by Jo Carnegie
‘Dad, get up.’
His father’s bleary eyes opened. ‘What?’ he mumbled confusedly. ‘Where am I?’
Ash blanched: the older man’s breath stank of stale booze and unhappiness. ‘Dad, get up. Now. You passed out on the sofa again.’ He sighed. ‘Come on, I don’t need this shit.’
His father stood up unsteadily, face still slack and eyes drunken. Ash went to grab his arm, but was pushed away.
‘Get off me,’ his father growled. ‘I’m not a fucking invalid.’ He turned and banged into the doorframe, before shuffling off in the direction of his bedroom.
Ash shook his head and went to get a cloth and bowl of water to clean up the mess on the carpet. It was going to make him late for work again.
They’d been almost happy once, the King family. Ash, his dad Phil, mum Linda, and Ash’s older sister Bev. True, there hadn’t been much money, and the tenth-storey flat on the housing estate in Peckham was small and poky, but Phil’s job as a gas fitter had kept the family in clean clothes and put food in their mouths. Ash had always been closest to his Granddad Bert on his mum’s side, who had lived in sheltered accommodation around the corner. It had been Bert who had got Ash interested in antiques, when he’d given him an old silver pocket watch for his tenth birthday, inscribed with the words, ‘To Fred, for all eternity, with heartfelt love, Elsie.’ It had been a gift from Bert’s mum to his dad, before he went off and got killed in the First World War. The watch had fascinated Ash: it hadn’t just been the craftsmanship, but the sense of a moment in time, captured like that, for ever. The rest of his family couldn’t understand it. ‘What do you want with that old bit of junk?’ his mum had laughed, ruffling his hair. But Ash’s love for antiques had been ignited, and every weekend Bert would take him round fairs, car boot sales and to Portobello Market. Other lads Ash’s age spent their free time eyeing up girls on the high street or hanging round the back of the community centre drinking, and couldn’t understand why he’d want to spend his time in musty-smelling shops filled with old people. Ash didn’t care. His greatest thrill had been when he had spent two months’ pocket money on a porcelain bowl he found at a car boot sale. His mum had gone mental – until it had transpired it was a very nice eighteenth-century piece, which Ash had sold on to a dealer for £80.
‘You’ve got a talent for this, young man,’ the dealer had told him. Ash had been hooked, and it had become his dream that, one day, he’d run his own antiques shop, his own little treasure trove of lost heirlooms and memories. For his twelfth birthday Granddad Bert had taken Ash to Tate Britain. For a little boy who had grown up in a fume-smoked urban sprawl, the colours of Turner and Samuel Prout’s cornfields and water mills had been an intoxicating experience.
‘I’m gonna own one of these one day, Gramps,’ he had declared afterwards.
Bert had been the only one who didn’t mock him. ‘I’m sure you will, son, good on you.’
But then it had all gone wrong. Shortly after Ash’s thirteenth birthday, his granddad had keeled over on his way to bingo and died of a heart attack. Two months later his mum, Linda, who had been spending more and more time going out by herself, had announced she was in love with a man she’d met down the pub and was going to start a new life abroad, away from all the dreariness. Ash’s dad, always a drinker, had really hit the bottle after that. It had been left to a bewildered Ash and his sister Bev to try and deal with the hurt of being abandoned by first one and then the other parent.
Bev had left soon after that, and now lived in domestic bliss in Kent. She wouldn’t come back to the flat, not with the state their dad was in these days, while Ash felt guilty at the thought of leaving his dad – he couldn’t visit his sister in case he did something stupid. Signed off work for depression years ago, his dad did little apart from go back and forth to the off-licence these days.
Ash grimaced as he scraped up the remains of congealed mashed potato from the living room carpet. His life was shit and he could see no way of it ever improving.
Chapter 18
IF ASH’S DAY had started badly, it was nothing in comparison to how Catherine’s was heading. She’d just had the latest monthly figures from the sales team, and they had suffered their biggest drop since she’d started working at Soirée five years ago. Catherine ran her hands through her hair. She had been so sure the last issue, with a rock-star’s-daughter-turned-supermodel feature, was going to be a winner. Fuck! thought Catherine. There was no getting away from it now. They were up proverbial shit creek without even a glimpse of a paddle.
