‘That’s what we wanted to discuss,’ said Douglas, not looking impressed. ‘Denton is worried that costs are spiralling . . .’
‘I was asked to sign off a twenty-thousand-pound order for flowers,’ said Denton over the top of his glasses. ‘Fifteen thousand for laser-cut invitations, the same amount again for a vodka luge. This is not the court of Louis XIV, Amy.’
‘Just the last days of Rome,’ she muttered.
‘You are one of the most experienced editors in the group,’ said Douglas with more grace. ‘We need you at the heart of our team that strategises new revenue streams for the companies. But right now, a fashion party that’s going to cost a million pounds sounds like part of the problem rather than a solution.’
Amy was determined to hold her ground. She knew she was a golden girl at Genesis Media. Three editors at the company had been fired in the past eighteen months, but she wasn’t worried about her position just yet. She was confident that in the new round of ABCs – the industry’s much-watched circulation figures – Verve would demonstrate steady numbers, and in the current climate that was the best you could hope for.
‘Douglas, the gala is about positioning and perception. As you know, that’s everything in the fashion world. We want to look confident. We want to send a message to the world that we are investing in Verve. That’s how we shore up the ad dollars, that’s how we get seven-figure sponsorship deals. Already we’ve got the CEOs of three banks, and almost every major fashion house confirmed to attend.’
‘Some people will do anything for a free lunch,’ said Denton.
‘Do you think something tangible will come out of it?’ asked Douglas in quiet challenge.
‘If we don’t see an immediate uplift in advertising volume and yield, I’ll eat my Prada hat,’ she said, trying to lighten the tone.
Douglas had the courtesy to smile. ‘Very well. Keep me in the loop, all right? This has got to work.’ He glanced at his watch, indicating that the meeting was over.
Amy scooped up her notebook and said her goodbyes. She looked down and noticed that her hands were trembling a little. As she approached the lift, the door pinged open and Juliet James, editor of Living Style magazine, stepped out.
‘Next up?’ said Amy, attempting a smile.
Her best friend rolled her grey eyes. The two women had known each other for over twenty years and could communicate without even speaking. Juliet was generally unflappable, but Amy could tell that she was dreading her meeting too.
‘How is he?’ she asked in her refined husky drawl.
‘Denton Scoles is in there. And he has spreadsheets.’
‘Oh God,’ Juliet replied, closing her eyes in mock horror. ‘Tell me you’re up for a liquid lunch as soon as I’m out.’
‘Can’t,’ said Amy. ‘Not today.’
‘You blew me out last Friday, you callous bitch,’ Juliet said theatrically.
‘I’m meeting an old friend from school. I haven’t seen her in about fifteen years and she’s hardly ever in London, so I’ve got to go. In fact, you know her. My friend Karen from home? Karen Price. She used to come and stay at the house in Holywell Street sometimes.’
Something passed over Juliet’s face.
Amy had forgotten that Juliet disapproved of Karen. Juliet was from a hunt-ball public-school background and would be the first to admit that she had been an outrageous snob at uni. Karen hadn’t been the ‘right sort’; but then neither had Amy.
‘Of course: Karen,’ said Juliet. ‘What’s she doing now?’
Amy shrugged. ‘It’s been so long since we caught up, I’ve got no idea. But I’ll fill you in on Sunday.’
‘Give her my love.’
Amy left the building and went out onto the street. Sometimes she felt like a shark; that she had to keep moving or else she would cease to exist. She had completely forgotten about her lunch date with her old school friend until her assistant had reminded her earlier, and it was very tempting just to cancel it. But although she had no ties to her home town any more, she and Karen had once been close – as close as sisters – and nostalgia and a pinch of curiosity made her keep it.
The tower was on the South Bank, wedged between Tate Modern and the London Eye, once an abandoned wasteland of wharves and warehouses, now transformed into a buzzing media enclave. A newspaper, a TV studio and a theatre were all within a stone’s throw of each other, which of course attracted a rash of restaurants – Mexican, Lebanese, Thai street food – plus the kind of bars that flattered editors and producers into feeling young and edgy. People milled about; the media set in suits with open-necked shirts, or summer dresses and ballet flats, mingling with well-informed tourists, students, cycle couriers and buskers. Amy wove between them towards Tanjerin, a Japanese restaurant, pushing inside.
