Читать книгу I Heart London - Lindsey Kelk - Страница 10

‘I’m here, I’m here.’ I threw myself through the glass doors of the Gloss office the following Friday, late as usual. For some reason, I’d decided not to waste money I didn’t have on a taxi and had taken the subway, despite the fact that I had two suitcases and the world’s biggest carry-on bag. Well, maybe not the world’s biggest, but definitely not one of the smallest. I could easily steal Beyoncé’s baby and carry it off in this bag. Which I totally would.

‘Did I miss anything?’

‘Just the coffee run.’ Mr Spencer was sitting in my leather chair, a small smile on his face. It had been so long since I’d seen that smile that I actually shrieked in surprise. Bollocks. Yes, I was late into the office, but I wasn’t late for the meeting. Why was he early? Who was ever early? Arses. ‘I hear you’re off to London, Ms Clark?’

‘I am,’ I nodded, attempting to regain my composure. And failing. ‘It’s my mum’s sixtieth.’

He stood up and gestured for me to sit down. Which was nice of him, given that he was in my seat in the first place.

‘I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to get back to you, ladies,’ he said, striding across our tiny office in two steps and settling himself on the edge of Delia’s desk. For an older gent, Bob Spencer was still well put together, like he’d reached a certain age and decided he was just going to stick with that. He always reminded me a little bit of Ken Barlow, but less evil. ‘Things are very busy right now, as I’m sure you can appreciate. The industry is going through a very difficult time.’

I settled into my chair, suddenly aware that I shouldn’t get too comfortable. Where was Delia? Why was he talking to me when she wasn’t here? There was only one possible reason – he was here to shut us down and she was crying in the toilets.

‘I’m sure you remember I was a big fan of your work, Angela.’ He smiled at me and I waited for the blow. Why had she gone to cry in the toilets without me? Selfish mare. ‘You did some wonderful writing for The Look, and what you did with James Jacobs was really very good.’

Through the mediums of eyebrow raising and telepathy I tried to communicate to the boy dropping off our mail that Bob was talking about an article I had written about the actor James Jacobs coming out of the closet and Nothing Else. He replied with widened eyes with a very loud and clear ‘Whatever, lady’.

‘Thank you?’ I brushed the floor with my toes and turned the chair very slightly from side to side.

‘And Delia assures me my first impressions about you were correct,’ he went on, continuing to stare me down. I took it all back − Ken Barlow would never be so rude. ‘And that, possibly, Cecelia didn’t exactly cover herself in glory when working with you.’

I took that as his very, very diplomatic way of saying that Cici was a batshit, cray-cray mental who should be locked up, but instead of correcting him, I made a small scoffing noise and concentrated on pressing the hem of my striped American Apparel T-shirt between my thumb and forefinger.

‘So I have to be honest with you − I thought the presentation the two of you gave me last week was a little lacking.’

Finally we were getting to it. I felt tears prickle in the backs of my eyes and fought to keep them down. I have always tried so hard to keep tears out of the workplace. It was a very smart woman who said, ‘If you have to cry, go outside.’ Or a very intolerant one. Either way. But this was too awful. We’d worked so long and so hard on Gloss, and the feeling that it was just going to go away was almost as disappointing as thinking you had a packet of chocolate Hobnobs in the cupboard only to find nothing but two Rich Teas.

‘There was a distinct lack of vision.’ Mr Spencer raised his voice a little, presumably to ensure every word of his carefully put together ‘fuck off and die’ speech hit home. ‘You weren’t looking at the bigger picture. But that’s what I’m here for. I am the bigger picture.’

Bigger knob, I thought to myself with a sniffle, but managed to keep the words to myself. Just.

‘If we’re going to launch a new print magazine in this climate, we need to make some noise,’ he said. ‘And you make noise by going global. Or at least transatlantic. Simultaneous US and UK launch. So what do you think, Angela? Up to the challenge?’

Huh. So I’d got it a bit wrong. As I desperately fought both disbelief and the urge to reply with the words ‘fuck’ and ‘off’, Delia pushed the door open with her tiny bottom and beamed at me, hands full of giant Starbucks cups.

‘You’re here.’ She turned her back to her grandfather and gave me the biggest smile I’d ever seen on her face. ‘Has Grandpa filled you in?’

‘He has,’ Mr Spencer answered for me. ‘But Angela hasn’t actually reacted in any way other than to gape at me like a goldfish.’

