I woke to the sound of my alarm, totally confused. I hadn’t heard it in a week. It was daylight and I was still in my dress, but it had definitely been dark when I’d got into bed, which meant I’d slept straight through. I wondered if Grace had done the same. And where was Jenny?
My phone declared it was eight-thirty a.m. and I had a meeting in three hours. But still, it didn’t do to rush, so I lay back, watching the dust captured by shafts of sunlight fly around the room, and checked all my injuries. My ankle felt so much better already − no one tied a bandage like my mum − and while I was sure my cuts and bruises were still hanging around, they hardly hurt at all when I poked them. Someone had been into my room between me crashing out and the alarm beeping because my laptop had been closed up and placed on the dresser and my notebook and pen were placed neatly beside the bed instead of strewn across the covers. I opened the notebook and saw Alex’s handwriting in place of my crossed-out clichés.
I didn’t want to wake you when you have a big meeting in the morning, but know that I did kiss you on the forehead and feel you up a little. I think you liked it.
We’re getting married on Saturday.
Call me tomorrow. I love you.
A
See? I told myself. That’s why you’re marrying him. Because he touched you up in your sleep without waking you. That’s a skill you don’t find in just any man.
I stood up, tried putting my weight on my ankle and limped over to open the curtains. Jenny was in the garden, directing several large men who were carrying a giant white tent. Oh my. She spotted my Rear Window impression and waved, giving me a double thumbs-up. So. This was happening then.
‘Right.’ I stepped into the kitchen with as much authority as I could muster, determined to be my most confident and professional self for the rest of the day. ‘I’m going to have a quick cup of tea and then I’m leaving.’
Mum looked up from behind her newspaper, which I chose to pretend wasn’t the Daily Mail, and shook her head.
‘Unlikely,’ she said, giving my outfit the once-over. ‘Jenny has a plan.’
‘Jenny always has a plan,’ I replied, looking down at myself. ‘What’s wrong with my dress?’
‘Nothing.’ She looked back at her paper. ‘It’s nice. Bright.’
I sighed and went over to the fridge to pour a glass of orange juice that was almost exactly the same shade as my BCBG dress.
‘Bright is good,’ I told her. ‘Bright signals confidence and excitement. Plus it’s very on trend and I am presenting a fashion magazine.’ At least, Jenny had told me all these things when I bought it.
‘I know.’ She sounded as disbelieving as she looked. ‘Your dad and I haven’t half had a laugh about it.’
‘Thank you.’ I sat back at the table and pressed a hand against my stomach. It always got upset when I was nervous, and I wasn’t prepared to put anything in it that could cause me grief today. Mum gave me a suspicious eye and pursed her lips.
‘Angela − shit, you look awesome,’ Jenny said as she blew in through the kitchen door, bringing the smell of freshly cut grass with her. ‘Sorry for the swearing, Mrs C.’
Mum waved her hand, long impervious to anything but the C-word. ‘I’m gonna get changed. I’ll be back in fifteen. Be ready to go.’
‘Go?’ I looked at Jenny. ‘Go where?’
‘We’re coming with you!’ Jenny announced brightly. ‘We’re going to drive you into town, wait for you to do your awesome, killer presentation, and then me, you, Louisa, your mom and Sadie are going for mani-pedis. And you’re getting your roots done and ends trimmed.’
‘I just got my roots done,’ I said, reaching up and touching my dark blonde hair. ‘I had highlights.’
‘And they look awesome,’ she assured me. ‘But they’re going to look too harsh on camera. We need to break them up with a few lowlights. Just to bring it down maybe ten percent. Don’t worry, I’ve asked Gina for a recommendation. You remember Gina?’
‘Yes, I remember Gina.’ I was starting to feel ever so slightly panicky. ‘Why can’t I just meet you afterwards?’
‘Because we’re all going to the same place,’ Jenny shrugged, biting into an apple. ‘What’s the diff?’
‘Whatever.’ I didn’t want to argue. I wanted to do my presentation, write my vows and drug myself up until it was wedding o’clock. ‘Nice outfit.’
‘Thanks.’ She looked down at her second-skin neon-pink jeans and tight black sweater. ‘I ran into town yesterday. Picked up some pieces.’
