AMBER STEPHENS
Confessions: A Secret Diary
With special thanks to Tom Easton.
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
More about Mischief
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter One
‘Every now and then you should sleep with someone considerably less attractive than you.’
Shelley looked up at Briony across their cluttered, back-to-back desks. ‘Er … what?’ She hadn’t really been properly listening to her friend twittering on, but sometimes Briony said stuff you just couldn’t let by. ‘Why?’
‘You’ve got to give a little bit back,’ Briony said, flicking over the pages of a magazine. ‘Haven’t you heard about that Random Acts of Kindness movement?’
‘Yes, but that means buying someone a cup of coffee, or helping an old lady across the road,’ Shelley pointed out. ‘Not yanking your pants down at a Star Trek Convention and shouting “Get it here, Scotty!”’
Briony was about to say something else but Shelley held up a hand.
‘What’s up with you?’
‘I’m totally bricking it.’
‘About the announcement?’
‘Of course. How come you’re so chilled?’
Briony shrugged. ‘Que sera, sera.’
Shelley bit her lip. The office was wired tighter than Joan Rivers’ face. A general e-mail had been waiting for all the staff that morning from the Chief Operating Officer of West End Magazines, their parent company, requesting their punctual presence at eleven o’clock for an important announcement about the future of Female Intuition, the magazine Shelley had been working on for nearly four years.
Shelley tucked her unruly brown hair behind her ears and picked up a Styrofoam coffee cup, clutching it in two hands as though she feared it might escape. ‘Do you think Kate’s sick or something? She’s been so quiet lately,’ she said.
‘Don’t be a div, Shell,’ Briony said, rolling her eyes. ‘She ain’t coming back.’
‘Isn’t coming back,’ Shelley corrected. She could never let a grammatical slip go by. She knew it was sad, and was convinced she’d end up alone, with a dozen cats, writing letters to the Guardian admonishing them for typos and punctuation clangers.
‘She’s been given her P45,’ Briony said.
‘You don’t know that,’ Shelley replied.
‘So why is there a padlock on her office door?’
Shelley looked over at the glass office Kate had been in for two and a half decades. The office must have had cutting-edge décor back then, glass and steel everywhere, midnight-blue carpets, pastel vertical blinds, open-brick walls. Female Intuition had been the first London magazine to give computers to all the editors.
Now the décor looked shabby, many of the vertical blinds were lying horizontally amongst the mouse droppings on the faded carpet, and Shelley sometimes wondered if her computer were one of the original ones handed out – it was practically steam-driven.
Shelley sort of knew it must be over, but didn’t want it to be true. Kate Hurley had given Shelley her first job in journalism, straight out of university, or at least her first job writing for magazines, which is not necessarily the same thing. She’d been editor here at Female Intuition for as long as anyone could remember and was legendary in the business.
‘I need a drink, fancy anything from the kitchen?’ Shelley asked.
‘I have a splitting headache,’ Briony replied. ‘Get me a strong coffee would you?’
‘Coffee’s not good for headaches,’ Shelley replied.
‘Who says?’
‘Everyone says. It’s a diuretic, isn’t it?’
‘Don’t give me any of that Scientology crap; get me a double-strength aspirin and a triple espresso.’
Shelley wandered off to the manky little kitchen to get the drinks. She passed Freya Wormwood’s desk on the way back and the Fashion and Lifestyle Editor looked up, catching her eye. Though pretty, and with a figure to die for, Freya made the mistake of going with whatever hairstyle was currently in vogue, regardless of its suitability for her. Freya currently sported an enormous fringe that made her look a little like the Dulux dog.
‘Not nervous are you, Shelley?’ Freya asked in that sly, sardonic voice she used with people she felt threatened by. Other women, to be specific. Shelley glanced at the myriad photos of her perfect boyfriend, Harry, on her desk, so many it looked like a shrine.
‘No,’ she replied, trying not to sound defensive and failing. ‘What would I have to be nervous about?’
Freya looked away, but not before Shelley caught the beginnings of a smirk on her face. Freya was one of those women who claim moral superiority simply because they have a boyfriend when you don’t. Not that anyone in the office had ever been allowed to meet the saintly Harry. Briony suspected he didn’t exist and the photos in the frames had already been there when she bought them. Harry bought me a divine new coat the other day – far too good for work, though. Harry’s whipping me off to Bruges on the weekend, first class on the Eurostar. Harry’s such a sensitive lover, unless I ask him to treat me roughly, that is!
‘Have you heard something?’ Shelley asked, immediately regretting it. If there was something Freya loved even more than Harry, it was knowing something that other people didn’t.
‘I’ve heard a few things, Shelley,’ she said. ‘But I’ve been asked not to share them with anyone else for now.’
Shelley didn’t believe a word of it, and slumped down back at her desk. Briony arched an eyebrow.
‘I wonder who’s going to take over?’ Shelley said. ‘They might close us down altogether.’
