The Other Half (21 page)

“Oh, yeah. Silly me. Special projects is on the third floor. Just ask for me, Chloë.”

“I look forward to meeting you.”

“And me you. Bye.”

“Bye.” Maggie put the phone down.

Poor woman, she thought. She sounds a bit distraught. Thank goodness I don’t work in-house any longer—it’s so much more stressful than being freelance.

*   *   *

The next day it was Maggie’s turn to take the children to school. After she’d dropped them off, she headed straight out of the village on a run—she’d dressed in her tracksuit that morning.

So, she thought as she ran, how should I dress to meet this Chloë woman? Maybe trouser suit with a pastel T-shirt would be good. I’ve no idea what she’s like, but a cream suit is bound not to offend anyone—it’s smart but not intimidating. And if I add that scarf Jamie bought me in New York for a pop of color, who knows, it might even bring me luck …

Maggie wasn’t looking forward to the encounter; unlike her husband, she didn’t enjoy meeting new people, and Jamie had done little to boost her confidence. “Do you really need to schlep all the way into town?” he’d said when she’d mentioned it to him. “I imagine Chloë’s very busy—why don’t you just pitch your suggestions over the phone?”

I would have thought Jamie of all people would understand why I’m keen to meet face-to-face, thought Maggie. Then again, he’s always wanted me to stick with writing the stuff that’s guaranteed to make money. Sometimes he can be so unsupportive.

She carried on running round her usual route, and as the surrounding scenery energized her, she pushed her resentment away and told herself to think positively.

And when I’ve gotten over this hurdle, she vowed, I’ll talk to Jamie about going to Relate. I’ll feel stronger if I sort this career thing first.

Once home she showered, then spent ages doing her makeup. By the time she’d finished she appeared as if she had very little on, yet her skin seemed clearer, her eyes brighter, and her lips fuller. Next, she carefully selected a flesh-toned bra and knickers that would leave no telltale lines. She put on the suit and knotted the scarf on one side, French-style, around her neck. Finally she put on a pair of white canvas deck shoes and stood back to examine the effect in the mirror.

“You look
okay,
” she reassured herself.

Maggie allowed longer than necessary to get into London, so she was early. She decided it couldn’t be a bad thing to show that she was keen, and she headed for UK Magazines ahead of time. In the event, it meant that she had to wait in reception.

“I’m afraid Chloë’s nipped out for some lunch,” explained the receptionist.

While she sat there, many women came and went—some were very glamorous. Maggie was just remembering her sister’s observation that there would be lots of opportunity for Jamie to flirt at work, when a dark-haired girl approached her and said, “Hi, you must be Margaret Wilson.”

“Yes.” Maggie jumped to her feet. “Though people call me Maggie.”

“I’m Chloë.” She held out her hand.

As Maggie shook it, she thought, She bites her nails. It made her warm to Chloë. A woman who bit her nails must be something of a worrier too.

“I’m sorry, I dashed out to get a sandwich. Have you been waiting long?”

“No, no,” Maggie lied.

“Come with me,” said Chloë, leading the way. “We’ll have to sit at my desk. There aren’t any meeting rooms free.”

Maggie followed her. The open-plan office seemed very busy and noisy. There were dozens of people, mainly women, and most of them looked rather younger than Maggie. Some were click-clacking away on their computers, others were talking animatedly on the phone, and a few were chatting to each other, whether legitimately “bouncing ideas” or gossiping Maggie couldn’t tell. Suddenly her freelance lifestyle didn’t appear so perfect after all: her comfortable kitchen seemed terribly quiet and parochial.

I expect I’m very out of touch, thought Maggie. Sometimes I go for hours without talking to a soul. And I’ve pitched myself as wanting to do something new and different—who am I trying to kid?

When they reached Chloë’s desk, Maggie noted that it was smothered in even more paper and magazines than Dr. Hopkin’s. I could never work in this chaos, she thought. And didn’t Chloë say that she’s only been in this department a couple of days? How has she managed to amass so much stuff in such a short time? She’s even messier than Jamie.

“Have a seat,” said Chloë, grabbing a chair from a colleague’s desk and wheeling it over.

Maggie did as she was bid. She was partly relieved to be in a less formal setting than she’d imagined, partly concerned that she wouldn’t have the space to show her portfolio.

“Can I get you a coffee?”

