by Susan Lewis
‘If you’re referring to Marielle, I didn’t fire her: she resigned.’
‘Put it whichever way you like,’ he shrugged. ‘But if you take my advice you’d do well to try and get along with her, ’cos she’s going to be pretty invaluable around here over the next few months.’
Penny’s eyes dilated. ‘Do I take it from that,’ she seethed, ‘that you have reinstated her?’
He put his head to one side while he considered the question. ‘Yep,’ he said, ‘I guess you could say that.’
‘So you’ve gone over my head?’ Penny said, her voice trembling with rage.
‘Uh-uh,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘All’s I did was accept her apology on your behalf.’
Penny was on her feet. ‘How dare you!’ she cried. ‘Just who the hell do you think—’
‘Hey, hey,’ he laughed, holding up his hands, ‘calm down. What I meant was, I accepted her apology for the way she’s fucked you around and I felt sure you would too once she offered it. Which she’s prepared to do if you’re prepared to listen.’
‘But you’ve already reinstated her,’ Penny reminded him tersely.
‘Yep,’ he said, ‘but I reckoned you didn’t really want her resignation any more than I did. But, if you’re dead set against her . . .’
‘Don’t play around with me!’ she snapped. ‘I’m as aware as you are how valuable she is and if she’s prepared to apologize I want to hear it. In the meantime maybe you’d care to let me know just what your input is going to be around here and just how often we might have the dubious honour of your presence.’
His eyes were alive with laughter as, getting up from the chair and strolling back to the door, he said, ‘Dubious, eh?’
As Penny’s eyes sparked with impotent rage she was so sorely tempted to fling something at him that had he not ducked as though something were already hurtling through the air, she might have. As it was, her lips gave an involuntary twitch of laughter before, collecting herself quickly, she said, ‘If Marielle is already out there I’ll see her now, before the meeting starts.’
‘Sure,’ he said, his expression turning serious for a moment. ‘And just a quick word of advice, Pen,’ he added, making her start with such a familiar use of her name: ‘get yourself straightened out on the man-management front, ’cos it’s kind of important.’
Half an hour later, Marielle’s churlish apology dealt with, Penny was standing at the head of the production table flicking through her last-minute notes while Clothilde and Brigitte circulated copies of a procedural plan intended as a spring-off point for them all. As the general hum of conversation washed over her, Penny was assuming an air of total concentration while very much hoping that by decking herself out in a smart, black-and-white dog-tooth dress and tying her hair back with a neat velvet-covered slide she was looking much more the editor than she felt. At the same time she was savagely reproaching herself for allowing such petty considerations to matter.
Most of the contributors were there, perched on the high stools around the table; so too were the new staff – and this, Penny imagined, was probably the first and last time they would all get together between now and the launch. After today she’d be dealing with them on an individual basis, while scouting around for more contributors to fill the still-vacant slots.
When Clothilde and Brigitte were finished Penny looked up, feeling as nervous as a gauche young actress on opening night. All eyes were on the agenda in front of them and for one panicked moment Penny wondered if she was going crazy. What on earth was she doing here, on the point of telling all these people what she wanted of them? How could she possibly think she was up to this? She allowed her eyes to rest a moment on David, who was sitting at the other end of the table, an elbow hooked over the back of his chair and a foot balanced on one knee as he waited for her to begin. Marielle was next to him, scribbling something on a pad, and to his other side was a small, rather effete-looking man with large glasses and neatly combed black hair whom Penny had never seen before. He looked vaguely Asian in origin, but on the other hand he could be Italian; she was sure she’d find out soon enough – maybe he’d come with a straitjacket ready to carry her off!
