by Jo Carnegie
Gail sat still in shock. ‘“Project 300”? What a load of old rot! What’s this Sir Robin bloke on?’
‘They’ll probably make us all wear compulsory slogan T-shirts as well,’ said Catherine gloomily. ‘I hate it when management get these stupid ideas.’
‘Well, I’m not bloody wearing one,’ Gail declared. Her face became more shaken. ‘They can’t close us down! Don’t they care about what we’re doing here?’
Catherine suddenly felt drained. ‘All they care about is profit. I know, it’s hard for me to understand as well, but at the end of the day, this is business, Gail.’ She sighed. ‘Bloody Sir Robin bloody Hackford! What does he know about what the modern woman wants? He’d be better off in charge of Saga magazine.’
Despite it all, Gail let out a wheezy laugh. Catherine smiled back. ‘I’m being really unprofessional. I shouldn’t be saying this . . .’
Gail leaned across and squeezed her arm. ‘That’s what I’m here for.’
The unexpected gesture made Catherine well up.
‘Hey, come on, don’t get upset!’ Gail jumped up and got her a box of tissues.
‘I’m being pathetic,’ sniffed Catherine.
‘Crap. Even hot-shot editors are allowed to have feelings sometimes. You’ve got a lot on your plate, Catherine.’
Catherine swallowed. ‘I know. It’s just . . . well, you said it yourself. We’re doing such good things here. Sometimes I think Soirée Sponsors has become more important than the magazine.’
Gail squeezed her arm again. ‘Come on, don’t throw in the towel yet. Let’s give those buggers what for. I have faith in you, Catherine. You’re a fighter.’
‘I don’t feel like one at the moment.’
Gail folded her arms across her enormous chest, her spirit back. ‘You’re not going to take this sitting down, Catherine, I won’t let you. You’re bloody good at your job, and Valour are lucky to have you. And don’t let a bunch of ponces in posh suits tell you otherwise!’
Catherine managed a small smile.
‘That’s better!’ declared Gail. ‘You want me to come down and give ’em a piece of my mind?’
A vision of Gail charging into the boardroom to challenge Sir Robin flashed into Catherine’s mind, and she laughed out loud for the first time in weeks. The release felt good. Smiling, Catherine leant down to retrieve her handbag.
‘One more thing before you scoot off,’ said Gail. ‘I wanted to run something past you quickly. I had a call from Nikki Jenson earlier . . .’
It was shortly after 1.30 p.m. when Catherine got back to the Soirée office. As it was lunchtime, most of the team were out, probably making the most of the September sunshine. Harriet was at her desk, and she caught Catherine as she strode into her office.
‘Catherine?’ she called out. ‘The Press Gazette has called three times today. They want to know if you have any comment on the latest sales figures.’
Catherine paused. ‘Can you email me their name and number? I’ll call them back.’
‘Also, Adam has called a few times for you.’
Catherine looked distinctly unimpressed. ‘That can wait,’ she said, and disappeared into her office, closing the door behind her.
Harriet bit her lip. There was something going on. Catherine had told Harriet she was going over to Martyr House this morning. And each time he’d called, Adam had sounded increasingly stressed. As if on cue, Harriet’s desk phone rang.
‘It’s Adam. Is Catherine back yet?’
‘I’ll see if she’s free,’ said Harriet, and put him on hold.
She dialled Catherine’s line. ‘It’s Adam Freshwater again.’
‘Tell him to take a running jump, preferably off a very high building.’
Harriet took Adam off hold. ‘Catherine is in a meeting at the moment,’ she said. ‘She’ll call you back as soon as she can.’
Adam tutted. ‘Get her to call me on my mobile.’
Inside her office, Catherine knew she should take Adam’s calls, but she was so annoyed at him for not standing up for her. She was dreading his ‘Project 300’ speech. She also knew she was unfairly directing all of her anger and frustrations at him, and he had probably been given a rollicking by the board himself earlier . . .
Catherine rested her chin on her hands and stared hopelessly out of the window. Am I getting too old for all this? The phone interrupted her thoughts.
