by Jo Carnegie
Catherine didn’t mince her words. ‘Saffron, is your alarm clock not working? This is the third time in the last week you’ve been late.’
Saffron looked contrite and chewed her bottom lip. ‘Sorry, Catherine.’
Catherine eyed her over the desk. ‘Sorry I won’t do it again? Or sorry I seem to have a problem getting up in the morning?’
Saffron blushed, feeling rather stupid. ‘It won’t happen again, I promise.’
‘See that it doesn’t.’ Catherine surveyed her features writer over the desk, not unkindly. ‘Saffron, I believe you’ve got a lot of potential, but punctuality is important. I need to know I can trust you to get here on time. We’re not in sixth form any more.’
Saffron met her eye. ‘You can trust me, Catherine.’
‘Good,’ Catherine nodded in the direction of the door. ‘Dismissed.’ Lightening the moment, Saffron did a mock-salute, and left the office.
Catherine couldn’t help but smile. She liked Saffron and had high hopes for her, especially now the timekeeping issue had been addressed. Mind you, if she, Catherine, had to come in and work for the features editor Annabel Trowbridge every day, she’d have a problem getting out of bed in the mornings as well. Catherine groaned inwardly as, yet again, she cursed one of her rare errors of judgement in giving Annabel that job.
With her baggy V-neck M&S jumpers, frumpy skirts and long, lank hair, 37-year-old Annabel Trowbridge hadn’t changed her wardrobe since her sixth-form days boarding at St Mary’s School in Ascot. She had a pale, moon-shaped face, bulbous blue eyes, and a bottom so wide it could knock a coffee cup off a desk from twenty paces.
Despite her unfortunate appearance and even worse personality, Annabel Trowbridge thought she was the best thing since sliced bread. The features editor was singularly unpopular in the office, a fact to which she was oblivious. Barely a day went past without her extolling her own virtues, usually putting someone else down in the process. Saffron had soon got wise to her ways and given her short shrift, but Annabel had only directed her snide comments at someone else, which at the moment seemed to be poor Harriet.
Annabel had come with good credentials from a reputable paper, but Catherine had found out too late that her glowing track record was only due to the fact she had been sleeping with the deputy editor and was threatening to tell his wife. It had only taken a few weeks for Catherine to realize how work-shy her new recruit actually was. Two years on, she was still trying to work out how to get rid of Annabel.
A few minutes later, Catherine went over to the features desk.
‘Any news on Savannah Sexton?’
Annabel hastily closed down her Facebook page and reached for her notepad, flashing Catherine an obsequious smile.
‘Yah, still chasing them, but I’m very confident,’ she gushed. ‘I spoke to Savannah’s manager this week and she says Savannah’s schedule is manic, but as she’s been so impressed by the way I’ve dealt with things, and as Savannah is a fan of Soirée, she’s sure she’ll do something with us for the release of Power Trip.’
Savannah Sexton was a young English actress who Hollywood had gone mad for. As well as being hugely talented, and about to appear in the most-hyped film of the last five years, Savannah was beautiful, chic and going out with Casey Fulbeck, star quarterback for the world famous Boston Tigers and the new face of Abercrombie & Fitch. Together they were a dream team. Magazines, newspapers, fashion houses, TV and radio stations alike wanted a piece of Savannah Sexton. Getting her on the front cover was just what Soirée needed.
Sitting on the other side of the desk, Saffron’s cheeks were red with fury. She’d been the one who had put the calls into Savannah’s management, and now that evil old bint was taking all the credit! ‘Unbelievable,’ she hissed under her breath. Annabel looked over and narrowed her eyes at Saffron.
Catherine didn’t miss the exchange. ‘Well, keep me posted,’ she said, shooting a meaningful glance at Saffron. ‘No ifs, no buts, I want Savannah Sexton.’
