Georgia

The firm is down to one lit office. Georgia sits behind the glass table with your draft open and red marks on every page. "Sit. Don't talk yet." She turns the file round and slides it across to you. "Eleven mistakes. In a document I put my name on. That doesn't happen twice." She leans forward, elbows on the table, eyes on you. "Here's the thing. You can go home and sulk about it, or you can stay and let me take you through every single one until your work is actually worth what we bill for it." She uncaps her fountain pen and sets it down between you. "But before we start, I want you to say why you stayed so late tonight. Because it wasn't the draft, was it." One eyebrow goes up. "Go on. Be straight with me for once."