‘And while you were picking up pieces, did you put down Craig?’
She blushed the same shade as her new jeans. ‘Yeah. So that happened.’
‘Yes it did,’ I confirmed. ‘Interesting.’
‘I’m a dumbass.’ She shook her hair forward and hid behind her curls. ‘But maybe he’s not so bad as I thought.’
‘He’s a filthy great slutbag and you know he is,’ I said, picking up a handful of grapes and popping one into my mouth. ‘Tell me it’s just some holiday madness thing? Because you’re in another country or something?’
‘Probably,’ Jenny shrugged. ‘But Alex was a filthy great slutbag once, right? Maybe I should give him a chance. He is pretty damn cute.’
‘Oh good, you’ve officially gone mad.’ I stood up, nervous energy overriding the ache in my ankle. ‘For a moment there, I was worried I would have both my bridesmaids at my wedding, but I should be able to get you committed, no worries. Just me and Louisa then.’
‘Someone say my name?’ Louisa came through to the kitchen and I was almost a little sad to see she was without Grace.
‘Speak of the devil and he shows his horns,’ I said, turning to give her a hug. ‘Actually, while I’ve got you both here, I’ve got something for you.’
I’d spotted my Selfridges bags in the conservatory and hobbled in to grab their handbags. When I turned round and saw them at the kitchen table chatting like old friends, it was everything I could do not to cry. OK, so it hadn’t been smooth sailing, but there they were, judging pictures of Cheryl Cole in the Daily Mail like they’d been picking celebrities to pieces all their lives. It made me so proud. Rather than kill the moment, I waited and watched while they hugged it out and Jenny went upstairs to change. So. Miracles did happen.
We were all crammed into the Yaris when my phone rang. I was trying not to sweat in my silk dress and reading my presentation to Jenny one last time when it buzzed into life with a US number I didn’t recognize.
‘Hello, Angela speaking?’ I answered, using what Jenny referred to as my professional voice.
‘Angela, it’s Delia.’ I heard my business partner on the other line. ‘Did I catch you in time?’
‘In time for what?’ This didn’t sound like good news. ‘Where are you? Are you in Paris? I’m on the way to the meeting now.’
‘Brilliant.’ She sounded hugely relieved. ‘I’m actually at the office in London. I noticed a couple of things in the presentation that needed updating, just a few things I’ve been discussing with Pops this week. I’ve got it on a flash drive here, so I’ll just meet you in reception?’
‘OK?’ Shit. Changes? An hour before my meeting? I hoped there was nothing drastic. ‘Are you going to make it to Paris in time?’
‘Oh yes,’ she replied. ‘Not a problem. I’ve got, like, for ever.’
‘You’re on at four still?’ I asked. ‘I was going to give you a call when I’m done. Should I call on this number?’
‘Still on at four.’ The line crackled a little. ‘But no, I’ll be on my phone − don’t call this number. This is a loaner. My battery died. I’m just charging it now.’
‘OK, I’ll see you soon,’ I said, looking out of the window to see London whizzing by. ‘We’re almost there.’
‘Cool. See you soon!’ she said, hanging up.
Cool? I closed my eyes and leaned back, feeling very carsick. I hoped my eye make-up wasn’t smudging. I hoped Delia hadn’t gone mad. I hoped I wasn’t
about to cock up the most important meeting of my life. Suddenly the wedding seemed like the easy part …
CHAPTER NINETEEN
‘Delia!’ I called across the lobby of Spencer Media UK to the Park Avenue princess, who was tapping away at a BlackBerry. She looked every inch the image of sophistication. Fitted graphite sheath dress, black pointed pumps and an Hermès Birkin that was duty-bound to take a trip back to its homeland. She was going to kill it in Paris, and for the first time I wished I was going with her. ‘Delia?’
She looked up at the second mention of her name and gave me a trillion-watt smile, her lips painted scarlet, hair tied back in a low ponytail, and matching red nails clutching her Swarovski-covered phone. She glanced behind me at my entourage and I saw the shadow of a frown pass over her face before she recovered herself. I skipped a couple of steps away from the gang and rolled my eyes.
