Naughty Bits: Too Hot to Print (7 page)

I can’t compete at this level, Jodie knew, without a hint of self-pity. Her family hadn’t got a penny to spare; all she lived on was her minimal salary as fashion editor of
Wow
magazine, and the freebies she could scrounge up using
Wow
as a lever were distinctly low-status. Her white shirt was Jil Sander, but Jil Sander for Uniqlo, her pencil skirt Karen
Millen – it fitted her beautifully, but it was high street, not high end.

The girl sitting closest to Jodie glanced up, probably because she’d become aware that Jodie was standing in the doorway, hovering nervously. She zipped her eyes up and down Jodie, taking
in every detail of her appearance, pricing her hair, her clothes, her shoes: in thirty seconds, a tiny smile lifted the corners of her mouth and she turned away again, visibly relaxing with an
attitude that said all too clearly that Jodie was no competition for her.

She’s probably called Chloe, or Caroline, or Natasha, Jodie thought viciously. Something posh or foreign, something much classier than Jodie.

The open contempt that Chloe or Caroline or Natasha had just demonstrated was exactly the spur that Jodie needed. It had been hard enough to even get this interview, and she wasn’t going
to buckle under pressure now. She might not have the advantages of money and class that the Chloes, Carolines and Natashas did, but she came from a stable, loving, supportive family, she’d
been brought up to be confident with who she was, and so what if she was a bit bigger than the other girls? She was healthy and happy, and she had great instincts for what women – real women
– wanted to see in fashion magazines. Clothes they could actually wear, models they could identify with. Jodie knew she had real talent.

I need to stand out from the crowd – show Victoria that I’m not just a clone
.

There were five girls in the room: that would give Jodie at least an hour before her interview. No time to go home – unable to afford a place of her own on her tiny salary, Jodie still
lived at home with her mum and dad in Luton. There was no way she could ever make it back there to change her clothes.

No, I’m going to have to think on my feet
.

And there Jodie had a real advantage, because she did that all day long. Jodie was a grafter; she’d been climbing the greasy pole so far by working harder, thinking faster and being more
creative than anyone else around her. Fashion editor at
Wow
wasn’t much, and her budgets were small, but she’d managed miracles with the little she had, and her layouts had been
good enough to secure her an interview with her idol Victoria Glossop, editor of
Style
.

Nipping over to the desk, Jodie gave the receptionist her name, and offered to bring her back a coffee of her choice if she ensured that Jodie was called last. Agreement secured, and an order
taken for a skinny grande latte with extra chocolate, Jodie shot out of the Dupleix building on Brewer Street, turned right and hurtled up to Oxford Street as fast as her shoes (Zara, loose
interpretations of 3.1 Phillip Lim) would take her.

Sixty minutes later, she was back, breathing fast, but the skinny latte was unspilled. As Jodie set it down, the receptionist did a double-take, her eyes widening as she realised that this was
the same person who had spoken to her an hour earlier.

‘You’re next,’ she said in hushed tones; everyone at the
Style
reception spoke in an artificially-lowered voice, as if they were in church.

It is a sort of church
, Jodie thought as she took a seat in one of the uncomfortable, but highly fashionable white chairs.
We’re all worshippers, with Victoria Glossop as a cross
between the High Priestess and God
.

The atrium of the Dupleix magazine building, which housed many other publications as well as
Style
, was extremely smart, but the fifth-floor reception that led to the hallowed ground of
Style
was decorated entirely in Victoria Glossop’s signature palette; it might have been her own entrance hall. Huge white vases held black orchids, the only flower that was ever
allowed to grace the receptionist’s desk. The walls were greige – that perfect blend of grey and beige where neither one had predominance – and the huge Chinese six-fold screen
that hung on the wall behind the desk was of a snarling white tiger, black brushstrokes on cream paper in a black lacquered frame. It was the screen, the seventeenth-century painting as vivid as if
it had been executed only days ago, that really showed how excellent Victoria’s eye was: the rest of the room would have been in perfect taste, but bland without the huge, magnificent animal
sprawling across its folds, bringing the décor to life.

Jodie’s phone beeped: a message coming in. Pulling it out of her bag, she checked it quickly.

All right darling? Get the job? Making your fave dinner – shepherd’s pie! Can’t wait to hear how it went. And turn your phone off!!! X x

Her mum, checking in. Jodie couldn’t help smiling as she put the phone back in her bag, making sure it was set to silent.

