“Penand Inc, yes. I was very impressed. It was beautifully written for someone with so little writing experience.”
“Thank you very much,” I say, blushing a bit. She can’t see me though – so that’s okay.
“So, as I said, I’d like to meet with you to discuss your proposal further. How are you fixed tomorrow?”
I put my phone in my bag and look around for someone to tell. But the place is empty, except for me and a waiter, who’s currently wiping an already spotless counter.
I’ll tell him.
“I’ve got an interview,” I say, beaming.
“Great,” he says, probably wondering who this nutcase is that’s talking to him.
“It’s at a magazine,” I tell him. “I’m going to be a writer.”
“Great,” he says again, smiling this time.
“Yes it is, isn’t it,” I agree, before skipping out of the café on a big fluffy cloud.
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
Okay. So, I’m having a bit of a problem deciding what to wear. What do you wear for a ‘discussion’ with the editor of a huge magazine? A trouser suit? A designer dress straight from the pages of Vogue? Ripped jeans and a DKNY t-shirt?
I have changed my outfit four times already and there is a pile of clothes on my bed that makes the collapsing canvas wardrobe look like the shelves at Gap.
Katie is beginning to lose patience.
“Becky, this woman is not going to not give you the commission just because she doesn’t like the colour of your suit or the sleeves on your shirt,” she tells me from the edge of my bed where she is perched, in between shovelling spoonfuls of muesli into her mouth.
“First impressions count,” I say, holding my hair up as I look in the hall mirror and then letting it go again. This outfit looks better with my hair down.
“But you’ve already made the first impression,” she argues.
She should have been a lawyer.
“You’ve given her a bloody good feature idea that’s going to help her sell thousands of copies of her magazine. After all, what girl doesn’t want to know how to spot Mr Right?
“Then my outfit could clinch the deal,” I say. Case closed.
Thirty minutes later we say goodbye at the tube station, where Katie leaves me with a good luck hug and the threat of eviction if I dare go back and change my outfit again.
“You look great. You are great. You will be great,” she assures me.
I board the train and am amazed when I actually find a free seat – a rare phenomenon at 8.30 in the morning. Although, it is Friday, which is the prime time for holiday days and sickies.
I take this month’s Love Life out of my bag for a final read through before the interview. I bought it on my way home yesterday and was up half the night reading it from cover to cover. There is not a square inch that I haven’t read. Features, personal stories, letters, problem pages, adverts for shiny pink lipsticks that stay on your lips for up to 36 hours…
I am halfway through the cover story when I realise I’m not the only person on the tube reading Smug, Married and Proud. The woman to my right is reading the same article. Over my shoulder. Normally I find this incredibly irritating, even though I admit to doing it myself all the time – particularly if someone is doing a Sudoku puzzle, in which case I invariably have to sit on my hands to stop myself pointing to an empty box and shouting out ‘that’s an eight’. Normally I’d take great satisfaction from closing the magazine just before they finished reading the article. But today I don’t. Today I want to say: “I write for this magazine.” Not strictly true, I know, but hopefully that’s just a technicality. But I don’t say that, of course. Instead I just smile sweetly and turn the page so we can both finish reading the article.
“I’m here to see Jennifer Dutton,” I tell the young girl on the reception at Kingsland House, home to Love Life and several other glossy magazines. Her hair has been straightened to within an inch of its life and she has tiny little jewels in the middle of her fake acrylic nails.
“What’s your name?” she asks.
“Becky Harper. Rebecca,” I correct myself. “Rebecca Harper.” I’ve decided that is going to be my pen name.
She picks up the phone and taps a few numbers, her nails clicking against the buttons.
“I have Rebecca Harper in reception to see Jennifer Dutton,” she says to whoever is listening on the other end.
I feel sick.
“If you’d like to take a seat her secretary will be down to meet you shortly,” the girl tells me, with what looks suspiciously like a sympathetic look. Which makes me even more nervous than I was already.
Does a meeting with Jennifer Dutton merit sympathy? Or at the very least a sympathetic look?
I sit in one of the leather armchairs in the reception. There are magazines on shelves and in frames on the walls and an assortment neatly arranged on the coffee table in front of me. I go to pick one up but my palms feel all clammy and I’ll only spoil the arrangement anyway, so I fiddle with the tassel on my bag instead.
“Help yourself to water,” the girl with the nails tells me, indicating a water cooler to the right of her desk.
“Thanks,” I say but decide against taking her up on her offer. I’d only spill it, and I don’t care what Katie says – the ‘I’ve just peed my pants’ look is definitely not going to clinch the deal.
“So, Rebecca, tell me what inspired your feature proposal,” Jennifer Dutton asks me twenty minutes later, up in her office, on the top floor of Kingsland House.
It’s not what I imagined. The office I’d pictured was big, and plush, with an imposing mahogany desk and leather swivel chair, and a window as big as the wall with amazing views of the capital city, and professionally framed Love Life front covers on the walls – not unlike the office of Meryl Streep in The Devil Wears Prada, you might say.
Jennifer Dutton’s office is nothing like that.
