by Jane Green
‘Well yes,’ Julian admits. ‘It is rather wonderful. But what do you want us to do for you?’
Amber shrugs, because the truth is she hadn’t really even thought of employing a decorator until everyone in the League started talking about Amberley Jacks and how they were coming to town and how desperate everyone was to use them.
Amber had always done the house herself. She and Richard used to go to estate sales to pick up pieces – a nineteenth-century armoire that stood in the family room, some beautiful French needlepoint rugs that in fact they are standing on now.
She had kept the house fairly neutral, and had always been happy with it, but when Nadine, one of the League’s queen bees, had turned to her and said, ‘Of course you must be getting Amberley Jacks in to see you,’ Amber had nodded and said, ‘Of course.’
And now here they are, examining her living room. ‘I just thought maybe you could give me some ideas,’ Amber starts vaguely. ‘I quite like this room, although maybe it could do with some curtains. Yes. I’d love your help with the curtains.’
Julian and Aidan both stand up and turn slowly around, each of them echoing the other with their hands held softly beneath their chins in a silent prayer.
‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’ Julian takes a deep breath and looks excitedly at Aidan.
‘I am.’ Aidan smiles.
‘We’re thinking…’ Julian pauses as a slow smile spreads on his face. ‘Lavender!’ he announces with a flourish.
‘Yes! Lavender!’ Aidan says. ‘It would be fabulous in here.’
‘A gorgeous soft lavender on the walls, and then we need to bring this whole look up to date.’
‘What about my sofa?’ Amber asks meekly. ‘Would this go with lavender?’
‘Ugh no.’ Aidan looks at the sofa with horror. ‘But I’m thinking a wonderful rich-plum sofa. Very modern. It would make this room very fun. Very now.’
‘Oh yes.’ Julian claps his hands together with excitement. ‘Plum is my favourite. And then bookshelves. You need some detail.’ He turns back to Amber. ‘Mrs Winslow, can I be honest?’
‘Call me Amber, and yes, you can be honest.’
‘These new houses, whilst wonderful, are boring, boring, boring.’
‘Yes,’ echoes Aidan. ‘Dull, dull, dull.’
‘And our job is to bring in some character. You don’t want to live in a big boxy house that’s like everyone else’s, filled with –’ Julian gestures at one of Amber’s favourite pieces, an old cherry sideboard that held all her silver photographs – ‘tacky pieces of junk.’
‘Oh. Right. Of course.’ Amber’s face falls. She loves that sideboard.
‘Not that Julian is saying your furniture is junk,’ Aidan says quickly, noting her face.
‘OH NO!’ Julian feigns horror. ‘Our job is to bring beauty and grace to your home. We can rearrange your furniture so that it looks like new. We’ll bring in wonderful pieces that we find on our antique buying trips. Amber,’ he leans in to her and drops his voice, ‘we will make your home the envy of all your neighbours and friends.’
‘Well how’s a girl expected to say no after that?’ Amber laughs, and with that she takes them on a tour of the house.
‘But they’re really talented,’ Amber pleads with Richard later that evening, having cooked him a huge fat juicy steak to try and soften the blow.
‘I just don’t understand why suddenly you want a decorator. You’ve always said you never understood why people used decorators in the first place. Didn’t you go on that house tour last year and say every home looked like a show house? Isn’t it you who’s always saying you love your house so much precisely because you and I chose everything in it?’
‘Ah, well. Yes. I suppose I did say that. But I think that was just because I hadn’t found the right decorators. Honestly, Richard, I really didn’t know how talented the really good ones are, and Amberley Jacks are the best. They do everyone.’
‘Everyone? Who’s everyone?’
Amber reels off the list of celebrities and society people whose lives Amberley Jacks have transformed.
‘I still don’t get it. And lavender in the formal living room? Are you absolutely sure?’
‘Yes, I’m absolutely sure, and you’ll love it, Richard. Honestly. And anyway, they’re really not that expensive.’
‘Uh oh. Here we go. How much is not that expensive?’
‘They’re $200 an hour, plus everything we buy through them is practically wholesale.’
Richard thinks for a while. ‘But how many hours does it take? Can we put a ceiling on it? What do they expect it to be?’
