The Making of Mia (11 page)

Frieda looked at Jo with a stern expression and Jo smiled back. She was about to start working on a magazine – practically
with Joshua Garnet! – and she would do anything she was told.

October 2002

Every morning Jo would stand outside Garnet Tower smiling to herself. Set in the heart of Covent Garden, the shiny dark red
skyscraper dominated the skyline, and all the theatres and boutiques of the West End cowered underneath it. Jo would watch
the extremely thin and glamorous magazine writers, editors and designers rush into the foyer with an obvious sense of purpose.
Then Jo would do the same, flashing her staff pass at the docile security man and squeezing herself into the mirrored lift,
taking care not to look at her reflection because the sight of her size-sixteen bottom in comparison to
the size-eight girls hurt.
Gloss
was on floor nineteen, directly under
DG
magazine – standing for
Discerning Gentlemen
– and above
Honey
, the most popular teen magazine not just in the UK, but in Europe too. Jo would breathe in the smell of power, domination
and money. Garnet Publishing was the largest and most successful magazine company in the UK, and Jo was thrilled to be part
of it.

The work, however, bored her to tears. And there was so much of it.

For her first few weeks Jo kept her head down and concentrated on her typing. Her computer was temperamental and it kept on
crashing. When Jo paused to try to reboot it, or to read through an article before typing it up, she would catch Frieda frowning
at her, and she’d quickly start moving her fingers again, trying to look busy. She was used to hard work, but Frieda expected
such exactness that she felt under pressure.

‘It has to be perfect, Joanne. Do it again, please. And faster this time too. We do have a deadline to reach.’ Frieda said
to Jo at least once a day while the other girls smirked, and she found she was working harder than she’d ever done, especially
as she wasn’t invited to join in the gossip and tea breaks with the other girls. Jo didn’t care. Friends were a luxury, but
her career was not, and because she’d chosen it over William she was determined to make it. She was going to become a features
writer.

The first part of her plan to become a journalist was to look the part. One Saturday, Jo went to Top Shop and out went the
smart skirts and blouses and in came Helmut Lang military-style touches, Anna Sui-inspired embroidered skirts, extra-long
scarves, slouchy boho bags and longer skirts – anything that was a cheap version of what had been on the catwalk. Jo ignored
the fact that most of the clothes she bought were size eighteen because size sixteen was suddenly too tight, and
she didn’t care that she looked faintly ridiculous because she had a bottom, large tits and ample thighs. She wanted to ooze
self-confidence and dressing like a mousy secretary wasn’t the way forward. Strictly speaking Jo kept within the Garnet dress
code for administrative staff, but she could tell Frieda disapproved of her new outfits. When dressing like she was a journalist
didn’t cut it with any of the editorial staff she spotted in the foyer, or with Rachel, who still looked straight through
her, Jo turned to more drastic measures.

For years Jo’s dull medium-brown hair had hung limp from a centre parting. Jo had always trimmed it herself with nail scissors,
and it sat just on top of her shoulders, hanging slightly in front of her face to hide how round it was. Her hair had been
something she had neglected while she concentrated on getting her weight down, but now she realised that she looked like a
hippie from the 1960s and not the hip magazine girl she wanted to become. She suddenly hated her hair as much as the extra
weight she had been putting on, and she wanted to get rid of it. She wanted to be fearless.

Despite being broke Jo took herself to a trendy Soho salon that had been namechecked in
Gloss
, and told a junior stylist to give her a cut like Catherine Zeta-Jones had in
Chicago
. When he looked doubtful Jo said that she worked at
Gloss
, and with those magic words he got out the scissors, sat her down, and cut into her hair so the strands fell gently to the
floor. In Jo’s mind it represented shedding her skin and becoming a butterfly. She wanted to transform herself even if she
was having problems losing weight again. She settled back and reread the latest issue of
Gloss
, and felt pride that she was part of the magazine, even in a small way.

When the hairdresser finished Jo looked in the mirror and wanted to cry. She had the newest, sharpest cut, but it looked terrible
on her, despite the hairdresser fussing with hairspray and a comb. She had the appearance of a fat Harry Potter
from the
Chamber of Secrets
film, and when she got home she found that no amount of lipstick, false eyelashes or blusher made a difference. She quietly
made her way into the office next day and studiously avoided everyone’s eyes.

