I Heart Forever: The brilliantly funny feel-good romance. Lindsey Kelk
even if getting it to print on time had taken years off my life, it was still a kick. Gloss really was my baby, and like the parents of most five-year-olds, I’d lost more than one night’s sleep over it. But like almost all the parents of most five-year-olds, I wouldn’t have changed it for anything. I loved the team, they were all hardworking, dedicated, and while I wasn’t about to offer any of them a kidney for shits and giggles, they made me love coming to work every day.
‘First, I want to say how brilliant this week’s issue is looking – loving your work, people.’ I paused so they could all clap themselves and smiled while I silently wondered whether or not people applauded their own achievements in British magazine offices. ‘Next, the Channing Tatum interview. Someone’s going to have to go out to LA to do it.’
The entire table put up their hands.
‘Really?’ I eyed Jason, the managing editor. ‘You want to go to LA to interview Channing Tatum even though you’ve never conducted an interview in your life?’
‘I’m not that interested in the interview part but I would like to hang with Chan,’ he replied. ‘And I am very happy to go to LA in order to make that happen.’
You and me both, I added, noting down names and silently lamenting the fact I couldn’t just assign the job to myself. Being the boss was shit.
‘Also, there’s the Balmain feature to think about,’ I said. ‘We’re going to be working with Belle on this one so it’s going to be short notice but, short notice in Paris so not too much of a compromise. Sophie, you’re good for that, yeah?’
The fashion editor nodded, jigging her shoulders up and down in a happy little chair dance.
‘Do I get to fly first class?’ she asked, giddy as the proverbial kipper. ‘I love it when they give you the little pyjamas on the plane.’
‘I’ll buy you a pair of pyjamas and we’ll save ten grand on the travel budget,’ I replied. ‘Or I can go to Paris instead? Save you the bother?’
She pouted and shook her head.
‘Thought that might be the case. Right, super exciting, we’ve got a phoner confirmed with Irene Kim for the My Social Life column …’ I crossed off the points as I went. There was so much to keep track of and my brain felt like a Christmas pudding: only any good when covered in booze and just about ready to be set on fire. ‘She’s in Seoul, at the moment, and the call is set for four in the afternoon, her time.’
‘What time is that here?’ Sophie asked.
‘I don’t know,’ I said, pulling out my phone to check the world clock. ‘Oh. Three in the a.m.’
The entire table flinched at once.
‘I know, but she’s a really good get,’ I pressed, as convincing as possible. From the looks on their faces, I was not very convincing. ‘And she’s got amazing social media; it’ll make for a great column – she isn’t doing a lot of press.’
‘I would, but I’ve got the Bobbi Brown launch first thing,’ Sophie said, piling regret into her voice even if she wasn’t able to wipe the smirk off her face.
I looked to the entertainment editor. She shrugged, all apologies. ‘I’m covering the Andrew Garfield premiere tonight and who knows how late that will go. I’m heartbroken, though, I love Ileen.’
‘You mean Irene,’ I corrected with a sigh. ‘Fine, I’ll do it.’
Classic. Everyone else gets to fly to LA and Paris and I get to wake up in the middle of the night to interview a model about her Snapchat. The joys of being in charge.
‘OK, this is a fun one. You know Generation Gloss is coming up.’
For the past three years, we’d hosted an interactive reader event at the Market Design centre in Manhattan. A weekend of panels, makeovers, tutorials, meet and greets and general shenanigans that were made all the more stressful by the hangover everyone always had after the opening-night party.
‘The event is all taken care of, but I need someone to manage the party,’ I said, and offered the team a pleading smile. Every year previously we’d handed the whole thing over to an events production company but this year, unless there was an events production company that enjoyed working for literal peanuts, that was not an option. Yay, budget cuts.
‘We’re keeping the costumes so everyone needs to dress up as something,’ I said, scanning my notes. ‘Nothing says circulation increase like Kanye West in a toga.’
Jason shuddered at the end of the table.
‘But who doesn’t like organizing a party? It’s all but done, to be honest, I just need someone to take over now it’s a couple of weeks away, liaise with the sponsors, secure VIPs. All the fun stuff. Any volunteers?’
Silence. Either everyone had a mouth full of donut or the entire team had decided their job was done once they’d congratulated themselves on last week’s work.
‘Really, no one?’ I tried again. ‘Who could turn this down? Celebs, fashion, big massive piss-up, there’s even a free frock in it for you. Seriously, no one?’
‘I’ll do it.’
Oh, sweet baby Jesus, no.
Cici looked at me, blinking behind her clearly non-prescription lenses. Her eyes were enormous, it was all very unnerving.
‘I’ll do it,’ she repeated.
Well, bugger me backwards, Bob.
‘You … it’s … you want to?’
I tried to make eye contact with anyone else at the table and got nothing. What a bunch of absolute arseholes.
‘I said I’ll do it.’ She tapped her fingernails against her phone, two tiny red spots blooming in her cheeks. ‘So, can we move on?’
‘Let’s move on,’ I nodded, flicking my pen against my notepad and trying to work out how to make it look as though every single member of my staff had suffered mysterious accidents in the same week. ‘Thanks, Cici.’
‘You’re welcome,’ she said, almost smiling.
Taking a deep breath, I looked back down at the agenda, attempting to focus. If this was karma’s idea of making things up to me for the Monday I’d had, karma had a very dark sense of humour.
Later that afternoon I was drowning in admin, the least exciting part of my job. You never saw Miranda Priestly going through everyone’s expenses and yet, here I was, trying to work out whether or not I’d get fired for allowing my news editor to expense three muffins. A knock at the door drew my attention away from the pile of Starbucks receipts and up to a tall, obscenely handsome man, glaring at me through the glass.
‘So help me god, if you’re a stripper …’ I stood up, pulled my skirt down and scuttled over to let him in. ‘I warned you about this last time, Lopez.’
‘Angela?’ he asked in a crisp, clean voice.
‘Yes?’ I nodded, scanning him for a boom box, bottle of baby oil or Velcro strips on the seams of his trousers. They seemed sturdy enough.
‘We have a four thirty,’ he replied, stern features relaxing into an almost smile. ‘I’m Joe Herman, the new director of women’s brands.’
The smile on my face went blank and my lips pressed together until they were nothing more than a thin, pale line in the middle of my face. Joe? This was Joe? Joe was a man? A giant, handsome man? And definitely not a woman or a stripper?
‘Shit,’ I said sweetly. ‘I mean, yes, of course we have. Come on in.’
Flinging the door open, the reinforced glass hit my filing cabinet with a sickeningly loud crack just as Joe stepped into my office.
‘Don’t worry about that,’ I insisted, skipping past him