Fifty Is Not a Four-Letter Word (24 page)

• • •

The first thing Sally says when I go through the door of her house in Kentish Town is: “Thank you for Jack.”

“My pleasure.”

“I’m pain-free for the first time in months. He’s a miracle worker. Sorry, though, to hear about your separation.”

The
bastard
. He’s told her. It’s one thing Maddy knowing, and now Vanessa, too. But Sally is almost a stranger. Why is Jack talking about
us to his clients? It’s so unprofessional. And so unlike him. The more people who know, the more definite it all feels somehow.
The more like finished business. And I don’t want it to be definite, I want to it to stay hazy and amorphous. It’s not as
though he said he’s never coming back. It’s a trial separation, to give us both a breather, until we can sort something out.

“Yes, I’m sorry, too,” I say, “but it’s all a bit raw at the moment, so I’d feel rather more comfortable
not
talking about it. I hope you understand.”

“Of course. There have been plenty of times these last few years when talking about it was the very last thing I wanted to
do. Let’s go through and meet everyone.”

There are five people sitting on sofas and various chairs around a big wooden coffee table. “I want you all to meet Hope,”
says Sally, smiling. “We are so lucky to have someone with her reputation and experience on board. She has already transformed
the quality of the press releases we’ve been putting out, and I know her contacts and powers of persuasion are going to be
a huge contribution to our celebrity fund-raiser. She has even promised to write a newspaper story for us about the Atlas
Mountains trek.”

“I’ve promised to try to place an article,” I say. “It’s not actually in the bag.”

“I have complete faith,” says Sally. How can someone who has suffered so much be so eternally upbeat? It has to be a gift.

We go round the table, one by one. Everyone says a few sentences about themselves and explains her role in the charity. Sally’s
husband, Nick, who’s an accountant by profession, looks after the money. Melissa is admin. Ron, an architect, keeps an eye
on the contractors who are converting the house in Hammersmith for Cat’s Place, as it will be called. Katie coordinates fund-raising
events, and Sven Olson is a heart specialist who treated Cat and is on the advisory board along with a dozen or so eminent
absentees. Sally runs around doing something of everything, event management, drumming up publicity, talking to health professionals,
writing to potential donors. The rest of the work is done by part-time volunteers, and with the charity’s offices taking up
the top floor of Sally and Nick’s house, which is way too large for the two of them, I can already feel that this charity
is something that entirely dominates Nick and Sally’s life. I’m struck by the fact that Nick and Sally didn’t have more children.
I wonder why.

• • •

At 2:50 p.m. I arrive at the gray concrete New Brutalist 1960s tower block that is Jackson International’s headquarters. A
receptionist hands me a badge and directs me to a waiting area, where the walls are banked with the company’s magazine covers.
There must be a hundred different publications, ranging from glossy fashion titles to
Laptop Gazette
and
Anglers’ Weekly
. I didn’t expect my sooty stalker, the cloud that’s been following me around since Jack left, to accompany me here, but that’s
the thing with stalkers: They have no concept of personal space.

A pale-faced young man with spiky fair hair approaches me. “You’re Hope, aren’t you? Just arrived myself. We’re both a few
minutes early, but someone will be down to collect us shortly. Pleased to meet you, by the way.”

We make very small talk. Within five minutes I’ve found out that Harry Sharp has exchanged contracts on his first flat, that
he has become an avid reader of interiors magazines, and that he’s not sure where he and his girlfriend, who’s supposed to
be moving in with him, are heading, as ever since he found the flat, they’ve been arguing over the decor. His opinion is that
since the flat’s in his name, and she won’t be contributing to the rent until she’s finished her MA and gotten a job, her
predilection for white-painted floorboards and sparkly homemade chandeliers can be ignored. I am about to offer him some motherly
advice when a young woman comes up to us.

“Oh, hello,” she says, “follow me.” She doesn’t really look the part of a publisher’s assistant. Her hair is lank and in need
of a wash, she doesn’t have even a hint of makeup on her face, and she’s wearing a plain navy blue suit that’s seen better
days. Better decades, by the looks of it. On the journey up to the eighteenth floor, neither she nor Harry says anything,
so neither do I.