‘It won’t work, you know.’

Jo spun round in her chair and looked at the girl sitting in the corner of the office. Of all the girls in the typing pool,
Debbie was the one who made the most jokes about Jo’s weight, the one who Jo sometimes caught looking at her with annoyance.
She had long, stringy, blonde hair and an engagement ring that she constantly waved in people’s faces, although she never
mentioned her fiancé or if they’d actually set a date for the wedding. She was second in command to Frieda and she loved the
power.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

Debbie stopped typing and fixed her gaze on Jo. ‘Let me guess. You want to be a journalist when you grow up and you think
that if you start dressing like them you’ll be noticed.’ The older girl watched Jo’s skin pale underneath her foundation and
continued, satisfied, ‘It won’t work. It won’t get you a job on the magazine. It never does.’

Jo bristled. ‘What makes you think that’s what I’m trying to do? I just fancied a change of image. It’s nothing to do with
you.’

Debbie waved her hands dismissively. ‘Seen it all before, sweetheart. You’re just one of a number who have come here with
stars in their eyes about being asked to write for the magazine, but you haven’t got a chance. They only employ talent, or
people who have been here for years and aren’t opportunists.’ Debbie looked Jo up and down. ‘You’re on the bottom rung of
the typing pool. You’re invisible. And you know what, I’m next in line to be asked to join their team. You haven’t got a hope
in hell.’

Don’t react, Jo thought, just don’t react. She could feel
her body tensing and she forced a smile. ‘It’s a good thing you’re wrong, then, isn’t it?’ she said lightly, and she pointedly
ignored the stares from the other girls in the office as she engrossed herself in typing up an article about relationships
that she knew she could write a hundred times better. Jo lost herself in her work but she heard Debbie sniggering to Katherine.
She was going to have a lot of fun proving Debbie and everyone else wrong. She was going to do it.

When changing her image didn’t work Jo flung herself into the second stage of her plan. It was all about making herself seen,
known, and obviously available. Jo got to work at 8 a.m., a whole hour before the other typists arrived. She’d linger in the
canteen over her coffee as she watched the editorial staff limp in with hangovers, and she’d sit near them, listening to their
conversations and hearing where they had been the night before. Most of the time the journalists went to events that were
invitation only: club openings, book launches and fashion shows. They mingled with famous actors, danced with popstars, and
were on first-name terms with all the doormen at the hottest clubs. One cold autumn morning, a girl called Araminta was moaning
to the others about a bar that refused to give her entry to the VIP section.

‘It was just, like, so unfair,’ she whined in her upper-middle-class accent. ‘I told the guy at the rope that not only did
I write for
Gloss
, but that Kate Moss knows me personally but he wasn’t having any of it.’

‘So what did you do?’ breathed the flame-haired girl who was clearly fascinated that a doorman wouldn’t allow one of them
past a rope. ‘Did you bribe him?’

Araminta shook her long blonde hair in disgust. ‘No I did not. But I am boycotting that place, as are all of you. I told him
that we are not going back and we’re going to spend every evening at Chantez instead. We’re never going to write about Bababund
again!’

‘That will show him, Minty. Oh, well done,’ enthused Hannah,
Gloss
’s travel editor. ‘As soon as we stop writing about it, Bababund will be dead!’

Jo gulped – Bababund was the hippest, most exclusive bar in Europe at the moment, hotter than the Met Bar or Soho House had
ever been. Did the
Gloss
girls really have that much power? When Jo queued up at Chantez the next night with the hope that she’d accidentally on purpose
bump into them, it became clear that they did. Jo watched them with envy as they strutted through the queues of gorgeous babes,
straight past the velvet rope into the club. She could hear murmurs of jealousy rippling through the queue behind her, but
Jo had to begrudgingly admit that the
Gloss
girls knew how to work their status as London’s journalistic elite, even if they couldn’t write very well. She wondered if
she’d ever be part of their gang, if she’d ever be able to swan past the hordes of nobodies because she was that important.
Jo looked down at her Miss Selfridge outfit – the skimpiest, sexiest dress she owned – and saw the bulges of flesh through
the tight Lycra. She knew that if she didn’t look the part she wouldn’t have a chance.

