It was late morning on Monday when Roxanne contacted Sean. She knew he would probably be in the midst of a shoot, so a quick text would suffice for now: Hey love, how’s things? What are you up to tonight? A slightly odd thing to ask, she realised, but she needed to know if he’d be around later.
Just a quiet night in once this shoot’s finished, he replied. Need you back here to liven things up. Hope all’s good babe xx.
She smiled and slipped the Laurence Grier photography book first into a soft cotton pillowcase to protect it from knocks, then into her biggest leather shoulder bag. She looped the bag, experimentally, over her shoulder. The book weighed around the same as a small filing cabinet – and she was planning to lug it around all day. The things she did for love. Her plan was to deliver it to Sean personally – but she had important business to attend to first.
‘You’re back already?’ Marsha had exclaimed when she called. ‘But your blog’s already pretty popular! How can we have “our fashion director trapped in the country” if you’re in town?’
Roxanne had leaned against her fridge, accidentally dislodging two hand-painted clay magnets Holly and Keira had made for her one Christmas. So her entire life should be shaped around her blog now? ‘Don’t worry, there’s plenty more I can write about,’ she said.
‘“… Our fashion director’s trapped in W10” doesn’t have the same ring to it,’ she quipped, as if Roxanne hadn’t spoken.
Actually, Roxanne thought, I live in Islington – N1.
‘What I mean is,’ she continued, ‘Elsa took lots more photos of me in various hideous waterproof things, so there’s plenty there to keep us going.’
‘Oh, that’s good. I’d hate it to run out of steam, you see.’ Marsha paused. ‘So, er, why are you back? Did it do your head in, being up there?’
‘Not at all,’ Roxanne said quickly. ‘I, er, just had to come back to help out a friend …’
‘Ah, so it’s just a fleeting visit? You’re not back-back, then, I take it?’
‘I’m really not sure,’ Roxanne said cautiously. ‘Erm, would you have time for a chat today, if I pop into the office?’
‘Yes, of course. How are you fixed for a quick lunch?’
How was she fixed? Until recently Roxanne’s life had been crammed with work-related events, her diary a mass of scribbles and mysterious symbols which had signified something when she’d drawn them, although she could never quite remember what that was. But from now on that diary was blank. The very sight of it was at once panic-inducing and rather thrilling. ‘Lunch would be lovely,’ she replied.
And so Roxanne got ready for a meeting with her editor, feeling oddly in limbo as she did so. She was going to the office – but not to do any actual work. She was still on leave, yet carefully ironing a pink and white Paisley-patterned top to wear with a neat grey linen skirt, plus low black heels. It wasn’t exactly a sabbatical outfit. It was the kind that would attract a great deal of ‘get you, up from London!’ attention in the Red Lion in Burley Bridge.
On her way out of the building, she stopped and knocked on Isabelle’s door.
‘Ooh, you look smart,’ Isabelle remarked. ‘Off on a date, are you? Meeting Sean?’
‘Later,’ she explained. ‘He doesn’t know I’m back, though. I know it’s a bit silly as we only saw each other a couple of days ago, but I thought I’d surprise him with a visit.’ She patted the hefty bag slung over her shoulder. ‘He still hasn’t taken the book I bought him for his birthday so I thought I’d deliver it personally.’ In fact, she had already planned the scenario. She would turn up at his block, press his buzzer and call out, ‘Delivery for Mr O’Carroll!’ through the intercom to his flat.
‘He’ll be delighted,’ Isabelle remarked, not entirely convincingly. ‘So, is this you back for good? I still feel terrible about you rushing back home just for me.’
Roxanne shook her head dismissively. ‘Please don’t. It’s actually the best thing, I think. I wanted to be with you after what had happened, and now I’m here, I think it’s best that I see Marsha and find out exactly where my job’s going – if I have a future on the magazine at all …’
‘Of course you do!’
Roxanne smiled. It was kind of Isabelle to say so, but a slightly delusional elderly woman, whose own ‘career’ may or may not have been entirely fictitious, knew nothing about the inner workings of a fashion magazine. ‘We’ll see,’ she said. ‘I’d better dash. She’s taking me to lunch.’
The greeting Roxanne received as she walked into the office suggested she had been away for months.
