or foreigners: slowly and very loudly. She nudged Matt with her knee under the table, but he was already embroiled in a conversation about litigation with Dickie. Fenella, she noticed, was mumbling incoherently into her glass.
The starters were placed on the table with military precision by the waiting staff, offering Alexa a brief but welcome reprieve from Winterbottom’s ogling stare. He seemed to be looking at her as though she were some form of exquisite art, not a conscious person.
‘So!’ The stare returned as Alexa tucked into her caramelised onion tart. She didn’t actually like onion, but she decided that tasting small quantities was preferable to making conversation with Matt’s lecherous boss. ‘What do you do, then?’
‘I . . .’ Alexa avoided the man’s gaze, which was now firmly focused on her breasts. ‘I work in media.’
‘Ah.’ Winterbottom nodded knowingly. ‘I could have guessed.’
‘Could you?’
‘Yuh.’ He nodded again, glancing appraisingly at the silk dress as though sizing her up. ‘Yuh, definitely a creative type. What d’you do? Graphics?’
Alexa frowned. She wondered whether her role could be classified as ‘creative’. Some of her financial forecasts could probably qualify as such, but strictly speaking her profession was management or business. ‘No, I look at new markets for magazines.’
‘New markets, eh? Farmers’ markets? Are you a communities journalist?’
Alexa pushed away the remains of her tart. ‘No,’ she replied, through gritted teeth. Had Winterbottom not been Matt’s boss, she would have put him straight in no uncertain terms.
‘Let me guess,’ said Winterbottom. ‘Are you . . . oh, I know. Is it a local magazine?’
‘No.’ Alexa heard the resentment in her voice and reined herself in again. ‘No. I’m not a journalist.’
‘Then why did you say you were?’
Alexa kept calm, watching as he scooped out the filling from his starter and stuffed it into his mouth in one go. A small strand of onion flicked up from the fork, leaving a trail of chutney across his left cheek.
‘I said I worked in media. I look at new markets for magazines – new revenue streams.’
‘Oh.’ The man looked confused. ‘So, you work in finance?’
‘Sort of.’ Alexa nodded. It was probably the closest they were going to get to her actual job description.
The waiters whisked away their plates, topping up glasses as they went. Alexa took a large gulp of red wine, leaning sideways and trying to catch Matt’s attention.
‘No, no, no,’ insisted Dickie, apparently oblivious to his girl-friend’s sleepy head on his shoulder. ‘Regulation works better than litigation, every time. Prevention is better than cure!’
‘I disagree,’ argued Matt, launching into a complicated explanation for why.
Alexa turned back to her wine. It was always the same. Matt promised not to talk shop with his colleagues, then when the time came, the word ‘litigation’ reared its head and they were off. It was no wonder Fenella had drunk herself into a stupor.
‘So!’ It was the same slow, booming tone that had rung out before.
Reluctantly, Alexa turned to face Winterbottom.
‘You never told me which title,’ he said, patronisingly.
‘Oh.’ Alexa nodded. She thought for a moment. Part of her wanted to shock him by telling him about Banter, but she didn’t know whether that would reflect badly on Matt. ‘It’s a women’s magazine called Hers.’
‘A women’s magazine,’ he nodded, smiling. ‘Of course.’
Alexa managed to keep her cool. Inside, she wanted to grab the man’s tightly-stretched collar and shake him off his chair, wiping that smug, condescending smile off his face.
‘I trebled its gross revenue and shaved twenty percent off the costs last year,’ she said.
‘Did you?’ He looked at her, wide-eyed, glancing overtly at her breasts. ‘And how much revenue does a women’s magazine bring in, these days?’
Alexa exhaled. The fire was burning inside her. This man was intolerable.
As it happened, just as the collar-grabbing fantasy started to take hold in her mind, Alexa’s thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of her main course. Matt looked over and must have registered her expression because he suddenly wanted to know her opinion on joint liability in American asbestos cases.
Alexa’s shoulders remained tilted towards Dickie and Matt for the entirety of her next two courses: succulent veal followed by peach melba with raspberry coulis. She wasn’t enjoying the conversation exactly, or even following it, but she was doing a reasonable job of saying ‘mmm’ at appropriate intervals and the wine was slipping down nicely. Dickie and Matt didn’t seem to mind; they were lost in a world of corporate constitutions and shareholder rights.
Dessert wine was followed by cheese and port which was followed by a random selection of red and white wine scavenged by Dickie from nearby tables. Alexa was pleased when conversation eventually moved on to random trivia such as the fact that there were apparently more chickens in China than people. At some point in the proceedings, Fenella perked up enough to work her way through a large slab of Brie, but ten minutes later was looking decidedly queasy. It was agreed, through smeary wine glasses, that the time had come to go home.
Leaning against the cold, exterior wall, Alexa watched as Matt helped Dickie ease Fenella into a cab. She lifted her hair off her shoulders, tying it into a knot and enjoying the cool night air on her face.
‘You never told me,’ said a voice, languid and loud, right next to her ear.
She sighed, turning to face Winterbottom and feeling her spirits sink.
‘Told you what?’ she asked, reluctantly. Fenella was refusing to get in the cab. Her limbs were protruding from the open door and she seemed to be yelling something about a club.
‘How much money a women’s magazine makes.’
Alexa drew a lungful of air. She knew exactly what the man was getting at. The implication was that women’s magazines generated such small revenues that they weren’t worth the bother. The implication throughout the whole evening had been that women’s magazines, women’s jobs, women’s efforts in general, were a waste of time.
The rage mixed with the wine and port in her belly and, for a brief moment, Alexa wondered whether she might throw it all up on the obnoxious man. She held it in though, glancing sideways at the cab, where Dickie and Matt were attempting to trap Fenella in a pincer movement.
‘About thirty to forty million,’ she said, pushing away from the wall and feeling instantly dizzy. She steadied herself and looked into Winterbottom’s eyes. ‘The same as the equivalent men’s magazine.’ She started to turn away, but kept her eyes fixed on his face. ‘And by the way,’ she said, ‘that’s irrespective