Suddenly whispers vibrated through the back of the crowd, and some girls stood on tiptoes to see who was getting out of the
long, sleek, black limousine that had smoothly pulled up in front of her. Jo looked on with interest as she spotted a woman
get out of the car, and she was trying to pinpoint exactly how she recognised her when there were yells from the ubiquitous
photographers whose cameras began to flash. ‘Madeline, Madeline, over here!’

Jo gasped. It was Madeline Turner, the editor of
Gloss
. Jo hadn’t seen her in person before, and only knew what she looked like from her photograph in the magazine. In the flesh
she was gorgeous, with almond-shaped eyes and thick, glossy black hair. She looked like a skinnier version of Bianca Jagger
in the 1960s, with flawless skin and impeccable make-up. She was wearing what appeared to be a deep purple couture Miu Miu
dress, and the diamonds round her neck picked out the steely glint in her eyes. Madeline gave the photographers a tight little
grimace and waited as the chauffeur went to the other side of the car to open the second passenger door.

Joshua Garnet climbed out of his seat and the cameras flashed frantically. In the flesh, Joshua Garnet was absolutely gorgeous,
and Jo felt her face flush red as she saw him. He had short, dark brown hair, chocolate-coloured eyes, and his face was tanned
from a recent holiday. He wasn’t as good-looking as William, Jo thought, but she could see the appeal, could see why Joshua
was paparazzi fodder. Unlike Madeline, Joshua had kept his outfit simple; a beautifully cut black suit highlighted his strong
shoulders and arms, and his crisp white shirt was open at the neck, allowing a tantalising glimpse of chest hair.

Madeline took Joshua Garnet by his arm, and they stood having their photograph taken as he assessed the crowd coolly. Jo had
read in an old copy of
Press Gazette
that the pair had married the year before – which had caused quite a stir – but she didn’t think they looked happy or comfortable
together. She kept her eyes on Madeline, who, in turn, watched Joshua Garnet irritably as his eyes swept the crowd. He bypassed
Jo without even noticing her and then drank in the erect nipples of the freezing, semi-clothed teenagers that were in the
queue behind her, flashing them a sexy, easy grin. Madeline locked eyes with Jo for a moment, and then the couple walked into
the bar.

‘Debbie, have you heard?’ A few weeks later Katherine rushed into the small typing office, brimming with excitement and spilling
her cup of tea. Debbie stopped typing and looked at her in amusement, but Jo kept on moving her
fingers, wondering what the cause of Katherine’s flushed face and wide eyes was. A boy, probably – nothing to do with work,
and definitely nothing to do with her.

‘Joshua Garnet is going to have a new personal assistant because he sacked the last one for being lazy! And they’re going
to choose someone internally!’

Jo looked up at Katherine with a jolt, and the typing pool went silent as everyone stopped typing and gasped. Debbie’s face
began to go red.

‘Are you joking?’ Debbie looked as though she were beside herself. Jo watched her carefully. It was as if she had just been
told she’d won the greatest prize on earth, but Jo knew Debbie didn’t give a damn about the work and was only excited because
she fancied the pants off Garnet.

Katherine shook her head quickly. ‘Justine in sales heard it from Edwina in design who heard it from Lizzie in editorial.
Garnet needs someone as soon as possible and, rather than advertising, they want to pick a current secretary here. It’s an
internal promotion!’

Debbie leant forward in her chair and looked excited.

‘Technically speaking I have been here the longest,’ she said, looking at her freshly painted nails. ‘And Joshua
certainly
knows who I am. Do you know if we need to apply, tell them if we’re interested?’

Jo looked at Katherine and held her breath.

‘I think the assumption is that whoever is asked will want to do it. I mean, he’s so divine who wouldn’t want to be Joshua
Garnet’s PA?’

Jo looked down at her half-typed-up article and felt an ache in the pit of her stomach. She knew that if she was Garnet’s
PA it would mean that she could sit at the desk in front of his office and be part of the editorial team. If she were Garnet’s
PA, she thought, she would not only have one of the most coveted positions in the company, but a chance to sit in on
editorial meetings, the chance to see her name on the
Gloss
masthead. Jo wanted to be Joshua Garnet’s PA more than anything, and unlike everyone else, she thought, she didn’t give a
damn about what he looked like.