‘Cath-a-rine!’ cried a voice. Catherine rolled her eyes. Isabella. How the hell did Isabella have her direct line? Before she had a chance to find out, Isabella cut to the quick.
‘I hear your meeting didn’t go very well today.’
Catherine sat up. ‘How do you know that?’
Isabella laughed lightly, delighted at her consternation. ‘Oh, news travels fast in this industry, my dear! Of course, it does help when one is so well-connected. But don’t expect me to reveal my sources!’ She chuckled again.
‘Have you rung up to gloat, Isabella?’ Catherine asked sharply. ‘Because I’m really not in the mood for it.’ She heard an intake of breath.
‘Of course not, darling! This is just one editor offering commiserations to another. Really, I feel terribly for you.’ Catherine had never heard anyone sound so gleeful. ‘Of course, it doesn’t help that Sir Robin Hackford has wanted to shut down Soirée ever since he joined Valour.’
Catherine’s stomach dropped. ‘What are you talking about?’
Isabella laughed again. ‘Oh, darling, you must know. Everyone knows! Sir Robin has made no secret of the fact he thinks Soirée had its day long ago. Apparently he’s determined to plough the money back into new media ventures. That’s the problem with hiring these financial types: they haven’t got a creative bone in their body! Who would imagine, the chairman of Valour not liking magazines!’
‘Sir Robin Hackford doesn’t have the monopoly on Soirée’s future,’ Catherine pointed out acidly. ‘That’s what we have a board of directors for.’
‘Quite! And other board members – I believe your chief executive and group finance director were among them – resisted his opinions for quite some time. But Sir Robin’s predictions seem to be coming true. They can’t argue with those disastrous sales figures!’
Catherine resisted the urge to ask which of Valour’s directors Isabella was sleeping with.
‘Goodbye, Isabella,’ she said, and put the phone down. Fuming, she clicked on to her emails. She needed to let off some steam, and her friend Teen Style’s Fiona MacKenzie, was always a good outlet.
Hi Fi. I’m about as popular as Bin Laden round here. Got hauled before the board and given a bollocking about our sales figures. What do they expect if they raise the cover price through the roof? Bloody dinosaurs, they wouldn’t know a good magazine if it came and bit them on their haemorrhoids! Anyway, just wanted to have a rant, feel better now. How are you?
C x
She quickly typed Fiona’s name in and pressed send. A moment later, a horrible thought occurred. Catherine checked her sent items and her stomach dropped. She had sent the email to Valour’s director, Fiona MacDonald-Scott instead.
Catherine groaned and put her face in her hands.
Chapter 20
ADAM CAME INTO the office the next morning to deliver his speech. But before he started, Catherine had a few words of her own she wanted to say to her team.
If Isabella had rung purely to heap more misery on her, she would have been furious to have learned that it had actually had the opposite effect. Spurred into action by her nemesis’s foul gloating, Catherine had stayed up half the night formulating a game plan to revitalize the magazine. When she finally turned in at 4 a.m., her newfound resolve had momentarily faltered. She had a hell of a task in front of her. Not only to save Soirée and the jobs of her staff, but the hopes and dreams of all the young people on Soirée Sponsors. Catherine had forced the thought out of her mind again, and tried to find sanctuary in sleep. The enormity had been almost too much to think about.
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��Can we all gather round?’ she called across the floor. ‘I’ve got an important announcement to make.’ She waited until everyone was standing around her.
‘Uh-oh, Catherine’s put her heels on,’ murmured Saffron to Harriet. ‘She always does that when she has bad news.’
Catherine looked at the expectant, nervous faces. ‘I am sure most of you are aware that Soirée’s sales have been falling for a while now. Not dramatically, I hasten to add, and in the current climate I can assure you we aren’t alone. However, Valour’s board have shown concern that Soirée isn’t performing as well as they would like it to.’ She smiled tightly. ‘Therefore, they have devised a plan called “Project 300”, which Adam will explain to you in a minute.’
You’re on your own with this one, buddy, she thought. She had just seen the contents of the box he had brought in with him. A disconcerted hum started amongst the staff, and she held up her hand to quieten it.
‘I’m aware that – quite understandably – some of you are worried about what this means for Soirée.’
‘Are there going to be job cuts?’ someone asked nervously.
