I really don’t know—”
Inspiration came to Matt.
“Tell you what,” he said. “Why don’t we pay for your season ticket; how about that? It’ll be a real benefit, like your luncheon vouchers; you won’t have to pay tax on it.”
A silence. Then she stood up and said, holding out a very pretty hand to each of them in turn, “Done.”
“Great. Well, I think we’ll all work very well together. I can see you’ve got the makings of a negotiator yourself, Miss Mullen.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” she said, “but I’ll bear it in mind. Well, thank you. I can see it’ll be fun. And I really will work very hard. And stay late from time to time if necessary; I meant it. Oh—except on Thursdays.”
“What happens on Thursdays?” asked Jimbo.
“Miss Mullen plays netball,” said Matt.
“Ah. OK. Fine,” said Jimbo, with a grin. “So when Harry Hyams comes round, we’ll have to make sure it’s not Thursday.”
“I’ve heard of Harry Hyams. Famous property tycoon. Is he really a client?”
“Not yet,” said Matt.
Eliza was having lunch with Fiona Marks, a thin, nervy creature who talked at such a high speed that it was hard to understand her without one hundred per cent concentration. She was the fashion editor of Charisma , the new ultrachic glossy that was a talking point everywhere that autumn. Very feature-led, it was completely different from most women’s magazines. In its first three issues, it had run interviews with Betty Friedan and with Gloria Steinem, who talked, among other things, about her infamous stint as a bunny girl; there had been a very graphic account of the new “natural” childbirth, complete with show-it-all photographs; and an article on the death of marriage in twentieth-century life. And its “Twenty-four Hours in …” slot, photographic essays on life in such disparate places as a casualty department, an East End housing estate, and a luxury liner, both above and below stairs, was already being widely copied.
“Yes?” said Eliza nervously. Fiona’s voice had had a rather businesslike tone.
“Look … How settled do you feel at Woolfe’s? I mean, I know Lindy’s leaving and you must be a bit worried about it—”
“Oh, no,” said Eliza, carefully airy. “The person who’s taking over from her is marvellous. I’m really looking forward to working with her.”
“In that case, forget what I was just going to say to you.”
“What?” Eliza stopped in mid–company line. “What were you going to say to me?”
“Well, I was going to say I’m looking for an assistant—Lucy’s leaving to have a baby. Loads of people are going to be applying—half London, actually—but I’d like to know if you’d be interested.”
“Me!” said Eliza.
“Yes, you. Because I really think you’ve got a terrific eye, and that’s what I’m looking for above all else. But if you’re really happy where you are—”
“I’m not,” said Eliza, and heard her own voice as an odd, high squeak. “I’d love to apply for the job. Absolutely love it. Please. I mean thank you. Oh, gosh—golly.”
“OK. Great. It’s quite … tough there, you know. They really are determined to do something quite different, and the editor, Jack Beckham’s a proper, old-fashioned journalist, come up through the ranks; got the job because he worked on the Sunday Times Magazine launchwith Mark Boxer. He actually sees fashion as a necessary evil, to bring in the advertising; he’d prefer to stick to features about class and politics and sex, so every single idea we do has to be sold really hard. And they have to be proper ideas, not just the new hemline or whatever. But I fancy you could cope with all that. Anyway, let me have your CV—I still have to go through the motions of presenting you to the editor, so you do need to apply. And then he’ll give you a really tough interview, I warn you. But—”
“Oh, God, it’s so exciting,” said Eliza. “Thank you so
Inspiration came to Matt.
“Tell you what,” he said. “Why don’t we pay for your season ticket; how about that? It’ll be a real benefit, like your luncheon vouchers; you won’t have to pay tax on it.”
A silence. Then she stood up and said, holding out a very pretty hand to each of them in turn, “Done.”
“Great. Well, I think we’ll all work very well together. I can see you’ve got the makings of a negotiator yourself, Miss Mullen.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” she said, “but I’ll bear it in mind. Well, thank you. I can see it’ll be fun. And I really will work very hard. And stay late from time to time if necessary; I meant it. Oh—except on Thursdays.”
“What happens on Thursdays?” asked Jimbo.
“Miss Mullen plays netball,” said Matt.
“Ah. OK. Fine,” said Jimbo, with a grin. “So when Harry Hyams comes round, we’ll have to make sure it’s not Thursday.”
“I’ve heard of Harry Hyams. Famous property tycoon. Is he really a client?”
“Not yet,” said Matt.
Eliza was having lunch with Fiona Marks, a thin, nervy creature who talked at such a high speed that it was hard to understand her without one hundred per cent concentration. She was the fashion editor of Charisma , the new ultrachic glossy that was a talking point everywhere that autumn. Very feature-led, it was completely different from most women’s magazines. In its first three issues, it had run interviews with Betty Friedan and with Gloria Steinem, who talked, among other things, about her infamous stint as a bunny girl; there had been a very graphic account of the new “natural” childbirth, complete with show-it-all photographs; and an article on the death of marriage in twentieth-century life. And its “Twenty-four Hours in …” slot, photographic essays on life in such disparate places as a casualty department, an East End housing estate, and a luxury liner, both above and below stairs, was already being widely copied.
“Yes?” said Eliza nervously. Fiona’s voice had had a rather businesslike tone.
“Look … How settled do you feel at Woolfe’s? I mean, I know Lindy’s leaving and you must be a bit worried about it—”
“Oh, no,” said Eliza, carefully airy. “The person who’s taking over from her is marvellous. I’m really looking forward to working with her.”
“In that case, forget what I was just going to say to you.”
“What?” Eliza stopped in mid–company line. “What were you going to say to me?”
“Well, I was going to say I’m looking for an assistant—Lucy’s leaving to have a baby. Loads of people are going to be applying—half London, actually—but I’d like to know if you’d be interested.”
“Me!” said Eliza.
“Yes, you. Because I really think you’ve got a terrific eye, and that’s what I’m looking for above all else. But if you’re really happy where you are—”
“I’m not,” said Eliza, and heard her own voice as an odd, high squeak. “I’d love to apply for the job. Absolutely love it. Please. I mean thank you. Oh, gosh—golly.”
“OK. Great. It’s quite … tough there, you know. They really are determined to do something quite different, and the editor, Jack Beckham’s a proper, old-fashioned journalist, come up through the ranks; got the job because he worked on the Sunday Times Magazine launchwith Mark Boxer. He actually sees fashion as a necessary evil, to bring in the advertising; he’d prefer to stick to features about class and politics and sex, so every single idea we do has to be sold really hard. And they have to be proper ideas, not just the new hemline or whatever. But I fancy you could cope with all that. Anyway, let me have your CV—I still have to go through the motions of presenting you to the editor, so you do need to apply. And then he’ll give you a really tough interview, I warn you. But—”
“Oh, God, it’s so exciting,” said Eliza. “Thank you so
Similar Books
