Climbing the Ladder
Amanda Radley
Contents
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Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
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Also by Amanda Radley
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Chapter One
Chloe Dixon held onto the handrail above her head. She looked out of the train window at the dark tunnels of the London Underground. A book hung loosely from her free hand. It hadn’t managed to hold her interest, or stop her from fretting about her new job, as she had hoped.
She turned away from the window and surveyed her fellow commuters. It had been a while since she’d commuted into Central London for work. She felt as if she had rejoined an exclusive club. A club where getting up hideously early, paying an arm and a leg to travel under the city streets, and wearing uncomfortable work outfits was the price of membership.
Despite the shocking cost of a monthly travel card, she was ecstatic to be back in London. Or, in the rat race, as her dad had called it. As per usual, it had taken her parents around fifteen seconds to turn good news into bad.
Her celebration over getting a new job, working for a company she had dreamed of, was soon extinguished under their barrage of questions. What time would she have to get up for work? How much was the cost of travel? How many extra hours would she be away from home due to commuting?
Chloe shook her head to dispel her parents’ negativity. They were good people, just overly practical. She loved them both fiercely, but she was also aware of their pessimistic attitudes. She, on the other hand, tried hard to find the silver lining and keep cheerful. She had a lot to be cheerful about.
She didn’t know if it was a result of her getting older, or if the world had turned into a more negative place in recent years. She wondered if curmudgeonly old people had always been grouchy or if it was something that happened to many people as they aged.
Whatever the case, Chloe had decided years ago that she would maintain a positive attitude. No matter what life threw at her, she would smile through it.
The commuter train rattled into a station. The platform was packed with commuters desperate to get on the already-bursting-at-the-steams train. Chloe squeezed herself into a corner as people pushed into the carriage.
Five million souls used the London Underground every day. Or so her dad had told her.
It was getting ridiculously hot and crowded. More people pushed their way on board. A signal beeped, indicating that the doors would soon attempt to close. Everyone took a simultaneous deep breath, as if attempting to squeeze into a pair of jeans from the previous summer. The doors started to close, hitting a tall, bald man on the head. He didn’t care, as if this were a daily occurrence and being smashed in the side of the head by an automated door was the price one paid for using public transport.
People leaned over her to grab at handrails, leaving Chloe to stare at a stranger’s armpit. The train started to move, causing everyone to lean into the gravitational forces.
Her enthusiasm for joining the morning commuters was already starting to fade. She brought up a mental image of the Tube map. She was close enough to the office to be able to walk if she got off at the next stop. If she could get off at the next stop.
She shuddered at the memory of the poor woman who had tried to get off at Green Park. She’d been so engrossed in her newspaper that she hadn’t realised it was her stop until the train doors had opened. She’d tried to fight against the tide of people trying to board the train. It wasn’t pretty.
Trying to squeeze her way off of the train and then walking at ground level was definitely preferable to being crushed into the wall of the carriage. Next to a man with an unhealthy-sounding cough. And a woman who had forgotten to shower that morning.
Chloe angled her face away from one armpit and found another straight away.
Definitely getting off at the next stop, she told herself.
On her way through Soho, Chloe opened the door to the newsagent. Before she had a chance to enter the shop, a man walked in front of her.
“You’re welcome,” she mumbled under her breath.
Hot Monday mornings in London were rapidly losing their charm. Everyone was overheated and miserable to be going back to work after a weekend in the sun. But Chloe was doing her best to stay cheerful. Today was going to be a great day, she could feel it.
She entered the cramped shop and started to look at the magazine rack. Despite the store being so small, the selection was extensive. Fishing, photography, crafts, pets, and the oddly titled ‘women’s interests.’ Women mainly appeared to be interested in knitting and getting rid of cellulite.
She couldn’t find what she was looking for, and so she started to look behind some of the magazines. She stood on her tiptoes and looked at the top shelf. Her eyebrow rose, and she quickly lowered her gaze again. While most of the covers were now obscured, she still got an eyeful of some of the more moderate covers that were allowed to be on display. She swallowed and pushed down the desire to flip through the article about losing cellulite.
She crouched down and started to look at the back of the bottom shelf.