Thanks, Mum. I’d’ve forgotten that
.

The thought of her mum’s shepherd’s pie, rich, fragrant meat under the whipped potato topping, made her stomach rumble in happy anticipation. Briefly, she allowed herself to imagine
returning to Luton in triumph: sitting down for dinner with her parents and sister, tucking into a delicious plate of home-cooked food, announcing that she’d pulled off a miracle, actually
succeeding in getting a job on
Style
—

One of the opaque glass double doors swung open: an impossibly thin girl in skinny grey jeans and five-inch heels emerged, followed by the interview candidate who had sneered at Jodie in the
waiting room an hour ago. She wasn’t sneering now. Her head was held high, but her eyes were suspiciously red and she was biting her bottom lip, hard, trying not to cry.

‘Jodie?’ the girl in skinny jeans said, looking at a list in her hand. ‘You’re next. God, it’s taking
forever
.’

Jodie jumped up, smoothing down her skirt.

‘I hope you’ve had a stiff drink,’ Skinny Jeans said without an ounce of compassion in her voice, holding open the door for Jodie. ‘She’s in full bitch mode. I
could hear her through the wall ripping that one’s throat out, and once she gets the taste of blood . . .’

‘That one’, visible through the glass doors, waiting for the lift, had wrapped her arms around herself and was giving vent to a series of whimpering sobs that she probably thought
were inaudible to the people in reception. Crossing the office, Jodie glanced up to the snarling white tiger on the Chinese screen: its pink tongue, the sneering curl of its nose, the sharp,
dagger-like white fangs. It occurred to her that the tiger screen wasn’t just the perfect final decorative touch, but that Victoria Glossop had hung it there to symbolise herself. A warning
that anyone who crossed her was liable to get their head bitten off.

And when Skinny Jeans ushered Jodie through the assistant’s antechamber into Victoria’s office, snapping the door shut promptly behind the latest victim to avoid any last-minute
attempts to flee the ordeal awaiting them, Jodie almost raised her hand to her throat in self-protection under the laser stare of Victoria’s cold grey eyes.

‘Well!’ Victoria said in a voice as crisp as her perfectly-starched white shirt. ‘At least you’re original. Five points.’ She scribbled something on her Bilberry
notepad with a slender silver Tiffany pen. ‘Though I’m deducting two for cheapness. Those shoes. Always spend money on shoes. People notice. Sit.’

Jodie was so shocked by this stream of words that she didn’t immediately obey the last one.

‘Sit!’ Victoria repeated impatiently, pointing with the Tiffany pen to the beige leather chair in front of her desk. ‘You should be grateful – I didn’t even ask the
last girl to sit down.’

Victoria shuddered at the recollection, as elegantly as she did everything else. Her nose was long, narrow and patrician. Generations of Glossops had looked down that nose at peasants,
intimidating them very effectively even before they’d said a word.

‘I gave her a minus ten for appearance,’ she informed Jodie, who was sinking into the chair, grateful for its support; her legs were feeling distinctly weak. ‘And
no one
recovers from a minus ten.’

There hadn’t been one girl in that waiting room who could conceivably have been described as a minus ten – not, at least, by Jodie. Heart in her mouth, she stared at Victoria, who
had swivelled her chair and was crossing her legs, tapping on the notepad with her pen. It was true, what Jodie had heard: the back of Victoria’s chair was bolt upright to ensure perfect
posture, beige leather made to her own specifications. Her blonde hair was swept back perfectly, literally not a single hair out of place, the side parting over her ear as straight as if it had
been executed with a ruler. The collar of her 3.1 Phillip Lim shirt was flicked up, emphasising Victoria’s long, slender white neck, heavily twisted-around by strands of huge black pearls,
gleaming purplish against the pale background. Victoria’s desk was a shiny sheet of glass, uncluttered by anything but a silver Apple Mac, the notepad, the pen, and a silver-rimmed glass of
bubbly water in which a slice of lime floated. Through the clear glass, Jodie could see Victoria’s waist, impossibly small, and her legs, most of which were on display in her tiny beige
mini-skirt.

‘So,’ Victoria said, snapping Jodie out of the trance into which she had fallen while taking in the exquisite perfection of Victoria’s appearance. ‘Am I to assume this
was deliberate?’

