by Lindsey Kelk
Leaving her laptop and the rest of the sugary pastry on the table, Megan bolted for the door just as Cici appeared, long blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail and, for some reason, heavy-framed black glasses on her face. She turned her nose up as Megan ran by, slipped into the meeting room and closed the door behind her.
‘Why are you wearing glasses?’ I asked as she took Megan’s seat, pushing her colleague’s computer and breakfast into the middle of the table.
‘I’ve worn them before,’ she said, turning her phone to silent. ‘I wear glasses.’
She definitely hadn’t, and she definitely didn’t, but I didn’t have the time or the energy to investigate Cici’s weirdness today.
‘Hey guys, can we get started?’ I waved to the team assembled round the table. ‘Lots to get through.’
I was proud of my magazine. I’d come up with the idea for Gloss with the help of my friends – a cool, fun weekly magazine we gave away for free across New York City, and after five years of my literal blood, sweat and tears, it was now a real, live actual thing that was distributed all across America. Not bad for a British girl who had arrived in Manhattan with a weekend bag, a credit card, and no bloody idea what she was doing. Every time I saw someone reading it on the subway, I felt myself smiling – even if the celebrity on the cover had been an absolute nightmare, even if getting it to print on time had taken years off my life, it was still a kick. Gloss really was my baby, and like the parents of most five-year-olds, I’d lost more than one night’s sleep over it. But like almost all the parents of most five-year-olds, I wouldn’t have changed it for anything. I loved the team, they were all hardworking, dedicated, and while I wasn’t about to offer any of them a kidney for shits and giggles, they made me love coming to work every day.
‘First, I want to say how brilliant this week’s issue is looking – loving your work, people.’ I paused so they could all clap themselves and smiled while I silently wondered whether or not people applauded their own achievements in British magazine offices. ‘Next, the Channing Tatum interview. Someone’s going to have to go out to LA to do it.’
The entire table put up their hands.
‘Really?’ I eyed Jason, the managing editor. ‘You want to go to LA to interview Channing Tatum even though you’ve never conducted an interview in your life?’
‘I’m not that interested in the interview part but I would like to hang with Chan,’ he replied. ‘And I am very happy to go to LA in order to make that happen.’
You and me both, I added, noting down names and silently lamenting the fact I couldn’t just assign the job to myself. Being the boss was shit.
‘Also, there’s the Balmain feature to think about,’ I said. ‘We’re going to be working with Belle on this one so it’s going to be short notice but, short notice in Paris so not too much of a compromise. Sophie, you’re good for that, yeah?’
The fashion editor nodded, jigging her shoulders up and down in a happy little chair dance.
‘Do I get to fly first class?’ she asked, giddy as the proverbial kipper. ‘I love it when they give you the little pyjamas on the plane.’
‘I’ll buy you a pair of pyjamas and we’ll save ten grand on the travel budget,’ I replied. ‘Or I can go to Paris instead? Save you the bother?’
She pouted and shook her head.
‘Thought that might be the case. Right, super exciting, we’ve got a phoner confirmed with Irene Kim for the My Social Life column …’ I crossed off the points as I went. There was so much to keep track of and my brain felt like a Christmas pudding: only any good when covered in booze and just about ready to be set on fire. ‘She’s in Seoul, at the moment, and the call is set for four in the afternoon, her time.’
‘What time is that here?’ Sophie asked.
‘I don’t know,’ I said, pulling out my phone to check the world clock. ‘Oh. Three in the a.m.’
The entire table flinched at once.
‘I know, but she’s a really good get,’ I pressed, as convincing as possible. From the looks on their faces, I was not very convincing. ‘And she’s got amazing social media; it’ll make for a great column – she isn’t doing a lot of press.’
‘I would, but I’ve got the Bobbi Brown launch first thing,’ Sophie said, piling regret into her voice even if she wasn’t able to wipe the smirk off her face.
I looked to the entertainment editor. She shrugged, all apologies. ‘I’m covering the Andrew Garfield premiere tonight and who knows how late that will go. I’m heartbroken, though, I love Ileen.’
‘You mean Irene,’ I corrected with a sigh. ‘Fine, I’ll do it.’
