Simply Divine (3 page)

'Yes, doesn't she look wonderful, bless her,' said Josh, exposing his exquisitely-capped teeth in a dazzling white smile. He shook back a lock of hair that had had the impertinence to detach itself from its smoothed-back auburn fellows and stared thoughtfully at the chief sub. She blinked at him through eyelashes so thick with makeup they looked more black leaded than mascara'd.

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'Ye-e-es,' said Josh, slowly, a gleam appearing in his eye. The chief sub blushed and put up a self-conscious hand to further tousle her moussed-up hair. She'd had a crush on Josh for ages. Had her moment finally come?

A stream of breathless excuses announced the sudden arrival of Valentine,
Gorgeous
s deputy editor who, despite his lofty title, received almost as much flak from Josh as Jane did. 'Oh, you won't believe what happened to me on the way here,' he gasped.

'You're right, I won't,' Josh cut in rudely. 'So don't bother.' Valentine visibly slumped. But Josh hadn't finished with his unfortunate number two. He picked up a page proof from his desk and waved it at Valentine. 'Have you had these interior pages legalled?' he asked.

'Legalled?' echoed Valentine. One of his responsibilities was to make sure every page in the magazine had been through the in-house lawyers before publication. 'Why ever would the lawyers want to read "That Sinking Feeling: How To Choose an Amazin' Basin", or "Pale and Interesting: Picking the Right White For Your Home"?' he demanded. His chest swelled defensively, straining the hard-pressed buttons on his suit still further. His eyes bulged.

'Well, you never know, someone may have slagged off a scatter cushion,' said Josh. 'Better talk it through with the lawyers, there's a dear.'

Valentine snatched the proof from him and rushed out in the direction of the legal department.

The meeting was dismissed and Jane settled herself behind her desk which, as usual, was a sea of last week's newspapers and possibly last century's page proofs. Her heart sank at the mess of it all. The entire office was piled up with old papers, envelopes, post nobody bothered to open, unwanted faxes from unwanted contributors and,

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worst of all, boxes of everything from Tandoori burgers to savoury ice creams sent in for review to the food editor, whose rare appearances meant they rotted and stank in the office s overheated atmosphere until someone (usually Jane) had the sense to throw them away.

The last of all the staff to arrive was Lulu the fashion editor, who had never seen a morning meeting yet. As always, despite being over an hour late, she gave an impression of great speed and industry, bustling in as quickly as her combination of tight black leather skirt, impenetrable dark glasses and vertiginous heels would allow.

As Lulu sashayed past her desk, Jane noticed she was dragging something odd behind her. And this time it wasn't one of her exotic collection of photographer's assistants. 'What's that?' asked Jane, staring at something long, black and rubbery trailing in Lulu's wake.

'It's a symbol of Life,' declared Lulu theatrically. 'It represents woman's struggle on earth.'

'It's an inner tube, isn't it?' asked Jane.

'No,' said Lulu emphatically. 'Only if you
insist
on perceiving it that way. The circle is also a representation of the cyclical nature of Womanhood and the fact it is made of rubber refers to the eternal need to be flexible. Woman's inheritance, in short.' She sighed and rolled her eyes. 'All that juggling of priorities.'

Jane snorted quietly. The only juggling of priorities Lulu did was forcing her breasts into an Alexander McQueen leather bustier.

'Women should think themselves lucky then,' drawled Josh's voice from his office where he was, as usual, listening. All I'm going to inherit is Parkinson's.'

Jane grimaced. It wasn't as if Josh needed to inherit

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anything. His salary, she suspected, ran well into six figures, he received more designer suits than he could wear and was courted by so many PRs he probably hadn't paid for his own lunch for years.

'Fancy a cup of tea, Lulu?' Josh's light, sarcastic tones floated across the room.

'Josh, darling, I'd just
die
for one,' breathed Lulu with her usual understatement.

'Off you go and get one then,' said Josh. 'And get me one while you're at it.'