‘I, um, I’m sorry.’ Second attempt to gain composure in one day. Second failure. Delia set a large cup down in front of me and passed the second to her grandfather, gulping down the third as if someone was going to take it off her. ‘I’m just sort of surprised. What exactly are you saying?’

‘I’m saying I need you to sell this idea to the London office,’ he said. ‘And if you can get them on board, and you can get the exec team on board, you’ve got yourself a magazine. And not just a magazine but a franchise.’

‘Oh. Right then.’

‘You don’t think you can do it?’ Bob mistook my shock for terror. It was reasonable.

‘Of course we can do it,’ Delia replied. Life really was so much easier when people answered all of your questions for you. ‘Angela means it’s a pleasant surprise.’

‘I do,’ I said, remembering myself and nodding eagerly at Delia and then at Bob. ‘That’s exactly what I meant. We can absolutely pull off a transatlantic launch.’ I felt like we were back in a Bob place now. Probably.

‘Perfect.’ Bob stood up, took one sip of his coffee, made a face and set it back on Delia’s desk. ‘I’ll make an appointment for Angela to meet with the publishing team in London, and Delia, I’ll send you the information about Paris. Ladies.’

And with a nod, he was gone.

Delia waited a slow three seconds before running round to my side of the office, knocking my coffee across the room and wrapping me up in a very tight, very excited hug. I squeezed back, even though I was still in a complete state of shock. The magazine was happening! There were Hobnobs in the cupboard after all! I needed to clean up that coffee.

‘Holy shit, Angela,’ Delia shouted as loud as her WASP-y lungs would allow, which wasn’t really all that loud, and let go of my shoulders to do a little dance in the middle of the office. ‘We have a magazine. We have two magazines. We’re global, Angie!’

‘I know.’ I breathed out hard. ‘I can’t believe it. I mean, we’ve been planning it for so long, I can’t believe it’s actually going to come to life. We’re going to print a magazine and people are going to be reading it. Fingers crossed.’

It was all a bit much. It had taken me six days to recover from the shock that I wasn’t just walking around wearing a very pretty ring but was actually going to have to have a wedding and get married, and now I had to adjust to the idea that we really were going to have to write and publish a magazine, not just talk about it and put together pretty PowerPoint presentations.

‘So I talked to Grandpa before you came in and the plan is that you’ll meet with the London Spencer Media publishing team next week while you’re over there, and I’ll take the advertisers’ conference in Paris.’ She paused, took in the look of abject horror on my face, and recovered herself. ‘Unless you want to do Paris and I’ll do London?’

‘Paris?’ Not bloody likely, I thought to myself. ‘You can take Paris. But, um, wouldn’t you like to come to London too?’

‘Love to,’ Delia laughed, calming down slightly and settling into her desk chair. ‘But the advertisers’ conference is next Friday and I need to get everything together for that. Grandpa is going to schedule your meeting for Wednesday, maybe Tuesday? Keep it clear of your mom’s party on Saturday.’

I nursed my coffee as though it were the Holy Grail. As long as I had coffee, this would all be OK. ‘Tuesday?’ I tried not to cry. Again. ‘As in four days from now?’

‘You’re going to be totally fine,’ she soothed from across the office. ‘All you have to do is go in and give the presentation you’ve already given a thousand times to, what, three people? This is a formality. This is a hoop for us to jump through.’

I pouted. So she went on.

‘People are already predisposed to be nice to you because their boss has told them to be.’ I could tell she’d already switched into business mode and that meant she had no time to pander to my insecurities. When Delia turned on her monitor and started tapping away at her keyboard, she was almost never on Facebook. ‘You’re going to be amazing. You’ve been amazing so far, haven’t you?’

In all honesty, I thought, so far I had been a liability. Sure, I could sing my own praises with regards to the creative side of things. I was happy enough to say I was a good writer, I had good contacts and great ideas and was perfectly capable of stringing together an attractive sentence. But in meetings? Not so much. First, there was my uncontrollable tendency to be massively overfamiliar with everyone I met. Within fifteen minutes of our first meeting with Trinity’s global marketing director, I was merrily telling him about my adventures with my junior school’s guinea pig, Alex’s terrible haircut and my intense love for Les Misérables. He’d only asked if I’d had a nice weekend. My mouth had a tendency to run away with itself. And that was before we took into consideration turning up to meetings barefoot, outing celebrities, almost blogging myself out of the love of my life and getting into catfights on stage at music festivals in France.

