Friend of the Family

by Tasmina Perry

Chapter 26

  Amy pushed her hands into her pockets and stepped out onto the street, unable even to raise a smile for the bellboy who held open the door as she left.

  In a city of ten million people she had never felt more alone. She was barely speaking to her husband, and now her best friend had every right to cut her out of her life completely.

  Josie. It all came back to that girl. Her influence was creeping everywhere, like poison ivy taking over a country garden, twisting its roots around flowers and trees, choking, suffocating, infecting.

  Juliet had had a point when she said that Amy wanted to lash out. True, she didn’t want her friend to feel foolish if it came out about Peter’s affair; after all, she would hate to think that Claire, Max or Juliet knew something about David’s private life and were whispering sympathetically behind her back but not telling her about it. But there was also a little part of Amy that didn’t want to be alone in her marital suffering. Telling Juliet about Peter had been a way of offloading her own troubles, as if sharing them with her friend might make it a little less painful.

  She quickened her pace, wanting to get back to her own hotel, where the minibar was waiting. She hated drinking alone, but she needed to block out her pain and frustration somehow.

  It was a few moments before she recognised the man coming out of the St Regis, the smart hotel on the corner of Park Avenue.

  Marvin Schultz was a legend in magazine publishing, rarely seen but much whispered about in the corridors of Genesis. The son of the original founder, and the current CEO, he’d launched half of the glossies you saw pinned to the outside of Manhattan street-corner newsagents, and acquired half a dozen more ailing vintage titles that he’d brought back to life with hand-picked editors and millions of dollars’ worth of investment.

  Amy had met him only once, at the company’s fiftieth anniversary party, shortly after she had got the Verve editorship. Marv, as he was affectionately known, didn’t do social lunches, certainly not with editors from the satellite territories, although she’d received the odd missive from New York: handwritten notes that commended particularly good covers or features that garnered buzz.

  The root of an idea began to take hold, and she quickened her pace without thinking to stop and wonder if what she was about to do was wise. Marv was on his phone, but it was clearly his driver waiting for him on the busy street. He was only feet away now, and Amy knew she had just seconds to strike, seconds to try and claw back her dream job.

  Her heart was pounding. She was not naturally very assertive. When she had first arrived in London and realised she would need more push and polish to get on in the glamorous and judgemental world of magazine publishing, she had hung a framed picture in her flat that said ‘Feel the fear and do it anyway’. It was schmaltzy and American, but those words had served her well, helped chip away at her insecurities and boost her self-worth.

  When he ended his call, she made her move. ‘Mr Schultz? Amy Shepherd. I’m the editor of Verve magazine in London.’

  He looked momentarily surprised, but then extended his hand. ‘Of course. Amy, how are you?’ She wasn’t sure if he recognised her, but he had the good grace to be the epitome of charm.

  ‘I’m fine, thank you. I’m in New York for the shows.’

  ‘Have fun. I hear Ralph Lauren’s is going to be on the High Line.’

  His driver opened the car door.

  ‘So, à bientôt.’

  ‘Actually, I was wondering if we could have a word. About Mode.’

  ‘What about it?’ He gave a small smile, toying with her. He was old, but he wasn’t stupid. Far from it. ‘I’m going as far as 75th Street. If you’re heading to that part of town, how about I give you a lift and you can tell me what’s on your mind.’

  Amy hopped in, grateful.

  ‘Where to?’ asked the driver, starting the engine.

  She couldn’t face telling him that her own hotel was less than fifty yards away. Besides, that wouldn’t be long enough to say what she had to say.

  ‘I’ll get out where you’re going,’ she said.

  ‘We met once before, am I right?’ said Marv, taking a seat beside her. ‘Genesis dinner at the Savoy, maybe three years ago?’

  Amy nodded gratefully. ‘I didn’t think you’d remember.’

  ‘We spoke about how the internet was killing journalism, right?’

  Amy found herself blushing. ‘Yes, it’s a bugbear of mine.’