Lulu grinned. 'Oh, you really are
ghastly,
Josh.' She always took his jibes in good part. Jane was unsure whether Lulu simply didn't get half of them or tolerated them because she realised she had an ally in Josh. Did Lulu, after all, know what side her sushi was wasabi'd on?

'She's a few gilt chairs short of a Dior front row, that one,' muttered Jane to Valentine, who had by now returned from the lawyers, as Lulu wobbled out of the office.

Josh overheard. 'It's so wonderful to have
someone
round here who knows about clothes,' he purred, shooting a loaded look at Jane. 'They're a very important part of Features.'

'Look,' said Jane, exasperated, 'I admit fashion's not my area but I pull my weight, you know.'

'Considerable weight it is too,' said Josh, who prided himself on his lack of political correctness.

'You could have him for sexual harassment, you know,' murmured Valentine in an undertone.

Josh's sharp ears twitched once more. 'I assure you,' he said silkily, taking his monocle out and polishing it, 'there's nothing sexual in it.'

Christ, and it's only Monday, Jane thought. Four and a half whole days to go before the weekend. And not an

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enormous amount to look forward to then. Nick was going to Brussels for a tenrday Euro transport summit, which put the kibosh on flat-hunting. On the other hand, there was always the delicious possibility of another on-the-stairs encounter with Tom ...

Jane frowned. Just forget it, she told herself. There was no point, having worked away at Nick for the last few years and finally succeeded in moving in with him, to risk the bird-in-the-hand reality of a permanent relationship by having a crush on the upstairs neighbour. The thought of two in the bush with Tom remained a delicious fantasy nonetheless. But fantasy, thought Jane, was as far as it was going to get. Tom probably had millions of girlfriends anyway. And
she
had a boyfriend.

Around lunchtime, the telephone on her desk shrilled.

'Hello,
Gorgeous,'
said Jane, gritting her teeth, as she did the fifty times a day she had to give this absurd salutation.

'Jane, it's Tally,' came a distant, muffled voice from what sounded like the bottom of a mine shaft. The phone system at Mullions, the rambling manor in Gloucestershire where Tally's family had lived for four centuries, had not been rewired for the last two reigns at least. 'Please say you'll be around this weekend.' Even through the ancient and twisted phone lines a certain desperation could be detected. Tm coming to London. I need to see you. We have to talk.' Then, like a crumbling and decrepit actor who yet retained a fine sense of dramatic timing, the Mullions line abruptly cut itself off.

Talk about what? Was Tally in trouble? Surely not pregnant? Jane ran through a mental line-up of the workers on the Mullions estate and quickly dismissed the suggestion. There were two, and only one was a man -Peters the gardener who also, and often without washing

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his hands too thoroughly, doubled as butler.

Still, all would be revealed at the weekend, if Tally ever managed to reconnect to suggest a rendezvous. Feeling more cheerful, Jane went to the fax to send a second proof of his page through to Freddie Fry the restaurant reviewer. She prayed that this time it had no mistakes in it. Her ears were still burning from their recent conversation.

'It's preposterous,' Fry had blustered. 'Look at the second paragraph. Where it says "my newt's livers"?'

'Mmm?' said Jane mildly, looking at the offending line. It seemed perfectly properly spelt to her.

'My newt's livers?' boomed the notoriously brusque Fry. 'What the fuck are newt's livers? It should say "minute slivers", you bunch of morons.'

As the missive beeped and screeched its way through to Fry, Jane idly scanned the pile of faxes in the tray beside the machine. Near the top was a letter from Josh. She picked it up with interest but had not read five words before panic gripped her heart. 'No!' she gasped.

The fax was a letter commissioning a column and promising the writer not only all the editorial help they could possibly want, but £1,000 a shot into the bargain. It was addressed to Miss C.O.W. D'Vyne.

So this was the brilliant new gimmick. The circulation-soaring, award-collecting Great Idea.

'You're not serious!' protested Jane, shooting into Josh's office with the fax trembling in her hand. 'Champagne D'Vyne!' she exclaimed. 'But she's just a dumb Sloane. Tara Palmer-Tomkinson can at least write. Rather well, too,' said Jane, much as it pained her to admit it.