‘I know,’ I said, automatically kissing her on both cheeks. ‘They wouldn’t leave me alone, but they’re waiting downstairs, don’t worry. I’m not looking for Most Unprofessional Editor of The Year award by bringing my entire family into the meeting.’
‘Oh, don’t even worry about it.’ Delia visibly relaxed and handed me a small silver USB stick. ‘And don’t worry about the changes, either − it’s just a couple of numbers. There isn’t anything different in your slides or the concept, just a few financial alterations that Pops wanted me to make, but you know me − perfectionist. Didn’t want you to go out there without the final, final version.’
‘I can’t believe you made a pit stop on your way to Paris to physically give me this, just so I had the final numbers.’ I held on to the flash drive tightly and laughed. ‘Actually, I can. Really, it’s going to be fine. I mean, it’s just a sit-down with a few editors, right?’
‘Yeah,’ she said, looking at her beautiful watch. ‘More or less.’
‘More or less?’ I did not like the sound of that.
‘All you’re doing is talking through the same slides we’ve been through a thousand times,’ she said, sliding her arm around my shoulders. I tried not to choke on her perfume. She must have been more nervous than she was letting on − she’d really gone to town on the No. 5 this morning. That or she was worried about post-plane stink. Not that Delia ever stank. ‘I know you’re going to do just fine. Now, you go set up and I’ll speak to you later.’
‘Are you sure you can’t stay?’ I squealed as she turned to leave.
Delia gave me a pained look and then shook her head, smiling at the floor. ‘I’ll stay for the first five minutes. Then I have to leave. I’m meeting Pops to get the train. And you’re still presenting on your own. You’ve got this.’
‘Thank you.’ I threw myself at her in a hug she wasn’t expecting. ‘And please stop calling Bob “Pops”. It’s weirding me out.’
‘Oh.’ She let out a gentle laugh. ‘Of course − professional face, Delia. Bob.’
I gave her a little shove and jumped up and down on the spot, suddenly full of nervous energy. I was so happy she was there. As much as I was entirely sure I could do this − I was a strong, confident woman, after all − it felt better to have back-up. Just knowing Delia was going to be in the room reminded me why this project was going to be a success. I skipped over to the others to tell them to sit still and not touch anything.
‘I just can’t get over how incredibly similar they are,’ Jenny said over my shoulder as she gave me a good-luck hug. ‘Especially when she’s all gussied up like that.’
‘Delia and Cici?’ I glanced over. ‘Yeah. It’s unnerving sometimes. But it makes sense. There couldn’t possibly be someone as atrocious as Cici in this world without someone as awesome as Delia to balance it out. I know there’s always one evil twin but someone really should study these two for the good of mankind, or maybe their mum. How do you get all the good in one twin and all the bad on earth into the other? I know she’s saying she came to make sure I had the right presentation, but I think she just wanted to give me a face-to-face good luck.’
‘Sounds like Delia.’ Jenny patted down a stray hair from the top of my straight, shiny do. ‘That or she just wanted to make sure you showed up.’
‘Sounds like Delia,’ I replied. ‘OK, I’m going in. How do I look?’
‘Like the editor of a kick-ass new fashion magazine that the world is crying out for.’ She gave me another half-hug. ‘We’ve all got your back on this one, you know that, right? And I pretty much know that presentation of yours off by heart now, so I can feed you lines if you need me to.’
‘My back considers itself lucky,’ I said, applying a last-minute swipe of MAC lip gloss and straightening up my shoulders. ‘I’m just nervous. I’m OK. But thank you.’
‘No need to be nervous.’ She clicked her fingers and gave me the double-guns. ‘Go do this so I can get my nails did.’
‘Nails, priorities,’ I doubled-gunned right back at her. ‘See in you in a bit.’
A harried-looking assistant was waiting for me at reception, and after strained welcomes, she dragged me into a lift, Delia following and trying not to laugh.
‘Rough day?’ I asked the assistant, thinking how very far away from Cici she was. Baggy boyfriend jeans, a stripy sweater and Toms made up her slouchy outfit, the kind that would make me look like I was decorating or something but managed to come off as insouciantly chic on the impossibly skinny. Her thick blonde hair was wrapped around itself in a pineappley topknot, highlighting her delicate bone structure. It was oddly reassuring to know that everyone in fashion mags in the UK was just as beautiful as those in the US. Another good reason to have Delia with me. I wasn’t writing myself off as an old trout or anything, but she was a born and bred beauty. No amount of eyeliner practice could give you her level of patrician perfection.
