiss Island is the story everyone wants and no one’s managed to get yet. If we get it, we’ll win the battle. This is literally life and death for Two Gold Rings. You don’t have to worry about being suspended or fired, because if you don’t get that article, there won’t be a job to lose by the summer.’
‘I still don’t understand how they can pit us against each other. Our readerships are a totally different demographic and we’ve already got the advantage because women buy more magazines than men.’
‘They don’t care. Hambridge wanted something to drum up public interest. It’s backfired. It’s not the massive boys versus girls publicity stunt they hoped for. Our market is too niche. People buy our magazine when they’re planning their wedding, they get married, and they stop buying it, whereas The Man Land cover everything from controversial news stories, fitness, and DIY projects to book, film, and game reviews. They cater for all types of men with all types of interests. We cater for a very specific group of women who lose interest once a specific date has passed. We’re actually at a disadvantage, which brings me back to Edelweiss Island. Everyone will read an article that really, truly gets to the bottom of these stories about the no-divorce church. Demographic, gender, what pretty wedding dress is on the cover all goes out the window. Getting it will wipe The Man Land out. It will give us respect within the industry no matter how poor our sales are. It will give you major attention with your name on the by-line. Everyone from the head honcho at Hambridge to household-name tabloids want this story. And you are going to Edelweiss Island to get it.’
My stomach ties itself in an even bigger knot than it’s been in since I saw his angry face waiting for me when I got off the elevator this morning. ‘What exactly do you want me to do there?’
‘According to my friend from a newspaper who’s been trying to get the vicar to do a phone interview to no avail, the locals are quite a tight-lipped bunch. You’d think they’d be keen to push this story about the church of no-divorces, but apparently it’s the opposite. With a bit of luck, they’ll be more open to a writer from a bridal magazine than they would to a reporter from a tabloid newspaper. I want you to go there and find out what’s going on. Is the story true? Has the church really never had a marriage that ended in divorce? How do they know? What exactly are the numbers? If it’s true, it could be that they’ve only had two or three weddings there, which doesn’t make it a difficult record to keep. Or is it just a story designed to drum up tourism?’
‘Aw, it must be true. They wouldn’t make that up, would they?’
‘They would if they were selling something. Apparently they offer package deals, like a wedding and honeymoon in one, and according to the only review on TripAdvisor that has since been taken down, you can get your wedding dress and your cake and stuff like that on the island, and they do a discount for getting it all in one place.’
‘It sounds perfect,’ I say, smiling at the thought.
‘It sounds like a business that’s failing,’ he says with a frown. ‘And whoever’s running the joint has invented this story to dredge up customers and increase tourism. You go there and find out if the no-divorce thing is true or not – if it’s real then you can write a lovely story about how romantic it is and our readers will lap it up, and if it’s fake, you can write an exposé about this scam island and we’ll be the first press to reveal the truth about it.’
‘It must be real. They wouldn’t make up something like that. There are records, I bet it could be checked out easily enough.’
‘Do it, then. Check everything out. And for God’s sake, bring me something that the other reporters haven’t been able to find out. Something real. And don’t come back until you’ve got something, either. I want the article on my desk in four weeks. No extensions.’
‘It sounds wonderful to me. I can’t think of a nicer place to be banished to.’
Oliver rolls his eyes and I’m sure the look he gives me is one of pity. ‘Well, I can’t think of anything worse than a whole island of weddings. It sounds tragic. Apparently there are loads of desperate women trying to get married there now, couples travelling from all over the world, convinced the church will somehow stop their marriage ending in divorce. And you had better make this article a good one, Bonnie. At least R.C. Art makes people care. Whether they care because they agree with him or because they vehemently disagree, people respond to him. Write me something that people will respond to, enough people to make copies of our magazine fly off the shelves. Think of how good it will feel when you can say you’re solely responsible for putting R.C. Art out of a job.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ve blocked the prat now,’ I say. ‘Believe me, if I never see, hear, or think about R.C. Art ever again, it’ll be too soon.’
When did everyone stop believing in love? That’s what I’m thinking about as I drive down to Lymington to catch the afternoon trip of the twice-daily boat to Edelweiss Island. Oliver, R.C. Art, and the thousands of people who follow him on Twitter and read his column every month, even the bloke at the petrol pump in front of me in the garage just now wearing a slogan T-shirt that said, ‘I’d give a toss, but my wife took them all in the divorce’.