Friend of the Family

by Tasmina Perry

  She felt a presence at her shoulder. ‘Any luck?’ whispered a voice.

  She peeled away from the group to talk to Juliet.

  ‘A case of fine wine to present him now and a tasting experience in the cellars of Berry Bros. And you?’

  ‘A set of luggage. Maybe,’ Juliet said. ‘Or whatever Carlo can rustle up from the office.’

  ‘Why do I suddenly feel as if I’m on an episode of The Generation Game?’

  ‘Grace needs sacking for this,’ said Juliet with a faint flare of her nostrils.

  ‘It wasn’t her fault.’

  ‘Really? The present was her responsibility. How she could have let it get to seven p.m. until she started panicking is beyond me.’

  ‘So when’s the luggage coming?’ asked Amy, looking around for another drink.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Juliet with an irritation that said she was anxious not to fail her boss. ‘And the wine?’

  Amy gave a soft, resigned chuckle. ‘You know, maybe William will see the funny side of it if we come clean.’

  ‘Maybe. But Marv Schultz isn’t known for his sense of humour.’

  ‘Miss Shepherd?’

  Amy turned to face the voice.

  ‘I’ve got a delivery for you.’

  She’d been expecting a courier in bike leathers rather than a fifty-something crook-backed man in a green fleece, but she was just glad to see that he was holding a large cardboard box.

  ‘That was quick. Thank you so much. Berry Bros are a total lifesaver.’

  ‘Who’s Berry Bros?’

  Amy frowned. ‘You’re not from the vintner’s?’

  ‘No, miss. I’m Gerald, from the post room. Josie came and got me at the pub. Said you needed a parcel that was down there. Sorry if it’s caused any bother, only we tend to knock off at six.’

  ‘No, that’s fine, Gerald,’ said Amy, too happy to see the package to care about the whys and wherefores. ‘Can you help me to get it open?’

  Gerald instantly produced a Stanley knife and expertly slit the cardboard. Amy pushed aside the packing material and pulled out a polished wooden box.

  Gosh, that’s lovely, she thought. You didn’t need to know anything about woodwork to appreciate that it was a thing of exquisite beauty, the walnut panels positively glowing, the inlaid country scene – she recognised William’s house from the one occasion she and David had been invited to a party there – elegant and stylish. Amy had never smoked a cigar in her life, but she thought she might consider taking it up if it meant you got to own heirlooms like this.

  When she looked up, Gerald had already disappeared, taking the cardboard with him. Clearly Douglas had guessed what had happened, because he was already tapping a pen against the side of his glass and shushing the room to silence. ‘I think it was Gandhi who once said . . .’

  Douglas’s speech was mercifully short, William’s heartfelt and funny. The presentation of the humidor brought tears to the old man’s eyes, which he covered by generously announcing that champagne was on him, causing an unseemly rush to the bar. Until that point it had only been free wine and soft drinks, thanks to a decree from Denton Scoles.

  ‘How on earth did you do it?’ asked Amy, clapping as William stepped off the makeshift podium.

  Josie shrugged modestly. ‘Well, I’ve spent a lot of time in the post room the past week, dropping things off for Janice or picking them up for the beauty department, and the post boys are pretty friendly. Anyway, one of them told me they don’t mix with the writers in the Printroom; instead they drink in the Wellington on Cole Street, so I ran around there and grabbed Gerald.’ She smiled to herself.

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘Oh, he didn’t want to come. He said . . .’ She paused, then looked at Amy. ‘Well, he said some rude things about Genesis management.’

  ‘So how did you get him to do it?’

  ‘I think I told him that you’d crush his nuts, then stuff his pension down the toilet.’

  Amy burst out laughing. ‘Now that’s initiative.’

  Josie smiled shyly for a moment, then looked over Amy’s shoulder, mouthing, ‘Wow!’ Amy smiled: Carlo, it had to be.