She flicked the pen up and down in the air, indicating Jodie’s hastily-assembled outfit. Jodie opened her mouth to give one answer, made a series of lighting-fast calculations, and told
the truth instead.

‘I came in for the interview,’ she said, ‘and everyone was dressed exactly the same.’

Victoria’s blonde brows drew together. ‘Including you?’

Jodie nodded. ‘And they were all doing it better than me. So I ran out and got some new stuff as fast as I could.’

‘And your hair?’ Victoria asked. ‘Because frankly, it’s a dog’s dinner. It actually gets worse the more I look at it. Minus two.’ She made another note.

Jodie hadn’t had time to get her hair restyled. All she’d been able to do was to pull it out of the chignon she’d spent so much time on that morning, brush it out and leave it
loose. She was growing out the layers, and it looked shaggy, she knew; but she’d given it a quick spray with styling lotion in Boots just now, and at least it was smooth.

She reached a hand up to it, embarrassed, as Victoria said, ‘So, tell me about this outfit that you cobbled together.’

At least she hasn’t deducted points for my outfit yet, Jodie thought frantically. It was hard to breathe: Victoria’s narrow grey eyes were fixed on her face, noticing, Jodie was
sure, every spot and blemish that she’d done her best to cover up that morning.

‘Well, the T-shirt’s from Benetton,’ Jodie started nervously. ‘I know it’s not trendy, but they’re really good quality and the cut is timeless. I picked navy
because that suits me better than white, and it’s a classic colour. And long sleeves, because I wanted to keep the bangles and I really like them piled up over a sleeve. It looks sort of
medieval, which is coming back in. I think it’ll be huge next year.’

She lifted one arm to show off the effect; the hem of the sleeve was pulled down to the base of her thumb. Victoria nodded.

‘Plus four,’ she said. ‘Go on.’

Emboldened, Jodie continued, ‘The jeans are Karen Millen. She cuts really well for my shape and they’re classics too—’

‘Minus two for describing them as classics,’ Victoria snapped. ‘The grey will date fast and there’s too much branding. I can see the name on those hem zips from here. I
loathe
visible branding. But,’ she paused, ‘they do work with those cheap shoes of yours. The length is right, and they fit you well. Plus two. We’ll call it
even.’

Jodie gulped.

‘My hair was in a chignon,’ she said feebly. ‘But I pulled it down and brushed it out. I thought anything was better than looking like all those other girls. And to be honest,
it looked better on most of them than it did on me.’

Victoria huffed: it took Jodie long painful seconds to realise that this was a laugh.

‘Yes, you won’t do well copying my style.’ Victoria set down her pen, recrossed her slim legs under the glass table, and swung the one on top as if to show off her beige
crocodile-skin Prada shoe. ‘You’re not thin enough, frankly. You don’t have the bone structure to pull your hair back fully. And there’s too much pink in your skin for you
to wear white.’

She looked down complacently at her legs, tanned to a delicate gold. Though naturally pale, Victoria was known to have weekly spray-tanning sessions in order to achieve her perfect, even
colour.

‘Remind me where you’re working now?’ Victoria asked.

She huffed another little laugh when Jodie muttered, ‘
Wow
magazine.’ Jodie felt ashamed even mentioning something so lowbrow in front of Victoria Glossop. ‘It’s a
weekly. I don’t have much of a budget, but I’ve done some good layouts. I can show you . . .’

She leaned down to pick up her portfolio, which she’d placed by the side of her chair when she sat down, sensing that it would be a huge no-no to put it on Victoria’s immaculate
desk. Even now she hesitated, not wanting to set it on the smooth sheet of glass in front of her unless she was specifically invited to do so.

‘Don’t bother,’ Victoria said, waving it away with an imperious gesture. ‘It’ll all be cheap, cheap, cheap.’ She shivered. ‘I
despise
cheap. You
know this job isn’t an editorial one? You’d be working as my assistant. As far as status goes, you’re below the junior shoe editor and the handbag girl whose name I can never
remember. You’re at my beck and call. I’ll put you through hell. I assume you know all this already – I’m well aware of my reputation.’

She smiled, briefly flashing even white teeth, each one polished to an opalescent gleam. Somehow, Victoria’s smile was even more frightening than her words; it was anticipatory, looking
forward to the appalling treatment to which she would be subjecting her next assistant.