‘She’s back!’ Tristan announced loudly, causing a ripple of excitement at the unexpected sighting of their esteemed fashion director.
‘Are you just visiting us?’ Serena asked with a grin.
‘Or have you come to take us all up to Yorkshire with you?’ chipped in Kate. ‘Please say you’ve got a coach parked outside …’
‘Yes, smuggle us out of here,’ Serena hissed.
‘What’s been going on?’ Roxanne murmured.
‘Come into the cupboard,’ she commanded, ‘and we’ll tell you all about it.’
In they snuck, like giggling children: Roxanne, Serena, Kate, Zoe the beauty editor and Tristan the art director – not into an actual cupboard, but the fashion cupboard, as it was known: the small, windowless room where clothes for shoots were stored. It was quite a squeeze in there, as it was home to several heavily laden rails, plus numerous bulging carrier bags of clothes and so many shoes piled up haphazardly that they made Roxanne’s collection at home seem rather organised and restrained.
‘So, why are you back?’ Zoe wanted to know. ‘Tell you what – if I’d been given a sabbatical like that, I don’t think you’d ever see me again …’
Roxanne dispensed a brief summary of her elderly neighbour’s burglary trauma, adding that she’d asked Marsha to spare her some time today.
Serena folded her slim brown arms and gave her an ominous look. ‘Well, you might as well know, Rox – the place is a bloody disaster.’
‘What d’you mean? What’s happening?’
‘Shall I just say rats, sinking ship?’ She paused for effect. ‘In the past two weeks, eleven advertisers have pulled out.’
‘But why?’ Roxanne asked. ‘They haven’t even seen the new-look magazine yet. As far as they’re concerned, we’re just doing what we’ve always done, and they’ve always been perfectly happy with that …’
‘Word’s got around,’ Kate added. ‘You know what it’s like. It’s all, “Oh, they’re turning it into a trashy rag now that Roxanne’s left …”’
‘But I haven’t left!’ she exclaimed. ‘I’m just on a break—’
‘Yes, but that’s what everyone thinks,’ Serena cut in. ‘That’s the big news.’
Roxanne was astounded that anything she did in her professional life would ever be considered newsworthy. ‘Do they? Why would they think that?’
‘Because it was all so sudden,’ Zoe ventured, ‘and they put two and two together. You know, Marsha arrives, brings in a no-mark like Tina over – erm, in a senior position – and suddenly, you’re gone.’ She shook her head. ‘If you were going to spend a quarter of a million advertising in a glossy magazine, wouldn’t you want to know there was someone brilliant in charge of the fashion?’
Roxanne nodded. ‘I suppose so.’
‘So it’s kind of shaken everyone up,’ Serena added.
‘The word going round is you’ve been sacked,’ Tristan added, pulling an alarmed face.
‘God, really?’
’A lot of people are very upset,’ added Kate gravely.
‘… Because you are the magazine,’ Serena added dramatically, at which Roxanne grimaced.
‘Oh, come on – that’s not true. I’m just a part of it and it could rattle along perfectly well without me.’
There followed a barrage of protestations from her colleagues about how brilliant she was – indispensable – which Roxanne was keen to call to a halt, so she quickly changed the subject: ‘Have any of you read my blog?’
‘We all have!’ Zoe exclaimed.
‘Did it scare you, the level of glamour I was projecting there?’
‘Oh, it’s hysterical,’ Tristan said with a grin. ‘Those massive hairy hiker socks! And those waterproof trousers, my God …’
‘Good on you for sending yourself up,’ Kate remarked.
‘So, how was it up in the frozen north?’ Tristan wanted to know.
Roxanne smiled. ‘It was … well, I suppose it wasn’t quite what I expected, which sounds weird because I lived there for the first eighteen years of my life. I mean, I know the place. At least, I thought I knew it—’
‘Ah, there you are, Roxanne!’ Marsha had appeared in the doorway and was staring at them in the manner of a malevolent gym teacher who had just caught them passing around a cigarette. ‘What is this? The gang hut?’ Everyone laughed stiffly. ‘Roxanne, shall we go now?’ Marsha prompted her. ‘I mentioned to Rufus we were meeting today, and would you know it?’ She rolled her eyes to the cracked polystyrene tiled ceiling. ‘He’s only muscling in on our cosy lunch.’