  ‘Miss Shepherd,’ said the tall Italian, walking towards her carrying a wicker basket. ‘I cannot find Juliet, but I know this matter is urgent.’

  Amy put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. ‘The crisis has been averted, Carlo. My assistant helped locate William’s original present.’

  ‘That is good news,’ he said, looking crestfallen.

  ‘But I’d love to see what treasures you have brought us,’ she added.

  Carlo laughed, placed the basket on a table and opened it with a flourish, pleased that his efforts were at least about to be recognised.

  ‘For your consideration,’ he said, picking out the items one by one. ‘For the wine and spirits connoisseur, a Pol Roger Cuvée Sir Winston Churchill and this bottle of twenty-five-year-old malt. For the recent retiree, I have a cashmere blanket in a soft putty shade, perfect for lounging around the house on winter days. And finally – and my favourite, I will admit – a wristwatch. Swiss-made. One of the standout pieces at the Baselworld jewellery fair . . .’

  He shut the basket and his face fell in disappointment.

  ‘What a shame none of it will be finding a good home tonight.’

  ‘You have excelled yourself, Carlo, and I know William would have loved everything here,’ Amy said, smiling. ‘However, you are wrong about none of it finding a good home. I’d love to take the champagne.’

  Carlo looked delighted as he handed over the bottle, which Amy insisted on paying for.

  ‘This is for you,’ she said, giving it to Josie as the Italian disappeared into the crowd. ‘Thank you for being such a star.’

  Chapter 5

  Note to self, thought Amy, gripping the white leather arm rests. Injections hurt.

  ‘Just relax,’ said Dr Al Saraf soothingly.

  ‘That’s fine for you to say,’ she said, unscrewing one eye enough to see that the syringe was still half full, ‘you’re not the one being pumped full of gloop.’

  The doctor laughed. ‘Remember that the gloop is good for you.’

  She’d already had a two-hour consultation on the benefits of today’s session. How the cocktail of B12 and various other secret ingredients would promote muscle growth and balance her hormones, as well as boosting her energy and keeping her alert.

  He pulled out the needle and pressed a ball of cotton wool into the crook of her arm. ‘There, all done. Wasn’t so bad, was it?’

  Depends on whether you’re used to getting jabbed, thought Amy. She gave a non-committal grunt.

  ‘The good news is that once your system becomes accustomed to these vitamin shots, you can start doing it yourself.’

  ‘Injecting myself?’

  The doctor nodded. ‘It’s a far superior method to taking supplements orally. It takes a bit of practice, but I can provide you with everything you need. Saves you coming all the way across London once a fortnight, hmm?’

  It made sense, but Amy could barely stomach the sight of needles when Dr Al Saraf was handling them. The idea of injecting herself at home made her feel queasy. Then again, she needed something. With the rush to get the new issue finished, and the next two issues after that planned and commissioned in preparation for her three-week holiday, she felt more run-down than ever. Despite telling herself that she just needed a rest and some sunshine, Dr Al Saraf’s tests had shown that she had a yeast infection, a micro-nutrient deficiency and high cortisol levels, which warranted a more comprehensive plan than the simple injections that Juliet had recommended.

  Once Dr Al Saraf had demonstrated how to safely self-administer her shots, he came with her to reception. Within a few minutes, Amy had paid a four-figure bill and collected two boxes of Bliss
Vit vials and syringes.

  Out on Harley Street, she looked back at the Georgian terrace, feeling a little kick of . . . something. Did she feel more clear-headed? More energised? She was sure that getting a treatment – any treatment – in a place so synonymous with medical excellence had a placebo effect on its own. But she definitely did feel more positive, which had to be a good thing, right?

  There was no denying that David’s relaxation pact couldn’t come soon enough as far as Amy was concerned. She was running on empty, down to the last fumes before the engines coughed their last and the jet nose-dived into the tarmac. She hadn’t wanted to admit it to David; hadn’t wanted to admit it to herself, but the stress of the changing workplace was taking its toll.