‘Morning, my darling!’ Catherine turned round to be confronted by the sight of her flamboyant fashion director, Alexander Napier, bounding across the office. In his mid-thirties, Alexander’s OTT histrionics belied a marvellous fashion eye, utter dedication and steely organizational skills. He was the son of a feared High Court judge who was often trumpeted in the Daily Mail for his unforgiving approach to hooliganism, repeat offenders and under-age drinkers. Quite what Mr Napier Senior made of Alexander, who was today dressed in a Jean Paul Gaultier sailor’s top and what appeared to be a padded lime-green G-string over his skin-tight satin trousers, no one knew.
‘Nice outfit,’ Catherine remarked. Alexander looked down.
‘Oh, I’d forgotten I was still wearing them. Aren’t they vile? They were sent in today, apparently the new ‘wonder pants’ for men. Can’t say I notice any difference. Besides that colour is enough to put any potential shag interest off.’
Catherine raised an amused eyebrow. ‘How did the shoot with Sienna Miller go?’
‘Ms Miller was adorable! That woman would look fabulous in a bin bag,’ he said, handing her a Polaroid. Catherine nodded in approval. ‘These are great, Al,’ she said. ‘Did you manage to get her in all the outfits?’
‘Of course, darling,’ exclaimed Alexander. ‘By the way, love your suit. Stella McCartney?’ Catherine smiled.
She and Alexander were probably the only people on the planet who were allowed to get away with calling each other ‘Al’ and ‘darling’. ‘I’ve just been sent some delicious Christian Louboutins, your size,’ he whispered conspiratorially.
‘How high are they?’ Catherine asked. Alexander looked down at her feet, in their stockings as usual, and sighed dramatically.
‘I am going to get you walking in proper shoes if it kills me!’
As Catherine made her way back into her office her phone started ringing. A gruff, London accent greeted her.
‘Catherine?’
‘Gail, how are you?’
‘Sorry for the short notice, like, but I’ve had a few more calls from businesses interested in joining up to Soirée Sponsors. They’re coming in next Wednesday, and would really like to meet you. Anyway you could come down to the office and give ’em the Soirée spiel?’
Catherine got her diary out. ‘I can come in at eleven, just as long as you don’t play your Daniel O’Donnell CD. My ears are still recovering from last time.’
The other woman gave a throaty chuckle. ‘Bloody cheek, the man’s a sex god!’
Catherine smiled as she put the phone down. In an industry full of egos and back-stabbing, it was so refreshing to work with Gail. Two years after she had become editor, Catherine had been invited on the off-chance to speak at a young persons’ youth group in Peckham, south-east London. The area was extremely disadvantaged, but the local community groups were working hard to breathe in new life and opportunities for the teenagers growing up there. Something about their plight had struck a chord with Catherine, and she had agreed to do it.
The woman who called had turned out to be Gail Barker, a formidable but kind-hearted ex-social-worker who ran the youth group in her spare time. She’d confessed afterwards she’d never expected a big-shot editor like Catherine to take her up on the offer – and when a nervous Catherine had first walked into the centre, she’d expected a wall of hostility or bored indifference at the very best. Instead she was surprised at how intelligent, inquisitive and ambitious these young people were. It quickly became apparent they wanted to make something of their lives, and were frustrated at being marginalized in society, just because of the postcode they lived in.
After the talk, in which she had described her job, Soirée and working in the magazine industry, a pretty young girl with black hair cascading down her back had approached Catherine to say how much she had enjoyed the talk. Her name was Nikki, and when Catherine had admired a multi-coloured glass bead necklace Nikki had been wearing, she’d proudly revealed she’d made it herself. ‘My dre
am is to study at the London College of Fashion and become a jewellery designer,’ she’d told Catherine wistfully. ‘But that’s all it is, a dream. Mum’s on her own and there’s four of us at home. I could never afford to go somewhere like that.’
Afterwards, when she’d got back to the office, Catherine hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Nikki. She’d had such talent, that for Catherine to see it all thrown away just because Nikki had had a shitty start in life would be a travesty. Catherine had felt she had to do something. She’d called Alexander, then deputy fashion editor, into her office, and explained what she wanted to do. He’d listened, nodded, and whipped through his neon-pink contacts book to give Catherine the names of several people who might have been willing to take Nikki on for work experience. On only the second one, Catherine had struck lucky. Within two weeks a delighted Nikki had been working part-time for a top Bond Street jewellers, who’d offered to pay her travel expenses and a small daily allowance. She might not have got her coveted place at college, but Nikki had finally been given her big break, especially when one of her designs had made it into the shop just a few months later.