Catherine crossed her fingers behind her back and tried to stand tall, no mean feat in a pair of circulation-killing Kurt Geigers. ‘No, I can’t imagine that is going to happen. I’m confident we can meet the target that has been set for us.’
Adam glanced questioningly over, but Catherine ignored him. There was no way she was letting her team carry the burden of closure with her for six months, whether he liked it or not. ‘We do need to be realistic and understand that things are changing. Soirée is still the best magazine on the market, but we’ve got to up our game, become even better. We all need to dig deep, myself included.’ She paused. ‘So I’m making some changes. I know it’s not ideal, but I’ve got a few last-minute updates for the next month’s issue. I’ll need you all to work late for the rest of the week to help me implement them.’
Across the room, the chief sub-editor, who was in charge of production and making sure the magazine got out on time, went green. ‘But it’s meant to be at the printers by now!’ he protested.
Catherine looked solemn. ‘I’m asking a lot, I know, but we need an extension on this issue. It will be the first and last time, and I know it’s cutting it fine.’
She continued. ‘From next Monday, for two weeks, I will be taking half the art team to an office down the corridor to work on a redesign.’
At this the chief sub let out a strangulated cry; with Christmas looming they were coming up to their busiest time of year! Catherine ignored him. ‘My belief is that Soirée needs something radical to keep it looking fresh and new.’
The art director nodded his head enthusiastically. ‘I’ve got some great ideas I’ve been dying to try out.’
Catherine nodded. ‘We are still going to cover green issues, but we are going to drop the eco-living standpoint we’ve been taking. It’s too niche, too preachy and our readers are intelligent and well-informed enough to make their own choices on how they want to live.’
Draped over Harriet’s desk in a frilled shirt and tailored knee-length shorts, Alexander cheered. ‘Hear bloody hear! I thought we were going to turn into Crusty Weekly at one point. All that hemp wallpaper and “build your own urban compost toilet”. Urgh!’ There were titters around the office, and Adam went rather pink, but Catherine made no attempt to reprimand her fashion director.
‘I’ll be speaking to each department individually. We’ve got an amazing team here, but I need you to put in 110 per cent from now on. With Soirée Sponsors going from strength to strength, let’s make the Soirée brand as good as we can. Are you all with me?’
The team, galvanized by the speech, nodded enthusiastically. Catherine looked pleased by what she saw. ‘Excellent.’ Her smile became slightly frozen. ‘Now I’ll hand you over to Adam, who’ll explain the nuts and bolts of the “Project 300”.’
Soirée’s publisher blinked nervously. Public speaking wasn’t his forte. He stepped forward.
‘Yes, right!’ Adam’s Adam’s apple bobbed furiously. ‘Um . . .’
There was an excruciating silence, before he took a resolute swallow.
‘This just isn’t good enough!’ he said loudly.
Catherine groaned inwardly, he’d obviously had a pep talk from Sir Robin to go in heavy-handed.
Adam started striding up and down in front of them, looking more like he was searching unsuccessfully for his car in a multi-storey car park than an inspirational leader rousing his troops.
‘Valour’s about winning!’ he declared. ‘And what are we? Losers!’
Everyone looked at Catherine. Her mouth had dropped open, but by now Adam was in full flow.
‘Valour doesn’t do losers! We’re in it to win it. And that’s why the “Project 300”, a brilliant idea devised by Sir Robin Hackford himself – has been put into practice. At the moment Soirée is selling 200,000 copies a month.’
At this the team looked slightly relieved. That sounded all right, didn’t it? Adam noticed their glances and pounced. ‘You think that’s good enough? It’s not. Our rivals are selling tens of thousands more a month!’
Probably because they haven’t got a bunch of muppets in charge and an extortionate cover price. Catherine fumed inwardly.
Adam ploughed on. ‘We want to be at the top of our game again, where Valour Publishing belongs! So,’ he puffed up self-importantly, ‘you have all been set the challenge to increase Soirée’s sales by 100,000 to reach that “Project 300” mark. And there’s no time to waste, because you’ve got six months to do it!’
‘Six months?’ someone echoed.
‘Yup,’ said Adam confidently.
