Something peculiar had happened to Marsha Kennedy.
She had found herself editor of Britain’s most popular fashion magazine. While she had already edited several publications, they had been in the diet and fitness markets, promising taut bodies and rapidly shed pounds; she knew virtually nothing about fashion and had even less interest in it.
‘Don’t you worry about that,’ Rufus had said when he had first suggested she step into the role. ‘In fact, view it as a positive. You’re commercial, Marsh – you know how to sell copies and that’s what this lot need. A kick up the backside, a wake-up call. They’ve had it too good for far too long, floating about and creating their … pretty pictures.’
As publisher at Walker Media Inc., Rufus was in charge of a whole raft of magazines, and as he said the words ‘pretty pictures’, his nostrils seemed to flare in distaste. Unconcerned by the creative aspects, his job was to ensure that his magazines raked in maximum profits. He was also Marsha’s married boss with whom she was having a somewhat frenetic affair.
‘We need to be radical if the magazine’s going to survive,’ he’d added, twitching as Marsha traced a finger through the reddish, sweat-dampened hair on his slightly paunchy stomach.
They had been lying on plastic sun beds on the rectangle of Astroturf that covered her south-facing roof terrace in Dalston in East London. It was an uncharacteristically hot April day, and the pair had spent most of it massaging sunscreen into each other. Rufus had muttered that he would have to shower it off so as not to return home to his wife smelling of sickly shea butter. (His rather sunburnt hue would be a trickier matter, he realised, glancing down in alarm at his chest. He was supposed to be visiting his mother at her care home in Stroud, so how would he explain why his chest was the colour of bacon?)
‘I want to put you in there,’ he’d said, ‘like a heat-seeking missile. If anyone can sort things out it’s you, Marsh, sweetheart.’
‘You really think so?’ She’d twisted her shoulder-length chestnut hair into what she hoped was a cute little braid.
‘Yes, why not?’
‘Because it’s not my market, darling.’
‘Oh, come on. I know what you’re like. You can do anything when you put your mind to it.’ He winked, and she laughed. ‘And believe me,’ he’d added, pulling her close to his clammy chest, ‘I’ll make it worth your while.’
He had, too – financially as well as in other, more immediate ways. Marsha had now been installed at the helm of Britain’s best-loved fashion magazine for two weeks. Although sales had dipped over the past couple of years, she was confident that this would soon be rectified. Rufus had been right: of course she was capable of running a glossy fashion magazine. She just needed to scare everyone senseless. And, so far, this was working a treat.
First up, she had established a new start time of 9 a.m., instead of the more relaxed ten o’clock kick off. She had also introduced daily yoga classes, which were to be held on the office’s scratchy grey carpet. ‘It’s optional, of course,’ she had explained, baring her eerily white teeth at everyone, ‘but I think you’ll all benefit and I’ll be very disappointed if you don’t at least give it a chance.’ Jacqui, the PA Marsha had insisted on bringing with her, had ordered in mats and bolsters for everyone, and booked two teachers to take classes on alternate days. To Marsha, who could conduct an important phone call while assuming a full headstand, there was something intensely amusing about watching the facial contortions of the less supple members of the team.
People like Roxanne Cartwright, the fashion director and longest-serving staff member, who had just this morning hurtled in, slurping coffee from her takeaway cup. Typical, Marsha thought. Everyone else was ready to start the session with their legs neatly crossed and eyes closed.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ Roxanne blustered, placing her coffee on the edge of Zoe the beauty director’s desk, where it sat for a moment, half-resting on an eyeshadow compact before tipping over. ‘Oh God!’ Roxanne gasped, running to the kitchen and returning with a wad of paper towels. ‘So sorry, Zoe,’ she added.
‘Rox, it’s fine,’ Zoe murmured from her mat on the floor. ‘Calm down, darling …’
However,