The assistant leads us down a corridor, through a scruffy open-plan office and into a meeting room. There’s a long rectangular
table with a notepad and ballpoint pen placed down one side in the center.

“Shall I sit here?” I ask, pointing to the place exactly opposite the notepad and pen.

“Yes, I suppose so,” she says limply, and I sit down and arrange myself, fully expecting her to leave the room and collect
her boss. Except she doesn’t. What she does is seat herself opposite me, behind the pad and pen.

“Shall we begin with you telling me a little something about your career?”

No, this can’t be right.

“Um, er, of course. I’m sorry, I had no idea. I mean, we weren’t formally introduced.”

“You didn’t think I was the secretary, did you! That’s the kind of reaction I expect from a man, and even then only the ones
who are dying out.”

This is excruciating.

“No, I mean—no, that’s not what I was thinking. It’s just that we’ve never met, and I wasn’t sure what role . . .”

Harry is glaring at me. Really, I might as well leave now.

“Okay,” I say brightly, watching myself watching me from the far corner of the room. “I can do the long version or the short,
but I think I’ll do the short, and you can ask me any questions afterward.”

I launch into a litany of my career highlights, emphasizing my various successes, awards, circulation-boosting campaigns,
and because I know we’re here to talk about a celebrity magazine, the various celebrity exclusives I’ve nailed over the years.

“Impressive,” says Annelise Hopkins, and then there’s a silence, as though she’s trying to think what to say or ask next.
Or it could be a little psychological trick she’s picked up. To see if I’m the kind of person who can handle silence, or whether
I’ll jump in out of discomfort and incriminate myself.

“Are you willing to sign this confidentiality agreement?” she finally asks, passing over a typed document.

“Of course.” I barely glance at it before scribbling my signature.

“We’re very excited about this new launch. Celebrity magazines have become two a penny, but we really feel we’ve found a gap
in the market. It’s such a simple idea. And isn’t it true that the simplest ideas are always the best?”

If this were a competition for the best cliché, Annelise Hopkins would win, no contest.

“What are the two things women are obsessed with?” she asks, her weaselly little eyes gleaming now that she’s come up with
her ace in the hole, the killer question to catch me out.

“Oh, I can think of lots. Shoes. Handbags. Wrinkles. Chocolate Hob Nobs. Writing lists. Stains, or so I’ve been told.” Annelise
is yawning. I’m clutching at straws. “Making sure their kids eat a decent breakfast and do homework on time. Aging, now that’s
a big one. Cosmetic surgery.” I feel I’ve failed an important test.

“Anything else?” asks Harry.

I hesitate. There’s something I’ve forgotten, something that stands between me and this job.

“Body hair?” It’s my last offer.

“Not body
hair
.” Annelise sniffs. “Body
fat
. Weight. Hip-to- waist ratios. Obesity charts. Calories. Cholesterol. Exercise regimes. Atkins. GI. Pedometers. Cellulite.
In other words,
diets
.”

“But of course; it just slipped my mind. You know how it is, you’re taking part in
Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?,
and if they’d asked you yesterday, you’d have been able to give the answer to the million-pound question even without the
multiple-choice answers on the screen in front of you. But today your mind’s a blank, and you’ve already used your fifty-fifty
and your ask-the-audience—”

“
Celebrity Diets,
” says Harry, interrupting my flow. “What do you think?”

“You’re right. Deliciously simple. Yes, I think you’re on to something. It could definitely work.” What I’m thinking is that
if I don’t leave soon, I’ll be late for Susanna. Marge and Mitch will think I’ve changed my mind.

Harry looks at me thoughtfully. “Hope, I’d like to ask you what you regard as your strengths and weaknesses.”

I suppress the urge to giggle. “Well, Harry, this is something to which I’ve given a lot of thought over the years. On the
strength side, I’d have to say that I know how to lead and make decisions. I can tease out ideas from people and develop them.
I like to mentor young talent, and I always give people credit for any good work that they do. I work like a demon, I’m never
short of ideas myself, I’m good on the PR and promotional side. Oh, and I know how to suck up to the advertisers.” I thought
this last comment might prompt a smile or a conspiratorial exchange of glances, but the two of them are looking at me stony-faced.