Dropping her eyes back to the agenda she allowed herself a few seconds in which to pull herself together, then with an encompassing smile that totally masked her confidence failure she said, ‘OK, before we get started there are a couple of general things I would like to say. The first is that from here-on-in this meeting,’ and here she switched into French, ‘is going to be conducted in French. If anyone has a problem with that,’ she said, looking at David, ‘then you shouldn’t be on the team.’ She paused, belatedly remembering that he had spoken French the night they’d been at the restaurant in Gourdon. When no one else spoke up, which was as she expected, having tested all the non-French the day before, she continued. ‘As we take each point at a time I would like those of you concerned to make notes that I will be happy to discuss on a one-to-one basis later. Delving deeply into the content of each subject as we go will only serve to draw the meeting out for much longer than necessary and won’t have much relevance at this stage. All we need to do is make everyone aware of what is going into the magazine and what our main aims are. There will, of course, be a question-and-answer session as soon as we have been through the agenda.
‘I think you are all by now aware that I am keen for the magazine to be as sharp and, I hope, witty as possible. Intellectual pomposity and stodgy, self-congratulatory reportage are out. We have two excellent subs to help with this and until we get ourselves fully established Paul Smith and I will take on the more serious issues as they come up. And puffs can hit the bin as soon as they come in.’
‘Puffs?’ David enquired.
‘Publicity hand-outs masquerading as editorials,’ Penny explained, looking around the table. Satisfied that everyone understood and amazed that no one had yet booed her off, she continued. ‘As I told you all yesterday, we will be producing a fortnightly publication of fifty-two pages selling at a price yet to be fixed.’
‘Twelve francs,’ David interjected.
‘Thank you,’ Penny said, smiling at him gratefully as she clenched her nervously shaking hands. It was a small contribution on his part, but an important one which showed that he at least was taking her seriously. She glanced down at her notes. ‘Ah, yes,’ she said, ‘just one other little matter: we need a new name for the magazine and we have to come up with one before the end of next month so that Jeffrey here can get to work on it. And I imagine it would be helpful to the advertising agency handling the launch to know what to call us. So, again, any suggestions welcome.’ She looked expectantly around the table, but at this stage none was forthcoming.
‘All right,’ she said, hooking a leg up on to the stool beside her. It was as she attempted to bring the rest of her weight behind it that the stool skidded from under her and to her undying mortification she disappeared beneath the table.
There was a sudden flurry of activity as those closest rushed to help her up and collect together the paperwork she had dropped. Not knowing whether to laugh or cry and desperately wishing she had knocked herself out, Penny got back to her feet and began mumbling an apology for the interruption. When at last she brought herself to look across at David she instantly wished she hadn’t, for he was clearly in pain, he was trying so hard not to laugh.
‘Regular columns,’ she said, her face still crimson and her voice strained by her own efforts to hold back the laughter. She cleared her throat and mentally thanked God that she had made such precise notes for herself, which she could read from while mentally pulling herself back together. ‘We’ll start with the problem page, which Samantha Moon, my sister, will be handling. To get her started I’d appreciate some bogus letters containing pertinent problems which we can run in the first issue. Next, I need a nutty reader for the letters column to be introduced in the second issue. By nutty I mean someone who takes an eccentric, if not outrageous, opposing view to
my editorials. If any of you feel up to that, or know someone who might be, I’d like to hear about them.’ She looked around at the silent, attentive faces, careful this time to avoid David’s, for if he was still laughing she knew she would lose it altogether.
‘OK, moving on,’ she said, hoping she wasn’t gabbling and suddenly not at all sure that this agenda was in the right order, ‘our experts on the French system, Didier Feron and Elizabeth Robbins, who as an American expat has lived on the Riviera for over twenty years, will, I am sure, have no problem concocting queries for the first issue. The restaurant and hotel critics, along with the local arts reviewer, are faced with no shortage of material. Marie-Christine Gunther, who, as I’m sure some of you already know, has an international bookshop in St. Laurent du Var, will be supplying us with our book reviews. As in all other cases, she will alternate her columns between English and French and I am sure we can all help out from time to time with the reviews. Current issues, particularly those of the European Community, I will mainly be taking on myself.’
‘Have you decided what stance we will be taking?’ David asked, obviously in control of his mirth now.