‘I don’t know but I’ll find out!’ Amber throws her arms around Richard and kisses him, knowing she’s won. ‘I love you, Richard! And I’ll call them tomorrow and ask. I’m sure it’s not going to be that expensive. How many hours can it take?’
Chapter Four
Janelle Salinger, esteemed editor of Poise!, regular guest on shows like Through the Keyhole, glamorous, gorgeous, and still as giggly as a girl, casts her shimmering smile around the room at her ‘girls’.
‘Okay.’ She claps her hands together. ‘Everybody got coffee? Everybody ready?’ Her team of editors smile as they lean forward slightly, getting ready to throw their ideas out for the next issue of Poise!.
Although December, they’re already working on their huge spring issue, preparing their readers for the beginnings of summer. The fashion department is strewn with bikinis, elaborately embroidered and beaded kaftans, thongs so studded and bejewelled they are almost works of art in themselves.
The editors all know what spring and early summer means to the women who buy the magazine – sun, sea, sand and sex, even to their thirty-something young mums who are up to their eyes in baby food and nappies. ‘A girl has to dream,’ Janelle always says, although despite having her own child it’s hard to imagine that Janelle was ever up to her eyes in anything other than Crème de la Mer.
‘My Yummy Mummies,’ Janelle calls their readers, referring, as she so often does, to their demographic of women in their thirties with successful careers, loving husbands, beautiful children, stylish homes, fantastic friends, and wonderful wardrobes. And if they don’t already have all that, the Poise! readers definitely want it.
‘Of course we can have it all,’ Janelle often laughs. ‘Look at me.’ And looking at her you would certainly think she has it all. Married to Stephen Golding since the year dot, they have one daughter, Diaz (shortened to Dee, rather than the far more common Di), a palatial home in Holland Park that Janelle redecorates – or rather asks her friend Tricia Guild of Designer’s Guild to redecorate – every three years.
Currently the house is super-minimalist chic, which means that all the interior stories in the magazine for the past few months have been super-minimalist chic. Every Christmas Janelle and Stephen host a staff party, and although Vicky thought the house was certainly… dramatic… she wouldn’t want to live there, couldn’t believe that anyone could, in fact, live there.
The floorboards, three years ago stripped back when Janelle was going through her country phase, have subsequently been painted gloss white. The original Georgian fireplaces were thrown out to make way for clean holes in the white wall, with a heavy slab of black soapstone above. There are two pieces of furniture in the enormous double drawing room where all the parties are held: a giant chunk of driftwood from Bali that serves as a coffee table, although God forbid you should ever attempt to balance a cup of coffee on the uneven surface, and an oversized sofa, low-slung and hard, in a colour that Vicky always thinks of as ‘dreige’.
On the walls are three huge canvases – vibrant splashes of colour that Janelle bought from the Saatchis and that were written up in every newspaper as being one of the most expensive art transactions of the year.
‘Don’t you love it?’ Janelle asked excitedly when everyone arrived for the party. ‘It’s now truly my haven,’ and she’d breathed deeply, stretching out her arms
so her gauzy white cotton djellaba lifted up to show her bare feet and toe rings.
That had been Janelle getting back to nature, and like all her phases it hadn’t lasted long. Now, in this conference, she was back in a full, patterned Prada skirt, flat alligator pumps on her feet, and a Michael Kors fur shrug around her shoulders.
‘For this June issue…’ Janelle pauses dramatically, ‘I’m thinking…’ another dramatic pause, ‘…Africa!’
There is a round of excited applause from the fashion girls, while everyone else tries not to laugh.
‘Gorgeous beaded necklaces,’ Janelle continues, her voice loud with excitement, ‘colour, vibrancy, animal prints. I’m thinking fashion shots on the Masai Mara, profiles of Peter Beard. Think Gorillas in the Mist, White Mischief. Think “I had a farm in Africa.” British colonial, Jamaica Inn…’ Vicky catches the eye of the assistant editor and quickly suppresses a snort of laughter, for Janelle has a tendency to do this. Her mind works so quickly it frequently goes off on tangents, and what, after all, did Jamaica Inn have to do with Africa, other than being decorated in a British colonial style?