Of all the restaurants in London, Tanjerin was still her favourite. She had been eating here regularly ever since it opened, partly for their melt-in-the-mouth California rolls, but also because it was rare to see anyone from the magazine world in here. It was dark and cramped; not the sort of place to be seen, which was anathema to the media set. It was the sort of place she could come alone and not be noticed.
‘Your friend is already here,’ said Charlie, the maître d’. Amy looked around expectantly, her smile of anticipation slowly turning to a frown. Where? Where was her friend? A couple leaned across a table for two, hands touching, amongst groups of Japanese businessmen and an assortment of hipsters. And then she saw her.
‘Karen,’ she said, trying not to let it sound like a question. She hadn’t seen her at first because, stupidly, she had expected her to look exactly the same as she had in 1995. The woman stood; of course it was Karen. Older, heavier – obviously; it had been over a decade – but Amy recognised the way she held herself, the shape of her neck, the slightly puzzled smile. ‘So good to see you,’ she said, stepping forward and embracing her. ‘It’s been, what?’
‘Fifteen years,’ said Karen. ‘You’re looking good, Ames.’
Ames. No one had called her that since she had stepped onto the train at Bristol Temple Meads station heading for university. It sounded odd, alien. But also somehow reassuring.
‘You’re looking great too,’ she said. It was the polite thing to say, a very English reflex. But in truth Karen looked old. Of course no amount of wheatgerm or Pilates could stop the march of time, but her skin was pale and lined, sagging under the eyes, and she had put on weight, the fat pooling around her neck.
‘So what are you doing in London?’ asked Amy, taking a menu from the waitress.
‘Here to see a show. Wicked.’ Karen grinned.
Amy didn’t know if she meant the musical or if it was an expression of excitement.
‘One of the girls at work won tickets in a competition, so we thought we’d make a weekend of it,’ Karen continued. ‘Four of us have come down. We’re staying in the Royal Hotel, right near Oxford Street.’ She said it like she was describing the Taj Mahal. ‘That’s where the others are now, emptying out Topshop I shouldn’t wonder.’
The waitress was hovering with her order pad. They liked a quick turnaround at Tanjerin – another reason why Amy had chosen it.
‘Bloody hell, this might as well be in Greek,’ said Karen, looking up from her menu. ‘What’s unagi?’
‘Freshwater eel. It’s good.’
‘Eel? Urgh,’ said Karen, wincing.
Amy searched the menu for something her friend might like. She came so often to Tanjerin, she hadn’t stopped to think that its food was a little too directional for many people’s tastes.
She ordered a selection of rolls for both of them, and a bottle of San Pellegrino. Then, seeing the disappointment on Karen’s face, she held up a hand. ‘What the hell, why not? One glass of wine can’t hurt, can it?’
‘Never remember having to talk you into drinking before, Ames,’ sai
d Karen. ‘You were always the one ordering the shots in the Dragon. Do you remember that night we did all that tequila, then went skinny-dipping in the canal?’
Amy burst out laughing. ‘God, yes! Wasn’t Jenny there too?’
‘And Cookie, that lad she was seeing. Getting a right eyeful he was, thought his luck was in until you stole his shoes.’
‘Did I?’
Karen laughed too, and for a moment she looked exactly as Amy remembered her: the lopsided smile, the sparkle in her eyes. Back when they’d both had their lives in front of them.
‘Don’t you remember? You called him a pervert and threw his trainers over a fence so he couldn’t follow us, then we ran back to Jen’s.’
Amy shook her head. She genuinely hadn’t thought of those times for years. It felt like someone was recalling a movie she’d watched and dimly recalled, instead of her own life.
‘So come on,’ she said. ‘Tell me everything. Are you still living on the estate?’
