‘Will you remind me in my next life never to have any dealings with celebrities?’
‘Did it always used to be this hard?’ said Amy, sipping her coffee.
‘I bet Mode don’t have to put up with this shit.’ Gemma smiled.
The two women looked at each other and laughed. It was true. Certain magazines could still call the shots. Vanity Fair had legendary power. Vogue and Mode still seemed to be able to get the ungettable.
‘You’ve heard about Ros Kimber?’ said Gemma.
‘What about her?’
‘She’s leaving.’
‘You’re kidding!’
Gemma shook her head. ‘My friend at Mode just texted me. Apparently there will be an announcement this afternoon.’
‘God,’ whispered Amy. This was big news, huge. Ros Kimber was the editor of British Mode, Genesis Media’s flagship title and fashion magazine powerhouse. Ros was a formidable woman, grey-haired and elegant, and although she was now in her mid-fifties, after two decades in the role she’d never shown any sign of slowing down.
‘Is it a case of her jumping, or was she pushed?’ asked Amy.
‘Jumped, I should think. Mode’s still packed with ads, so she’s been making money. My guess is someone’s made her an offer she can’t refuse, probably one of the big houses in France.’
Amy nodded. The truth was, it didn’t really matter what Ros Kimber’s plans for the future were; all anyone was thinking right now was who was going to step into her shoes.
‘You’ve got to be a front-runner,’ said Gemma, knowing exactly what her boss was thinking.
Amy looked straight ahead of her. ‘I’m not sure it’s the right move,’ she said, almost automatically. Like politicians who bashfully denied they’d ever entertained ambitions to be prime minister hours before announcing their candidacy, glossy magazine editors always claimed they were uninterested in vacant positions. There was a certain truth to it: there were so few editors in the women’s market, it was a high-risk strategy to apply for another job. It was fine if you were successful, but what if you weren’t? Your current employers would believe – correctly – that you were dissatisfied, and even worse, that you were planning on jumping ship armed with valuable insider information about budgets, staffing and profit-and-loss. On the other hand, not applying for such a dream role looked callow and unambitious.
‘Of course it’s the right move,’ said Gemma. ‘What, you like shooting in England waiting for the rain to come? If we were shooting for Mode, we’d be in Namibia or Sri Lanka with a two hundred K budget. And note I said “we” there. I would of course expect you to take me with you.’
Amy gave a throaty laugh. ‘Of course I’ll take you,’ she said. But Gemma was right: at Mode, she’d have power. There would be no feet-dragging or tantrums from the likes of Miranda and Karrie.
For a moment, Amy allowed herself to dream. She wouldn’t just be sitting on the front row for the collections; she would be given an exclusive preview. Designers would be desperate to know her verdict, like some Roman emperor giving a thumbs-up or -down denoting whether people around the world would wear blue or green, leather or silk next season. Collections might even be hastily changed according to her suggestions.
She would have access to the very best photographers, celebrities and writers, prize-winners and literary heroes. The editor of Mode. She felt dizzy even thinking about it.
The industry gossip distracted her from the fact tha
t Miranda was taking ages in hair and make-up. Despite gentle prodding, it was gone noon by the time she emerged.
‘Let’s look at the clothes,’ said Janice, waving her into an adjoining suite.
Amy watched Miranda listlessly slide the gowns along the rail. ‘Is this all you have? They’re a bit too sexy. I mean, don’t you have any Purfoy or Taormina? Something beautiful like that?’
Amy tapped a finger against her lips, as if she were considering it. Purfoy and Taormina were the hottest new boutique labels. They barely produced a dozen pieces a year, most of them so cutting-edge they wouldn’t look out of place in an art installation.
‘Is everything okay here?’ said Elise, standing at the door, hands on hips.
‘Karrie and Miranda think the clothes are too sexy.’
‘But sexy is good,’ said Elise with a little shrug.
‘There’s nothing suitable here.’ Miranda was pouting.
Elise shrugged again. ‘Well, I have to leave for Dusseldorf at two o’clock.’
This was why Amy hated coming on shoots. They were hotbeds of ego and jostling for power and position. She smiled thinly and made her excuses, asking Janice to follow her.