But Janelle isn’t paid a disgusting amount of money for nothing, hasn’t been the editor of Poise! for about a decade without there being good reason. She has vision and foresight, and immaculate taste, even though she has sometimes fallen off the wagon for a while. She knows what her readers aspire to, whether they can afford it or not, and she knows how to give it to them in a way that has driven their circulation up and up until Poise! ranks in the top three women’s glossy magazines.
‘Right.’ Janelle finishes her directive and looks eagerly around the room. ‘What have we got? Let’s start with… fashion. Stella?’
Stella, poor beleaguered fashion editor, quickly reshuffles her notes, moving all her story ideas out of the way, because she, poor woman, had been thinking boats. Yachting. Navy and white, splashes of orange. Classic, traditional, she’d been planning a huge nautical theme, plus of course the obligatory article on flattering swimsuits, and a look-book pull-out of the greatest accessories of the summer.
But Stella has worked with Janelle forever, knows how mercurial she is, and is well used to thinking on her feet.
‘Africa is a wonderful idea,’ she stalls for time slightly. ‘Prada has these incredible saris, and I’m thinking lions, Virginia what’s-her-name with the lions –’
‘McKenna,’ Vicky adds.
‘Yes, thank you, Vicky. I’m thinking about her, a classic blonde beauty, very Grace Kelly in colonial clothes. Sexy cargos and Michael Kors striped tops. Love the shrug by the way, Janelle, one of the highlights of his collection.’
‘Oh thank you.’ Janelle beams, always happy to be complimented on her sartorial choices.
‘And…’ Stella thinks quickly, ‘I’m also thinking Africa, South Africa… Morocco!’ Her eyes light up with inspiration. ‘I’m thinking Talitha Getty on the rooftop, hippy chic in Africa, wonderful embroidered seventies-inspired flowing clothes; I’m thinking Allegra Hicks kaftans, Louboutin beaded thongs. Long hair, candlelight, smoking joints on a beach at midnight…’ Stella’s voice grows slightly wistful as she pauses to remember her youth.
‘I LOVE it!’ Janelle shrieks. ‘Just what I was thinking! It’s going to be fabulous!’ They all turn as the door of the office opens and Leona, the features editor, the woman to whom Vicky is closest at work, rushes in.
‘Oh God, I’m so sorry,’ she says, taking her place at the table and throwing a grateful smile at Vicky who has already placed a cappuccino in front of her empty seat. ‘I just completely overslept, slept right through the alarm clock.’
‘Late night last night?’ Janelle smiles, for despite her reputation she is not difficult to work for, does not, as do some other editors, terrorize her staff for not doing things the way she wants them done.
Janelle’s staff may make fun of her, but they are fiercely loyal and they love her. They love her because she treats them like her family. She is firm when she needs to be, and always fair even when she is hopelessly inconsistent. Others may look at her and think her grand, but in fact Janelle has always strived to be on an equal footing with her staff, and knows that the best way to get the best results is to create an atmosphere of fun and friendship.
Leona lets out a barking laugh. ‘If you’re suggesting what I think you’re suggesting, you must be crazy.’
‘You do have that just-been-shagged look, actually.’ Stella looks over at her with a smile.
‘Now I know you’re crazy.’ Leona unbuttons her coat and lets it fall back on the chair. ‘I have a two-year-old, a six-year-old, and a career. The last time I had a late night because of sexwas probably my wedding night. Nowadays the shorter it is the better, as far as I’m concerned.’
Becky, the lifestyle editor, starts to laugh. ‘I’m having a competition with myself. Last Saturday I actually managed to get it down to eight minutes.’
‘Eight minutes?’ Vicky splutters, horrified. ‘That’s terrible! You mean sex lasted eight minutes?’
‘Yup,’ Becky says with a wide grin. ‘And that was from foreplay to closure.’
‘Good for you.’ Leona rolls her eyes. ‘I’m still at fifteen, and let me tell you, that’s an effort.’
‘Speed sex!’ Janelle shouts, clapping her hands. ‘I love it! We have to do a story on speed sex! Vicky, you and Leona need to talk about this.’
