‘So who’s the favourite?’
‘There’s a lot of speculation that it’s going to go to an outsider. People are even saying Kate Moss might be interested.’
‘Kate Moss? Well, if Douglas can persuade her to come in for interview, we might as well give up now and go home.’
Juliet clearly wasn’t going to be deflected. ‘Come on, you know as well as I do that you’d be fantastic,’ she said.
Amy didn’t want to tell her friend how much she wanted the job. Apart from anything, there was some truth in those wild rumours: a brand as strong as Mode didn’t need an experienced editor. They could, if they so chose, appoint someone from the world of high fashion. A respected figurehead like that would still attract the all-important advertising money, and might, Amy had to admit, actually make the title look more edgy and ambitious. All of which made her application even more difficult.
‘It’s a huge job, Jules,’ she sighed. ‘And it’s even more ginormous when you have a five-year-old.’
Juliet snorted. ‘Don’t tell me it’s not what you’ve always wanted.’
‘Of course, but seriously, I’m not sure I’m what they’re looking for.’
‘I thought you’d left that behind,’ she said more sharply.
‘Left what behind?’
‘That reverse snobbery, that “everyone else is better qualified, better connected” nonsense. You’re as good as any of them, Amy. Better, because you haven’t been handed it on a plate.’
‘Well, what about you?’
Her friend gave a soft snort. ‘I’m the editor of Living Style, not Silk or Major or Underground or any of those super-fashion titles.’
‘I know,’ said Amy. ‘But plenty of people have landed the top job on a big fashion title without ever having been on a single front row. Besides, no one has more class than you.’
‘Precisely. I’m too posh. Too English, too twentieth century. Besides,’ Juliet smiled, ‘I like my life. I like that my job isn’t too demanding, that I can do it standing on my head. It means I can be gone by four o’clock on Friday to the house in Hampshire and not come back until Monday morning. I’m not sure life would be like that as editor of Mode.’
Amy wasn’t sure if her friend was trying to make a point after David’s announcement that they had come here to relax, but she saw the wisdom in her words anyway. David made no secret of the fact that he hated her disappearing to fashion weeks in Paris and Milan twice a year; as editor of Mode, she’d be practically living in the shadow of the Duomo. No one ever said more work and more pressure made for a better lifestyle, did they? David kept talking about moving away from London altogether, about how it was a poor environment to bring up a child, and Amy couldn’t really disagree with him on that. Like any working mother, she was constantly whipping herself with the thought that she wasn’t spending enough quality time with her daughter, that she was being selfish, perhaps even setting her up for insecurities in later life. What if Tilly only remembered the time she’d spent with Claudia? What if she only remembered the fun holiday with Josie, who’d always had time for her? Christ. It was a minefield being a modern parent.
‘Anyway, I’ve already made my decision,’ said Juliet. ‘I’m backing you.’
Amy looked at her in surprise, and Juliet laughed.
‘It’s like the contest to be leader of the Tories or something, isn’t it? I don’t think I’ll get the nod from the party, so I’m putting my weight behind whoever I think is going to win. Maybe that way I can get a job in cabinet.’
‘You wouldn’t want to work for me, would you?’ said Amy, half wondering if Juliet was serious. Juliet stared at her, then burst out laughing.
‘No, you’re right. I couldn’t bear it if you got given better handbags than me.’
Amy grinned. ‘Well, if I do get the job, I’ll split them with you, fifty-fifty.’
‘It’s a deal,’ laughed Juliet. ‘Now let’s catch up with Max before he’s drunk the village dry. We are on holiday, remember?’
Lourmarin was near perfect, like a Disney version of a cute Provençal town. Surrounded by fields and vineyards and nestled in the shadow of the medieval chateau, the streets were cobbled and winding, lined by shuttered houses draped in wisteria and shops selling pretty objets d’art that spilled out onto the dusty streets: terracotta pots bursting with long stems of lavender, artfully distressed picnic tables, stylish straw totes, muslin scarves in every colour.
‘I could buy up most of the things in there,’ said Juliet, emerging from one of the most chic-looking stores.
The tempting alleyways finally converged on a narrow square where half a dozen bistros and cafés had set out tables and umbrellas, jostling for candlelit perfection under a bruising purple sky.
‘Monsieur Max! Mon ami!’ The rotund patron of La Petite Table stepped forward and embraced Max, gesturing to a long table set back from the main drag. ‘You see? I save the best table in the village for you and your friends.’
Max shrugged. ‘Then how can we refuse?’
The six friends sat down and ordered drinks, and charmed by the ambience, Amy finally felt her shoulders relax. She looked over at David, laughing with Peter, and smiled indulgently. He was handsome and funny and he’d always supported her ambitions, but wouldn’t it be nice to spend more evenings like this, drinking red wine under a warm purple sky with people she loved? Maybe David was right: maybe they should move to the countryside, enjoy each other’s company and watch Tilly grow up. What was the point of chasing another pot of gold, then another and another? Eventually the rainbows stopped for everyone.
‘Max Quinn, is that you?’