Roxanne had never been for lunch with Rufus, the publishing director who controlled several high-profile magazines in her company’s portfolio. She had barely spoken to him, in fact, because, unlike publishing directors in other companies she’d worked for, he rarely lowered himself to making an appearance on the editorial floor. On the rare occasions when he was spotted, he always looked rather uncomfortable at being surrounded by all those mysterious creative types with their messy desks and piles of clothes strewn everywhere. However now, as the three of them strode through Soho, making their way towards Piccadilly Circus, Rufus seemed terribly keen to get to know Roxanne. This was utterly baffling to her. Why was this red-haired, faintly sweaty man in a Paul Smith suit even bothering to join them at all?
‘Marsha tells me you’re from Yorkshire,’ he said, as they found themselves all clumped together awkwardly on a terribly narrow pavement which would lead them to Marsha’s restaurant of choice.
‘Yes, that’s right,’ Roxanne said pleasantly.
‘Not got much of an accent, have you?’ he suggested.
‘No, well, I left a very long time ago. A scarily long time, in fact. Pre-internet. Pre-mobile phones!’ Agh, what was she saying that for? She guessed that Rufus was in his late thirties. Now was not the time to allude to her lengthy career, bringing with it the suggestion that she should be quietly shuffled off to the retirement home for clapped-out fashion types.
He beamed at her. His own accent was rather bland home counties. She had never acquired the knack of being able to distinguish one region from another; to her, it was all lumped together as ‘the south’.
‘I do like northerners. Straight-talking, hard-working and honest,’ he went on, which made her smile. He could make her sound like a miner if he wanted to. ‘So, how long have you worked for us?’
‘Ten years,’ she replied.
‘Gosh. And with fashion, does it all roll around again and again, so, basically, we’re just recycling the same old stuff every few years?’
She noticed Marsha giving him a quick, exasperated look. ‘Well, not exactly,’ Roxanne explained. ‘Yes, styles do come round again but there’s always a different edge, a new take on a look. For instance, if you look at seventies fashion, the original stuff was all cheap and nasty polyesters with an awful lot of brown and orange floral prints, whereas today, we wouldn’t dream of …’ she tailed off as his eyes glazed over. She had lost him already, this head honcho who wanted to have lunch with her, and they weren’t even in the restaurant yet. What was she babbling on about polyester for?
They reached the restaurant and filed in, with Marsha leading the way and saying very loudly, and ostentatiously, that her secretary had made the booking that morning. It was the kind of place where no one – not even Roxanne, with all her connections – could possibly get a table unless they booked five months ahead. But Marsha could, on the day, and not just any old table but the much-coveted booth.
They took their seats and Rufus immediately ordered an eye-wateringly expensive bottle of Chablis. Drinking at lunchtime, Roxanne mused. How very old-school. Or perhaps he’d heard about her energetic display at Sean’s party and hoped to be treated to some tipsy dancing? They all ordered their food rather hurriedly – their order taken by a girl so languid and beautiful, Roxanne had to stop herself from suggesting she contact a model agency.
‘So, with all the changes going on,’ Rufus said, clearly eager to get down to business, ‘I thought it was important to get a feel for what’s happening with the key team members.’
‘Well, I have been keeping you informed,’ Marsha said tightly.
He fixed her with a stare. He had narrow, light blue eyes and a sturdy jaw; a particularly masculine face, Roxanne thought. ‘Yes, but I’m not quite understanding why you’ve packed Roxanne off for the entire summer,’ he remarked.
Marsha cleared her throat and repositioned the white porcelain salt cellar. ‘No one’s been packed off, Rufus. Roxanne, erm, wasn’t sure about the new direction we’re taking and mooted the possibility of resigning so we decided it might be a good idea for her to just take an extended break while Tina settles in …’
Now Rufus turned to Roxanne. ‘And then what? What sort of role are you expecting to return to after this so-called break?’
‘That’s why I asked to see Marsha today,’ Roxanne explained, ‘just so we can be clear about it because at the moment, I don’t know.’
‘We talked about Roxanne supporting Tina,’ Marsha said quickly, ‘keeping a tight rein on departmental costs and setting up competitions.’
