Читать книгу The Little Bakery on Rosemary Lane: The best feel-good romance to curl up with in 2018 - Ellen Berry - Страница 10

On a bright-skied Friday morning, Roxanne opened a bleary eye and watched as Sean pulled on his jeans. Even his back view was lovely. She took in the curve of his lightly tanned neck, his firm upper arms, the graceful lines of his shoulders. She yearned to touch him, to coax him back to bed just for a few more minutes. There was time; it was just 7.30. However, Sean’s attentions were now directed elsewhere as his assistant, Louie, was already on the phone about some small drama concerning the party at Sean’s studio that night.

‘Foie gras canapés?’ he exclaimed. ‘Britt showed me the menu and they definitely weren’t on it. Has she been running away with herself again?’ There followed some urgent muttering. It was obvious to anyone who met Louie that he was clearly in awe of his employer, and Roxanne could picture the eager twenty-one-year-old’s pale face flushing, his forehead beading with sweat. ‘I don’t care if they’re on sticks – if they’re lollipops,’ Sean barked. ‘I’m not having canapés made out of force-fed ducks or whatever the hell that stuff is. It’s disgusting. Just cancel them, all right? Get onto Britt, say we’ve spoken. Okay, good. Catch you in a bit – and remember we need to be right on the nail with today’s job. I want to be finished by five so the DJ can set up for tonight.’ He finished the call, turned to Roxanne and rolled his eyes as if his fiftieth birthday party had been foisted upon him – which, in a sense, it had. ‘It’s a monster that’s grown out of control,’ he groaned. ‘What’s wrong with a big bowl of sour cream and onion Pringles?’

She laughed, slipping out of bed as he pulled on his white T-shirt. She knew the party really wasn’t Sean’s style, but that his agent had convinced him that this friends and contacts in the industry would love it. ‘Why not make a big splash? You’re only fifty once!’ Britt had insisted, having breezed into his studio when he and Roxanne were in the midst of a shoot for her magazine a few months ago. He could afford it, of course. Sean was at the top of his game right now. Whilst magazine shoots were moderately paid, he could command thousands per day for an advertising job.

‘Gotta go,’ he said now, kissing Roxanne softly on the mouth. ‘Cab’s on its way. See you tonight, sweetheart.’ There was the toot of a car horn in the street below, and he was off.

Roxanne showered quickly, reassuring herself that of course he meant to wish her good luck for the meeting; he’d just been in a hurry, that was all. Anyway, it was no big deal, and it would soon be over, and tonight she’d be clutching a glass of perfectly chilled Chablis (Britt would insist on the best of everything) at his party and having a little dance. Even aside from the fire brigade incident, it had been a long, hectic week, with problematic shoots to arrange, all under the watchful gaze of Marsha in her little glass cube at the end of the office. Roxanne needed to kick back and have some fun.

Dressed for work now, she surveyed her reflection in her dressing table mirror. With today’s meeting in mind, she had chosen her favourite cream calico top with embroidery around the neckline, plus a knife-pleated black skirt, low patent heels that would also do for Sean’s party, and a blue topaz necklace she had bought on holiday last summer with her friend Amanda. They had gone for four days to Ibiza together – Amanda’s first trip without her daughters, who were then six and eight years old and had stayed at home with their dad.

Roxanne smiled at the memory, wishing she could spirit herself back there right now, instead of heading for her meeting with Marsha. It had been wonderful. They had chatted perpetually while sipping copious sangria in the quaint bars of the Old Town and swum in the clear turquoise sea. Amanda had been the unfailingly cheerful receptionist at Roxanne’s first London office. Although Roxanne was five years older, they had become exceptionally close – and now she was godmother to Keira, Amanda’s eldest daughter. Roxanne had reconciled herself with the fact that it was probably better to not be a mother herself than to have had children with any of the low-level lunatics she had involved herself with over the years. Imagine embarking on parenthood with a man who was incapable of heating up a ready meal! But then the brandy snap debacle shimmered back into her mind, so she banished all oven-related matters from her consciousness and concentrated instead on applying her make-up. To boost her morale, she applied a hideously expensive new primer called Blur which was supposed to, well, blur everything – but seemingly not sufficiently, she decided now.

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 was antique and the doors didn’t fit too well. Perhaps the smoke had crept in through the gaps? Marsha’s gaze had dropped to the scrapbook which Roxanne had opened randomly to show pages crammed with her own lively pen-and-ink sketches, plus pictures of outfits snipped from magazines.

‘This all looks very … interesting,’ Marsha said unconvincingly.

‘Um, it’s just the way I work,’ Roxanne explained. ‘It’s how I gather my ideas together and plan the next few issues with the team …’ She flipped the page to show more sketches, plus fabric swatches, scraps of denim and printed cotton and lace; the pages were bursting with ideas, annotated with Roxanne’s beautiful looped handwriting. ‘People are always complaining that the clothes featured in glossy magazines are exclusively designer,’ she added, showing Marsha page after page of her chaotic yet beautiful collages. ‘Well, I think it’s important to make our pages inspirational for everyone. We’re not just reproducing top-to-toe designer looks. We’re all about creating beautiful outfits that any woman can afford. Yes, we can use the odd designer piece, but we also bring in quality high-street buys, vintage finds, things we’ve customised ourselves …’

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 telling me how to arrange my face! ‘It’s just a bit of a shock,’ she muttered, digging her nails into her palms now. ‘I mean, if Tina’s being brought in to do my job, then where will I fit in?’

‘How d’you mean?’ Marsha pulled a baffled look, and then – in an act that struck Roxanne as unspeakably disrespectful – bent to rummage in her leather satchel and pulled out a small, oil-stained paper bag from which she extracted a Danish pastry. As if Roxanne had ceased to exist, she took a large bite.

For a moment, all Roxanne could do was watch her, chomping. Oh, sorry, was I interrupting your breakfast? What was the etiquette here? It didn’t feel right to question Marsha while she was cramming baked goods into her face, but then, weren’t they supposed to be having a ‘chat’?

‘So,’ she managed, her voice unsteady now, ‘am I to understand that Tina will be managing my team and essentially doing my job?’

‘Yes,’ Marsha conceded, nodding emphatically whilst still chewing, ‘but don’t look at it like that. It’s just a slight restructuring and you’ll learn so much …’

‘And when is she starting?’

Marsha swallowed and took another bite. ‘On Monday,’ she said, a flurry of crumbs shooting from her mouth.

Roxanne flinched. ‘On Monday?’

Marsha nodded. ‘Yes. I know her editor very well so I’ve managed to arrange for her to be released immediately. Time is of the essence here, I’m sure you understand …’

‘Of yes, of course,’ Roxanne said, wondering if she understood anything anymore. ‘So, er, is that all?’

Marsha nodded, her cheeks bulging like a hamster’s. ‘Yes, thank you for your time …’

‘Thank you,’ Roxanne exclaimed, polite to the last and willing herself to hold it together as she sprang up from the seat and strode out of Marsha’s glass box. Thank you, thank you, thank you. She would probably have expressed her gratitude if Marsha had kicked her in the teeth.

‘Roxanne? You forgot this!’ Marsha was standing up now, still chewing, bovine-like, waving her scrapbook and planting greasy fingerprints all over it. As Roxanne darted back to retrieve it, Marsha frowned and sniffed its appliquéd cover. ‘Does this smell of burning to you?’