Amy smiled and stood up, following her to the fashion department at the far end of the office. She could tell that Renee was anxious and made a mental note to be as encouraging as possible. She knew she was lucky to have such a talented and down-to-earth fashion team, having heard horror stories from around the industry about the diva antics and demands of some fashion editors. That said, she still had to keep a close eye on the Verve team, reining them back from selecting £5,000 boots and the to-order gowns that were fashionista favourites but well out of the reach of the average reader.
‘As you know, red is a really big story for autumn/winter,’ said Renee, showing Amy the rail of clothes she had selected for the next day’s shoot. The colours looked delicious even at first glance. Sour-cherry cashmere knits and crimson floor-length coats made Amy long for the weather to turn cold so that she could start wearing them.
Her eye caught a scarlet dress on another rack and she took a sharp intake of breath.
‘Do you like that?’ asked Renee, noticing her boss’s reaction. ‘It didn’t make the final cut, but I can put it back in if you want . . .’
But Amy was lost in her memories, remembering that day over seven years ago when she had gone to Threadneedle Street to see a show. As a member of the features team, she rarely went to fashion shows, but when an invite had landed on her desk, she had dressed up specially, borrowing a designer dress from Juliet to look the part.
She had felt invincible that day. A photographer from the Evening Standard had asked to take her picture for a street-style segment, and for the first time ever she had felt glamorous and stylish and ready to conquer the world. It was also the day that she met David again. Their college friendship had dwindled to almost nothing throughout her late twenties and early thirties – reunion drinks missed through hectic work schedules. But when he had seen her coming out of the show, and they had gleefully reconnected on the street, it was as if they had never been apart.
She touched the fine red crêpe of the dress on the rail. It was just like the dress she had fallen in love in, she thought. The dress that had got her noticed. Her heart felt heavy when she thought about going home, the tense atmosphere and the clipped conversations. Only a month ago, she’d thought she had the perfect marriage – as good as it got, anyway – but now it hurt just to think about David.
‘If you really like it, do you want me to call up the designer and ask if you can have it?’ said Renee, cutting through her painful thoughts. ‘They do seventy per cent press discounts and I know the PR really well, so I’m sure I can sort it out.’
Amy looked at her, an idea forming. ‘Do you think you could do that for me?’
Renee nodded. ‘Why don’t you just take it now? I’m sure it’s your size.’
Amy took the dress off the rail and went into the ladies’. In the cubicle, she changed out of her skirt and blouse, slipping on the red crêpe de chine and smoothing it down over her hips. Then she opened the loo door and looked at her reflection.
She had never been truly obsessed with clothes, not like some of the fashion girls, who would go without lunch for six months so that they could buy an Erdem dress on sale, or comb eBay looking for vintage finds. But now she understood their transformative power.
Gone was the cuckolded wife who would let a twenty-one-year-old get the better of her. Instead, she looked like the kick-ass editor everyone thought she was; the woman who had spontaneously pitched the company CEO for one of the biggest jobs in the industry.
She returned to her office to collect her suitcase. It was almost five, and already people were beginning to drift off.
‘You look great,’ said Chrissie, putting a bunch of Post-it note messages on her desk.
‘I have to go,’ Amy said, picking up her bag.
‘I don’t know how you do it,’ grinned Chrissie.
‘Let’s see if I can,’ she mumbled as she pulled her jacket off its hanger.
A taxi took her straight into the City and dropped her off outside David’s office.
The nights were still long, but the height of the buildings surrounding her seemed to block out the light and made her shiver. She looked up at the rows of windows above her, the shadows of workers sitting at computers, and pulled her phone out of her pocket.
Her text was simple.
Come to reception.
She stood on the pavement, watching his world through the floor-to-ceiling sheets of glass. She was nervous and unsettled at the thought of seeing him, more nervous than her first day at the house in Oxford, when she’d turned up with her two suitcases of possessions, wondering whether she was making the biggest mistake of her life moving in with a group of people she didn’t really know and who were certainly not from her world. Back then, she had found her steel, reminding herself that Pog’s offer was a remarkable opportunity and she couldn’t let her fear and insecurity stop her from grabbing it.
She felt that same fear and uncertainty now. What if she and David didn’t come to some sort of truce? What was the next step? Selling the house, splitting the assets and sharing custody of Tilly; meeting David only to hand over their daughter in some polite exchange every other weekend.
She didn’t want to stop and dwell on it.
Instead, she watched as the commuters began to leave in their droves: post boys and secretaries, the lower-paid employees, who had smaller pay cheques but no doubt bigger lives outside the office.
For the first time in her marriage, she wondered if David’s late nights were just an excuse to stay away from home. After all, not everyone leaving the bank was a junior. She’d always assumed that he genuinely had been working till eight, nine o’clock every night, but maybe she’d been played like a fool then too.
She was about to leave when she saw him exit the big glass lift in the middle of the foyer. She could feel her heart starting to beat harder, but she steadied herself enough to take off her jacket. She was surprised at how cold it was out of the evening sun, but perhaps her mind was playing tricks; perhaps it was because she felt so naked and exposed that she was shivering. She watched the quiet deference with which David was treated by the people around him, and felt pride first, and then longing.
He glanced around reception, looking puzzled and – dare she hope it – disappointed. She was just about to wave at him when he saw her and moved towards the revolving doors. She wanted to put her jacket back on, but she wanted him to see her in her red dress even more.
In a few seconds he was out on the street beside her, keeping a cautious, awkward distance. He had definitely noticed what she was wearing, but she couldn’t work out what he was thinking.