  Marv nodded. ‘I thought at the time, she’s smart. Wrong, but smart.’

  ‘Wrong?’

  ‘Oh, I agree with you that we need some way of funding long-term investigative journalism, if only to hold government or wrinkly old media moguls like me to account. But I disagree that the internet is killing magazines.’

  Amy raised her eyebrows. ‘You mean we’re killing ourselves?’

  Marv smiled. ‘See? I was right, you’re smart.’

  ‘Mr Schultz, this is exactly what I wanted to talk about. I’m applying for the Mode editor’s job in London and I had a preliminary chat with Douglas Proctor. But I wasn’t honest with him about what I thought the magazine needed. I talked about SEO and e-retailing, Snapchat and corporate partnerships. What I didn’t talk about was the magazine itself. Mode hasn’t just lost its way. It’s stuck in its ways. It’s dull and predictable. There are no surprises any more, the interviews are bland, and PR-regulated fashion shoots are there to please the advertisers not the readers. Everything feels like a curated advertorial. Where’s the wit and the wonder, the fun and the fabulousness? We need to go back to the beginning and remember why people got excited and passionate about magazines in the first place, not spend all our time thinking about the method of distribution. We’ve all become too distracted by that. Too distracted by the future of digital, rather than thinking about legacy.’

  ‘So what are you saying? That Mode, our flagship title, stinks?’

  It was time to throw her chips in.

  ‘I’m saying if you make a shitty product, don’t be surprised when no one wants it.’

  She turned to face him more directly, glad that the back seat was expansive so she had some room to move.

  ‘If magazines were giving people what they wanted, people would still buy them. As it is, what is the point of throwing resources at digital and events when our core brand, our magazine, is the weakest thing about us?’

  ‘Old-fashioned thinking, Amy.’

  She wasn’t going to back down. ‘Old-fashioned maybe, but I believe it’s the future. Right now, one magazine does a party page, everyone has to have a party page. Some website has a million hits from pictures of celebrities falling over in the street, suddenly every magazine copies it. Nothing’s new, nothing’s original or confident or bold. It’s no wonder people are going to the internet instead. They will carry on doing so until we make our magazines amazing again. And when we do, people will want to buy into the brand in every form. We can sell them clothes off the page, turn features into TV or web shows, get them to come to our events. Not to mention ads and sponsorship.’ She held up a finger. ‘But that only works if you get the core product – the magazine – right.’

  ‘And I happen to agree with you.’

  ‘You do?’ she said, eyes wide.

  He nodded. The car had stopped and he opened the door. ‘Daniel will give you a lift to wherever you want to go.’

  ‘I can put a world-class magazine together, Mr Schultz. Let me show you my vision.’ She tried to hide the desperation in her voice, but she knew it was the only way of getting her application back on track.

  ‘The only thing I want to see right now is my coffee machine,’ he said with a good-natured smile.

  Amy felt her heart sink.

  ‘But I am in Europe next week. Let me get my secretary to contact you and see what we can do.’

  Chapter 27

&n
bsp; In forty-eight hours in Manhattan, Amy had seen six shows, been to four parties, had lunch with Michael Kors and lost track of time in American Girl buying a doll for Tilly.

  She’d got hardly any sleep on the red-eye flight, but as the plane touched down at Heathrow, she realised how glad she was to be back, even if she was going straight into the office. Her conversation with Marv Schultz had made her feel as if she was back in control, even if it was at the wheel of a car with its brakes cut.

  She glanced at her watch as she dashed through customs, eyes peeled for the car that was going to take her into work. Waving at the driver holding a hand-written sign marked ‘Shepherd’, she pulled her mobile out of her pocket and called home, aware that it was 8.30 and Tilly would soon be off to school.

  Her heart jumped when her daughter answered the landline.

  ‘Tilly, honey. How are you?’ she said, a broad smile spreading across her face.

  ‘I can’t wait to see you, Mummy.’

  Amy laughed. ‘I’ve got you something nice from New York.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘You’ll find out tonight.’