I had enjoyed quite the career.

‘You’re doing it, Angela.’ Delia closed the conversation with her final say-so. ‘And besides, this will give you a day away from your parents. That’s got to be good news, hasn’t it?’

She really was a very bright girl.

The rest of the day was spent obsessively reading over the Gloss publishing presentation, making to-do lists and ignoring text messages from my mother. I was booked on the 9.25 p.m. flight back to London. Alone. For all Jenny and Alex’s promises of supporting me through my family reunion, neither of them was able to fly in with me. Jenny, having remembered that she actually had a job, had to manage an event for Erin and was flying out tomorrow. Alex had studio time booked to record live sessions for iTunes or B sides or something else band-related that I couldn’t quite remember and was coming on Monday.

To be fair, I was struggling with everything I’d been told for the last five days because the only thing I could think about was London. One minute, I’d be super-excited about going. Share Topshop with Jenny, hug my dad, sniff Louisa’s baby, generally show Alex off like a shiny new toy. But then I’d remember the flipside. For every trip to Topshop, there would be a cup of stewed tea with Aunt Sheila. For every dad hug, there would be a passive-aggressive dig from my mum. For every sniff of the baby, there would be a shitty nappy, and it was going to be very hard to show Alex off if my mother poisoned him five minutes after he’d entered the house. And given her cooking skills, she might not even do it on purpose. Of course, there was a chance everyone would just be happy to see me, and my mum would hand me the biscuit tin and forget that I hadn’t been home in two years. There was just as much chance that the house would be picked up in a tornado during the night and dropped on top of a witch in the wonderful world of Oz.

As the office clock ticked towards five, I kept looking at my phone, waiting for the car service to buzz. So far I’d had five texts from Louisa detailing how very excited she was that I would be back on British soil in twenty-four hours, three texts from Jenny asking whether or not she should pack her Jimmy Choo over-the-knee boots, and one from my mum and dad confirming that it was supposed to rain so I should bring a coat. And if I didn’t have a coat, I should get a coat.

I was looking longingly out of our twenty-fifth-storey window at the bright spring sunshine when my phone buzzed into life. The car was here. The end was nigh.

‘Want a hand with your bags?’ Delia piped up from her corner. I looked up and considered throwing myself on her mercy, begging her not to let me go, but it was no use. Not only had Delia been very vocal on the subject of me ‘reconciling’ with my mother all week, but she was now one hundred percent committed to me giving this presentation in London. I’d have more chance appealing to her twin sister’s good nature.

‘I’ve got them.’ I closed down my laptop, heaved myself up out of my chair, grabbed my notepad off the desk and tossed them both into my satchel. It groaned with the weight, echoing my sentiments.

‘What exactly do you have in there anyways?’ she asked as she stood up, offering a hug in commiseration. ‘It looks like you’re packed for a month.’

‘I have every item of clothing I own,’ I explained, heaving the bags along the plush carpeting. ‘And as many bags of peanut-butter M&Ms as I could pack. And a shit-ton of Tide pens for my mum. I feel like she’ll like Tide pens.’

‘Good call,’ she said, hugging me quickly and shoving me towards the door. ‘Even my mom loves Tide pens, and she hasn’t as much as looked at laundry her entire life.’

I bit my lip and shook my hair out from behind my ears. ‘It’ll be OK, won’t it?’ I asked.

‘You can call me any time,’ Delia assured me, arms folded in front of her. ‘You’re going to kill at the presentation.’

‘Weirdly, I’m not so worried about the presentation any more,’ I muttered. I wanted to get changed. I shouldn’t be wearing jeans. My mum hated it when I wore jeans. And I should have tied my hair up, she never liked it down. And all in the space of ten seconds, I’d regressed ten years.

‘Your mom is just going to be happy to see you,’ she replied, holding open the door while I shuffled through. ‘You’re going to be surprised.’

I pressed the glowing grey button to call the lift and looked back over my shoulder. ‘Well, yes,’ I nodded. ‘That’s pretty much a given.’

Obviously, my taxi did not get stuck in traffic and my flight was not delayed. As if that wasn’t bad enough, when I got to JFK airport I discovered Alex had upgraded my flight. What a bastard. Before I could even think to tell someone I had a bomb in my shoe or fake a panic attack, I was on the plane and downing tiny glasses of champagne like they were going out of fashion. I swiped at the screen of my iPhone and reread Alex’s last text. ‘Be calm, be cool, don’t punch anyone and I’ll see you Monday. Love you.’ I closed down the screen and closed my eyes. Easier said than done, Reid.