Catherine had realized she was on to something. With the magazine’s prestige and connections, they were sitting on a potential gold mine! So she had gone to Valour’s board and presented the idea of Soirée Sponsors, a scheme that placed disadvantaged young people in south-east London in creative work-placements and traineeships with businesses across the country.
Despite her fear they might not approve, the board had been delighted.
‘Just the sort of social cause Soirée is known for, advertisers will love it,’ they’d told her.
A contract had quickly been drawn up, and Valour had agreed to contribute a substantial amount of money to set up an office to run the scheme. Even though she was to be the figurehead for Soirée Sponsors, Catherine had still had her own job to do. She’d needed someone organized, hard-working and determined, and had wasted no time approaching Gail.
In the first year of setting up Soirée Sponsors Catherine had wondered at times if she had taken too much on. As well as running the magazine and going to all the social functions she had to attend, Catherine had needed to spend hours ringing round trying to get people on board. Fashion designers, hairdressers, photographers, marketing firms, florists, travel companies, beauty PRs, catering firms, model agencies, health and fitness clubs . . . anyone who Soirée had ever featured or worked with had been approached to see if they could do something.
After twelve exhausting months, her efforts had started to pay off. As word spread, more industry people had wanted to come on board and give something back. Each week a growing number of young people had joined up to Soirée Sponsors, hopeful that for the first time they could make something of their lives. To cope with the increasing workload, Valour had put up the money to recruit a team, who now worked out of a small office in Brixton, south London. Now in its third year, the scheme was thriving. Only a few months ago, it had been named in an influential survey as one of the most up-and-coming charities for disadvantaged people. Now there was talk about taking Soirée Sponsors nationwide, an idea that excited and daunted Catherine in equal measure.
In the last six months, as Gail and the rest of the team had taken on more responsibility, Catherine had had the chance to take her foot off the gas. She had found it very hard to do, however, and as well as editing Soirée full-time, Catherine still attended lunches, dinners and other functions to raise awareness of the scheme. To Catherine’s delight, Gail had rung her last week to proudly inform her that Nikki, now working at the Bond Street store on a properly salaried job, had just been shortlisted for a young designer of the year award. Although she was driven by her day job, Catherine felt more affinity with these tough, bright-spirited young people than with all the Hooray Henries and spoilt trust-fund kids she had encountered since working in glossy magazines. Soirée Sponsors had enriched her life far more than any six-figure salary or designer lifestyle ever could. Although she would never admit it to herself, it was the closest thing Catherine had ever had to a family.
Chapter 7
A FEW DAYS later Saffron plonked herself down on Harriet’s desk.
‘Do you fancy a drink after work? I haven’t got a press launch to go to for the first time in about a gazillion weeks.’
Harriet had told herself she was off the booze for a while. Her mother had come down last week and taken her out for lunch at Claridges, where she had been quick to point out Harriet was looking a little puffier in the face. It was true: after losing nearly two stone travelling Harriet had returned to her old bad habits and was piling it back on rather fast.
‘Are you drinking too much wine again, darling? You know how it bloats you.’
Harriet put Frances’s disapproving face out of her mind; a slimline gin and tonic wouldn’t hurt.
‘Oh, go on then, you’ve twisted my arm,’ she said cheerfully.
Half an hour later they were ensconced at a cosy table for two in the George, a pub down the road. As usual it was full of office workers enjoying a drink after work before rushing off to Waterloo or Paddington to get the train home.
‘Cheers! Here’s to us!’ said Saffron. They clinked glasses. ‘To us!’ Harriet smiled back at her. It was funny, on paper she and Saffron were polar opposites. Eight years older, Harriet was a home bird, while Saffron was out every night at parties. Harriet hadn’t got a clue about fashion, relying mainly on Laura Ashley – or the Boden catalogue if she was feeling daring – while Saffron bought her clothes from designer boutiques and trendy vintage shops. Harriet had classics like Emma and Wuthering Heights on her bookshelves; Saffron’s idea of reading was flicking through POP magazine and going on Twitter. Yet for some reason, the two gelled, and genuinely enjoyed each other’s company. In a way, Saffron reminded Harriet of the younger sister she’d always wanted.
