by Ilana Fox
Jo smiled magnanimously but inside she felt sad. Despite losing all that weight she knew she was just an average overweight girl with boring brown hair and a pleasant face. She wasn’t ‘incredible’ at all. Just keep smiling, she thought to herself. Keep smiling and go for the kill.
‘Felicity, we both know the reason you didn’t send me on a job originally was because of my weight, and that’s fine. I’ve come to terms with it. But I’d like a job now, and I want it to be on a magazine.’
Felicity looked nervous.
‘You know, even if you don’t send me to a magazine I’m determined enough to get a job on one eventually. And I’m sure they’d be very interested in an exposé of a recruitment agency that has very specific ideas about what secretaries should look like … you do remember telling me to lose weight, don’t you?’ Jo kept her voice light and her smile friendly, and all the while she thought of how proud William would be of her. Tiny beads of sweat had appeared underneath Felicity’s flawless foundation, and when she attempted to smile Jo noticed she had lipstick on her teeth from chewing her lip. Jo desperately didn’t want to feel sorry for her but she couldn’t help it.
‘We have one job,’ Felicity began slowly, ‘but it’s something we’d normally give to one of our more experienced girls …’ As Felicity caught sight of Jo’s deadly stare she hurried to finish her sentence. ‘However, due to your … your change of image, I’d be happy to send you there. Have you ever read Gloss magazine?’
Jo didn’t know how she was going to contain herself – she was brimming with excitement. Her eyes kept darting around what she could see of the office, drinking in the surroundings, and she could feel delight bubbling up inside her. In her wildest dreams she’d never imagined that the reception area of a magazine office would be so trendy, so stylish. Even the red suede sofa screamed ‘designer’, and the framed magazine covers behind the Scandinavian-style reception desk added a cool, contemporary edge. The Italian-looking receptionist, however, eyed Jo with barely concealed disdain while shaking out her frosted, glossy hair. She was absolutely beautiful, and Jo tried not to stare at her or her expensive-looking clothes.
‘Frieda will see you now,’ she said, looking Jo up and down, and letting her eyes linger on a thread dangling from Jo’s skirt. Jo tried to not let the girl ruin her excitement at being here, and she wondered if she’d worn the wrong outfit. She’d spent hours the night before working out what to wear, but the receptionist was clad head to toe in black as though she was the girlfriend of a beat poet. Her shiny leather boots set off her tan and showed long, lean legs that were in a tiny black mini-skirt that stopped halfway up her thighs. Despite the last of the summer heat she was wearing a black turtle-neck that clung to her tiny, perky breasts, and when she stood up Jo noticed she had the narrowest hips she had ever seen. Jo envied her and felt dowdy in comparison. Her limp dark skirt, white blouse and navy pumps felt cheap and inappropriate. Jo suddenly regretted spending a hundred pounds on a second-hand sofa for the flat she’d started renting – she could have bought some better clothes instead.
‘Go down the hall and turn left.’ She eyed Jo up and down again and momentarily ignored a ringing phone. ‘That’s where the secretaries work.’
Jo tried to smile her thanks at the receptionist but she had already taken the call, and as soon as Jo heard her swap her ice tones for honeyed warmth when she said, ‘Good morning, Gloss magazine,’ she felt a shiver run down her back. She still couldn’t believe she had a job on a magazine … and to top it all off it was at Gloss, one of her favourites.
‘You must be Joanne,’ an angular-looking woman said to Jo, snapping her out of her daze with curt tones. She was in her mid-thirties, Jo guessed, and her clothes were cut so well Jo instantly pegged them as Armani. Her hair was carved into a strict dark bob, and the beginnings of laughter lines were sketched on her face. Jo instantly wondered how it was possible that this severe-looking woman ever smiled. ‘I’m Frieda. I’ve been expecting you.’
Jo suddenly felt poor, young and out of her depth, as she quickly glanced around the cramped office and saw five other girls who all looked immaculate and impeccably groomed. Amongst the pot plants and framed magazine covers the typists were all looking at her with brazen interest, and Jo tried not to blush underneath their stares. She turned back to Frieda, who assessed her swiftly.