Classic. Everyone else gets to fly to LA and Paris and I get to wake up in the middle of the night to interview a model about her Snapchat. The joys of being in charge.
‘OK, this is a fun one. You know Generation Gloss is coming up.’
For the past three years, we’d hosted an interactive reader event at the Market Design centre in Manhattan. A weekend of panels, makeovers, tutorials, meet and greets and general shenanigans that were made all the more stressful by the hangover everyone always had after the opening-night party.
‘The event is all taken care of, but I need someone to manage the party,’ I said, and offered the team a pleading smile. Every year previously we’d handed the whole thing over to an events production company but this year, unless there was an events production company that enjoyed working for literal peanuts, that was not an option. Yay, budget cuts.
‘We’re keeping the costumes so everyone needs to dress up as something,’ I said, scanning my notes. ‘Nothing says circulation increase like Kanye West in a toga.’
Jason shuddered at the end of the table.
‘But who doesn’t like organizing a party? It’s all but done, to be honest, I just need someone to take over now it’s a couple of weeks away, liaise with the sponsors, secure VIPs. All the fun stuff. Any volunteers?’
Silence. Either everyone had a mouth full of donut or the entire team had decided their job was done once they’d congratulated themselves on last week’s work.
‘Really, no one?’ I tried again. ‘Who could turn this down? Celebs, fashion, big massive piss-up, there’s even a free frock in it for you. Seriously, no one?’
‘I’ll do it.’
Oh, sweet baby Jesus, no.
Cici looked at me, blinking behind her clearly non-prescription lenses. Her eyes were enormous, it was all very unnerving.
‘I’ll do it,’ she repeated.
Well, bugger me backwards, Bob.
‘You … it’s … you want to?’
I tried to make eye contact with anyone else at the table and got nothing. What a bunch of absolute arseholes.
‘I said I’ll do it.’ She tapped her fingernails against her phone, two tiny red spots blooming in her cheeks. ‘So, can we move on?’
‘Let’s move on,’ I nodded, flicking my pen against my notepad and trying to work out how to make it look as though every single member of my staff had suffered mysterious accidents in the same week. ‘Thanks, Cici.’
‘You’re welcome,’ she said, almost smiling.
Taking a deep breath, I looked back down at the agenda, attempting to focus. If this was karma’s idea of making things up to me for the Monday I’d had, karma had a very dark sense of humour.
Later that afternoon I was drowning in admin, the least exciting part of my job. You never saw Miranda Priestly going through everyone’s expenses and yet, here I was, trying to work out whether or not I’d get fired for allowing my news editor to expense three muffins. A knock at the door drew my attention away from the pile of Starbucks receipts and up to a tall, obscenely handsome man, glaring at me through the glass.
‘So help me god, if you’re a stripper …’ I stood up, pulled my skirt down and scuttled over to let him in. ‘I warned you about this last time, Lopez.’
‘Angela?’ he asked in a crisp, clean voice.
‘Yes?’ I nodded, scanning him fo
r a boom box, bottle of baby oil or Velcro strips on the seams of his trousers. They seemed sturdy enough.
‘We have a four thirty,’ he replied, stern features relaxing into an almost smile. ‘I’m Joe Herman, the new director of women’s brands.’
The smile on my face went blank and my lips pressed together until they were nothing more than a thin, pale line in the middle of my face. Joe? This was Joe? Joe was a man? A giant, handsome man? And definitely not a woman or a stripper?
‘Shit,’ I said sweetly. ‘I mean, yes, of course we have. Come on in.’
Flinging the door open, the reinforced glass hit my filing cabinet with a sickeningly loud crack just as Joe stepped into my office.
‘Don’t worry about that,’ I insisted, skipping past him in my high heels so I could clear some space on my desk. ‘It won’t break. We changed it to reinforced glass after the second time I smashed it. Now, can I get you a drink or anything?’
Joe shook his head, considered the two seats in front of him, and reluctantly sat down.
‘That’s a coffee stain,’ I said, watching as his eyes lingered on the other empty seat. ‘We’re going to get it cleaned. Someone spilled coffee yesterday.’
Someone quite clearly meaning me.