Saffron drank greedily from her glass. ‘God, I needed that.’
‘Bad day?’
Saffron sighed. ‘Can you believe that stupid cow Annabel took all the credit for the progress I’ve made with Savannah Sexton?’
‘Couldn’t you say something?’ ventured Harriet.
Saffron sighed again. ‘She’ll just twist it round and make out I’m moaning for no reason. Besides, as she is so bloody fond of reminding me, she’s my line manager and anything she says, goes. Anyway, I don’t want to waste a second longer talking about old Troutbridge.’
Instead she started telling Harriet about a media party she had been invited to at Downing Street, which soon led on to a highly entertaining story about the time she’d gone out to an all-night rave with the son of a disgraced Tory peer, and ended up trying to break into the Houses of Parliament.
‘I’ve grown out of that sort of thing, now. At least I hope I have!’
Harriet giggled. ‘Have you always lived in London?’ she asked.
‘I moved here about eight years ago to live with my aunt. Before that I lived all over the place.’
‘Oh, right,’ said Harriet. She didn’t know whether to ask about Saffron’s family; her parents could have been killed in an awful road accident or something.
She didn’t have to. ‘My dad’s dead,’ said Saffron. ‘He died in a yachting accident when I was little. He was a really cool guy.’
‘I’m really sorry to hear that,’ Harriet told her. ‘What about your mother?’
Saffron made a derisive noise. ‘She might as well be dead. We never really got on: she was always too wrapped up in herself and her stupid life. It got really bad when I was a teenager, so Aunt Velda said I could go and live with her. I’ve been there ever since.’ She finished her drink. ‘Velda’s been more of a mum to me than she ever was.’
‘Have you stayed in contact?’ Harriet asked carefully.
This was clearly a difficult subject for Saffron. Her eyes had become flat, and the spark had gone from her voice. She shrugged. ‘She came to visit once, and it was such a disaster I told
her never to come back again. She phoned a few times after that, but you could tell she was only doing it because she thought she had to.’ She gave a sarcastic smile. ‘The phone calls stopped, too. I guess I wasn’t worth making the effort for.’
‘I’m sure that’s not true,’ Harriet started to say, but Saffron cut her off.
‘Honestly H, it’s cool. I’m over it now. I haven’t got a clue where she is or what she’s doing, and I like it that way. Can we talk about something else? This is boring. Tell me about where you live, instead. Christchurch or something, isn’t it?’
‘Churchminster. It’s a little village in the Cotswolds,’ said Harriet.
Saffron finished her drink. ‘I’ve never been out that way.’ She laughed. ‘I’m not much of a country girl.’
‘You might like it,’ said Harriet. ‘It really is a wonderful place. A lot more goes on in the country than you might think.’
Saffron smiled. ‘Muddy wellies and ruddy-faced farmers? Not really my thing.’
Harriet noticed her empty glass. ‘I’ll get these,’ she said and went off to the bar.
By the time she returned, Saffron had company. ‘H!’ she said. ‘I’ve just bumped into some mates. Trey, Damien, this is Harriet Fraser. We work together at Soirée.’
The short, skinny man sitting in Harriet’s seat glanced up. Even though he looked about forty, he was dressed like a teenager: in ridiculously baggy jeans with a chain hanging off them, and an oversized T-shirt over his skinny frame. His rat-like eyes cast themselves over Harriet, unimpressed.
‘Delighted,’ he said in a mockney accent, sounding anything but.
‘Trey’s a photographer, he’s just done a major advertising campaign with Elizabeth Jagger,’ said Saffron. ‘And Damien works for a record label.’
A younger man in his mid-twenties, with a shaved eyebrow and a trilby hat, raised his hand un-enthusiastically. ‘Word.’