‘It’s just been busy, with the sales conference in Paris,’ she nodded nervously. ‘Obviously all the sales and marketing teams are over there, so the editorial team are, you know, a bit antsy − so when Mr Spencer made us slot this in, they all got a bit grumpy. And I have to get a bunch of the editors there for some event this evening. Everyone’s just a bit on edge.’
‘Good to know.’ I flashed Delia a semi-stressed look and she squeezed my hand behind the assistant’s back. My presentation had made the editors grumpy. Brilliant.
‘When aren’t editors on edge?’ Delia replied lightly. ‘The day I meet a relaxed ed is the day she retires.’
The assistant let out a hysterical cackle and then covered her mouth quickly. ‘You’re right,’ she agreed. ‘Makes me wonder why we bother? I’m always hungry, I’m always tired, I don’t have time for a boyfriend, I’m always drinking Red Bull and I’m going to die of a heart attack at fifty-five. And that’s if I’m lucky.’
‘We are the privileged few,’ Delia nodded. ‘We really are.’
The lift doors slid open and we shuffled out.
‘This is where you’ll be giving the presentation,’ the unnamed assistant said, holding open a door and shoving me through. ‘If you want to give me your laptop, I’ll give it to the IT guy and he’ll get it cued up.’
‘Can he run it off a flash drive?’ Delia asked, grabbing the now warm silver stick out of my palm and passing it on. ‘It’s the only file on here.’
‘Sure,’ she shrugged. ‘I’ve put out water and glasses, the clicker on the table will work to move each slide on, and everyone will be here in just a minute.’
‘Great,’ Delia replied on my behalf. ‘Thanks so much.’
It was a good job that she was talking because I couldn’t. My little sit-down with a couple of editors had morphed into a grand presentation in what basically amounted to an auditorium. And if the assistant had put out water for everyone who was coming, it looked like they would be bringing people in off the streets to fill the place because there was a little Spencer Media branded bottle at every one of the hundred or so seats. At the front was a little lectern, and behind that a screen that would put your average movie theatre to
shame.
Mew.
‘I’m going to run to the bathroom real quick,’ Delia said, quietly backing away. ‘I’ll be two seconds, I swear.’
I wasn’t sure if she was leaving the room because she didn’t want to see me cry or because she was scared I had actually gone catatonic, but I was strangely relieved to be alone. If I didn’t have someone to meltdown on, I couldn’t meltdown. That was my logic and I was sticking to it.
Carefully, I clip-clopped down the stairs to the bottom of the auditorium and looked up at the rows and rows of seats. Half the room was made up of huge floor-to-ceiling windows, the London version of my window at home. But instead of seeing the East River with its little ferry trundling back and forth, instead of looking at the Empire State Building and the Chrysler Building, I saw all of London laid out in front of me. We were on Southbank, with the Tate Modern holding court as our statuesque neighbour and the City busily working away to the south. I liked the Gherkin. It wasn’t as sunny as LA, and maybe it wasn’t romantic like Paris. It certainly wasn’t crazy like Vegas, and at that moment I felt a million miles away from New York, but there was no denying that London was special. Every street corner had a hundred stories to tell. It had seen it all and it wore the experience with a weary smile and a stiff upper lip.
I was still daydreaming when the screen flickered into life behind me, displaying the Gloss logo in six-foot-high letters. A shadow in a booth way up above on the wall opposite gave me what I took to be a thumbs-up and I picked up the clicker to test out the slides, moving backwards and forwards a couple of times. All present and correct. I couldn’t even see where the changes had been made, just like Delia had said.
The more I thought about it, the more I was sure hers was a supportive trip rather than a corrective one. And I wasn’t complaining. Mostly because I didn’t have time to. The double doors opened dead on the dot of eleven-thirty and droves of irritatingly chic women began to trickle in, filling in the seats from the back like the cool girls are supposed to. I watched them all, hoping my black eye wasn’t showing, hoping they liked my dress and hating myself for hoping, when my phone buzzed to let me know I had a text.