‘Is there anything I can get for you?’ A tall, blonde flight attendant in a smart red suit smiled at me in the dim cabin lighting.

‘Oh, no, thank you,’ I hiccupped. ‘I’m fine.’

‘Just let me know if there’s anything at all.’ She rested her hand on my shoulder very briefly and then disappeared, presumably to tell the rest of the crew it was OK, I wasn’t going to drink them dry.

I had planned on sleeping through the flight, but I already knew I was too restless. Every time I closed my eyes, something started niggling. I’d spent the first couple of hours going over and over and over my presentation for Gloss. I’d spent the next hour eating peanuts. And then I’d gone over the presentation again. And I couldn’t quite get my head round how much had changed since I’d flown the other way, out of Heathrow. I was proud of myself, I was. Two years ago, I’d been scared and alone and entirely directionless. Now I was so close to realizing so many dreams. Which didn’t stop me being scared. The more you have, the more you have to lose.

And then there was the wedding. The non-existent wedding. Thanks to Delia, Erin and Sadie, I was really starting to worry about my lack of preparation. Maybe watching Breaking Dawn was a bad idea. Edward and Bella were making me feel bad. I switched off the screen and pulled out my notepad, along with the wedding magazine Delia had given me. Maybe if I made a list. Maybe if I had an idea of what needed doing, I’d be able to get my head round how to make it work for me. Dress. Guest list. Venue. Catering. Dog and pony. Bleurgh.

Where was that stewardess? Why had I said no to more champagne?

Number one, I needed a dress. Flipping to the pages Delia had marked for me to look at, my eyes popped. I had imprinted. Suddenly, life had new meaning for me. On the page in front of me was a light, frothy concoction of sheer beauty. Layers and layers of ivory skirts floated around the model, making it look like she was walking through a cloud, and a high slit up the front revealed a hint of leg, giving the dress an edgy look without seeming slutty. Up top, a delicate bodice gave her boobs that she quite clearly did not have. Models did not have boobs. I did not have boobs. It was simple. It didn’t look like I would have to starve myself for six months to get into it. The slit led me to believe I might not trip.

This was the dress. I closed my eyes and imagined myself wearing it, getting married in it, and it was easy. I could feel sunshine on my skin, I could see Alex smiling at me, and in that moment, all I wanted to do was jump off the plane, grab Alex and march him down the aisle. Now I really wasn’t going to be able to sleep.

Full of wedding beans, I picked up my pen, turned the glittery vampire wedding back on and started on the guest list. How come there wasn’t a magical page in a magazine that would make this easy for me? Obviously Jenny, Erin and, I supposed, Sadie. Probably my friend Vanessa. Definitely Delia. Mary, if she would come. And Louisa and Tim would have to come over. And I assumed my dad would insist on bringing my mum. Alex’s side was even easier to whittle down than mine. I drew a line down the middle of my notepad and added all my people to one side, then added Alex’s band members Graham and Craig, his parents, his brother, his manager, and his slightly creepy old roommate who came over once every couple of months, brought himself two cans of beer and peed sitting down. I knew this because he left the door open when he did so.

So that was the dress and the guest list sorted. Who knew I would turn out to be a wedding planner extraordinaire?

I tapped the pen against the tray table, incredibly pleased with my progress. My seat neighbour, however, was not so pleased with the tapping. He raised his eye mask and gave me the frowning of a lifetime until I pursed my lips and carefully laid the pen down on the table. How dare he not care that I had just solved two-thirds of the world’s most pressing problem? Global economic crisis be damned, I had a wedding to plan. So if I could pick a dress and sort out my guest list without slashing my wrists, where was all the drama coming from with other people’s weddings? Perhaps I was just supernaturally talented. I considered the likelihood of this while quietly judging Bella’s wedding dress. My main thought was that it was very tight. Maybe incredible event-organizing skills would be my vampire talent. It must take a lot of organization to be a vampire these days. After a few minutes, I felt my eyelids getting heavy and began to doze pleasantly, losing myself in a dream where Alex’s skin sparkled and my ex, Mark, crashed our wedding, howling at the moon. Although he was considerably less Taylor Lautner and considerably more Home Counties Werewolf in New York.

Hmm. I felt my earbuds slip out of my ears as I nodded off. No doubt about it, I was Team Alex all the way.