Maggie couldn’t face the thought of a mug of office instant. “Water will be fine.”

“Back in a mo.” Chloë rushed off.

Maggie watched her go over to the kitchen area and make herself a quick coffee, then fill a glass from the water-filter machine. As she did so, Maggie was able to get a full view. What a fantastic outfit! she thought. Chloë was dressed in a bias-cut green skirt, a vest that enhanced her cleavage, and an angora cardigan that seemed designed to slip off her shoulders. It wasn’t the kind of thing Maggie would ever wear, let alone to the office, and she could see Chloë’s bra straps even from this distance, but nonetheless it looked good. As Chloë walked back with the drinks, Maggie observed her shoes.

They’re those gorgeous sandals I admired in all the magazines last month, but I knew would make me appear too tall, she realized.

“Here,” said Chloë, handing Maggie the glass.

She’s very pretty, thought Maggie. Then corrected herself. Well, attractive maybe, not conventionally pretty. She’s wearing far more makeup than I ever would, but she’s got the kind of face that suits feline eyeliner like that.
And
she’s got the sort of naturally tousled-looking curly hair I’ve always wanted. She reminds me of someone, but I can’t think who …

Then Chloë said, “So, where shall we start?” and Maggie pushed thoughts other than the strictly professional to the back of her mind.

“I’ve brought some stuff to show you,” she said. The cut-and-thrust environment had made her self-conscious, and she was keen to get her presentation out of the way.

Maggie had had a hunch that Chloë would be the kind of adrenaline-driven young woman she’d met before in magazine publishing—a hunch that, from yesterday’s phone call and what she’d seen today, was proving correct. Chloë did look rather on edge, Maggie observed. She’s probably stressed.

With this in mind she had put a feature called “Fast Times” at the front of her portfolio. It showed recipes that she’d described as “perfect dishes for the end of a busy day—quick, simple, and full of flavor.” She liked the photography as well.

“Mmm, yum,” said Chloë.

Judging from her well-rounded physique, Maggie guessed she enjoyed her food. Chloë peered closer and started to read. Maggie was silent. Fortunately the piece hadn’t been too hacked by copy editors, and she was happy with how it flowed.

“This is very interesting,” concluded Chloë. “I like the way everything can be done in less than fifteen minutes.”

“Yes,” said Maggie, pleased.

Chloë turned the page. Next, as a contrast, Maggie had put a short and punchy article entitled “Supermarket Spy: The Lowdown on GM.” It summarized which stores were still stocking genetically modified products and, although it was far less informative than she’d have wished due to confines of space, it demonstrated her ability to research more topical subjects. “Most people in the business seem to think of me as a home economist, a writer of recipes, but this is the kind of thing I really like doing,” Maggie explained.

Chloë flipped over some more pages, pausing to read the occasional spread. Maggie kept quiet, wanting to leave her time to absorb it properly. When she’d finished, Chloë said, “It’s a very impressive range. So why do you want to work here in special projects with us? I’m sure you’re aware that a lot of what we do in this department never sees the light of day.”

“Yes, Jamie said. It’s not because I’m out of work—I’ve got more than I can handle some of the time. It’s only that I feel…” She checked Chloë’s expectant face. Could she risk being perfectly frank? “I feel that women’s magazines have gotten stuck in a bit of a rut when it comes to food writing and I’d like to move them on in some way.”

“You do?” said Chloë.

“Yes.”

“Oh. I wouldn’t have expected you to think that.”

“You wouldn’t?” Maybe she shouldn’t have been so honest. “You don’t agree?”

“Oh, no.” Chloë spoke hurriedly. “I do. In fact, that’s been my thinking exactly with this new magazine. It’s just…” Her voice trailed off as if she was struggling to think of how to express herself. “I’m not sure my involving you would be a good idea.”

“Oh.” Maggie was mystified. If we see things similarly, why are you giving me the brush-off? Do I appear too conventional? I should
never
have worn this cream suit. I look so different from the rest of these girls. They’re all so trendy and interesting—I bet Chloë thinks I’m really old.

Maggie frowned. Maybe Jamie was right—she’d been wrong to come and see Chloë. She wished she could go home and get dressed all over again. But she could only say, “That’s a shame. Couldn’t you tell me a bit about the magazine anyway?”

“No.” said Chloë abruptly. “We have a policy not to discuss new projects with freelancers at this stage.”

