Roxanne paused for breath and glanced across the desk. Marsha’s attention was waning, she could sense it. ‘This all looks great,’ she said briskly. ‘It’s so quaint and childlike – so old-school – to have a funny little scrapbook of ideas …’
A funny little scrapbook? ‘Well, I do find it helpful to—’
‘And I’m glad to see you’re not fixated on blow-the-budget shoots,’ she interrupted, ‘insisting on flying everyone to Africa and hiring eighteen elephants as props …’
Roxanne smiled tightly. ‘Er, no. We often shoot in London, the home counties or the south coast …’
‘No elephants there,’ Marsha quipped.
‘… Unless you count zoos,’ Roxanne said, ridiculously.
‘Ha, yes, and I don’t think they loan out their animals for fashion shoots, do they? Anyway,’ she added, shutting the scrapbook firmly to indicate that she had seen quite enough, ‘there’s something else I need to discuss with you, while we’re here.’
‘Oh, really?’ Roxanne’s eyebrows shot up. Something solid and heavy seemed to have lodged itself in her gut.
Marsha’s nose twitched again, like a mouse’s. ‘Yes. Don’t look so alarmed. It’s actually all good and I think you’ll find it’ll make your job much, much easier.’ Roxanne shifted uneasily as Marsha picked up her mug and took an audible sip of her coffee. ‘As I’m sure you’re aware, everyone’s cost-cutting these days – making redundancies, culling whole departments …’
Oh, good lord. Here it comes – she was about to be given the heave-ho. Her job was about to become ‘much, much easier’ because soon she wouldn’t have one at all.
‘… And you’ll be glad to hear I’m not about to do that. On the contrary, I’m investing in our brand, bringing in extra resources. I know our circulation has only dipped a little, but I’m here to reverse that trend before we find ourselves in real trouble.’
Roxanne nodded. ‘What sort of resources do you have in mind?’
Marsha dispensed a quick, bright smile, the kind a nurse might give before plunging in the needle. ‘Well, this is all terribly exciting and you’re the first to know. I’m bringing in someone new, someone amazingly talented to take a fresh look at the whole magazine …’
‘In which department?’ Roxanne was trying to sound calm, as if Marsha had mooted the possibility of new chairs. She glanced down at her coffee. Jacqui had put milk in it, which Roxanne didn’t take.
‘She’ll be my right-hand woman,’ Marsha explained, ‘helping me to implement all the changes I want to bring about. We’ve worked together before. She’s brilliant, a real firecracker: I know you’ll love her …’
The effort of trying to appear relaxed and non-defensive was making Roxanne feel quite light-headed. She focused hard on Marsha’s mouth as she spoke. Her teeth were small and perfectly even, like a row of tiny chalks. While Roxanne had her own teeth professionally whitened – a faff, but sort of expected in fashion circles – Marsha’s were obviously veneers. ‘Who is it?’ she asked, trying to keep her voice level.
‘Tina Court. Have your paths ever crossed?’
‘Um, yes, briefly, although we haven’t worked together. I’ve seen her at plenty of events, she seems very, er …’ She tailed off. What to say? Tina Court was fashion director on a mammoth-selling weekly and had a reputation for being utterly formidable.
‘She thinks very highly of you,’ Marsha added, widening her eyes alarmingly. ‘She thinks it’s amazing that you still want to create beautiful pictures when really, all anyone wants these days is twenty-five figure-fixing dresses crammed onto the page …’
Roxanne blanched. She detested the phrase ‘figure-fixing’, implying as it did that women’s bodies were on a par with faulty guttering, and needed to be rectified. ‘Er, that’s good to know,’ she muttered. ‘So, have you worked together before?’
‘Oh, lots of times. We’re quite the team, the pair of us. We go way back …’ She beamed, as if reflecting upon how fabulous they were together. ‘So, she’ll be working alongside you, offering lots of support as we move away from arty-farty shoots towards practical, useful fashion …’
A sense of dread was juddering up inside her. ‘What sort of thing d’you mean?’
‘Like, “Here are the hundred best knickers to squish in that nasty wobbly tum!”’ Marsha beamed at her, as if astounded by her own genius. Roxanne started to speak, but Marsha charged on: ‘That’s what women want, and we might as well accept it. Big bottoms, porky thighs, saggy boobs, bingo wings, that hideous knee fat that sort of hangs down … we’re all desperate to cover up our problem areas, aren’t we?’
Roxanne shifted uneasily on her seat. ‘Er, I’m just not sure about the message we’ll be putting across—’
‘Well, it’s where we’re going and Tina will be in charge of all that.’
For a moment, Roxanne just stared at her as this new information sank in. ‘You mean Tina will be in charge of all of our fashion?’ she asked carefully. ‘Or just these figure-fixing pages you’re planning to introduce?’
‘Ha. Yes and no. Or, rather, yes and yes. From now on all of our fashion will be body-correcting, using the cheapest brands available, and shot economically in a studio. So, no more arty outdoor shoots with your fancy photographers, okay?’
‘But we’re known for beautiful photography,’ Roxanne said, aghast. ‘It’s what the magazine is all about …’
‘Oh, no one gives a fig about that anymore. We’re all about quantity and value now – and Tina’s remit will be to oversee it all.’
What the hell will I be doing, then? Roxanne wanted to ask, although she couldn’t quite manage to string the right words together. Almost thirty years she’d spent, creating gorgeous images. She adored her job and couldn’t imagine doing anything else; only now, it seemed her skills were no longer required. ‘So, uh … what will her job title actually be?’ she managed to croak.
Marsha fixed her with a cool stare. ‘She’ll be fashion-director-in-chief.’
‘Fashion-director-in-chief?’ Roxanne repeated. ‘I’m sorry, but what even is that?’
‘It’s the person who heads up the fashion department of course …’
‘But I head up the fashion department!’
‘Yes, and I think this’ll be good for you,’ Marsha said firmly, ‘and your professional development. Tina’s a powerhouse and we need that strong direction, the clout she’ll bring us in the industry. I know you’ll get along like a house on fire …’
Oh, will we? Roxanne opened her mouth to speak but no words came out.
‘Please don’t look so worried,’ Marsha remarked.
Stop