The Other Half (3 page)

Is that truly
me
reflected in the glass? she thought. It seems the kind of thing other women wear—women I usually reproach for their lack of discretion. Yet maybe I should admire their audacity.… It’s a far cry from my usual purchases and hardly in keeping with my understated style, but there’s something about its sensuality—the red ribbon trim, the black boning, its sheer impracticality …

She stood back for a proper look. There was no doubt that it pushed her up and pulled her in to great effect.

Damn the cost, damn my usual taste, damn perceiving it as tarty, damn the fact that over the last few years shopping has come to mean Waitrose and things for Nathan or for the house, thought Maggie. Why
should
I be so restrained?

And to her surprise, as she handed her debit card to the matronly woman behind the till, she felt wonderfully empowered.

If that didn’t do the trick tonight, nothing would.

3

The meeting room was large for just two people, with empty chairs arranged neatly around a clear glass table. With the air-conditioning on full blast it was cold. Chloë flicked off the fan and laid several magazines in front of her.

“Would you like some coffee?”

“Please. That would be great.” James clicked open his briefcase, got out his iPad, and pushed up the sleeves of his jacket in a way that asserted he meant business.

Chloë made a mental note: good hands, attractive wrists, not-too-showy watch. She and Rob often discussed the various components that gave male forearms their unique appeal. She picked up the phone and called Patsy. “Could we have coffee for two, please? We’re in the meeting room.”

“So,” said James, “you wanted to discuss a new magazine idea.”

“I have a proposal.”

“Oh?”

“I believe there is a gap in the market for a new women’s monthly.”

“Does your editor know about this?”

Was it Chloë’s imagination, or did he sound a little worried about meeting behind Jean’s back? Jean had implied that they knew each other socially as well as through work, after all. Chloë endeavored to put him at ease. “I didn’t feel she had to yet. What I’m talking about is not a direct competitor to
Babe
.” She took a deep breath and started her Powerpoint presentation.

“I realize there are many magazines, and in some ways the market is overcrowded,” she continued, expanding on the bullet points highlighted on the screen in front of them. “It’s certainly jam-packed in the teen area, right up to women in their late twenties.
Babe
is one of those, as you know, and of course it does very well, with its niche firmly established. And there is ample reading matter for those over forty. But I believe there is a gap for women between those ages, say between twenty-eight and forty.”

“You don’t think this gap’s already been filled?”

“I don’t.” Chloë moved on to the next slide, titled
The Competition
. “Your reader of these magazines”—she gesticulated to the array before them—“is perceived as pretty traditional. The expectation is that she is married, with children, or certainly in a relationship. She is into clothes, not high fashion. She is into dinner parties, recipes, and gardening. Which is all very well, but I’ve undertaken research that shows there is another kind of woman, and she’s interested in a lot more than this.”

“Research?” James sounded impressed.

“Yes.” Chloë handed him a copy of her proposal document. “You’ll find full details in here, but I’ll run you through the basics.” She clicked the mouse. “I held a number of discussion groups, selecting ABC1 women I know or friends of friends who work in a cross-section of industries, some with, some without children. All of them, without exception, felt there was no magazine that catered exactly to their tastes.”

“Where did you do this research?”

“At my home. I found it worked well if the group could relax over a glass of wine, away from the office and family. I provided samples of all these magazines and asked what they liked and didn’t like about them, what sorts of interests they had, what they wanted to see, what they hated, what they loved. And I discovered my initial hunch was right. There
is
a gap in the market.”

At that point there was a knock and Patsy came in with a tray. With her hair gelled into spikes and dressed in a miniskirt and clumpy platforms, she could have made an impression, yet she was so busy ogling James that Chloë feared she might drop everything.

“Thank you,” he said.

“My pleasure.” Patsy grinned like a teenager. James seemed oblivious, but it did allow Chloë several seconds to assess him further. He was well-spoken, she’d already noted, and she guessed he was mid to late thirties. Hmm, she thought. He’s not really that handsome, certainly no Ryan Gosling or Brad Pitt—his features aren’t regular and his hair needs a trim. He could do with losing a few pounds too. Yet he’s one of those men who seems very, well,
male
, I suppose, and that’s undeniably attractive …

“I see,” said James, after Patsy had reluctantly left. “So have you some idea of what this magazine might be like?”