‘That’s March,’ another voice said weakly.
‘Uh-huh! Of course I expect you to have it all sewn up by then.’
Mouths gaped, and once again everyone turned to look at Catherine. Her jaw was set like granite. Adam stopped striding and put his hands on his hips, crotch pointing out rather offensively.
‘OK?’ he said. ‘Are we clear on that?’ His voice rose louder and he raised his fist in the air, Rocky-style. ‘What are we, winners or losers? Let’s hear it for “Project 300”!’ He punched the air. ‘Yeah!’
The only sound was the distant hum of a photocopier. Catherine quickly stepped in.
‘I think we all understand the concept, Adam,’ she said, trying to keep her voice as neutral as possible.
Adam blinked again, back to his normal ineffectiveness. ‘Oh, of course,’ he stuttered. ‘There is one more thing.’ He looked at Saffron, who was standing near the large cardboard box he’d brought in. ‘If you could bring that over here . . .’
After a moment’s hesitation Saffron bent down to pick it up, but Tom Fellows beat her to it. ‘I’ve got it,’ he mumbled.
Everyone looked down curiously as Adam pulled the flaps open.
‘To kick-start the “Project 300” campaign, Valour Publishing is generously donating a branded mouse mat and mug for each and every one of you. Please replace your old ones with these, it is compulsory to use them.’
He bent down and triumphantly pulled out a garish black mug with the slogan ‘Project 300’ emblazoned across it in bright yellow letters. ‘From now on, whenever you step into the building, you’ll be living, breathing and working the “Project 300”! This is to ensure maximum success.’ Adam thrust the mug aloft, like some kind of abhorrent Father Christmas. ‘Are there any questions?’ he asked.
This time, Catherine didn’t dare look at any of her team.
‘Thank you, Adam. I’ll make sure everyone gets their new equipment. And thanks everyone, you can all get back to work now.’
People started shuffling back to their desks, talking incredulously in low voices. Catherine knew how they felt. She went back into her office, heart heavy. Adam followed. ‘That went well, didn’t it?’ he said hopefully.
Catherine went round the other side of her desk. ‘Depends what you term “well”
.’ She looked over at him. ‘I don’t appreciate you calling my team “losers”, Adam.’
He flushed. ‘Maybe that was a bit much. Thomasina bought me this American self-help book on how to motivate one’s workforce. It was rather extreme.’
Catherine raised an eyebrow. ‘I think they got the message.’ What a bloody farce! As if Sir Robin thought spending £50 on a load of tacky Valour merchandise was going to help them achieve the ridiculous target he’d set. Catherine gritted her teeth, they’d be a laughing stock when this got out.
‘Was there anything else?’ she asked abruptly. Suddenly she wanted Adam out of her office, and as far away from her as possible.
‘Er, no. Just keep me up to date with progress, and, of course, I’ll be reporting back to Sir Robin with the monthly sales figures.’
No offer of any help or ideas from him, then, she noted. Not that she was surprised: Adam had the creative vision of a concrete bollard. ‘As you can imagine, I’ve got a lot to get on with,’ she said.
Adam smoothed down his tie. ‘Of course, I’ll leave you to it. Well, good luck.’
Catherine shut the door firmly behind him, not even caring that she’d dismissed her own boss. We’ll need more than luck, mate, she thought grimly as she kicked off her heels and prepared to get stuck into the October issue. You’re asking me to perform a bloody miracle.
OCTOBER
Chapter 21
AS THE DYING embers of summer moved into autumn, Montague Mews was aglow with new colours. Branches from the horse chestnut trees drooped into the courtyard, their green leaves slowly turning a burnished copper. As they fell, they covered the cobbles, transforming the ground into a flame-coloured carpet. Returning home from shopping late one Wednesday afternoon, the sun was slowly creeping down the century-old brick walls, Caro thought it looked like a golden pocket of loveliness.
That weekend Benedict was away on a work trip, so Caro decided to invite Harriet and Velda round for dinner on Saturday.
Velda popped in the day before to ask if Saffron could come as well. ‘Of course,’ Caro said. ‘I only didn’t invite her because I thought she’d have better things to do.’