'Quite,' said Josh. 'And Champagne will write even better. With a little help from
us,
of course.' He grinned at her. 'But I don't just want a measly old Tara-sized column.

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No point just repeating what she does. I want something much bigger and bounder.'

'Well, you've certainly got that,' said Jane.

'I want a whole double-page spread of sparkling social froth.' Josh's eyes glowed. 'A good fourteen hundred words of witty, polished copy every month, Maybe two thousand words. Make it four pages, even. You'll easily manage that.'

Jane blinked. 'Me? But how can I? I'm not the one with the glamorous social life.'

'Well, you said it, dear,' said Josh, yawning and stretching his long perfectly-tailored arms to the ceiling. 'No, but seriously, as we comedians say. Champagne and I have discussed it. It's just a simple matter of you talking to her every now and then. Keep on to her. Ask her where she's been, who she's seen, what she's bought and, best of all, who she's slept with. Then just jot it all down. Keep her diary, in other words.' He paused. 'Brilliant, isn't it?'

'Fantastic,'said Jane sourly.

'I thought you'd jump at the opportunity.'

'Yes. Out of the window,' snapped Jane. She could tell she had no choice in the matter. She groaned inwardly. Nick was going to have a field day when he heard about this.

'I've already thought of a name for it,' Josh continued, triumphantly. 'Champagne Moments!'

'We'll be the laughing stock of Fleet Street,' Jane mumbled miserably.

'Nonsense! It's just what
Gorgeous
needs. It'll knock
Fabulous
into a cocked tiara. How can it go wrong?' Josh clapped his manicured hands, with their faint hint of clear nail polish, together in delight. 'Champagne's fantastically posh and has huge tits. A lethal combination, wouldn't

you say?'

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The very words she had said to Nick that morning. Jane's heart sank.

Much as Nick might — and did — sneer at the triviality of Jane's latest project, tracking down Champagne D'Vyne turned out to be investigative journalism of the highest order. Jane was initially encouraged by the fact that Champagne was signed up with a vast international public relations outfit called Tuff PR. But this turned out to be a false dawn, as brokering Champagne's deal with
Gorgeous
and banking the cheques seemed to be the limit of Tuff s interest. Even less concerned was a snappy and extremely camp-sounding creature called Simon whose responsibility Champagne apparently was.

The two telephone numbers Simon gave Jane for Champagne both turned out to be useless. One was an incomprehensible answerphone message which cut off halfway through and the other the full mailbox of a mobile phone.

'So how do you suggest I get hold of her?' an exasperated Jane finally demanded of Simon. 'Telepathy?'

'Look, I'll do you a favour, OK?' was Simon's miraculous response. Blistering rage, apparently, was the only thing that made an impact. When the going got tough, Tuff, it seemed, got going. 'Champagne's doing a fashion shoot this afternoon for a magazine. You'll have to go along to that. It's a bore, because I don't want any strangers making her nervous on her first big job.'

Jane was surprised. She had not had Champagne down as the shy type. In her tabloid appearances, at least, Champagne seemed to have the front of a hundred Moulin Rouge dancers.

The photographic studio where the fashion shoot was

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to be held was in a converted warehouse in Docklands. As an entry into the glamorous world of Champagne D'Vyne, the building seemed unlikely. A poky, strip-lit, hospital-like corridor issued into a tiny office where someone with their back to Jane and almost completely hidden by a vast, battered leather chair was talking very loudly into the telephone. From the voice, and the pair of white-jeaned legs visible on the desk in front, Jane assumed it to be the studio secretary. She sat down on a shabby black plastic sofa to wait for her to finish her conversation, and wondered where in the building Champagne was. She felt faintly apprehensive at meeting a real life bombshell in the flesh. Particularly when she felt such a bombsite herself.

'What do you mean, hang on a sec?' the girl suddenly screeched. The back of her chair wobbled violently. 'No one tells me to wait for sees.'