But I’m the wife of the publisher! Surely you can trust me, thought Maggie indignantly. Still, she didn’t want to use her husband’s power to get work; she never had before, and wasn’t keen to start now.

Chloë continued, “Anyway, I wouldn’t want to waste your time.” Her tone was brisk.

But she offered to tell me about the magazine yesterday, Maggie recalled. Perhaps she’s worried my writing will miss the mark. She had an idea. “If it makes any difference, I could do a couple of pieces on spec? You wouldn’t have to pay me unless you liked them.”

“Oh, I couldn’t ask you to do that.”

“I don’t mind.”

“No, I’m sorry, but it’s not company protocol.”

Really? thought Maggie. Most editors would jump at the chance of getting articles for nothing. “There’d be no obligation.”

“I can’t, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, okay.” Maggie was bitterly disappointed. She took a gulp of water and zipped up her portfolio.

“I apologize, but I really must get going.” Chloë stood up.

“Yes, of course.” Maggie picked up her things and together they walked back through the office. At the elevator she held out her hand.

“Well, thank you very much for taking the time to see me. And if you’d like me to do anything for you at some later stage, I’d be more than delighted.”

Chloë shook her hand. “I’ll let you know.”

“It was nice meeting you anyway.” Maggie smiled. Despite feeling rejected, she wanted to part on a friendly note.

“And you,” said Chloë. Then she added, as if she’d thought better of being so dismissive, “You may be right. Just from the little you’ve said, I do appreciate that we might see things in a similar way. Perhaps we can work together at some point in the future. It’s just I don’t think now’s the right time. I’m very sorry.”

Maggie felt slightly comforted. “That would be great.”

The elevator arrived, and Maggie stepped in. As the doors slid shut she could see Chloë standing there, biting her lip. She looked lost in thought already.

Oh well, Maggie thought, maybe Jean had hit on something when she observed Chloë likes to get her own way. Perhaps she’s not good at sharing things, and doesn’t want me or anyone else treading on her toes.

29

Chloë stomped into the kitchen and threw down her bag. Rob was in a familiar attitude, stirring homemade soup at the stove, glass of wine by his side.

“So, what was she like?” His voice had a distinct note of glee, yet it made Chloë uncomfortable—meeting Maggie had been traumatic. She’d tried to persuade Vanessa to see her instead, but she’d had an appointment elsewhere. Then she’d phoned James. “Believe me, I’m as bothered about it as you are,” he’d said. “I tried to put Maggie off, though it didn’t help. Now I can’t think of a way out of it.”

How could she sum up her feelings? She hadn’t managed to work them out for herself yet, let alone for someone else.

She’d liked her; she’d hated her.

“What did she look like?” prompted Rob.

Pacing around the kitchen, Chloë tried to put her impression of Maggie into words. “Sickening.”

“Sickening?”

“Yeah. Stylish, beautiful, tall, slim, great skin … you can imagine.”

“Blond, brunette, what?”

“Blond.” Chloë sighed. “Not mousy like me. Looked bloody natural, too.”

“Bet she’s not as sexy as you, though.”

“Thanks.”

“What was she wearing?” Rob had a finely honed appreciation of fashion. When it came to judging character, someone’s dress sense was high on his list of priorities.

“Some sort of classy cream suit, posh whiter-than-white deck shoes—all very understated and elegant.”

“See? She doesn’t sound half so horny. Whoever heard of a sex kitten in white deck shoes?”

“Mm.” Chloë wasn’t convinced. At the end of the day, Rob loved men. “
And
she was wearing that scarf James bought for her in New York.”

“Oh.” A pause. Evidently Rob couldn’t think of a response to this. “So, what was she like?”

“Actually, she was very nice.” Chloë sighed again.

“Nice? You’re not supposed to like her!”

“I know.” Chloë nodded. “But she was. I wish I could say she was a complete cow, but she was perfectly, utterly nice.”

“Nice?
Who wants to be ‘nice’?” Rob snorted. “She can’t have any idea about you and James, then.”

“Of course she hasn’t. There’s no way she’d have been that shy and sweet.”

“Didn’t you say the woman’s one of the most respected food writers around? How can she be shy with a career in journalism like that?”

“I dunno, I thought she was a bit. Though, I suppose…” Perhaps this was something she could interpret positively. “… James isn’t shy at all.”