It’s small and messy, with a tatty old desk and a chair with foam spilling out of it and Love Life front covers hastily hung in what look suspiciously like cheap plastic clip frames from the pound shop – not unlike the broom cupboard from my childhood days of watching CBBC, you might say.
“How do you mean?” I ask.
“Well, I would have thought such a specific idea was inspired by a personal experience of some sort? Something around which you might build your research?”
“I see. Well, yes, I did recently split up with my boyfriend,” I tell her.
She doesn’t speak. She just waits for me to elaborate.
The door opens, buying me some time.
“Thank you Abbie,” Jennifer Sutton says as her secretary puts a tray down on her desk.
“Do you drink coffee Rebecca?” she asks.
“Yes. Thanks.”
Abbie pours two cups and then leaves, taking the tray away with her. Jennifer Dutton looks at me expectantly.
She’s more normal than I’d pictured in my mind. Less intimidating. She’s wearing what looks like an expensive suit and she’s very business-like, but there’s a softness about her. Her hairstyle maybe? Her subtle makeup? Her short manicured nails? She’s missing the harsh features of Meryl Streep in The Devil Wears Prada that I’d convinced myself I’d be doing battle with today – the lacquered hair that wouldn’t move even in a gale-force wind, the pursed lips, the fake smile that looks more like a grimace.
I take a sip of my coffee and place it back on the desk.
“He asked me to marry him,” I tell her. “And I said no.”
“I loved him,” I say quickly, before she thinks I’m a terrible person who goes around breaking men’s hearts. “More than I’d ever loved anyone. But I knew I couldn’t marry him. I knew he wasn’t the one.”
“But I didn’t know why,” I continue. “And it got me thinking…if I didn’t know why Alex wasn’t Mr Right, how would I know when I had found Mr Right. How do any of us know when we have met the one?”
Jennifer Dutton nod
s.
“And have you come up with any answers?” she asks me.
“Not yet,” I admit
She sips her coffee.
“Tell me how you plan to research this feature Rebecca.”
I can answer this question. I have prepared for this question.
“Well, I thought I could start with people who have found their Mr Right. I’d ask them how they know. And I’d want to get a range of perspectives, so I wouldn’t just ask my friends and my friends’ friends – I’d ask people of my parents’ generation, and my grandparents’.”
She nods, encouraging me to go on.
“And I’d ask men too – how they know they’ve met Miss Right, because the readers would probably be interested to know how men define ‘the one’ too. Women want reassurance, I think, that they could be what some guy out there is looking for.”
She smiles at this. Her smile is genuine. She smiles with her eyes.
“Absolutely,” she says. “I think you understand our readers very well already, Rebecca.”
“And then I thought I would speak to one or two psychologists or relationship therapists, for their views on the subject.” I’ve got no idea where I’d find them, between you and I. But I thought that would be a good thing to throw in. All features seem to have a bit of psychobabble in them these days.
“Anything else?” she asks, leaning back in her chair. I wish she wouldn’t. It looks like it might fall apart at any moment.
“Well, I was also thinking you might have letters from readers on the subject that I might be able to incorporate,” I suggest.
“Yes. We could certainly forward any letters that might be useful to you. And what about the other side of the argument?” she prompts, clicking the end of her pen on the corner of her desk.
“Well not everyone believes Mr Right even exists, of course,” I tell her. “One of my best friends is a perfect example, in fact. She thinks the whole idea that there is one person out there for us is total gobbledygook.”
She laughs at this. Though not enough to reveal whether it’s an opinion she shares.
And then the questions stop and she just smiles at me again.
The smile is a little unnerving. Is it pity? Confusion? Disappointment disguised?
I settle on indifference.
“What do you think?” I say.
“Oh, I’m not sure,” she says. “I’m married. And I love my husband, of course. But is he Mr Right? I’m not sure. I’m not sure I even believe in Mr Right. But if I did then he certainly ticks a few boxes. He’s incredibly handsome. Ambitious. Sexy…”
“I didn’t - …” I say
But she’s on a roll.
“He makes me laugh,” she says. “He does this really funny impression of David Walliams in Little Britain…” She laughs at this, as if imagining her husband wearing a floral dress and declaring ‘I am a lady!’
“I meant - …”
“He’s a very good cook,” she continues. “He makes the best Beef Wellington. We had a dinner party last weekend and he did all of the catering, bless him.
“And he’s pretty good in bed, I must say,” she raises her eyebrows and I detect the faintest of blushes.
I decide not to tell her that I meant what did she think of my idea…
“Anyway, it doesn’t matter what I think,” she says. “It only matters that you can encompass the many opinions that our readers might have.”
I nod my agreement and wait.
She looks down at her desk and starts leafing through the pages in her diary
“How does the September issue sound?” she says, after what feels like an eternity.
“Sorry?”
“I know it’s quite a while away, but we have a very busy diary during the summer and I would rather give you plenty of time, considering your lack of experience.”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“To research and write your feature, Rebecca. I’m assuming you still want to do it?”
Oh my god.
“Yes, definitely. Yes, September sounds perfect,” I gush.