Ten minutes later, another email popped up, this time from Adam. He didn’t mince his words.
Assume you’ve seen the latest figures. Sir Robin isn’t happy. Board want to see you tomorrow 10 a.m. sharp. It doesn’t matter what else you’ve got on, cancel it.
The meeting would be held at Martyr House, Valour’s plush Bond Street office. This was where the board of directors made company decisions: amongst other things, whether to launch and close magazines. As well as several senior management figures from within Valour, there were other non-executive directors who, in their time, had each been regarded as the most influential figures in their industries. Even though most of them were retired, these five men – and one woman – were still tremendously powerful, and held a tight rein over the magazine titles at Valour.
These facts kept running through Catherine’s head as she made her way to Martyr House in a black cab the following morning. She’d barely slept a wink and her stomach was twisted into a sick knot. It was all she could do to keep down the black coffee she’d had for breakfast that morning.
‘The board need to discuss a plan of action with you,’ was all Adam could – or would – say. He’d arranged to meet her in there. How typical, Catherine thought, to abandon her to her fate and retreat to the safest corner.
Adam’s appointment as Soirée’s publisher eighteen months earlier had come as a surprise to everyone. He’d only had limited experience, of editing marginally successful lifestyle magazines, and that was now becoming a liability. It was increasingly evident that Adam was out of his depth, and no one seemed to know what to do with him. The common consensus amongst the ranks at Valour was that if his father hadn’t been shooting friends with a director who had recently retired from the board, Adam wouldn’t have got the job in the first place.
For a moment Catherine thought yearningly of her old boss Sue Fletchley-Ross. A firm but fair woman, she had worked exceptionally well with Catherine. She had shared Catherine’s vision and given her free rein editorially, as well as offering a reliable sounding board for Catherine’s ideas. Sue would have known what to do now, thought Catherine, but she could hardly call her old boss up at the ranch on Australia’s Gold Coast where she’d emigrated with her family.
Catherine gave herself a mental shake as the cab pulled up outside the grand Victorian building. She was on her own. Pulling out a hand mirror, she surveyed her immaculate make-up and expensive black power suit. Her reflection, a woman in control, unafraid and single-minded, looked back coolly. Satisfied, she returned the mirror to her handbag. She might be a churning mass of emotions inside, but Catherine Connor was sure as hell not going to let the board see that.
Unfortunately, as she walked in she tripped over the new Jimmy Choo stilettos Alexander had forced her to buy, only just stopping herself from crashing into the reception desk. The snooty-looking girl behind it stifled a nasty giggle. Catherine flushed red and flashed a sarcastic smile. She’d known it would be a mistake to wear them.
‘Catherine Connor to see the Valour board at ten o’clock,’ she said, trying to regain her composure. The receptionist surveyed her icily and picked up the phone. ‘Catherine Connor to see you, Sir Robin,’ she said. She listened for a moment and put the phone down.
‘Take a seat. I will call you when they’re ready.’
Five minutes later, the girl gave Catherine a sharp nod. ‘The board will see you now. Seventh floor, first right out of the
lifts.’
Feeling the receptionist’s eyes on her, Catherine walked determinedly over to the lift, letting it take her up. Catherine counted: one, two, three, four . . . Christ, it was claustrophobic in here! After what seemed like an age, the doors slid open. She stepped out onto the thick carpet and glanced up and down the wide, high-ceilinged corridors. There was not a soul to be seen. Turning right she came to stand outside a large, dark-panelled wooden door. She took a deep breath, lifted her hand and knocked twice.
The sound echoed down the corridor. ‘Come in,’ ordered a crisp male voice from inside.