‘Slightly right of centre,’ she answered, half hoping he would challenge her on this, for she was far more comfortable with a debate situation than she was with this garbled soliloquy. But David simply nodded, so, looking back at her notes, Penny continued. ‘I will also be handling the celebrity interviews,’ she said, waiting for Marielle to bristle, which she did most satisfyingly.
‘Now let me see,’ she said, scanning the page again and hoping no one realized that she’d lost her thread. ‘Ah yes, gossip. This is something that will come into later issues, after I have been to Los Angeles to check out a couple of ideas I’ve had. We will also take our film reviews straight from LA and hang on to them until such time as the films are released in France. Having heard a local American reviewer on the radio here recently giving her critique of the film Shadowlands in which she referred to C. S. Lewis as C. W. Lewis and then proceeded to say that the story wasn’t believable, when most of us know it is a true story, has convinced me that we’d do better with a more educated reviewer and, considering the fact that Shadowlands was, to the best of my knowledge, released in France over six months ago, I think getting our information straight from Hollywood will serve us best.’
Receiving no objection to that, she turned over a page and waited for everyone else to do so. The Health and Beauty spot is yet to be filled,’ she said. ‘The same goes for the entertainment guide, interior design and sport and leisure, of which there must be a wealth of material around here. I shall be speaking to several cartoonists around Europe over the next few weeks in the hope that they will be willing to supply us, and the matter of competitions, free gifts, sponsorship et cetera will be something I will take up with David in due course. Short stories by those of you wanting to try your hand will all get read and some of them I hope will be published. Our Mediterranean gardening expert can’t be with us today, but there’s very little to say on that since he’s the expert, and a motoring column is something we will run as and when it is felt relevant. Special features will be handled either by me, Marielle or a freelancer, and fashion, both male and female, is the exclusive territory of Babette Longchamps, our fashion editor, whose name some of you might know from her time at Elle. She will be keeping a close eye on what is going on around the world, but on the whole she will be concentrating on the region and what is available here, looking at everything from supermarket fashion to the more exclusive boutiques of Cannes and Monte Carlo.’
She stopped, took a fortifying sip of the coffee Clothilde had just put beside her, then continued. ‘I’d like to run a yachtie page that has nothing to do with the technical aspects of yachting, since that is already well covered by the specialist magazines. What I’m thinking of is a kind of sail-and-regale page that gives a sneaky look at what the mega-rich get up to on their yachts. I’m sure the ports down here are rife with gossip, but it isn’t my intention to name names. It’ll simply be a light-hearted look at life on the ocean wave, with perhaps the odd innuendo that gives a tantalizing hint as to whom we might be referring, but not if it risks offending or gets us entangled in a lawsuit. My sister Samantha will be scouring the ports, but if any of you already know someone who’d be willing to oversee this for us, even if he or she can’t write, please let me know.’
Skipping quickly over the next few paragraphs on freelance photographers, printers, distribution and sales – all matters she would be taking up with Marielle and David later – she came to a subject that brought a smile to everyone’s face.
‘Aperitifs,’ she said. ‘I intend the magazine to host a monthly aperitif evening to which all contributors, advertisers and selected readers will be invited.’ She waited for the murmurs of approval to die down, then said, ‘On that note I suggest you all help yourselves to a coffee from the tray Clothilde has prepared over there, before we get into any discussions on the points I can already see several of you are bursting to make.’
As she closed up her file she couldn’t stop herself glancing over at David, who was regarding her with arched eyebrows as if to tell her that so far he was pretty impressed, even if she had made a right charlie of herself by falling off her chair. Penny turned away, refusing to be irritated by him, since despite the reassurance she felt at his approval it wasn’t his place to dish it out.
An hour and a half later, after a great deal of productive and extremely entertaining exchanges that went a long way towards settling Penny’s nerves and gave her the surprising and slightly heady feeling that she really might make it as an editor after all, she spotted a few surreptitious glances at the clock. It was almost one-thirty and in France pretty well everything stopped at twelve-thirty, if not twelve. So, making a mental note to inform those on staff that two-and-a-half-hour lunch breaks were only to be taken when entertaining, she called the meeting to a close.