  She had once read a pop-psychology book – those happy, happy days when she had had the leisure to actually read – that had offered the idea that all humans needed to feel progress. Workers needed to feel valued, getting promotions or bonuses, seeing projects completed. Parents needed to see their kids grow and bloom and yes, even fly the nest. If you didn’t have progress, if you didn’t feel you were moving forward, that was when the problems began. Lack of motivation, lack of energy, dissatisfaction in relationships, putting on weight.

  Unconsciously, Amy touched her stomach. She was fine in that department, at least. Well, as long as she stuck to her no-carbs, no-red-meat regime. One burger and she’d be the Michelin Man. But in every other danger area, she knew she was struggling. With William gone, she could feel the screws tightening at Genesis Media. Even her efforts to escape and refresh her career were another source of stress.

  She still hadn’t heard from Mode. The day after the company had announced that Ros Kimber was stepping down, she had sent a carefully worded email, expressing an interest in the position, to the HR director and Douglas Proctor, but had received nothing beyond a one-line holding message saying that they’d be in touch. That had been over a week ago, and the intervening silence had suggested to Amy that maybe her stock in the industry wasn’t as high as she’d thought.

  At least central London was bathed in sunshine: not the kind that made workmen strip off their shirts and office girls wear sandals and little shorts, but enough to make everything look bright and vibrant. Standing on the stone steps of Dr Al Saraf’s clinic, Amy took off her jacket and tucked it under her arm, feeling the sun warm her skin.

  ‘Amy Shepherd? Is that you?’

  Amy’s stomach sank. Suzanne Black was also an editor, her equivalent at Silk magazine. Silk had pretensions to be an edgy fashion title, using waif-thin models and dressing them in unknown-but-out-there designers, but in reality it was just another conventional women’s glossy with advice features, get-the-look spreads and beauty tips. Amy took some satisfaction from the fact that it had a tenth of Verve’s circulation, but was constantly irritated that advertisers seemed to hold the magazine – and its editor – in such high regard.

  ‘Hello, Suzanne.’ She was about to ask what the other woman was doing in this part of town, but on any given day you might see anyone from London’s fashion fraternity popping into one of the many clinics for a shot of discreet Botox or filler.

  ‘So what do you think about Ros leaving?’ said Suzanne. ‘I hear she was kicked out for demanding too much money.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Well, some have been saying she wanted a million per year; others that she wanted a new job title. Personally, I think it was a grudge between her and one of the management. That’s the inside track, anyway.’

  ‘Don’t you think she, well, just wanted to move on?’

  Suzanne frowned. ‘Move on? From the best job in media?’ She barked out a laugh.

  ‘Maybe she’s looking for a new challenge.’

  ‘There is no bigger challenge than Mode, sweetie. I mean, we both know that, right?’

  Amy didn’t entirely agree with her. She had spent so long absorbed in the world of magazines that she had barely stopped to consider the world outside. But when she did, she had started to notice that many of her old colleagues were forging big careers in new sectors: retail, advertising, PR. Suzanne had probably recognised that too, but Amy didn’t want to debate the relative merits of the Mode editorship compared to other careers. The other woman was making a direct challenge: Are you applying for the job?

  ‘I should go,’ said Amy, glancing at her watch. Suzanne gave her a thin smile of disappointment, her attempts to extract Amy’s precise intentions unsuccessful.

  It was almost three by the time she got back to the office, where Josie was sitting at Chrissie’s desk sorting through the post. Amy felt a pang of guilt at her little sigh of relief that it was Josie’s last day. Of course, she was glad the internship had gone well, glad that Josie had done well; she had certainly got more media experience in a fortnight than most interns got in a whole summer. And Amy had been grateful for all her help. But she knew she would also be glad to have the house back, just the three of them, herself, David and Tilly, their little gang back together. Was that selfish? Maybe, but she needed to completely relax, and although Josie had been no trouble at all, there was still the feeling at the back of her mind that you had to be ‘on’, checking the guest had towels, was comfortable, hadn’t left curling tongs burning a hole in the carpet.