‘God, no, I moved out to Potts Field about ten years ago.’
‘Nice,’ said Amy honestly. Potts Field was definitely a step up from Westmead, the tough pocket of the city where they had grown up.
Karen shrugged. ‘It’s okay, I suppose.’
‘And you’re working at a . . . shop?’
‘A florists to you.’
‘Not Mr Jones still?’
Karen gave a half-smile. ‘Same place, but Mr Jones moved back to Wales years ago. It’s called the Rose Yard now, it’s like a chain? There are loads of them all around.’
The waitress returned with two glasses of Chardonnay, and Amy held up her glass in a toast. ‘Here’s to . . . the Dragon.’ She smiled.
‘Although it’s a carpet shop now,’ Karen replied, clinking her glass against her friend’s.
A silence rippled between them.
‘How’s Tilly?’
Amy was surprised that Karen had remembered her daughter’s name.
‘I can’t believe she’s almost finished her first year at school. She starts Year One in September.’
‘It goes quickly,’ said Karen with a smile. ‘Remember, children are just lent to you.’
‘And how’s Josie?’ asked Amy finally. She said it brightly, as if it was just another idle query, but this was the thing she had been dreading. Josie was Karen’s daughter, but she was also the elephant in the room, the real reason Karen and Amy hadn’t seen each other for years.
In Amy’s first year at Oxford Brookes, Karen had come to visit and things had been just as they had always been. They had gone drinking, clubbing, having a scream: best friends for ever, as the kids said nowadays. By her second year, they were starting to lose touch. Karen had a boyfriend, Lee, and she came less often; the letters arrived only sporadically. They both promised nothing would change, but it did, of course it did. Amy was experimenting with new friends, new ideas, trying on different clothes and skins. In hindsight, she supposed Karen was struggling to cope. Money, family, the isolation, it was all there between the lines, but Amy had her own concerns. She had essays to write, study groups, a string of exciting new boyfriends. The summer she had graduated, Karen had fallen pregnant with Josie and everything changed for ever. Amy moved to London, and Karen just got on with it, she supposed, and although they had seen each other a couple of times in those first few years, soon Amy found herself slipping in and out of Bristol on her flying visits to see her parents, without even telling Karen she was coming. Perhaps they would have drifted apart anyway, but they had both seen Josie as the deal-breaker, the not-so-invisible barrier that came between them, an excuse to cut the ties that had seemed so tight back on the estate.
‘She’s doing okay.’ Karen shrugged.
Amy frowned. ‘Is there . . . is she all right?’
‘She’s fine. Just struggling to get off the ground since uni.’
‘She went to uni? I didn’t know that. Where did she go?’
‘Brighton. English and media studies, got a 2:1.’
‘Bright girl.’
‘I’m so proud of her, but you know what it’s like these days. They end up with a zillion pounds of debt, then can’t get a job. And there’s nothing happening in Potts Field.’
‘What does she want to do?’
‘She wants to be you, of course.’
Amy was taken aback. ‘Me?’
Karen laughed. ‘You should see your face, like it’s a crazy idea. Look at your life: brilliant job, going to parties, flying all over the world. Honestly, Ames, you’ve done amazing. And there’s me at the florists.’
‘You’ve done fine, Karen. And you’ve obviously raised a pretty special girl.’
‘I just hope university hasn’t gone to waste. She must have sent out two hundred CVs, but she just can’t get a foot in the door. Still, I’m sure it was the same when you started.’
Amy didn’t meet her gaze. It hadn’t been like that for her at all. An evening job in an Oxford student pub, The Bear, had changed everything for her. Although she was studying at Oxford Brookes, working at the Bear put her in the orbit of students from the older, grander Oxford University. Her friend behind the bar, Pog, was studying at Lincoln College, and when a room came up in his city-centre house share, he asked her if she wanted it. At once, a world of connection and privilege opened up to her. Getting her foot in the door at one of London’s magazine houses wasn’t difficult at all when you knew who to call.