‘I’m going to be your manager for the three months you’re here with us. If you have any problems or issues you come straight to me. Now, we need to give you a quick tour of the office.’ Frieda looked Jo up and down swiftly and settled on the gape in her blouse that showed a glimpse of her greying bra. ‘I’m sure your recruitment consultant would have mentioned it but in case she forgot, we have a dress code here. I’ll make sure you get a copy. But in the meantime follow me.’
Frieda walked briskly back through the corridor and past the receptionist who gave her a mocking smile as if Jo was the entertainment. Jo didn’t know how to react so she tentatively smiled back and crossed her arms to hide the stretch of fabric straining across her breasts. Jo had thought a size fourteen would fit but clearly not. She must have put on a couple of pounds.
‘You’ve met Rachel, I see,’ Frieda said pointedly, as she gave the receptionist a quick nod. ‘Rachel deals with all our telephone queries. If you have a telephone call you must immediately put it through to her. It will be a wrong number as all internal calls to the secretary pool come through me first.’
Jo nodded brightly and followed Frieda to a set of double doors.
‘It’s quite simple to do, really, as your phone can’t make any outgoing calls apart from to her, anyway. I’ll show you how to do it later but all you need to do is press zero. I’m sure you will be able to remember that?’
Jo smiled blandly – why did everyone patronise secretaries, including other secretaries? – and she looked down at the grey-blue carpet that led to the office. Nothing seemed spectacular any more, and her nerves got the better of her. She wondered if she’d made a mistake. Jo wasn’t sure if she was going to be able to bite her tongue in front of this secretarial Nazi, and she didn’t see how she’d be able to get headhunted if she was crammed into a small room away from where the action was. Maybe this wasn’t the way into the industry that she had hoped it would be.
‘This,’ said Frieda, interrupting Jo’s train of thought, ‘is the editorial office of Gloss magazine. You’re not to speak to anybody in this room, or disturb them.’ Frieda often showed new girls this room to make sure they knew their place, and she pushed the doors open with a flourish. Jo drank in the view.
In the large open-plan office sat about twenty slender and beautiful girls who were dressed – like Rachel – in black. The sun streamed through the large windows and bathed them in a glorious gold as though they were blessed. Some of the girls walked industriously around the office, but many were on the telephone, speaking in languid voices and laughing falsely. Several of the girls were peering intently at photographs of models, and one was opening a package of what looked like designer clothes. ‘Oh, look!’ she heard her say in a breathy, little-girl voice. ‘It’s a new couture Dior gown – how wonderful of Nicholas to send it. It’s darling!’
‘To the right is the executive suite,’ Frieda said hastily, ignoring the rush of the editorial staff to look at the shimmering turquoise dress and cutting into Jo’s reverie. Jo tore her eyes from the glittering sequinned gown and looked towards the executive suite with interest. There was no time for elegant dresses when Jo had to concentrate on filtering into the editorial team. She stood on her tiptoes and caught a glance of an attractive man in a beautiful charcoal suit through a glass-walled office.
‘Madeline Turner, who won Editor of the Year last year, sits in the office to the right, and in the end office, the biggest one, is Joshua Garnet.’ Frieda looked at Jo knowingly. ‘He’s taking a keen interest in this magazine at the moment.’
‘Do you mean,’ Jo began, before Frieda raised her eyebrows at her t
o lower her voice. She started again. ‘Do you mean that Joshua Garnet himself works in this office?’
Frieda led Jo out of the office and shut the door firmly behind them. ‘Yes, and you’re not to approach him.’
‘But I thought all the Garnets – apart from Harold – were silent directors and preferred to take a back seat on their investment,’ Jo thought out loud, and Frieda looked at her sharply.
‘You seem to know a lot for a twenty-year-old secretary,’ Frieda remarked with one eyebrow raised, and Jo remembered that she was here to work as a secretary, and not a wannabe journalist.
She thought quickly. ‘Felicity, at the agency, provided me with some background reading. I have a good memory.’