‘Yes, but I didn’t exactly agree on that,’ Roxanne asserted, surprised by the conviction in her own voice.
Rufus nodded and laced his long fingers together. ‘That doesn’t surprise me. From where I’m sitting, no one is terribly clear about anything at all.’
Marsha flushed. Rufus seemed to be studying her face, and Roxanne glanced between them. There was something going on with them, she decided; some kind of tension there. Marsha’s appointment as editor had seemed an odd choice, seeing as she came from a diet magazine and had no experience of the glossy fashion market – and Rufus would have been responsible for that. She wondered now if he suspected he had made a mistake. But why offer her the job in the first place?
‘Roxanne and I agreed it was the ideal time for her to take a sabbatical,’ Marsha muttered.
‘But it hasn’t been ideal, has it?’ Rufus remarked, rather too loudly. ‘There’s a rather worrying rumour flying around that you sacked her …’
‘Yes,’ Marsha cut in, ‘but I’ve been telling everyone that’s not true—’
‘And in less than two weeks,’ Rufus thundered, ‘we have lost so much advertising revenue – not to mention goodwill – that we might as well throw in the towel right now and admit we’re buggered as a financially viable operation.’
The two women stared at him. Roxanne shuffled awkwardly in her seat. If he wanted to give Marsha a dressing down, she would rather not witness it: this was not how she’d planned for her meeting with Marsha to go. All she’d wanted was to get to the bottom of whether there was still a role for her at the magazine.
‘It’s been calamitous, I’d say,’ he added, eyes narrowed to slits. ‘We are utterly screwed. Wouldn’t you agree, Marsha?’
‘I wouldn’t say it’s calamitous exactly,’ Marsha replied, her cheeks flushing deep pink.
‘Well, I’d say it was. I don’t know how else to describe it, frankly.’ Rufus turned to Roxanne. ‘You’ve heard about what’s been happening, I assume?’
‘Erm, a little bit,’ she replied.
Their food arrived – all little mounds of things, with artistic dribblings of sauce and a liberal dusting of micro-herbs. Rufus speared a charred cauliflower ‘steak’ that, Roxanne had happened to note, cost almost ten pounds.
‘So you’ll know we’re in deep shit,’ he added.
‘I understand things aren’t looking good at the moment,’ she ventured, not sure how to play this, ‘but I suppose it is very early days.’
‘Yep.’ He nodded. ‘Early days and already it’s clear that bringing in Tina Court was completely the wrong move.’ His head whipped round to face Marsha.
Her mouth seemed to wilt. ‘We’re trying to get things on track,’ she murmured.
‘Yes, but how?’
Although the situation was hardly conducive, Roxanne made an attempt to tuck into her smoked trout. In fact, she wondered what the purpose of this awkward gathering actually was. Did Rufus simply want to humiliate Marsha in front of her? She couldn’t understand what he hoped to gain by this.
‘I think Tina just needs time to settle in,’ Marsha replied.
‘Well, what I think,’ Rufus boomed, ‘is this is the ideal opportunity – while the three of us are together – to figure out a plan of action, and it seems clear to me that we need Roxanne back on board as soon as possible.’
‘Roxanne was never off-board,’ Marsha asserted.
He turned to Roxanne as if Marsha hadn’t spoken. ‘Could you come back immediately, forget about this ridiculous sabbatical thing Marsha cooked up?’
‘Erm, I’m not sure,’ she replied. ‘Actually, I wanted to talk about my role on the magazine. You see, if it’s going to be all about budget and competitions, then I’m not sure there’s a job for me at all.’
‘Of course there is,’ Marsha exclaimed, turning briefly to Rufus. ‘I agree that we need Roxanne back right away …’
‘And I’d go one step further,’ Rufus said. ‘I’d suggest that Tina’s appointment has been an utter disaster. I assume she’s still on probation, isn’t she?’
‘Er, yes, of course,’ Marsha said quickly.
‘Okay. Well, I think it’s best for all that we admit it hasn’t work out, and she leaves with immediate effect.’ He fixed his gaze upon Marsha across the table. ‘It would make sense for Roxanne to step into her shoes right away – as fashion-director-in chief, or whatever title you made me conjure up out of thin air for that dreadful woman.’