‘Why doesn’t she come and do some work at Verve?’ she said without even thinking.
Karen’s face lit up. ‘Are you serious?’
‘We’re not recruiting at the moment, so it would only be work experience. She’d basically be there to get coffee and, if she’s lucky, do some photocopying, but she’ll get a sense of the way it all works and it’ll look good on her CV.’
Karen’s mouth was open. ‘That would be amazing, Ames! Josie will be over the moon.’
‘We can’t pay her or anything, and it’ll only be a week.’
‘Anything, anything at all. It will mean the world to her.’
It was a moment before Amy realised her old friend was crying.
‘Karen, what’s the matter?’
‘Sorry, sorry. It’s just . . . it’s been so hard. Josie’s the light of my life, but it’s been tough. God, you have no idea. And being on my own, money being tight, I’ve . . . But if I can just get her started, get her standing on her own two feet, I’ll feel it’s been worth it.’
Amy leaned over the table towards her. ‘I should have been a better friend.’
‘You had your own life to live.’
‘I could have done more. I should have paid more attention – to both of you.’
Karen shook her head. ‘Do you remember that summer we went to north Wales? Hitched to Anglesey?’
Amy smiled. ‘How could I forget? We drank half the booze in Wales.’
‘Well, do you remember sitting on that clifftop?’
Amy nodded. It was one of the few clear memories she had of those times, one of those perfect days that only happen when you’re a teenager. Cider, friendship, boys, open spaces, possibility.
‘We were staring out to sea, watching the gulls, and you said, “One day I’m going to open my arms and fly across that bloody sea. I’m going to go to America and Japan and Australia and I’m going to have everything we’ve ever dreamed of.”’
‘Did I say that?’
Karen nodded. ‘And that’s what I want for Josie. I want her to spread her wings. I want her to see the world, do all the things and have all the opportunities that you’ve had. I guess what I’m saying is that it’s not just Josie who wants to be Amy Shepherd when she grows up. I want my daughter to be just like you too.’
Chapter 2
Marion’s Brasserie had only been open three months, but it was about as hot a
s it was possible for a restaurant to get. Even before the chic Notting Hill diner had opened, people were talking about Marion’s as ‘the new River Café’. There had been a feature in Vogue, mentions in the society pages, whispers about the ultra-secret booking line only open to insiders. It didn’t hurt that owner-chef Pierre Hubert was already a celebrity in his own right, having made his name in the notoriously picky gastro scene of the French south; hence his much-heralded debut in the Smoke had seen the paps camped outside Marion’s like shoppers anticipating the Boxing Day sales.
Amy, David and their daughter Tilly walked straight past a group of anxious would-be diners hovering at the front door hoping for a cancellation, and were shown to a long table at the far end of the restaurant.
‘Better late than never,’ said an attractive brunette, getting to her feet.
‘Sorry, sorry. Tilly couldn’t decide which tutu to wear.’
‘Blue,’ said Claire Quinn thoughtfully. ‘Very Elsa. Very Frozen,’ she said as Tilly squealed with delight.
Juliet James and her husband Peter were already sitting nursing bloody Marys.
‘Where’s Max?’ asked David, sitting down next to Juliet.
‘Table-hopping,’ said Juliet, skewering an olive.
‘Lucky lady of the moment, Kate Kennedy,’ smiled Peter, gesturing over to their friend.
‘The MP?’
Peter nodded.
Peter James was nice enough, but he was what they used to call a stiff: boring, conventional. He even looked the part: tall and thin and very upright. Amy always thought of him as ‘the Grey Man’. He was yin to Juliet’s yang. While Juliet was acerbic, knowing, switched on, Peter seemed to live in a bygone age of clubs and dinner parties and country houses. There was no doubt the two of them shared common ground in that they both thrived in the upper echelons, though Juliet liked to mix with the new elite – Old Etonian actors and entrepreneurs – while Peter preferred the fox hunters and art collectors, people who spoke about their great-great-grandfathers as if they were still running India. Amy doubted he had done anything unusual or unexpected in his life.
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