“As I’m sure you know, we hit the shops on the 15th of the month, so I shall need it on my desk by the middle of August ideally. It should be between 1800 and 2000 words. You don’t need to worry about pictures, we will sort that out. But if you feel it should include photographs of specific interviewees then let us know and we will set that up.
“We pay £175 per 1000 words, which you will be paid upon publication. And make sure you keep any receipts for anything you want to claim as an expense. Travel costs, telephone calls, stationery – that sort of thing.
“I will have Abbie send you all these details along with a contract and our terms and conditions.”
“Great. Thanks,” I say, a little shell-shocked. “And thank you so much for this opportunity.”
“You’re welcome, Rebecca,” she says standing up. “I think you have definite promise. So let’s see how you get on with this and then we may be able to talk about a more permanent arrangement.
“Okay. Thank you.”
“If you have any problems then please phone Abbie and we will do whatever we can to help.”
She opens the door to her broom cupboard.
“I must apologise for the state of my office, by the way,” she laughs. “It’s just a temporary measure while my real office is being renovated. But on the plus side, it does give you a taste of the chaotic world of journalism!”
I laugh and shake her hand. “Thank you so much Jennifer.”
“You’re very welcome Rebecca. Good luck.”
And then I get into the lift. Where I try to decide whether or not I have just dreamt the last thirty minutes of my life.
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
I have decided I didn’t dream it. And therefore I am VERY excited.
Eeek!
So here’s my plan:
I will ask EVERYONE I know. I’ll ask Katie. And Matt. And my mum and dad. And Johnny.
I’ll ask the girls at the writing class.
I’ll even ask Em. She can be my token sceptic.
I’ll ask my granny. I’ll ask Caroline. I’ll ask Fiona.
I’ll ask all the mums who come into Potty Wotty Doodah. And the dads too.
I’ll ask Fliss and Derek.
Oh my god. It’s going to be great. It’s going to be the best feature ever written.
Love Life will sell a zillion copies and magazine editors will be queuing up to employ me.
And everything will be just fabulous.
CHAPTER THIRTY
“What do you mean, you DON’T KNOW?” I ask Katie.
To say I am panic-stricken would be an understatement.
I phoned Katie as soon as I left the interview. And then I phoned Emma and told her to get her arse over here to help us celebrate.
But I’m beginning to think the champagne was a little premature.
“It was your bloody idea. How am I going to write the article if no-one can tell me the answer?” I say. “I’ve bought a fancy notepad and a new pen and everything,” I add, as if a floral notepad and matching pen is going to make her suddenly realise how she knows Matt is Mr Right.
“What the hell am I going to write in it?”
“I would have thought it was obvious,” Matt says, coming through from the kitchen with a bottle of champagne and four glasses.
He puts them down on the coffee table. “It’s clearly my stunning good looks, my sparkling personality and my six-pack,” he says, patting what at the very most – and with a very vivid imagination – could be described as a two-pack.
“Well, obviously, but somehow I don’t think Jennifer Dutton’s going to go for that,” I point out.
“I don’t know, B. I just love him. And I can’t imagine not being with him. Even though he can be very annoying at times,” she adds, sitting on Matt’s lap on the sofa and reaching her arms behind her to squeeze his cheeks.
“But you must have some idea why,�
�� I plead, in between sips of champagne (well, it’s open now and it would be a shame to waste it). “There must be some reason why Matt is Mr Right and all the other guys weren’t.”
“What do you mean ‘all the other guys?’” Matt asks. “I thought I was the only one!”
Katie laughs. “You’re cute, but you’re not that cute!”
“Well, you know what I think,” Emma says, opening a bag of Doritos and emptying it into a bowl. “Mr Right is a load of bollocks.”
“A few days ago you were saying you thought Jim was Mr Right,” I remind her. She is clearly missing the point here – the point being that I am clinging to the last shred of hope with my bare fingertips.
“Nothing but a brief moment of insanity,” she explains casually, biting the end off a Dorito. “There are so many guys out there. Half of them could be right for any one of us.”
“I disagree,” Matt says. “I think I was meant to find Katie. Look how we met.”
“Yes. You were wearing flares and an afro wig. You were lucky I even spoke to you,” Katie points out.
“Ah…yes…but you did,” he says.
“Yes, but that was Becky’s fault.”
“Don’t be blaming me,” I say. “If I’d never started chatting to him and Tony, you could be about to marry some other wally.”
“Which is my point exactly,” Matt says, clearly choosing to ignore the ‘wally’ reference. “It’s fate.”
“No, no,” Emma argues. “If she’d not met you then she’d have met someone else who could have been just as right for her. Or she could still be sad and single like me and Becks,” she adds as an afterthought.
“Speak for yourself!” I say. “Anyway, Em, if you think Mr Right is a load of bollocks, then you must think my feature is a load of bollocks too? Unwriteable even?”
“No, I don’t. I’m really proud of you for getting that commission. It’s all you’ve ever wanted to do and now you’ve been given the opportunity to do it. I just think if you really do believe in Mr Right, then you might not necessarily find the answer where you think you will.”
I have a feeling she’s right, though I have no idea why.
The Little Shop of Afternoon Delights Page 141