This placated Frieda somewhat. ‘Yes, it is unusual for a Garnet to take an interest, but he appears to have a knack for these high-end magazines. He acts as publisher for Gloss and several of the other titles but he’s paying particular interest to this magazine at the moment. Josh Garnet has a golden touch. Circulation has improved with his input.’ Frieda looked at Jo and decided to take pity on her. She looked so young and suburban. ‘Circulation is what we call the number of magazines that are sold.’
Jo nodded distractedly – she was still astounded at the news that Joshua Garnet actually worked on the magazine. All the press coverage she had read about Joshua Garnet when she was at school had said he was a millionaire playboy who spent his evenings in exclusive private members’ clubs with blonde models for arm candy. Perhaps, she thought, he had changed his mind about not working and had taken an interest in the family company. The idea that she might actually meet one of the Garnets – and Joshua in particular – gave Jo an exhilarated feeling in her stomach. He was magazine royalty, the JFK of publishing. Frieda spotted the adoration on Jo’s face and led her swiftly back to their small office.
‘And here, as you have seen, is our office. You’ll be assigned copy to type because some of our journalists prefer to handwrite their pieces. You’re not to make any amendments apart from spelling and punctuation, and to copy what you are given word for word from the handwritten notes. Do you understand?’
Frieda looked at Jo with a stern expression and Jo smiled back. She was about to start working on a magazine – practically with Joshua Garnet! – and she would do anything she was told.
October 2002
Every morning Jo would stand outside Garnet Tower smiling to herself. Set in the heart of Covent Garden, the shiny dark red skyscraper dominated the skyline, and all the theatres and boutiques of the West End cowered underneath it. Jo would watch the extremely thin and glamorous magazine writers, editors and designers rush into the foyer with an obvious sense of purpose. Then Jo would do the same, flashing her staff pass at the docile security man and squeezing herself into the mirrored lift, taking care not to look at her reflection because the sight of her size-sixteen bottom in comparison to the size-eight girls hurt. Gloss was on floor nineteen, directly under DG magazine – standing for Discerning Gentlemen – and above Honey, the most popular teen magazine not just in the UK, but in Europe too. Jo would breathe in the smell of power, domination and money. Garnet Publishing was the largest and most successful magazine company in the UK, and Jo was thrilled to be part of it.
The work, however, bored her to tears. And there was so much of it.
For her first few weeks Jo kept her head down and concentrated on her typing. Her computer was temperamental and it kept on crashing. When Jo paused to try to reboot it, or to read through an article before typing it up, she would catch Frieda frowning at her, and she’d quickly start moving her fingers again, trying to look busy. She was used to hard work, but Frieda expected such exactness that she felt under pressure.
‘It has to be perfect, Joanne. Do it again, please. And faster this time too. We do have a deadline to reach.’ Frieda said to Jo at least once a day while the other girls smirked, and she found she was working harder than she’d ever done, especially as she wasn’t invited to join in the gossip and tea breaks with the other girls. Jo didn’t care. Friends were a luxury, but her career was not, and because she’d chosen it over William she was determined to make it. She was going to become a features writer.
The first part of her plan to become a journalist was to look the part. One Saturday, Jo went to Top Shop and out went the smart skirts and blouses and in came Helmut Lang military-style touches, Anna Sui-inspired embroidered skirts, extra-long scarves, slouchy boho bags and longer skirts – anything that was a cheap version of what had been on the catwalk. Jo ignored the fact that most of the clothes she bought were size eighteen because size sixteen was suddenly too tight, and she didn’t care that she looked faintly ridiculous because she had a bottom, large tits and ample thighs. She wanted to ooze self-confidence and dressing like a mousy secretary wasn’t the way forward. Strictly speaking Jo kept within the Garnet dress code for administrative staff, but she could tell Frieda disapproved of her new outfits. When dressing like she was a journalist didn’t cut it with any of the editorial staff she spotted in the foyer, or with Rachel, who still looked straight through her, Jo turned to more drastic measures.
For years Jo’s dull medium-brown hair had hung limp from a centre parting. Jo had always trimmed it herself with nail scissors, and it sat just on top of her shoulders, hanging slightly in front of her face to hide how round it was. Her hair had been something she had neglected while she concentrated on getting her weight down, but now she realised that she looked like a hippie from the 1960s and not the hip magazine girl she wanted to become. She suddenly hated her hair as much as the extra weight she had been putting on, and she wanted to get rid of it. She wanted to be fearless.