“I do. I’ll give you a taste—you’ll find more in my proposal. It will have more of an edge. It will be for women who like fast cars, high fashion, and occasionally getting drunk. It will be for women who work, but also for those bringing up children—neither will be the sole focus. It will debate politics and social issues—stirring up our readers’ passions. And when we feature food and recipes, we’ll offer practical advice, featuring something creative to do when you arrive home and there’s nothing but a can of tuna and baked beans in your cupboard, say, rather than meals that take an entire week to prepare. It won’t have endless features on how to get your man, or how to lose five pounds in a week—the other magazines already do that. Though it will talk about sex—gay sex, straight sex, dangerous sex, impotence, the lot.”

She paused. “Above all, it will be exciting, vibrant, and bold. It will be up-front, plain-speaking, but fun. That, in my opinion, is where these magazines have got it wrong.” She picked one up. “Look at the layout and the typography! Dull, dull, dull! The photography? It’s
so
five years ago.

“Now,” she said, handing him the latest copy of a magazine from Japan. “This is more like it. The typography, the color, the shots—groundbreaking!”

“I agree.” James seemed infected by her enthusiasm. “Graphics is an area where the Far East is often one step ahead.”

“Exactly!”

“So your target woman, tell me more—what’s she like?”

“Me, I suppose.”

“Somehow I thought so.” He grinned, and added, almost as an afterthought, “Sounds appealing.”

“Well.” Chloë blushed a little. “I realize that seems a bit egocentric, what I mean is; I’ve been working in this business for eight years now, and I still don’t think there’s a magazine that’s exactly me. Anyway,” she focused again, “I don’t want to lose the thread of my presentation.” She reached once more for the mouse.

“It’s okay,” James interrupted. “I’m interested by all I’ve heard so far, but I’m rather pushed for time. I’ll take this home and read it. Meanwhile, what, precisely, would you like from me?”

“Gosh.” Chloë was taken aback by his immediate validation of her hard work. This was something she felt so vehement about; it had been whizzing around in her head for months. But this was the first time she’d talked to anyone who could help make her vision a reality. She’d bounced ideas off Rob, she’d had her discussion groups, but chiefly this was
her
baby.

“I’d appreciate the opportunity to explore it further, but I think I’ve taken it about as far as I can on my own time. Now I’d like UK Magazines’ backing.”

“Such as?”

Chloë was impressed he’d gotten to the point so fast. “I was hoping I could be seconded to special projects to develop the idea.”

“Mm. I’ll need to think about that. I presume you’d want to be the acting editor.”

“Yes.” Chloë was flattered he thought her fit for such a key role, though it was the very post she hoped for. “So I’d rather you didn’t tell Jean quite yet.”

“You’re taking a risk, aren’t you, telling me? And at
Babe
’s offices.”

“I am, but I really believe in this.” A story came to Chloë’s mind and she smiled. “Recently my uncle bought a sports car, after driving around in sensible little hatchbacks for years. He’s seventy-three. ‘Life is not a rehearsal, Chloë,’ he said. ‘Don’t wait until you’re retired to start realizing your ambitions.’ It might be clichéd, but I could see his point. That evening I started to draft a proposal for this magazine.”

James appeared touched. “I like your thinking. So, tell me, what position are you in here at
Babe
?”

“Features editor.”

“I’m sure they’d hate to lose you.
Babe
is doing well. Yet I daresay they can hire a replacement, and a visionary editor to launch a new project is harder to find. I do warn you, though, we’re not talking about a permanent post initially. Until you’ve put together a sample issue of the magazine, gone through more formal research, and tested with potential advertisers, any move would be only temporary.”

“Of course.”

“And I will have to talk to some others about it. I’ll get back to you.”

“Fine.” Chloë was loath to leave the ball in his court. “Perhaps we could meet for lunch next week?”

“Good idea. I’ll call you.” James shuffled his papers and the proposal into his case. “I’m sorry to cut this so short, but I’m booked solid with meetings today and there is one I haven’t prepared for yet.”