‘I can’t believe we’re actually going to do a story about wanting sex to be over as quickly as possible. God, maybe I don’t want to get married after all.’
‘It’s what I keep telling you.’ Leona turns to her. ‘You keep thinking that marriage is the happy ever after, but baby, it’s just the beginning, and it ain’t all hearts and flowers.’
‘Far from it,’ Becky concurs. ‘I used to be a romantic too, Vicky. And then I got married and was dragged into the real world.’
Vicky shrugs. ‘I can’t help it. I just want to wear that white meringue down the aisle.’
‘God forbid.’ Janelle puts her hand on her heart and raises her eyes to the ceiling. ‘No employee of Poise! is ever going to get married in a white meringue, not when Matthew Williamson would make you something fabulous.’
‘Well I’ll let you know when to contact him,’ Vicky snorts, ‘but I’m warning you: don’t hold your breath.’
‘And in the meantime you just enjoy those marathon sexsessions while you’re still getting them,’ Leona says.
‘Right, back to features,’ Janelle interrupts. ‘Much as I’d like to hear about your sexlives all day, we’ve got a magazine to get out.’
Every now and then a story comes out that captures the media’s imagination, and speed sexends up being one of those stories. The spring issue hits the newsstands at the end of February, and almost immediately the features desks of newspapers pick up the story, followed quickly by radio and TV.
Vicky had given the story to Deborah to write, figuring that as a married mother of three Deborah would presumably be well versed in speed sex, and even if she wasn’t she was an experienced-enough journalist to be able to pull it off.
Deborah had filled the copy with quotes, and three case studies of married couples who thought speed sex was the answer to their prayers, and only indulged in anything longer on the occasional times when they were on holiday without the children, which didn’t happen very often.
The case studies had agreed to be photographed in the magazine, and had already appeared on This Morning and GMTV. Deborah was flattered that her career picked up again instantly, with magazines and newspapers she hadn’t heard from for years suddenly getting in touch with her and asking her to do features.
Vicky has just got back to her desk after an extended lunchbreak in the local park, where she and Leona had ignored the fact that this was London and they were surrounded by office workers eating sandwich lunches, and had subsequently stripped down to bra and knickers (that were actually shorts) to take advantage of the unseasonably hot
day.
Ruth buzzes her. ‘Deborah’s on the phone,’ she says. ‘She wants to talk to you about some radio show she can’t do. Do you want to take it?’
‘Of course,’ Vicky says, and picks up the phone. ‘Hi, Deb. Still enjoying your new-found celebrity? Did I hear you were on the Wright Stuff the other day?’
‘I know!’ Deborah giggles. ‘My kids are thrilled. They keep telling everyone their mum’s famous. Did you see it?’
‘No. Sorry. How was it?’
‘It was great, but I looked terrible. I was enormous.’
Vicky shakes her head silently. Deborah can’t have been enormous. Inarticulate? Possibly. Nervous? Probably. But enormous? ‘How can you have been enormous when you’re, what, a size six?’
‘Actually I’m an eight, but that’s not the point. Just as we were going on air they zoomed in on me and I saw myself on this bloody monitor, and I swear I’m all chin. I never even realized I had a double chin and now all I see when I look in the mirror is chin.’
Vicky laughs. ‘That’s ridiculous. You’re slim and beautiful, and you absolutely do not have a double chin.’
‘Well if you ever decide to do an article on removing your double chin, I’ll be the guinea pig.’
Vicky laughs again.
‘I’m serious,’ Deborah says earnestly. ‘I’m seriously thinking about it. Can’t I do a piece for you about it? Apparently they do it with liposuction and there’s no scarring, nobody would ever know. They just go in behind your ears and one tiny incision under your chin and suck all the excess chin out.’
‘Oh my God. You’re serious. You’ve looked into this. Deborah, for Christ’s sake, you do not have a double chin! What does Dick think about this?’
‘He thinks I’m being ridiculous and says there’s no way he’s going to pay for me to have a non-existent chin removed, which is why I’m trying to get someone to take a piece on it, then I won’t have to pay, and if I wait until Dick goes on his next business trip, he won’t even have to know.’
