“It’ll be excruciating.”
“I’ll pick you up at noon on Tuesday.”
“No need.” If Alex so much as set foot in the BritTEEN offices, there’d be no end of speculation from her co-workers, not to mention Kate. Alex Barrington was gorgeous, and he was hers — well, at least for the duration of Tuesday lunch — and she wanted to keep it that way. “I can meet you there.”
“No, I insist on doing this properly. I look forward to seeing you again. Oh, and by the way, Ms James — I believe I have something that belongs to you.”
“What’s that? My Mentos?”
“No. A pink feather, actually. It came off your sweater the other day. I thought you might want it back.”
“I wondered what happened to it,” Holly murmured, and rang off. She couldn’t seem to stop smiling.
“So, who sent the bouquet?” Kate enquired the moment Holly emerged from her bedroom. “Don’t tell me it was Mick.”
Holly snorted. “As if he’d ever send me flowers! No. Besides, we’re officially over.”
“Good,” she approved. “He’s a knob. By the way, Holly,” she called out as she disappeared into the kitchen, “you never did tell me who sent you those flowers.”
“No, I didn’t, did I?” Holly replied tartly, and went into her room and shut the door.
At nine-thirty, Sasha called the weekly staff meeting to order. “We’ve come under fire from the Teen Magazine Arbitration Panel for having, and I quote—” she paused “—‘an increasingly sexually oriented ethos’. The TMA want us to publish more responsible, age-appropriate content.”
“But teen girls want to read articles about sex, and interviews with shirtless boy-band celebs,” one of the beauty sub-editors protested. “The feature on Trevor Wilde was our biggest-selling issue.”
Violet, a middle-aged woman who wrote the magazine’s monthly agony aunt column, leaned in next to Holly and whispered, “Excuse me, dear…but who’s Trevor Wilde?”
“He’s a footie player,” Holly whispered back. “Really hot, married for about ten minutes to that pop singer, Keeley—”
“Ms James.” Sasha turned and focused her gaze on Holly. “Would you care to share your conversation with the rest of us?”
“Oh. Sorry,” Holly said quickly. “I was just explaining to Violet who Trevor Wilde is.”
“Violet should know who Trevor is.” Sasha glared at the older woman. “It’s her job to know these things.”
“But I offer advice,” Violet said, “not celebrity gossip.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Sasha shot back. “I expect every one of you to keep up with the latest news, fashion, and celebrity doings. Is that clear?”
Violet reddened. “Yes.”
“Excellent.” Sasha returned her attention to the staff seated on both sides of the conference table. “Does anyone have any suggestions for suitable articles?”
“I do,” Holly offered, and raised her hand.
A deep sigh escaped Sasha’s lips. “Yes, Holly, let’s hear it. I know I speak for everyone when I say we can hardly wait.”
“Well,” Holly said, ignoring the collective titters around the table, “lately I’ve noticed a homeless girl sleeping on the bench outside our offices.”
“Oh, yes!” Zara, the accessories editor, chimed in. “I’ve seen her, too. Isn’t there somewhere else she could go? After all, emergency accommodation is available.”
Holly looked at her. “That’s true. But I’ve done some research, and the night shelters are crowded, plus there aren’t nearly enough to go around. And with budgeting cuts—”
“Oh, you read something besides Heat?” Mark, staff illustrator and the king of snark, asked her. “Fancy that.”
Holly ignored him and returned her attention to Sasha. “I’d like to talk to her, maybe write a feature on homeless teens in central London. I thought I might shadow her for a couple of days, see what it’s like to sleep on the street and eat out of rubbish bins—”
“Ugh! That’s disgusting,” Padma, the assistant beauty editor, said with a shudder. “No teenage girl wants to read about something like that.”
“I don’t agree,” Holly retorted. “Why shouldn’t the story of a girl living on the streets of London be as compelling to read as — as Rihanna’s latest hair colour?”
“You’re missing the point, Holly,” Padma informed her. “We’re a teen entertainment magazine, not The Guardian.”
“I think it’s a fabulous idea, Holly,” Sasha pronounced. “It’s got edge. Let’s go with it.”
“Er…thanks.” Holly blinked. Although Sasha glared at her like a cat who’d just swallowed a hairball, at least she’d given her approval. Holly had expected a full-on battle with Sasha, not this bloodless capitulation.
“Does anyone else have anything to add?” Sasha asked.
She scanned the faces around the table, but no further suggestions were forthcoming. “Good. Holly’s pitch fits in nicely with the arbitration panel’s demand for more responsible content.” She smiled tightly and added, “Well done, Holly.”
When Holly finally escaped the building, it was just after two o’clock and the bowl of cereal she’d had for breakfast was a distant memory. After volunteering to help one of the interns unpack several trunks from a recent accessories shoot, she’d missed lunch, and now she was ravenous.
She glanced across the street. The homeless girl was slouched on her bench. Holly waved and made her way to the Starbucks next door, where she joined the queue and ordered two coffees with extra cream and sugar on the side and a muffin, studded with currants and dusted liberally with sugar.
Juggling the cardboard tray of coffees and the bagged muffin, Holly crossed the busy road.
“Got you a Venti,” Holly said as she handed over the bag and the tray, “and a muffin. What’s your name, by the way?”
The girl hesitated. “Zoe.” She took the bag and a coffee. “Thanks.” She took a cautious sip. “You work in that office building over there, don’t you?”
Holly took the other cup and nodded. “I write articles for BritTEEN magazine.”
“Articles? Like what?”
“Well,” she said as she perched — cautiously — on one end of the bench, “things of interest to the average teenage girl. Like where
