make me worse at my job. Believe me, Conrad, I’m going to make this job work. On my terms.’
Conrad turned and walked out of the room, pausing for a moment at the door. ‘I hope you can, Liz, I hope you can. Now get back to running the frigging company, will you? And don’t
talk to any more journalists.’
He slammed the door.
Thirty seconds later Viv, her secretary, put her head round, smiling in commiseration. She’d probably heard every word through these ludicrous partition walls.
‘
Cosmopolitan
have been on the phone. And
Elle
, the
Daily Mail
and
Hello
magazine. I think you must have touched a nerve.’
She wasn’t going to talk to anyone. She’d made her stand. Now she just wanted to forget the whole thing and concentrate on getting on with the job.
‘Oh and that dreadful Steffi Wilson rang too. She thought you might be interested. They’re doing a follow-up tomorrow. They’ve had so much response they’ve given a double
page spread to readers’ letters.’
Liz dropped her head into her hands. Keeping the issue going was the last thing she wanted. Conrad would go berserk.
‘Have you seen the interview with Liz in the
World
today?’ Melanie Mason sipped her Margarita and looked past her two friends nervously to see who might be
listening.
It had been Mel’s idea to ask Liz’s three best friends to come and celebrate her triumph here at The Groucho Club. As editor of
Femina
, the WorkingWoman’s bible, Mel
liked to keep herself visible in London’s trendy media haunts and there was nowhere trendier than The Groucho. But when she’d suggested it she hadn’t realized Liz was suddenly
going to become so talked about. If she’d known she would have suggested somewhere less packed with sleazy gossip columnists and media groupies.
Mel looked over the top of her huge dark glasses at her two friends. Britt was as sickeningly stylish as usual in a severe black suit with a subtle little necklace made out of giant shards of
coloured glass. Show it to your average street gang and they’d marvel that people in London were paying for broken glass round the neck when they would have been only too happy to supply it
free.
She’d got a new hairstyle too, Mel noted. Her blonde hair had been cut short. God, it actually made her look vulnerable. Amazing how deceptive appearances can be. Britt was the only person
she knew who looked like a woman and behaved like a man.
‘She must be out of her mind, talking like that.’ Britt snapped her fingers at a passing waitress and ordered a bottle of Lanson. She rummaged in her Chanel bag for her wallet.
Mel grinned. Britt was never one to miss a chance to flash her Amex Gold card. ‘You don’t need to pay yet, Britt,’ she pointed out.
Britt flushed with irritation. She hated getting it wrong socially, loathed the thought that people might guess her background despite the chic clothes and laid-back style. She put the card
away. She must get over this stupid fear of not having enough money with her.
‘Well I think she was very brave.’ Both of them looked at Ginny as she sipped her Virgin Mary. She was driving back home to Sussex tonight.
God, who could drink a Bloody Mary without the vodka? Mel marvelled. Ginny could, of course. Even at university she’d been the Head Girl type. You’d half expected her to go and
report you for petting below the waist or being on the Pill.
Ginny pushed back a strand of wispy fair hair and fiddled with her earring. Places like this made her nervous. She’d taken a lot of care choosing her clothes tonight, picking the only suit
in her wardrobe, trying to camouflage herself as a Working Woman. But as soon as she’d walked in here she’d been reminded she wasn’t part of this world at all. Here everyone wore
drop-dead black and skirts were a uniform three inches above the knee, not mid-calf like hers. These people would die before patronizing Giovanni, Hair Artiste of East Grinstead. The receptionist
Conrad turned and walked out of the room, pausing for a moment at the door. ‘I hope you can, Liz, I hope you can. Now get back to running the frigging company, will you? And don’t
talk to any more journalists.’
He slammed the door.
Thirty seconds later Viv, her secretary, put her head round, smiling in commiseration. She’d probably heard every word through these ludicrous partition walls.
‘
Cosmopolitan
have been on the phone. And
Elle
, the
Daily Mail
and
Hello
magazine. I think you must have touched a nerve.’
She wasn’t going to talk to anyone. She’d made her stand. Now she just wanted to forget the whole thing and concentrate on getting on with the job.
‘Oh and that dreadful Steffi Wilson rang too. She thought you might be interested. They’re doing a follow-up tomorrow. They’ve had so much response they’ve given a double
page spread to readers’ letters.’
Liz dropped her head into her hands. Keeping the issue going was the last thing she wanted. Conrad would go berserk.
‘Have you seen the interview with Liz in the
World
today?’ Melanie Mason sipped her Margarita and looked past her two friends nervously to see who might be
listening.
It had been Mel’s idea to ask Liz’s three best friends to come and celebrate her triumph here at The Groucho Club. As editor of
Femina
, the WorkingWoman’s bible, Mel
liked to keep herself visible in London’s trendy media haunts and there was nowhere trendier than The Groucho. But when she’d suggested it she hadn’t realized Liz was suddenly
going to become so talked about. If she’d known she would have suggested somewhere less packed with sleazy gossip columnists and media groupies.
Mel looked over the top of her huge dark glasses at her two friends. Britt was as sickeningly stylish as usual in a severe black suit with a subtle little necklace made out of giant shards of
coloured glass. Show it to your average street gang and they’d marvel that people in London were paying for broken glass round the neck when they would have been only too happy to supply it
free.
She’d got a new hairstyle too, Mel noted. Her blonde hair had been cut short. God, it actually made her look vulnerable. Amazing how deceptive appearances can be. Britt was the only person
she knew who looked like a woman and behaved like a man.
‘She must be out of her mind, talking like that.’ Britt snapped her fingers at a passing waitress and ordered a bottle of Lanson. She rummaged in her Chanel bag for her wallet.
Mel grinned. Britt was never one to miss a chance to flash her Amex Gold card. ‘You don’t need to pay yet, Britt,’ she pointed out.
Britt flushed with irritation. She hated getting it wrong socially, loathed the thought that people might guess her background despite the chic clothes and laid-back style. She put the card
away. She must get over this stupid fear of not having enough money with her.
‘Well I think she was very brave.’ Both of them looked at Ginny as she sipped her Virgin Mary. She was driving back home to Sussex tonight.
God, who could drink a Bloody Mary without the vodka? Mel marvelled. Ginny could, of course. Even at university she’d been the Head Girl type. You’d half expected her to go and
report you for petting below the waist or being on the Pill.
Ginny pushed back a strand of wispy fair hair and fiddled with her earring. Places like this made her nervous. She’d taken a lot of care choosing her clothes tonight, picking the only suit
in her wardrobe, trying to camouflage herself as a Working Woman. But as soon as she’d walked in here she’d been reminded she wasn’t part of this world at all. Here everyone wore
drop-dead black and skirts were a uniform three inches above the knee, not mid-calf like hers. These people would die before patronizing Giovanni, Hair Artiste of East Grinstead. The receptionist
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