It was a large, square room, with a long mahogany table in the middle. Ten people were sitting round it. Amongst the dour-faced older men in suits, Catherine saw the familiar faces of Valour’s chief executive and group finance director. The chief executive looked strained, while the group finance director gave Catherine a sympathetic smile. Catherine glanced at the po-faced woman sitting next to him; she had to be Fiona MacDonald-Scott, Valour’s only female director. Catherine tried smiling at her but was met by a look that could kill grizzly bears. So much for sisterhood. She didn’t even bother to acknowledge Adam, who was shrinking in his seat and fiddling nervously with his pen. An older, well-preserved man with a high forehead and neatly brushed-back silver hair stood up.
‘Miss Connor, thank you for coming to see us,’ he said. ‘I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Sir Robin Hackford. Take a seat.’ It was an order, not a welcoming gesture.
‘I am sure you know why you’re here today,’ said Sir Robin. ‘As Adam has relayed to you, Soirée’s latest sales figures are a real concern for us. It is the tenth consecutive drop in a row. If this carries on, the magazine will become one of the biggest loss-making titles at Valour Publishing.’ He surveyed Catherine over his half-moon spectacles, waiting for her reaction.
Catherine tried to keep her cool. ‘We’re still selling 200,000 a month, that’s more than some magazines.’
‘And a lot less than others,’ Sir Robin shot back. ‘In this current time, we have to set the bar high. Research has come back showing that consumers are starting to lose faith in the magazine.’
‘You’ve been doing research groups? Why wasn’t I told about it?’ Catherine was shocked, not to mention angry. Feedback from the public played an imperative role in improving magazines, and Catherine had always been very involved in the research groups.
Until now.
‘We didn’t feel it prudent to tell you,’ he said.
‘What?’ Catherine exclaimed, but Sir Robin held an imperious hand up. With the other, he started flicking disdainfully through the latest issue lying in front of him.
‘This magazine doesn’t seem to know what it is. Interviews with people no one has heard of . . .’
People you’ve never heard of, you old fart, Catherine fumed inwardly.
‘. . . pages of fashion no one would wear. And as for the “vegan living special”!’ Sir Robin’s eyebrows shot up in disgust.
Down the table, Adam shuffled down in his chair. That bloody wife of his! Much to Catherine’s exasperation, Adam had been pushing the alternative living angle for a while now. Catherine had protested violently about the ‘vegan living’ piece, and told him they’d be an industry laughing stock, but Adam had pulled rank and made her put it in.
‘Soirée is meant to be about glamour, aspiration, inspiration, interviews with people other magazines would pull their teeth out to get,’ Sir Robin continued. ‘I – we – are seeing none of that here.’
Catherine’s jaw tightened. The point about the vegan living had been fair, but how could a 62-year-old man claim to be an authority on fashion! ‘The fact the cover price has been raised doesn’t help . . .’ she started to say, but Sir Robin cut her off.
‘Enough. We need to think about facts and figures. We have been monitoring Soirée’s performance carefully for twelve months now. The fact is this magazine is not performing.’
The chief executive sighed unhappily. Catherine opened her mouth, but found she couldn’t say anything. Sir Robin fixed Catherine with an unblinking gaze.
‘Miss Connor, we are setting you a challenge.’
‘What kind of challenge?’ Catherine was immediately suspicious.
He smiled like a wolf appraising its prey. ‘We are giving you six months to add 100,000 readers to your sales.’ He looked round at the others, pleased with himself. ‘I have come up with a name myself for your challenge.’ Sir Robin paused dramatically. ‘“Project 300”!’
Catherine looked at him disbelievingly. ‘Project what?’
Further down the table, the chief executive picked at his fingernails unhappily.
Sir Robin continued looking smug. ‘We feel that if you have something tangible to work towards, it will produce better results. Mr Freshwater will be coming down to give your team a talk on the campaign tomorrow.’
Catherine looked around the table but was met by a wall of granite faces. She couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing. Six months. Six months to save the magazine, in possibly the most difficult climate the industry had ever faced.
‘You can’t expect us to add 100,000 to sales in six months,’ she said, trying to stay calm. ‘It’s virtually impossible. We need at least double the time to achieve anything close to that.’
But Sir Robin carried on as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘You have until March of next year to turn this magazine’s fortunes around.’