  ‘What time are you coming home?’

  ‘I’ll get out of work early. Have you had fun with Daddy and Claudia?’

  ‘Yes. And with Josie too.’

  Amy’s hand clutched the handle of her wheelie case tighter.

  ‘Josie?’ she said more slowly.

  ‘She came to the house last night. She told me some jokes and brought me chocolate.’

  ‘Did she?’ She could barely get the words out.

  ‘Should I take that, miss?’ asked the driver, trying to pick up her case.

  ‘Tilly, what was Josie doing at the house?’

  ‘I don’t know. Claudia went home. Josie was talking to Daddy.’

  Amy’s head started to spin, and it wasn’t through jet lag or tiredness. She didn’t know how she got into the car, but she found herself sitting silently in the back seat, replaying Tilly’s words over and over again.

  She thought about calling David, but stopped herself. There would only be more lies. At least when she saw him face to face she would be able to read him better. Only then would she get a sense of why Josie had come round.

  ‘Can you drop me off outside the coffee shop,’ she said when they got to the South Bank.

  She ordered a black Americano and stood by the counter for a minute taking a few fortifying sips before she went into the Genesis offices. As she rode up in the lift, she stared at her own reflection in the mirrored walls, and for a moment she felt calm as if life was on pause for just one fleeting second.

  Focus on the job, she told herself as the lift pinged open. She hadn’t been able to keep a watchful eye on her husband when she had been in New York, but at least she had managed to salvage her career.

  As she stepped into the office, she could hear the low, industrious buzz of a team already deep into their week’s work. At least she had that to be thankful for: colleagues she trusted and who didn’t need the boss to be there to get the job done.

  ‘New issue,’ beamed Gemma, her art director, as she walked past the desk.

  Amy took a moment to admire it. The way her luck had been going recently, she wouldn’t have been surprised if the cover had come out blank, but it hadn’t; it was glossy and beautiful, Miranda Pilley’s face staring back at her with her direct grey-eyed gaze, the primrose-yellow gown she had worn on the day of the shoot softened so that she looked as though she was draped in an ivory cloud: every inch the blushing bride-to-be.

  ‘This is stunning,’ Amy said. ‘It’s going to be our biggest seller of the year.’

  ‘Try the past five years. I went to Smith’s at Waterloo this morning and they’d already sold out.’

  Amy felt a flutter of excitement, the shock of Josie having been round to her house the night before fleetingly forgotten. She couldn’t remember the last time she had felt like this, giddy and energised. The past two years, spent firefighting one thing after another – poor sales, irate celebrities, budget cuts – had been enough to make her file for early retirement.

  ‘I’ll just take this through to my office,’ she said. ‘Chrissie, I would love a coffee.’

  She went into her room and closed the door behind her, leaving her wheelie case in the corner. Sitting at the desk, she began to flick through the pages. It was a good issue. Such a good issue, she thought with a sense of relief. And so well timed, after Miranda had officially announcd her engagement on Instagram two weeks earlier. Douglas Proctor, Denton Scoles, Marv Schultz – no one could deny it didn’t tick all the boxes. The Love Issue had been a last-minute idea but it was as if they had planned it from the get-go. The fashion was breezy and romantic; a hard-news story about an initiative in the Sudan to distribute microloans was topical but heartfelt. But most of all, everyone would be intrigued by what Miranda had to say about bad boy fiancé Leif Tappen. That was the only downside – she hadn’t actually said anything, although Liz Stewart’s piece had referenced their cloak-and-dagger relationship.

  Amy took a moment to wonder if her readers would feel short-changed, but then dismissed it. The pictures of Miranda on three double-page spreads were better than any indiscreet interview. It was inconceivable that a publicity-shy couple like Miranda and Leif would do a Hello!-style wedding shoot, but reading the October issue of Verve was like peeking behind a curtain, allowing people to imagine what the wedding would be like.