‘Oh don’t worry about that,’ Briony said, putting down her magazine, which Shelley couldn’t help but notice was a rival publication with considerably higher circulation. ‘They’ll just get a new editor in who’ll make a big fuss about New Beginnings and a Radical New Focus before changing the logo slightly, adjusting the font size and putting the handbags section on page 240 instead of page 170.’
‘Really?’ Shelley asked hopefully. ‘No redundancies?’
‘Nooooo,’ Briony said, shaking her head vigorously. ‘Apart from firing a couple of columnists, maybe.’
‘Briony!’
‘What?’
‘I’m a columnist!’
Briony paused. ‘Oh, yes. So you are. Oh don’t worry; I think there’s at least two columnists more likely to go than you.’
‘Who?’ Shelley asked, coolly.
‘Oh erm, Robin and, um … um …’ Briony cast her eyes around the open plan office desperately. ‘Erm, and Toni.’
‘Toni left three months ago.’
‘Really? Oh …’
‘Never mind,’ Shelley said, saving her from further embarrassment. ‘Maybe redundancy is exactly what I need. Sometimes on
e needs a kick up the bum to make one sort one’s life out.’
‘Oh does one?’ Briony asked. ‘What needs to change in your life then?’
Shelley thought it over. She was twenty-five and had only ever had one job. She wasn’t at all sure she was particularly good at being a columnist. How could she have anything important to say to women when she’d never done anything with her life? She’d postponed her gap year until she had some money, and had never got around to going now that she had. She’d never really had a proper long-term boyfriend, unless you counted Rob at university who she went out with for six months before sleeping with him, only to discover the next day that he’d been having a string of affairs, including a quick shag with her best friend in the toilet while Shelley was in the kitchen studying for her Eng Lit exam.
She rarely went out and had no romantic interests, apart from a crush on the fit South African behind the bar at The Crown where they drank after work. In two years she’d ordered fifty-seven bottles of Pinot Grigio from him but never plucked up the courage to ask his name. She was sure she wouldn’t be his type anyway. Antipodeans were used to wildcat lovers with bodies supple as springboks, according to Briony’s magazine. Shelley was as timid as a springbok and the only thing wild about her was her tousled, shoulder-length hair.
‘You just need a good shag,’ Briony said, interrupting the reverie. ‘You need to be fucked till you fart.’
Shelley went bright red. ‘Briony!’ she hissed.
‘You’re hung up on sex. You need to face your fears.’
‘I don’t have a hang-up about sex,’ Shelley said, primly.
‘Sure,’ Briony said. ‘Have you ever thought about therapy?’
Shelley looked up at her friend sharply. ‘Read my lips, Briony. I. Do. Not. Need. Therapy! We’ve had this before.’
‘Mmm, touched a raw nerve I think,’ Briony said, tight-lipped.
She would have gone on but was interrupted by the arrival of Sonia Bailey. The Chief Operating Officer came bustling in, exuding a no-nonsense, bottom-line kind of attitude.
Bailey was the sort of person, and Shelley suspected there was one in every large organisation, who was never happier than when delivering really bad news, and her heart sank as she saw a glint of joy in the COO’s eye. Cutting out ‘dead wood’ and hiving off unsuccessful parts of the business were what she excelled in, having little knowledge of the actual business of publishing magazines. Briony claimed she got off on it and could only gain sexual satisfaction when she was firing people.
Bailey cleared her throat to get the room’s attention, which was unnecessary as everyone was waiting, hearts in mouths, wondering if they’d have time to gather the photos off their desks before being shown to the lifts. Shelley had looked up the employment terms last week when the latest circulation figures had come through. ‘One week’s pay for every year I’ve worked here, plus one month’s notice period, plus unused holiday …’
‘Now people,’ Bailey began, ‘I have some bad news. Kate Hurley has taken early retirement with immediate effect. The Board of West End Magazines were saddened to hear of this …’
Briony snorted, then fought to disguise it as a cough.
‘… but we have accepted her decision. Kate’s contribution to this magazine and to West End has been immense over the last 25 years and she will be sorely missed, but …’ and at this Bailey’s eyes narrowed ‘… it has been evident for some time that Female Intuition has been haemorrhaging readers and making a net loss for the Group which is deepening month on month, year on year.’
As she spoke, Shelley noticed Bailey’s breath getting heavier. She was almost panting now.
‘From a height of nearly one million in 1986, the circulation has dropped to less than seventy thousand, and many of those are giveaways. People just don’t know what the magazine is trying to do anymore. It has lost focus and the numbers don’t add up.’
She took a deep breath, taking her time, cheeks slightly flushed.
‘This magazine has become no longer sustainable and the Group can no longer support it.’ Her eyes were nearly closed as she reached the climax of her speech. ‘And so it has been decided that …’ but at this point she paused and came back from the brink. When she opened her eyes, Shelley saw with interest that the glint was suddenly gone. Bailey looked disappointed. Deflated. This is the part of the speech she hadn’t wanted to make.
‘… the magazine will be re-branded, with a radical new focus.’ Briony gave a flourish and a bow in Shelley’s direction. ‘Female Intuition will be given one last chance to re-invent itself.’