The man who had barged past her to get into the shop physically stepped over her to get out again. He sighed in annoyance that Chloe seemed to continually be in his way. She shook her head at his behaviour and wondered what super important job he must have to act like that.
She returned to looking at the magazines on the bottom shelf, moving some out of the way to see what lurked behind.
Nothing.
She stood and grabbed a bottle of orange juice from the fridge. She approached the counter and put the drink down.
“Excuse me,” she said, trying to get the attention of the bored man operating the till.
He glanced up at her. An eyebrow rose, but nothing else was forthcoming.
“Do you have any copies of Honey Magazine?”
“Honey? Have you checked in cooking? Or women’s interests?” He scanned the orange juice. “Three pounds.”<
br />
“It’s not a cooking magazine. It’s a lesbian magazine.” Chloe handed him a five-pound note.
“Oh, right.” He seemed unfazed. He put the note in the till and handed her back the change. “Not heard of it. I can order it in for you, if you want?”
“No, I want a copy now. I work there. Well, I’m starting work there today. I’ve not read this month’s issue because it came out on Friday and I was away this weekend…” She stopped as she realised he wasn’t interested in her life history. “You really don’t stock it? It’s, like, the biggest lesbian magazine in the UK. And Europe.”
“Never heard of it,” he said. “No one has ever asked for it.”
Chloe’s heart sank. She was in a busy newsagent in Soho and no one had ever asked for a copy of Honey Magazine?
“Try the internet? Or get one from work?” he suggested.
“I don’t want to look like I haven’t read it,” she said.
“Well, you haven’t.”
“I know that, I don’t want them to know that. Are you sure you don’t have it?”
“I’m sure, I order all the magazines in myself. We don’t have it. As I say, I can order it for you?”
A cough behind her indicated that she was in the way. It was a busy Monday morning and people were in a rush to get to work. Most eager to get into air conditioning and out of the blazing early morning sun. She was surprised someone hadn’t climbed over her to be served yet.
She grabbed her orange juice and left the shop. She wandered along the street deep in thought. She didn’t expect Honey to be one of the shop’s best-sellers. But she didn’t expect it to be missing in action either.
She’d read Honey religiously since she was a teenager. She’d never been in a shop and bought a copy, preferring to have it delivered instead. But her subscription was still being delivered to her parents’ house and she’d moved out three months before.
Being at her parents’ house for six months while she got back on her feet had been demeaning and exhausting. She thought the break-up had been bad, but the aftermath had been worse. She’d temped and worked all the hours she could during those six months. Partly to make as much money as possible to scrape together a deposit for her own place, and partly to only be at home when it was time to sleep.
Today was the day her life started to get back on track. She was in her own room in a house share in south London, she was starting a well-paid job in digital for a company she had adored for the last fifteen years. No more temporary positions, no more working all the hours she could. It had taken nearly a year, but she felt like she was in a good place again.
She smothered a yawn. Last night had been a sleepless one. She’d tossed and turned for hours as she worried about her first day. Especially meeting all of her new work colleagues. She desperately hoped that she would fit in and maybe even make friends.
The day hadn’t been off to the best start. She was sleep-deprived and felt like she could still smell the sweaty odour of the Tube ride. The various armpits she’d stared into would no doubt haunt her dreams that evening.
Not being able to get her hands on the latest copy of Honey before work was another blow.
She stopped dead in the middle of the street. She stared down at the orange juice in her hand.
“THREE POUNDS? What a rip-off!”
Chapter Two
The tall, sleek, glass-and-steel building that housed Honey Magazine sparkled in the sunlight. It was a shared office, Chloe didn’t know what floor Honey was on, or how big their offices were. She’d never stepped foot in the building before today, her interview having been carried out at a coffee shop.
Her heart started to pound. She tried to take some deep breaths to keep herself calm, but she knew from here on she would just become more panicked. It was a trait she wished she could lose. But a racing heart, sweaty palms, bright red cheeks, and raging nerves were part and parcel of being Chloe Dixon. No matter how much she craved they weren’t.
It wasn’t just the first day at a new job. It was the first day in a role at which she wanted to excel. For a company she had idolised since she was young.
She knew the team was small, her new boss, the interviewer, had told her as much. But how many co-workers she would have, much less any details about them, hadn’t been mentioned.
