‘Good,’ said Douglas, sipping some water. ‘Because I hardly need tell you the figures are on a downward trend.’
She was taken aback by his bluntness. ‘Perhaps,’ she said, slowly. ‘But as we know, the entire sector has taken a hit and we’ve been affected less than other titles.’
As if on cue, Denton turned his laptop to face her.
‘The new circulation figures are out next week, but here’s where we are at the moment,’ he said, touching his pen against a graph on the screen. ‘The red line is Verve, the blue Vogue, the green Elle, et cetera, et cetera. Almost every title down from where they were ten years ago.’ He paused for a moment to let the fact sink in. ‘Now,’ he said, tapping a key and flipping to another graph. ‘Here the trend is reversed: all lines bending upwards. Blogs, Instagram, Twitter, all trending through the roof.’
‘But how many of them are making money?’ said Amy crisply.
Yet again, Douglas ignored her comment. ‘Magazines have limitations. We just can’t compete on time-sensitive subjects. Even the daily papers are starting to look pointless: going to print before an election result is announced, missing a terrorist attack that happens in the middle of the day. And monthlies? You’re recommending trends that are already over.’
‘We know the challenges,’ said Amy, wondering if they were about to hold her responsible for the decline of an entire industry.
‘We have to start thinking of ways to make more money. Events, sponsorship, courses, digital innovation . . .’
Amy nodded. She and William had had an almost identical conversation six months earlier, admittedly in different circumstances: a long boozy lunch at which they had wistfully reminisced about the golden age of magazines, when there was an orchid on every desk and afternoons were spent flitting from press launch to film screening. But despite their nostalgia for times past, they had both been determined to inject some excitement back into publishing, and had come up with the idea of creating a new marquee event for Verve.
‘I totally agree with you, Douglas, which is why we’re throwing the Fashion 500 party,’ she said, wishing that William were there to back her up. ‘The fashion brands have money. If we can create a London equivalent to New York’s Met Gala, we’d strengthen the brand, position ourselves as a mainstream luxury and generate buzz.’
‘That’s what we wanted to discuss,’ said Douglas, not looking impressed. ‘Denton is worried that costs are spiralling . . .’
‘I was asked to sign off a twenty-thousand-pound order for flowers,’ said Denton over the top of his glasses. ‘Fifteen thousand for laser-cut invitations, the same amount again for a vodka luge. This is not the court of Louis XIV, Amy.’
‘Just the last days of Rome,’ she muttered.
‘You are one of the most experienced editors in the group,’ said Douglas with more grace. ‘We need you at the heart of our team that strategises new revenue streams for the companies. But right now, a fashion party that’s going to cost a million pounds sounds like part of the problem rather than a solution.’
Amy was determined to hold her ground. She knew she was a golden girl at Genesis Media. Three editors at the company had been fired in the past eighteen months, but she wasn’t worried about her position just yet. She was confident that in the new round of ABCs – the industry’s much-watched circulation figures – Verve would demonstrate steady numbers, and in the current climate that was the best you could hope for.
‘Douglas, the gala is about positioning and perception. As you know, that’s everything in the fashion world. We want to look confident. We want to send a message to the world that we are investing in Verve. That’s how we shore up the ad dollars, that’s how we get seven-figure sponsorship deals. Already we’ve got the CEOs of three banks, and almost every major fashion house confirmed to attend.’
‘Some people will do anything for a free lunch,’ said Denton.
‘Do you think something tangible will come out of it?’ asked Douglas in quiet challenge.
‘If we don’t see an immediate uplift in advertising volume and yield, I’ll eat my Prada hat,’ she said, trying to lighten the tone.
Douglas had the courtesy to smile. ‘Very well. Keep me in the loop, all right? This has got to work.’ He glanced at his watch, indicating that the meeting was over.
Amy scooped up her notebook and said her goodbyes. She looked down and noticed that her hands were trembling a little. As she approached the lift, the door pinged open and Juliet James, editor of Living Style magazine, stepped out.
‘Next up?’ said Amy, attempting a smile.
Her best friend rolled her grey eyes. The two women had known each other for over twenty years and could communicate without even speaking. Juliet was generally unflappable, but Amy could tell that she was dreading her meeting too.
‘How is he?’ she asked in her refined husky drawl.
‘Denton Scoles is in there. And he has spreadsheets.’
‘Oh God,’ Juliet replied, closing her eyes in mock horror. ‘Tell me you’re up for a liquid lunch as soon as I’m out.’
‘Can’t,’ said Amy. ‘Not today.’
‘You blew me out last Friday, you callous bitch,’ Juliet said theatrically.
‘I’m meeting an old friend from school. I haven’t seen her in about fifteen years and she’s hardly ever in London, so I’ve got to go. In fact, you know her. My friend Karen from home? Karen Price. She used to come and stay at the house in Holywell Street sometimes.’
Something passed over Juliet’s face.