  ‘Where’s Chrissie?’ she asked, balancing her bag on her PA’s desk as she flicked through the mountain of invitations and press releases waiting to be taken through to her office.

  ‘Errands. She asked me to man the phones while she’s gone.’

  Amy slipped off her coat. ‘You can leave early if you like. I know you’ve got a train first thing in the morning, so if you want to go home and pack, just say the word.’

  ‘I don’t mind staying till six,’ Josie said cheerfully. ‘In fact I’m going out tonight with some of the girls. One of the PAs upstairs is off on maternity leave. Having drinks down at the Printroom.’

  ‘That’ll be fun,’ smiled Amy, aware that she sounded about seventy, although her own days of drinks followed by crawling around London searching out cocktails and boys and late-night drinking dens didn’t seem so far away. ‘Tilly and I were going to take you out for some supper, but a party with the girls sounds a much better offer.’

  ‘So long as you don’t mind . . .’ replied Josie, more anxiously.

  ‘Of course I don’t. I’ll be here myself for a while anyway. When it’s your last day in the office for three weeks, it feels like there’s a never-ending list of things to do.’

  Chrissie’s phone rang and Josie picked it up. ‘I’ll just put you through,’ she said, looking at Amy. ‘It’s Bethan Charles from HR.’

  The HR director could have been ringing about any number of things, but the call caught Amy off guard. Anxious that others in the office had overheard, she spun round to head to her office, her jacket nestled in the crook of her arm, knocking over the pile of post and the handbag, spilling its contents all over the floor.

  ‘Shit,’ she muttered.

  ‘I’ll deal with that,’ said Josie, springing out of her chair and starting to scoop up the mess.

  In her office, Amy sat down on her swivel chair and exhaled deeply to compose herself.

  ‘Obviously we want to talk to you about the Mode job,’ began Bethan.

  Obviously. Amy’s relief was palpable. ‘We know your work, but we’re getting all the shortlist candidates to prepare a presentation.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Amy quickly. So far it was fairly standard. Occasionally an editor would be anointed without presenting a brand vision, but boards were more cautious than ever. After all, Mode wasn’t immune to the downturn in the industry. ‘When do you want it for?’

  ‘Realistically we won’t be seeing anyone until the last week of August, first week of September. But if you could get your presentation to us within the next couple of weeks, that should get the ball rolling.’
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  Tilly was fast asleep when Amy got home, her Peppa Pig duvet half kicked off, her beloved stuffed elephant clutched under one arm.

  ‘She had a big day,’ whispered Claudia as Amy closed the door and tiptoed back down to the kitchen.

  ‘How was Kew Gardens?’ School had finished two weeks before, and Claudia had planned a packed schedule of fun activities for Tilly before the Provence trip.

  ‘She loved it. She bought a notebook and a sachet of seeds. We’ve planted them over there already,’ said Claudia, pointing to a corner of the back garden.

  Amy smiled, but her heart wasn’t in it. She’d have loved to help Tilly plant her seeds and had lost count of the number of times she had felt sad and envious that her nanny got to spend so much quality time with her daughter.

  ‘And we packed. The case is open in the guest bedroom. Tilly couldn’t decide which swimming costume to take, so I’m afraid we’ve put the lot in.’

  ‘Have you packed?’

  ‘I’ve been packed since last Monday.’ Claudia grinned, and Amy could only imagine her excitement about going to work in a luxury villa for the next three weeks.

  ‘Thanks for everything, Claudia,’ she said, grateful that there was one less job to do that night. ‘I think Geoff is picking us up at nine o’clock tomorrow.’

  ‘Is it still all right if I stay here tonight?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Amy. Claudia often stayed in the guest bedroom on evenings when she babysat, or when the family had a particularly early start.