‘But …’ Marsha stared at him. ‘Are you sure …’
‘It seems clear that Roxanne is the face of the magazine,’ he charged on, spearing a cube of balsamic-splattered sweet potato, ‘and for us to regain the trust and goodwill of our advertisers, we must show that we are fully committed to her. And that’s why we’re promoting her to a new and more prominent role.’
Marsha nodded mutely. Her lunch was uneaten. Of course, she didn’t really consume anything at mealtimes; just that steady supply of pastries at her desk. However, today she hadn’t even touched her cutlery.
‘What sort of role are you thinking about?’ Roxanne asked, eager to remind him that she was, in fact, still there.
Rufus looked at her in surprise. He had already chugged a large glass of wine, and now the waitress had glided over to top him up. ‘Well, we can’t have someone on that senior level just producing shoots. Any old stylist can do that. We can promote one of your team to take care of the beautiful pictures …’
‘I thought all that was being got rid of anyway,’ she remarked, ‘and it was all figure-fixing underwear from now on?’
‘I think we might have been a little hasty with that,’ Marsha said quickly.
‘So what we need now,’ Rufus continued, nostrils flaring, ‘is to have someone out there, representing us, meeting with all the major advertisers and convincing them that we are the number one fashion brand about to move into an exciting new era.’
Roxanne blinked at him, trying to take all of this in. So far, she had barely touched her glass of wine. Now she took a generous gulp. ‘So, I wouldn’t plan and direct shoots anymore, then?’
‘No, you are far too important for that. You’ll be our brand ambassador, our figurehead …’
‘A figurehead?’ she exclaimed. ‘Like on a ship?’
He guffawed, and a little fleck of something shot out of his mouth. ‘Ha. Yes. A life of lunching and schmoozing and being lovely and charming to everyone. I hear you’re very popular in the industry, Roxanne?’
‘Or, er, I wouldn’t say—’
‘No need to be bashful. It’s obvious that you’re made for this role …’
‘Er, thank you,’ she muttered, trying to read Marsha’s expression. The woman looked as if she’d just been kicked. ‘I’d rather just go back to my normal job, though, if that’s okay.’
Rufus frowned and shook his head. ‘Sorry, but no – we need to make a big statement here, to win back everyone’s confidence. Marsha can promote that girl, that Serona …’
‘Serena,’ Roxanne corrected him.
‘Yes, her – and then you can take the much more senior role. Obviously, we’ll be talking a substantial pay rise,’ he added, jabbing at a runner bean, ‘won’t we, Marsha?’
‘Oh, of course,’ she replied, lips pursed. ‘So, um, I assume this is fine with you, Roxanne?’
Rufus waved for the bill, as if such a piffling matter of whether she actually wanted to do this was of no concern.
‘I’m not sure actually,’ she murmured.
‘Sorry? What?’ Rufus tugged a company credit card out of his wallet.
‘I’m very flattered that you think of me in that way,’ she explained, ‘but if it’s okay, I’d like to take some time to think it over and get back to Marsha first thing tomorrow.’ Roxanne knew that this would seem insane to them: she’d basically just been offered a promotion on a plate, but neither Marsha nor Rufus seemed to care about what she wanted to do.
He frowned, clearly put out. ‘I don’t see what else we can offer you. Is it the salary?’
‘No, it’s not that …’
‘Because I know we haven’t talked an actual figure, but if we said …’ He shrugged, as if it was nothing. ‘We can certainly match Tina’s, can’t we, Marsha?’
‘Yes, of course …’
‘Well, that’s substantially more than you’re on now, Roxanne,’ he said grandly. ‘We’re probably talking something in the region of a fifty per cent rise. Obviously, I realise a role like this would be a big change for you. But trust me – we’ll make it worth your while.’
She nodded, and Rufus paid the bill. Marsha pointedly avoided eye contact with Roxanne as they left the restaurant.
So, Roxanne reflected, she would no longer have a creative role. She would be a ‘figurehead’, coaxing all those recently departed advertisers back to the magazine, thus raking in a vast amount of money for the company and, so it would seem, for herself.
A fifty per cent payrise. She could hardly get her head around that. Crazy money, really, for a job she could do standing on her head. So why was she experiencing a huge wave of fashion guilt?