At Femme magazine, something had been in the air for weeks, a feeling that they were living on a fault line. Speculation finally burst into flames when it was confirmed that Calvin Carter, the U.S. managing director, had been sighted roaming around the top floor, looking for the gents'. Apparently he'd just arrived in London from the head office in New York.
It's happening. Lisa clenched her fists in excitement. It's actually finally, bloody happening.
Later that day the phone call came. Would Lisa pop upstairs to see Calvin Carter and British managing director Barry Hollingsworth?
Lisa slammed down the phone. "Too right I would," she shouted at it.
Her colleagues barely looked up. People slamming phones down then shouting were ten a penny in the magazine game. Besides, they were trapped in Deadline Hell -- if they didn't get this month's issue put to bed by nightfall, they'd miss their slot with the printers and would be scooped once again by archrivals Marie Claire. But what did she care, Lisa thought, hobbling to the lift, she wouldn't have a job here after today. She'd have a much better one somewhere else.
Lisa was kept waiting outside the boardroom for twenty-five minutes. After all, Barry and Calvin were very important men.
"Should we let her in yet?" Barry asked Calvin, when he felt they'd killed enough time.
"It's only twenty minutes since we called her," Calvin pointed out, huffily. Obviously Barry Hollingsworth didn't realize just how important he, Calvin Carter, was.
"Sorry, I thought it was later. Perhaps you'd show me again how to improve my swing."
"Sure. Now, head down and hold still. Hold still! Feet steady, left arm straight, and swing!"
When Lisa was finally granted admission, Barry and Calvin were seated behind a walnut table approximately a kilometer long. They looked frowningly powerful.
"Sit down, Lisa." Calvin Carter inclined his silver bullet head graciously.
Lisa sat. She smoothed back her caramel-colored hair, showing her free honey-colored highlights to their best advantage. Free because she kept plugging the salon in the "Ones to Watch" section of the magazine.
Settling herself in the chair, she tucked her Patrick Cox-shod feet neatly around each other.
The shoes were a size too small -- no matter how many times she asked the Patrick Cox press office to send a size six, they always sent a five. But free Patrick Cox shoes were free Patrick Cox shoes. What did an unimportant detail like excruciating agony matter?
"Thank you for coming up.' Calvin smiled. Lisa decided she'd better smile back. Smiles were a commodity like everything else, only given in exchange for something useful, but she reckoned in this case it was worth her while. After all, it wasn't every day that a girl was seconded to New York and made deputy editor of Manhattan magazine. So she curled her mouth and bared her pearly-white teeth. (Kept that way from the year's supply of Rembrandt toothpaste that had been donated for a reader competition, but which Lisa had thought would be more appreciated in her own bathroom.)
"You've been at Femme for" -- Calvin looked at the stapled pages in front of him -- "four years?"
"Four years next month," Lisa murmured, with an expertly judged mix of deference and confidence.
"And you've been editor for nearly two years?"
"Two wonderful years," Lisa confirmed, fighting back the urge to stick her fingers down her throat and gag.