‘I’m not interrupting anything?’ Joe asked, pulling an iPad out of a handsome leather briefcase and ignoring my explanation entirely. ‘I’m still getting to grips with the scheduling system here. My assistant has had some trouble synching my calendar with everyone else’s.’
‘The calendar system is a bit rubbish,’ I fibbed as I checked my schedule, which I had never, ever once had a problem with. ‘Sometimes things don’t copy over, but you’re not interrupting at all.’
There it was, clear as day in the schedule: 4.30 p.m. – meeting with Director of Women’s Brands, [email protected]. Nowhere did it mention that JHerman was a Joseph and not a Josephine. That would have been good information to have.
‘Sorry, we’re always a little bit hectic around here. Or I am at least, everyone else is great. I’ve been a bit scatty this week, actually. The other morning I couldn’t remember if I’d left my straighteners on and had to go back home to check, and of course I hadn’t, but you know how it is.’
I gestured towards his perfectly straight, swept back blond hair. There was no way it was behaving that well without help; the humidity gods of New York simply wouldn’t allow it.
‘I don’t straighten my hair,’ he said quietly.
‘Of course not, sorry,’ I replied. What a liar. ‘Not that there would be anything wrong with it if you did.’
‘But I don’t,’ he repeated.
‘Noted,’ I nodded. ‘Sorry.’
‘Please stop apologizing.’
‘Sorry, I mean, of course. Yes.’ I sucked in my bottom lip and took a deep breath in. ‘Sorry.’
He dispensed with his starter smile and opted for a more professional semi-grimace.
‘Angela.’
‘Joe.’ I clicked my fingers and pointed at him with the double guns. If it was good enough for Bob Spencer, it was good enough for Angela Clark. ‘Shoot.’
‘So, Gloss.’ He crossed his legs, his perfectly tailored, charcoal grey trousers straining against some impressively chunky muscles. Not that I was looking. Well, yes, I was looking, but only in the sense that I had eyes and because he was sat in front of me, not because my husband had nicked off on a two-month, long-distance vacay and sometimes you’re only human, goddamnit, and really, they were very big legs and—
‘Angela?’
I looked up to see him staring at me across the table. My beloved, if poorly ageing Alexander Skarsgård poster rolled its eyes at me from its spot on the wall behind him.
‘Sorry, I thought there was going to be more to the question,’ I said, snapping to attention. ‘Gloss, that’s us. We’re really excited about the new strategy.’
If there was one thing I’d learned about corporate life in the last few weeks, it was ‘when in doubt, bullshit’. I’d originally been introduced to the concept as ‘fake it ’til you make it’ but I soon realized it wasn’t so much faking it as talking whatever absolute shite the other person wanted to hear until they went away and left you alone.
‘But you don’t know what the new strategy is yet,’ Joe replied.
Well, he had me there.
‘We’re still very excited.’ I looked longingly at the door, wondering how upset Delia would be if I just kicked off my Choos and legged it. ‘About the whole new strategy brand extravaganza.’
My new boss continued to stare at me across the desk while tumbleweeds blew through my empty brain. Of all the times for the voice in my head to decide she had nothing to say.
‘You’re English.’ Joe uncrossed his legs and something that could have almost passed for a real smile appeared right above his chiselled jaw. I wasn’t sure if it was a statement or a question, so I just smiled back and gave half a nod. I didn’t want to scare him off if he’d decided to play nice.
‘My girlfriend is English,’ he continued. ‘But she lives here now, obviously.’
‘I wonder if we know each other,’ I replied while giving myself a mental telling off for assuming this insanely well put together man with incredible hair and no wedding ring, who was in charge of the women’s brands at Spencer Media, must be gay. There had to be at least one perfect-looking straight man, if only to make all the others feel terrible. ‘It feels as though every British person in New York is connected in some way or another, even if it’s just from devouring fish and chips with your bare hands at A Salt and Battery twice a year.’
We looked across the desk at each other for a long moment and I imagined what kind of a woman would snag a man like this.
‘Probably not?’ I said, shaking my head and sitting back in my chair.
‘Probably not,’ he agreed. ‘But back to Gloss.’