Of course, she knew some information by looking at the masthead within the magazine, and through a spot of online reconnaissance on LinkedIn. But a handful of names and job titles hadn’t given her much insight into what to expect.
She looked up at the hodgepodge of buildings surrounding her. Soho sprawled for a square mile, boxed in between the hubs of Oxford Street, Regent Street, Leicester Square, and Charing Cross Road.
Everything could be found in the packed district. Bars, pubs, and restaurants provided a lively night scene. Theatres and clubs entertained packed crowds until the early hours. Global shopping brands neighboured boutique speciality shops. Hotels, sex shops, international foods all had their place in Soho.
The lively blend of so many different businesses meant that no two buildings looked the same. A 1960s brutalist concrete façade could easily be found beside an ultra-modern office block, or even a chic designer boutique.
Chloe had spent a lot of time walking through Soho over the years, but she never got bored of the area. And she never quite figured out where all the small side streets led to either.
She was going to enjoy working in Soho, the food, the nightlife, the hub of constant activity. When Chloe had travelled to New York three years previously, she’d been shocked to find out that the “city that never sleeps” was kicking out Zs at ten in the evening when she desperately wanted a cup of coffee. That never happened in Soho. Soho was always wide awake, welcoming, and eager to show visitors something new.
It was also home to a number of lesbian and gay bars and clubs, which was why it was the perfect location for Honey Magazine.
The ground floor of the building was mainly large windows, tinted so that seeing inside was impossible unless you got very close and cupped your hand to the glass. Chloe wasn’t about to do that. She’d seen enough films to know that anyone doing that would be seen by each and every one of their work colleagues and would never be able to live it down.
Instead, she kept her head lowered and walked towards the large revolving door. She slipped into the first available compartment and slowly walked around until she was deposited in the reception area of her new building.
The reception was like so many she had seen before; spacious, mainly marble and glass surfaces. Comfortable chairs and sofas. No personality to speak of.
Worried that her inaction might cause one of the security guards to tackle her to the ground, she pivoted and walked towards the reception desk. As she approached the desk she wondered if someone from Honey had remembered to tell reception to expect her. Having to explain who she was would be embarrassing. She joined the queue of people and tried to swallow down her fears.
A woman in jeans and a scruffy T-shirt walked past. Chloe looked down at her summer dress and wondered if she’d overdone it. She hoped the woman worked for another company within the large building. The casually dressed employee entered the revolving door, and a few seconds later another woman appeared wearing a suit that probably cost more than Chloe’s monthly rent.
She glanced down at her dress again. Now she wondered if she was underdressed. Maybe everyone at Honey was going to be dressed very smartly. Or maybe she was too femme. She’d deliberately only applied a light amount of makeup that morning and agonised over which bag to bring. The leather satchel was the ultimate winner, despite it clashing with the feminine cut of her cream dress. It was bigger than most of her bags, and it added a little butchness to her appearance, just in case she needed it.
Chloe never felt she fit in with the lesbian branding. She had long blonde hair, loved dresses, and if you cut her in half she’d be a perfect cross-section of a rainbow made of glitter. To say she was gi
rly was an enormous understatement.
But she’d learnt early on that being girly didn’t always gel with other lesbians. Her first experience in a gay club was marred when people laughed at her for wearing a ribbon in her hair. An older woman holding a pint of beer and wearing a dirty T-shirt proclaimed, with considerable pride, that she could shower in under two minutes. Chloe had never had a shower less than twenty minutes long in her life.
She’d run from the club and wondered if she was a lesbian at all. She had approached the evening with the hope that she would finally find her people, that she would fit in. It had backfired spectacularly.
It wasn’t until the next day, when she had spent most of the morning crying on her bed, that her mum had placed her first-ever copy of Honey Magazine on her pillow. That was the day Chloe realised that lesbians came in all shapes and sizes.
The man in front of her left the queue. Chloe stepped forward.
“Hi.” She smiled at the woman behind the desk. “Chloe Dixon. Here for Honey Magazine. It’s my first day.”
“Congratulations,” the receptionist drawled. “You got a name?”
Chloe’s brow furrowed. “C-Chloe.”
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