Despite being broke Jo took herself to a trendy Soho salon that had been namechecked in Gloss, and told a junior stylist to give her a cut like Catherine Zeta-Jones had in Chicago. When he looked doubtful Jo said that she worked at Gloss, and with those magic words he got out the scissors, sat her down, and cut into her hair so the strands fell gently to the floor. In Jo’s mind it represented shedding her skin and becoming a butterfly. She wanted to transform herself even if she was having problems losing weight again. She settled back and reread the latest issue of Gloss, and felt pride that she was part of the magazine, even in a small way.
When the hairdresser finished Jo looked in the mirror and wanted to cry. She had the newest, sharpest cut, but it looked terrible on her, despite the hairdresser fussing with hairspray and a comb. She had the appearance of a fat Harry Potter from the Chamber of Secrets film, and when she got home she found that no amount of lipstick, false eyelashes or blusher made a difference. She quietly made her way into the office next day and studiously avoided everyone’s eyes.
‘It won’t work, you know.’
Jo spun round in her chair and looked at the girl sitting in the corner of the office. Of all the girls in the typing pool, Debbie was the one who made the most jokes about Jo’s weight, the one who Jo sometimes caught looking at her with annoyance. She had long, stringy, blonde hair and an engagement ring that she constantly waved in people’s faces, although she never mentioned her fiancé or if they’d actually set a date for the wedding. She was second in command to Frieda and she loved the power.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Debbie stopped typing and fixed her gaze on Jo. ‘Let me guess. You want to be a journalist when you grow up and you think that if you start dressing like them you’ll be noticed.’ The older girl watched Jo’s skin pale underneath her foundation and continued, satisfied, ‘It won’t work. It won’t get you a job on the magazine. It never does.’
Jo bristled. ‘What makes you think that’s what I’m trying to do? I just fancied a change of image. It’s nothing to do with you.’
Debbie waved her hands dismissively. ‘Seen it all before, sweetheart. You’re just one of a number who have come here with stars in their eyes about being asked to write for the magazine, but you haven’t got a chance. They only emplo
y talent, or people who have been here for years and aren’t opportunists.’ Debbie looked Jo up and down. ‘You’re on the bottom rung of the typing pool. You’re invisible. And you know what, I’m next in line to be asked to join their team. You haven’t got a hope in hell.’
Don’t react, Jo thought, just don’t react. She could feel her body tensing and she forced a smile. ‘It’s a good thing you’re wrong, then, isn’t it?’ she said lightly, and she pointedly ignored the stares from the other girls in the office as she engrossed herself in typing up an article about relationships that she knew she could write a hundred times better. Jo lost herself in her work but she heard Debbie sniggering to Katherine. She was going to have a lot of fun proving Debbie and everyone else wrong. She was going to do it.
When changing her image didn’t work Jo flung herself into the second stage of her plan. It was all about making herself seen, known, and obviously available. Jo got to work at 8 a.m., a whole hour before the other typists arrived. She’d linger in the canteen over her coffee as she watched the editorial staff limp in with hangovers, and she’d sit near them, listening to their conversations and hearing where they had been the night before. Most of the time the journalists went to events that were invitation only: club openings, book launches and fashion shows. They mingled with famous actors, danced with popstars, and were on first-name terms with all the doormen at the hottest clubs. One cold autumn morning, a girl called Araminta was moaning to the others about a bar that refused to give her entry to the VIP section.
‘It was just, like, so unfair,’ she whined in her upper-middle-class accent. ‘I told the guy at the rope that not only did I write for Gloss, but that Kate Moss knows me personally but he wasn’t having any of it.’
‘So what did you do?’ breathed the flame-haired girl who was clearly fascinated that a doorman wouldn’t allow one of them past a rope. ‘Did you bribe him?’
Araminta shook her long blonde hair in disgust. ‘No I did not. But I am boycotting that place, as are all of you. I told him that we are not going back and we’re going to spend every evening at Chantez instead. We’re never going to write about Bababund again!’