This is all going to be fine, I reassured myself as he flicked around at the screen of his iPad. The magazine is in good shape, you’re doing a good job. They actually said that, at your last appraisal: you’re doing a good job. No one knows how much stationery you steal, or about that time you followed Chris Hemsworth for fifteen blocks after Mason tipped you off that he was coming into Ghost for an interview. No one knows.
‘I hear you’re doing a good job,’ Joe said, still flicking through his notes.
SEE, my brain shouted, IT’S ALL OK.
‘But Gloss is a small part of a big machine,’ he went on. ‘I’m sure you’re already expecting to hear this, but there are going to be changes in the next couple of months.’
‘Changes?’ I replied. ‘What kind of changes?’
‘The kind of changes that take us from the third most profitable media company to the first,’ he stated. Dear god, Joe Herman was a confident man. ‘And those kind of changes aren’t always popular.’
‘No,’ I agreed, my knee bobbing up and down underneath my desk, my black tights catching every time. ‘I suppose they aren’t.’
‘But this isn’t high school, we’re all adults,’ Joe said. ‘No one is here to be popular.’
I was, I wanted to say. I was there to be popular. Being popular was great, as I was certain he already knew. There was a distinct air of Captain of the Football Team about this man.
‘My job will be to look at how our brands can work more closely together to maximize our workforce.’ He held his hands out in front of him and then clasped them together to reinforce his point. ‘We have three separate women’s brands with three entirely separate editorial, sales and marketing teams, talking broadly to the same audience, Belle, Gloss and The Look. That doesn’t make sense.’
‘It makes sense to me,’ I replied. ‘People don’t only read one magazine.’
‘People barely read magazines at all,’ he argued. ‘You’re aware of how quickly Gloss’s online readership is growing versus your print numbers?’
I swallowed and shuffled myself upright in my seat. Why
hadn’t I prepared for this meeting? Apart from forgetting I had it altogether, why didn’t I have all the latest numbers in front of me? One minute I was signing off receipts for manicure dates with Beyoncé, and the next I was fighting for the future of my magazine. This was not how I’d planned to spend my Tuesday afternoon.
‘Next week we’ll be announcing a consolidation of the marketing teams,’ he announced. ‘Instead of having one team per mag, we’ll have one team per brand stream.’
‘You’re going to make people redundant,’ I said slowly.
‘Certain positions will be eliminated,’ he replied. I felt as though I’d stepped into a bucket of ice water. People I knew were going to lose their jobs, six weeks before Christmas. It was like the first hour of a Lifetime movie without the happily-ever-after resolution tacked on the end. And I should know, I’d seen every single one of them.
‘Once the new marketing team has been established,’ Joe added. ‘We’ll be doing the same thing with the sales teams.’
‘And then the editorial teams,’ I guessed. He nodded and my knee crashed into the underside of my desk, knocking over my pencil pot. I righted it with trembling hands.
‘Nothing is confirmed,’ Joe said, resting his hands on his knees and graciously looking away as I calmed myself. ‘And we don’t want to worry anyone at this moment in time, so this conversation will be strictly confidential.’
‘I wasn’t about to call everyone in to announce the good news,’ I replied, full of fire for my magazine, for my team. ‘My people are good, Joe. They’re creative, they work hard. You won’t find better people doing what they do anywhere in this building or anywhere else in the city.’
It took me a moment to realize my voice had risen, I was half out of my chair and the entire team was watching through the glass walls of my office. Pushing my hair behind my ears, I cleared my throat and sat back down. Joe leaned forward and a full, wolfish grin appeared on his face. He had fantastic teeth. The utter bastard.
‘I heard you were passionate about what you do,’ he said. ‘And I heard you have a great staff at Gloss, so there’s no need to go to war just yet. I won’t lie, Angela, I like passion and I like balls. That attitude is going to serve you well in the new Spencer Media.’ Joe’s eyes lit up as he spoke and I was suddenly very, very worried. ‘Gloss doesn’t have the heritage of Belle or the familiarity of The Look but it is a fresh and vibrant brand. With you, I see growth potential. My job here is to prune the dead wood and encourage new buds and I already know I don’t need three mags in print with three full editorial teams and three editors to run three very similar outlets.’