Briefly Chloë caught a glimpse of a more boyish nervousness behind the capable businessman. She smiled sympathetically. “Not at all. I appreciate you taking the time to see me.”

“Don’t forget these,” he said, handing her the magazines.

“God, no. Thanks.” Though when he passed them to her, a couple slipped out of her hands and onto the floor. Chloë had to bend down to pick them up. As she did so he did the same, and their heads bumped.

“Sorry,” she said.

“Oh, don’t worry, I’m fine.” He rubbed his forehead, then laughed. “That’s our second collision today!”

“I’m so clumsy.”

“It was my fault.”

“No, it was mine,” she insisted, opening the meeting-room door and leading him back to reception.

“By the way I like the dress.” He shook her hand again. “It shows a certain individual style.” He smiled broadly.

She beamed, unable to contain her pleasure. “Thank you.”

“I look forward to seeing your fashion spreads,” he said, his voice so low the receptionist couldn’t hear.

Was there a slight innuendo in his tone? Surely not, she thought, as she sat back down at her desk. But later, she was certain about one thing. The madness of the morning had left her somewhat light-headed.

4

That Jamie wasn’t back in time to help put Nathan to bed was not unusual, yet tonight it was particularly annoying.

“Right,” Maggie said, focusing on her son. “Supper’s ready.”

She’d made a second soufflé, chiefly to verify the recipe but with the faint hope of casting an aphrodisiac spell on Jamie.

Quite what it will do to a six-year-old boy, Lord knows, she thought.

Nathan, oblivious to the X-rated world he was about to taste, was playing with Monday. The gerbil’s nose twitched as he investigated the myriad smells of the table.

“Monday’s going to have to move so you can eat your supper. He shouldn’t be there as it is,” said Maggie.

“But he’s exploring!”

“He can explore all he likes once you’ve eaten. Take him back to your room.”

“Okay.” Nathan scurried upstairs to put Monday into his cage. When he was sitting down again, Maggie handed him a plate with a little soufflé and lots of baked beans. He looked askance at his portion. “Can I have some more?”

“Eat what you’re given first.”

Nathan dug in with relish, yet a few minutes later he began to slow down, until he stopped completely, leaving a soggy pink mess of soufflé and beans.

Maggie raised her eyebrows at him.

Nathan raised his own back, and sped up again, slurping loudly. Then he picked up his plate and licked it.

“Nathan!”

Nathan smiled. “Finished.”

That child has me wound around his little finger, thought Maggie.

Once her son was tucked up in bed, she ran a bath. She lit some scented candles, poured herself a glass of red wine, and stepped in. Slowly, she lay back, bubbles floating around her. If she sucked in her tummy, the only part of her body that remained out of the water was her breasts. If she pushed her belly out, she almost looked pregnant. She lifted her feet and rested them against the overflow. They were slim and straight and a pleasing pale brown thanks to a recent week that she, Jamie, and Nathan had spent in a Tuscan villa.

She recollected a trip to New York she’d made with Jamie several years ago: they’d been staying with friends and she had borrowed a gym pass. As she was dressing after her workout, a beautiful fitness instructor had come into the changing room and started telling her pupils about another woman. “Her feet are so pretty!” she’d enthused. “They’re kinda delicate, elegant—like hands, you know? Her toes, gee, they’re so long and straight, not like most toes at all. She wears those crisscross sandals with little knots in them that accentuate just how pretty they are. And men love her—I’ve seen it, sat next to her in cafés. They stare at her, transfixed, but not by her face, which is cute, or her figure, which is divine. They stare at her feet! It’s quite something.”

Maggie had never forgotten this woman’s way with words and enthusiasm for life’s minutiae. And she’d resolved right then and there: she would never compromise her aesthetic standards, even over trivial matters, and she would always, always look after her feet.

She took a sip of wine. It was not a particularly expensive bottle (it would have seemed extravagant to uncork one just for herself) but it was a good Burgundy, bought via mail order. She let it roll over her tongue. Moments like these were rare, and a new baby would make them rarer. Still, she thought, reaching guiltily for Jamie’s razor, she’d never imagined having only one child, and if she and Jamie didn’t get a move on, Nathan would be too old to play with a younger sibling.