Was she stressing too much over this meeting? she wondered. Marsha had already had one-to-one talks with the other department heads, and from what Roxanne had heard it was nothing to worry about. ‘It was just an informal chat,’ Zoe, the beauty director, had told her. Yet still Roxanne felt uneasy. Why had Marsha left their meeting until last, when fashion was by far the most prominent section of the magazine? ‘I’ve cleared some time for us straight after yoga on Friday,’ she had said with a brittle smile.
Pulling on her jacket now, Roxanne picked up her shoulder bag and sniffed the air in her living room. The burnt brandy snaps whiff still lingered, or was she imagining it now? Perhaps it had impregnated her curtains and sofa and she’d never be rid of it. Something else had been left behind, too – something of Sean’s, but not in that I’ll-just-pop-my-toothbrush-next-to-yours sort of way. There on her coffee table sat the signed Laurence Grier photography book.
After all her efforts, he had simply forgotten to take it.
Roxanne emerged from Leicester Square tube station and made her way through the crowds towards the nerve centre of women’s magazines. She stopped to buy her coffee from her usual kiosk and quickened her pace through Soho, more through nervousness than because she was running late. Her stomach tightened as she glanced up at her publishing company’s block. It was impressive from the outside, all blue-tinted mirrored glass, the kind of place a young wannabe might gaze up at and think, Oh to work somewhere like that! Wouldn’t that be so glamorous? Imagining grandeur, visitors were often surprised at the scruffiness of Roxanne’s magazine’s office.
In she walked, greeting her colleagues, some of whom were already lounging on mats on the floor. Marsha, who was already arranged in a cross-legged position, gave her an inscrutable look, so Roxanne flashed her a tense smile. To be fair, it wasn’t the actual yoga that most of the team objected to. It was having it foisted upon them every single weekday, in an environment that was hardly suited to it. Everyone was too crammed together on the stained, ancient carpet. This was a place for work, not for ‘connecting with the breath’. The beige walls were scuffed, the tiny kitchen equipped with no more than a cheap toaster, a kettle and a rather sour-smelling fridge housing a half-empty bottle of Baileys that Roxanne suspected had been languishing there since the 90s. Six magazine teams were based in the building, ranging from the glossy YourStyle to mass-market titles in the diet and fitness markets. Roxanne regarded exercise in the same way as she viewed the kale in her fridge; in other words, she knew she should involve herself with it, but would prefer not to, if possible.
In the office loos, Roxanne changed reluctantly into her yoga kit. There were certain items of clothing she simply couldn’t ‘do’. Culottes and waterfall cardigans fell under this banner, as did the cheap leggings she’d bought, begrudgingly, for these morning classes, hence being unable to bring herself to wear them for the journey into work. Now appropriately attired, she hurried back into the main office and plonked herself down on the consistently last-to-be-taken mat next to Marsha’s.
Throughout the class, she tried, unsuccessfully, to calm herself in readiness for her meeting. With Marsha twisting her skinny body into all manner of contortions a mere three feet away, it was virtually impossible. Perhaps Marsha had requested the ‘chat’ today just to establish her authority? If so, it really wasn’t necessary; there was no doubt that she was boss now, although it never even occurred to Roxanne to pull rank with her team. Despite her senior position, she wasn’t concerned about status at all. All she cared about was creating beautiful pictures and, alongside that, trying to keep her team happy and motivated so they could all work well together.That was what mattered.
After yoga, she changed back into her work outfit and touched up her make-up in the mirror above the basin. She was soon joined by Serena, her deputy, and Kate, the fashion junior.
‘How long d’you think these classes are going to go on for?’ Serena asked, leaning close to the mirror as she swept powder over her face.
‘I’ll ask Marsha,’ Roxanne said dryly, ‘when I have my meeting.’
Kate’s dark eyes widened. ‘Oh, is that today?’
Roxanne winced and nodded. ‘Yep – in a few minutes in fact …’
‘It’ll be fine,’ Serena assured her. ‘Everyone knows Marsha doesn’t have a clue about fashion. She totally needs you on board.’ She snapped her powder compact shut. ‘C’mon, cheer up – we’re all off to Sean’s party tonight. Looking forward to it?’
‘Yes, of course.’ She mustered a wide smile.
Serena grinned. ‘Did he enjoy his brandy snaps?’
‘Oh, God – things didn’t exactly go to plan …’
Serena and Kate convulsed with laughter as Roxanne filled them in on last night’s events, and by the time she stepped back into the office, their shared hilarity had dissipated her nerves a little. She slipped her bag over her shoulder – it was weighed down with the scrapbook she had brought in with her – and spotted Marsha in her little glass cube of an office, motioning for her to come in. Roxanne cleared her throat and strode towards her.
Marsha was out of her seat, all bared-teeth smiles whilst dispensing instructions to Jacqui, her PA, to bring them coffee. ‘Sit down, Roxanne. How are you getting on with the yoga?’
‘Oh, er … great!’ She was conscious of her voice shooting up.
Marsha laughed. ‘Before I came here I imagined you lot’d be a right bunch of yoga bunnies. You know, being fashion types, desperate to remain a size eight. But no! Everyone’s really unfit!’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t say—’ Roxanne started.
‘Anyway – never mind that.’ Marsha clasped her hands together as if in prayer. ‘So, tell me. How’s it all going with your team?’
‘Great, thanks,’ Roxanne said brightly, perching on the padded seat.
Marsha murmured her thanks as Jacqui glided in with two mugs of coffee. Her desk was completely bare, unlike Roxanne’s, which at present was littered with magazines, books, tissues, packets of mints, a utility bill from home, a gift voucher, a cereal bar wrapper, a bottle of perfume and a tub of nail polish remover pads. ‘Glad to hear that,’ Marsha remarked. ‘Serena and Kate are so keen, aren’t they? That’s great to see …’
‘Oh yes, they’re both amazingly creative and organised. I don’t know what I’d do without—’
‘So, what about you?’ she interrupted again. ‘Tell me all about your vision for the future.’
Roxanne frowned, and her nostrils flickered. Was that the burnt brandy snap smell she could detect? Had she somehow brought it to work with her? Marsha sniffed audibly and twitched her tiny nose.
‘Well, I know we’re in challenging times,’ Roxanne began, ‘and glossy magazines are in decline. But women still enjoy them. They’ve just stopped buying a whole raft of titles and have whittled it down to just one, a firm favourite – the one they feel the most loyal to. I truly believe that, if we make ourselves stand out from the crowd, then that can be us.’
She swallowed hard, trying to drag her thoughts away from incinerated confectionery as she fished out her scrapbook from her bag and placed it on Marsha’s desk.
‘What’s this?’ she asked, crooking a brow.
‘My ideas book. Would you like to see it?’
‘Of course, yes!’
Roxanne felt the blood rushing to the tips of her ears as she flipped it open. Could the smell have clung to her top and/or skirt? Her French wardrobe