‘Ah!’ she said, as if suddenly remembering something, and turning back to the table she looked across at David. ‘Unless, of course, David has anything to add.’
Assuming he was totally unprepared, she waited for him to look floored. But he simply allowed his eyebrows to shoot up as though surprised she’d remembered he was there.
‘Well, as a matter of fact,’ he said, when everyone was looking at him, ‘I don’t have much to add at this stage. Except,’ he said, turning to the man beside him, ‘I’d like to introduce Pierre Clemence here. Pierre will be working closely with me and will be available during the times I’m not.’ He paused, but as Penny started to turn away he continued with a concise summing-up of the way he intended to allocate budgets, followed by some astonishingly ambitious ideas for distribution, a mind-numbingly impressive list of probable advertisers, who ranged from Renault to Marlboro to Möet et Chandon, the name of the legal and accountancy firms who’d be acting for them, and finished up with a suggestion that whoever came up with a title for the magazine should be awarded a prize.
‘Any suggestions?’ Penny said, covering her pique with a generous smile. How the hell had he managed to get all that together in the space of a fortnight, she wanted to know.
‘How about,’ he answered, putting his head to one side, ‘a slap-up meal at the Palme d’Or in Cannes with our illustrious editor? But, whoever wins, I give a word of warning: keep her off the desserts.’
The colour instantly flared in Penny’s cheeks, since everyone present would probably assume he was alluding to her weight. ‘I imagine whoever wins would prefer a companion of their own choosing,’ she said chillingly, and with a quick ‘bon appetit!’ she walked back into her office, followed by Sammy, who had slipped in halfway through the meeting.
‘Don’t laugh,’ Penny told her, actually trying not to herself.
‘I’m sorry,’ Sammy said, ‘but I think you just got a right old dollop of egg on the face to pay you back for the tiramisu.’
‘Yes, well,’ Penny said with a re
luctant smile. ‘But what did you think of him?’
Sammy shrugged. ‘Well, he’s certainly hormonally disturbing, I’ll give him that, with those wicked, come-to-bed eyes and that hugely promising bulge in his jeans.’ Then, laughing as Penny threw her a look, she said, ‘He seems an OK kind of guy to me. And what a speech, eh? Short, to the point and, by God, does he have things under control! I wonder where he found Pierre Clemence?’
‘I don’t know and I don’t particularly care, as long as Clemence knows what he’s doing,’ Penny responded, sifting through the paperwork on her desk. ‘Ah, here it is. Some problems for you to be going on with before the other test ones come in. And maybe you’d like to think about what you’re going to call yourself,’ she added, turning to the computer.
‘Aren’t you going to have any lunch?’ Sammy wailed. ‘I’m starving.’
‘I don’t have time,’ Penny answered, feeling her stomach protest even as she said it. ‘Get me a coffee, will you?’
It was the middle of the afternoon by the time she heard the half dozen or so staff returning, the contributors having now taken themselves off home to await a call from Penny to discuss their particular ideas and problems. She picked up a document that had just finished printing and took it out to Brigitte.
‘This is a preliminary list of the newspapers and magazines I’d like to subscribe to,’ she told Brigitte. ‘If you’re not sure how to go about it, it can wait until Clothilde comes in on Thursday.’
‘It’s all right,’ Brigitte assured her with an eager smile, ‘I’ll find out how to do it.’
‘You’re a star,’ Penny said, patting her shoulder; then, glancing at Marielle’s empty desk, she went over to talk to Mario, the advertising director. It wasn’t that she didn’t believe David’s claims that he’d managed to get so many big names interested in their humble little periodical, it was simply that she wanted to hear it again, and, perhaps, find out how he’d managed to do it.
Just a few minutes with Mario was enough to confirm what she already suspected: that David had been working on setting up the business side of this magazine long before Sylvia had approached her. And, boy, had he been working, for the list of advertisers who had made provisional bookings was even more stupendous than he’d outlined.