  There was a knock at her door and Amy looked up, expecting to see Chrissie with a mug of coffee. Instead, it was Tracey, her deputy.

  ‘I know you’ve just got in,’ she said, ‘but do you have a minute?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Amy, gesturing to the sofa.

  ‘Have you been on Twitter this morning?’

  ‘No,’ said Amy, laughing. ‘You know me and social media.’

  ‘You should,’ said Tracey seriously. ‘The Miranda Pilley interview is trending.’

  ‘That’s great. I was just about to come out and congratulate everyone on a terrific issue.’

  ‘I think you’d better take a look.’

  It was the top headline on Growler, one of the most popular internet gossip sites: ‘Miranda Hates Gays? Gay pride group slams model for “anti-gay propaganda”, while top feminists criticise her “prehistoric” views on marriage.’

  ‘What the hell? When did this happen?’

  ‘About an hour ago, as far as I can tell. It looks like some gay pressure group has got hold of an early copy of the interview and has chosen to take it out of context.’

  ‘Which bit?’

  Tracey read out the passage: ‘“I’m kind of a romantic when it comes to marriage. I love all that boy-meets-girl, love-at-first-sight stuff, one man and one woman together for the rest of their lives. It’s a nice idea.”’

  Amy frowned, confusion fighting with her rising panic. ‘I don’t understand, what’s anti-gay about that?’

  ‘This pressure group, the Pink Panthers, are taking the “one man and one woman” quote entirely out of context and saying that Miranda’s against gay relationships. They’re seizing on it to make a point about gay marriage still not being recognised in dozens of countries.’

  ‘But she wasn’t saying anything even close to that!’

  ‘I know that, you know that, but that’s not how the internet works. All anyone is going to see is the headline “Miranda Hates Gays”.’

  Amy felt her head begin to pound. ‘Can’t we do something? Put out a statement or something? Isn’t this what the lawyers are for?’

  ‘It’s already too late for that. Hundreds of other sites – even some of the newspapers – have jumped on it, so now it’s going viral. And the way it’s spinning, it looks like we’re complicit.’

  ‘What? What’s it got to do with us?’

  �
��Well, we’re running the story, not questioning the gay line, going on about how great marriage is.’

  ‘Her marriage, we’re happy for Miranda!’ cried Amy. ‘That’s all!’

  Tracey nodded. ‘I totally agree. But you know how social media can twist everything out of context.’

  Once Tracey had left, Amy picked up her phone and called Miranda’s manager, Karrie. Within the hour, Miranda had made a statement on Twitter clarifying her position, saying that she had championed same-sex marriage from the start, and apologising for any confusion. Verve.com posted a feature about the magazine’s favourite same-sex couples, whilst Amy took to her own barely used Twitter account to write a heartfelt and passionate post: ‘Let’s celebrate love, not use it to divide humanity. Let’s celebrate freedom of speech, not abuse it in the name of clickbait.’

  Never had 140 characters created such a storm in one afternoon.

  Radio 4, LBC, even CNN all got in touch to ask her views on whether journalism was in crisis, sacrificing the truthfulness of news to bolster web traffic and ad revenues.

  Amy gave one short interview warning media companies not to jettison trust and truth because of digital panic, and within fifteen minutes, her opinions were trending even higher than the original controversy.

  Whether it would be enough to stop Douglas Proctor coming on the war-path only time would tell.

  Chapter 28

  The Twitter storm died down as quickly as it had started. So much so that by mid-afternoon, the story had been relegated to a minor corner of the Daily Mail homepage and the anti-Miranda tweets had slowed to just a trickle. At the same time, WHSmith, McColl’s and supermarkets around the country were reporting that they had sold out of Verve’s October issue in less than a day.

  Tracey suggested nipping out to Tesco Express to get some champagne to celebrate, but the jet lag was setting in and Amy felt exhausted. She took a long swig of lukewarm coffee and reached for the Pret salad that had been waiting for her since lunchtime. She ripped open the box and picked at some avocado and crayfish, hoping it would revive her.