Bailey picked up a phone on the desk next to her, dialled and spoke. ‘Could you come down now please?’ she asked and returned the receiver. ‘We’re going to discuss the new direction of the magazine. I wish you all the best and know you can make this work.’
Bailey made a gesture with her hand.
‘Was that a fist pump?’ hissed Briony.
There followed a couple of minutes of awkward silence, then the door opened and in walked Aidan Carter. Shelley frowned. Aidan was the Marketing Director for the Group.
Only fair to consult on the new direction, I suppose.
Not that she was disappointed. Aidan was easy on the eye and so, well … big. The way he carried himself made him seem even taller then he was, and he must have been 6′ 3′′. Carter was notorious for his brash management style and forceful opinions and had apparently had several stand-up rows with other board members, at the actual conference table. He was the sort of man who, when he came storming into a room, eyes flashing, you both feared and at the same time secretly hoped he was coming for you.
Shelley watched as he walked over to Sonia, confident and long-limbed. Freya just happened to be in his way and simpered sweetly at him as she moved aside. Carter took the COO’s proffered hand and clasped it in both of his.
Briony kicked Shelley under the desk, trying to get her eye but Shelley ignored her. Briony had been convinced Aidan fancied Shelley ever since the Group Christmas party last year. She had tried to explain that just because someone dances with you didn’t mean he fancied you. ‘He’s just about the only decent prospect in a company made up of eighty per cent women and could have his pick of the ladies. He was only being polite in trying to dance with as many women as he could. He did the “Macarena” with Sonia Bailey for God’s sake,’ Shelley had pointed out.
‘So why did he come back later to dance with you again?’ Briony asked, knowingly. ‘When “Careless Whisper” was on?’
Shelley had just blushed and got on with her work, not wanting to think about it.
Now Aidan stood tall, next to the tiny Bailey who, Shelley couldn’t help noticing, sneaked a look at his crotch, to her at eye-level. She spoke again.
‘Ladies … and err gentlemen,’ peering over at the post-room boys, the only other males on the floor. ‘You probably all know Aidan Carter, Group Marketing Director. Aidan has taken a keen interest in the fortunes of Female Intuition over the past few months, and has personally determined to turn this magazine around. I give you your new Editor-in-Chief, Aidan Carter.’
A set of gasps escaped around the room like timed pistons. Aidan had no experience as an editor, he was abrasive and demanding, he already had another job and worst of all …
He was a man.
‘Thank you, Sonia,’ Aidan began, putting a hand on one hip, which had the effect of brushing his suit jacket open and offering a glimpse of his chest muscles through an ever-so-slightly too tight shirt. Another chorus of appreciative breaths.
‘Firstly a couple of words about Kate Hurley,’ Aidan began. ‘A hero of mine. One of this country’s finest journalists, and a pioneering feminist. She had a mind like a razor, a heart like a lion, and balls of steel. She will be missed.’
Though unsure about the third simile, Shelley found herself muttering ‘hear, hear’ along with everyone else.
‘Do you know? My mother used to read this magazine,’ Aidan co
ntinued, lifting the latest issue and waving it at the team aggressively. ‘She loved it. This magazine helped her through some difficult times.’ Freya nodded sympathetically and put her head to one side, blinking those doe eyes. Bailey nodded sagely.
Aidan walked over to the windows and everyone swivelled to follow. ‘She read this magazine in hospital when she had breast cancer,’ he continued, gazing meditatively out over North London. ‘She read this magazine at home after my father left her. She read this magazine in the nursing home as she watched over her own mother dying.’
He turned back to face the group, hands at his sides, his face simultaneously full of loss and warmth. Shelley felt a little funny, and squeezed her legs together and glanced around the room. Even Briony was staring at Carter, mouth open. Freya looked like she was about to have an orgasm.
‘Unfortunately my mother doesn’t read this magazine anymore,’ he said. ‘Do you want to know why?’
Briony hissed and mouthed ‘Dead?’. Shelley frowned back in distaste.
‘She thinks it’s too boring,’ Aiden said.
Grumbling and shaking of heads.
‘Things have changed. My mother has changed. The world has changed. She wants more from her magazines these days. More stories about having fun and not so many about illness, more stories about love and not so many about heartbreak, more stories about life and less about death.’
‘Fewer,’ Shelley said automatically.
‘What’s that?’ he said.
‘F-fewer stories about death,’ Shelley stammered. ‘Not less stories about death.’ Why had she said that? Was she to get herself fired just as the magazine was being saved?
He stared at her hard, a strange look on his face, then he snapped out of his trance and walked off towards the window again. His square-jawed, brooding face shadowed before the May sunlight pouring in.
‘My mother is tired of sickness, sadness and saying goodbye,’ he continued. ‘That was the past. People choose life these days. People choose … happiness … and people choose sex.’
He spun for the finale.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce you to your new magazine.’ And with that he stepped over to an old ad board lying against the wall and flipped it to reveal a blown-up magazine cover.
Confessions Page 1