“Any weaknesses?”

“My greatest weaknesses are a tendency toward impatience and a compulsive need to tell the truth. To be absolutely honest,
I’m not really interested in celebrities, and I’m certainly not interested in their diets, because celebrity diets can’t possibly
work. Not for mere mortals who don’t have personal chefs and personal trainers and personal stylists to keep them on the path
of diet-righteousness. I could never successfully edit a magazine cynically, so I couldn’t possibly edit a magazine called
Celebrity Diets
. But I’m sure the magazine will be an enormous success, and I wish you luck with it.”

Annelise has turned a funny color, kind of greige. Harry looks like he’s just been mugged. “Well, unless you have any questions
. . .”

“None at all, thank you.”

Harry stands and extends a hand. “So very nice to meet you, Hope. We’ll be in touch.”

Annelise is gripping the arms of her chair as if to prevent herself from falling off. “You have such a reputation, Hope. I’d
like to thank you for . . . for your honesty, I suppose.”

I smile at the two of them. “Must dash, or I’ll be late for Susanna. My baby. My brand-new baby. Thank you both so much for
your time.”

Annelise emits a little noise, like a strangulated gasp. “Oh, I see. I mean, congratulations.” She must be wondering when
this surreal encounter will end. I have to admit I’m enjoying watching them squirm. “I was aware that you had a teenage son,”
she blunders on, “but not that you’d just had another baby. How old are you? No, I mean, how old is she?”

“Eight weeks, ten weeks, I don’t yet know for sure.”

“You don’t
know
how old she is?”

“Another one of my weaknesses. Never was much good with figures. As I said, must dash. And thanks again for your interest
in me.”

I exit with a deliberate bounce to my step. As soon as I’m out the door, I run through the open-plan office and leg it down
the corridor to the lift.

• • •

I’ve read the baby books. I’ve bought the layette—food and water bowl, collar, lead, ID tag, brushes, canine toothpaste, and
a selection of toys. The crib, or rather crate, in which Susanna will sleep to start with, is already set up in the conservatory,
and the dog guard has been fixed in my car. I’ve even committed myself to a hand-feeding program for the first few weeks,
a radical new approach to training that will apparently have Susanna obeying every command as she eats, quite literally, out
of my hand. So I’m as prepared as I can be for my first night.

I’m nervous, more nervous than that first night with Olly. I’d already bonded with my beautiful boy at my breast as I recovered
from an emergency C-section in the hospital where he was born. Getting home was bliss, even if I didn’t get a decent night’s
sleep for the next five years.

The trouble with Olly was that he was always ill. From the moment he was born, he seemed to catch everything going, from ear
infections to salmonella poisoning, from molluscum contagiosum (a nasty wart virus that for a time covered his entire torso)
to whooping cough, despite having had the vaccination. So many nights interrupted by Olly that even when he slept right through,
I didn’t. Sleeping, like sex, was something that seemed to slip off my agenda. Olly grew far more robust as the years went
by, but the art of sleeping easy was lost to me. Not once, though, did I resent those interrupted nights, our precious boy
lying between me and Jack as one or other of us soothed him to sleep in our arms.

Olly was three months old when I went back to work fulltime. I was driven then, by both a desire to succeed and a dread of
failure. I was suffering a bad case of what two American psychologists had recently identified as Imposter syndrome. Often
high achievers, usually women, sufferers of Imposter syndrome, are convinced they’re flying by the seat of their pants, about
to be unmasked at any given moment and found wanting, not really worthy of their elevated positions or their impressive salaries.
And the longer I stayed away from the office, the more likely it was, I felt, that someone would realize I wasn’t needed at
all.

However much external proof of our abilities we imposters receive—academic qualifications, job promotions, salary hikes—we
put all our success down to luck or timing or contacts; anything, in fact, but our own abilities and perseverance. I suppose,
as a child, I never thought I was good enough, even though I was way above average at school. My mother took no interest whatsoever
in my academic achievements, and my father—to make up for my mother—did precisely the opposite, praising me wholeheartedly
whether I got an A or a D. But if a A was okay, how could a D be equally acceptable? It was confusing, to say the least.