Catherine made herself force out the words. ‘And if we don’t?’
Sir Robin’s cold eyes appraised her. ‘Then we will have no alternative but to close the title.’
The room was silent. A lump sprang into Catherine’s throat, trying to fight its way upward. Keep your composure, she willed herself . . .
‘And what about Soirée Sponsors?’
Sir Robin’s eyes didn’t waver. ‘That will have to go as well. It’s proving to be a far greater drain on resources than expected.’
Catherine couldn’t bear it any longer. ‘But we’re doing such good work!’ she cried. Several eyebrows shot up round the table but she was beyond caring. ‘You talk about Soirée losing its way, but what is Soirée Sponsors then? “Glamour with a conscience” – that’s been the magazine’s heartbeat since the very start! It’s all right for you lot sitting up here in your ivory tower. What about all those kids out there with bugger all in life?’
The group finance director cleared his throat uncomfortably. When Sir Robin spoke again, his tone was like steel.
‘You may labour under a romantic notion that you’re single-handedly clearing up Britain’s streets, but I live in the real world, where two things matter,’ he said.
‘Now hang on a minute,’ said the chief executive, alarmed at the sudden air of hostility in the room, but Sir Robin shot him down with a death stare.
‘Profit and loss.’ He enunciated the two words perfectly. ‘That’s what counts, Miss Connor.’
‘We need to invest in Soirée for it to make money,’ she replied angrily. ‘What about Soirée online? We were promised a website to work alongside the magazine months ago and it’s not happened. And I was only saying to Adam last week we desperately need another TV campaign to raise our profile.’ She looked at him, hands stretched out in a plea. ‘We need to build up the brand, not destroy it!’
Sir Robin ignored her. ‘In these unstable times, we have to invest money where the market is strongest. Soirée is losing Valour Publishing money. If it carries on, the magazine and all ventures associated with it will be closed. It’s that simple.’
Chapter 19
GAIL LOOKED UP from her pot of strawberry Muller Light. ‘Jesus, girl, you look like you’ve seen a ghost!’
Catherine stood in the doorway of the small, bustling Soirée Sponsors office. ‘Can I have a quick word?’
It was now midday, but she hadn’t been able to face going back to the magazine yet. Adam had rung her mobile every ten minutes since she’d walked out of the meet
ing, but she hadn’t picked up his calls. As far as she was concerned, he’d been as much use as a chocolate teapot.
As usual there was an air of organized chaos in the room. Amongst the pot plants, blaring radio and piles of paperwork, several young people were busily working at their desks. A few looked up and grinned at Catherine in recognition.
Gail steered Catherine into a little room off the main one, and shut the door behind them. It was a common room of sorts: there were two squashy beanbags in one corner and a tiny kitchen area with a sink filled with unwashed mugs in the other. A small table stood there, coffee rings and a trail of sugar granules marking the surface. Gail gestured to one of the chairs and Catherine sat down, Gail’s large bulk filling the other. Cork notice-boards with dozens of photographs pinned to them adorned the walls. Faces of Soirée Sponsors participants, past and present, beamed out. Catherine noticed one in particular.
‘Isn’t that Reece Lawrence?’ Reece had been one of the first to join up with Soirée Sponsors. He’d been brought in by his despairing mother as a sullen, angry seventeen-year-old, but had showed a real talent for taking pictures with a battered old camera he’d picked up on eBay. A photographer involved with the scheme had subsequently taken on Reece as his assistant.
‘He’s doing great,’ said Gail proudly. ‘Being worked like a dog, but loving it. His mum dropped in last week. Says Reece wants to set up on his own in a few years’ time!’
Catherine looked at the picture of Reece, his cheeky freckled face grinning as he held a camera aloft. ‘Good for him.’
Just as quickly the morning’s events came flooding back, and her face dropped again.
Gail looked concerned. ‘What’s going on, Catherine?’
Without sparing any painful detail, Catherine relayed the boardroom meeting to Gail. Including the fact that Sir Robin had put a stop to any new sponsors joining the scheme, as that meant taking on more staff Valour weren’t prepared to pay for.
