Naked Truths (14 page)

It was now midday, but she hadn't been able to face going back to the magazine yet. Adam had rung her mobile every ten minutes since she'd walked out of the meeting, but she hadn't picked up his calls. As far as she was concerned, he'd been as much use as a chocolate teapot.

As usual there was an air of organized chaos in the room. Amongst the pot plants, blaring radio and piles of paperwork, several young people were busily working at their desks. A few looked up and grinned at Catherine in recognition.

Gail steered Catherine into a little room off the main one, and shut the door behind them. It was a common room of sorts: there were two squashy beanbags in one corner and a tiny kitchen area with a sink filled with unwashed mugs in the other. A small table stood there, coffee rings and a trail of sugar granules marking the surface. Gail gestured to one of the chairs and Catherine sat down, Gail's large bulk filling the other. Cork notice-boards with dozens of photographs pinned to them adorned the walls. Faces of
Soirée
Sponsors participants, past and present, beamed out. Catherine noticed one in particular.

‘Isn't that Reece Lawrence?' Reece had been one of the first to join up with
Soirée
Sponsors. He'd been brought in by his despairing mother as a sullen, angry seventeen-year-old, but had showed a real talent for taking pictures with a battered old camera he'd picked up on eBay. A photographer involved with the scheme had subsequently taken on Reece as his assistant.

‘He's doing great,' said Gail proudly. ‘Being worked like a dog, but loving it. His mum dropped in last week. Says Reece wants to set up on his own in a few years' time!'

Catherine looked at the picture of Reece, his cheeky freckled face grinning as he held a camera aloft. ‘Good for him.'

Just as quickly the morning's events came flooding back, and her face dropped again.

Gail looked concerned. ‘What's going on, Catherine?'

Without sparing any painful detail, Catherine relayed the boardroom meeting to Gail. Including the fact that Sir Robin had put a stop to any new sponsors joining the scheme, as that meant taking on more staff Valour weren't prepared to pay for.

Gail sat still in shock. ‘“Project 300”? What a load of old rot! What's this Sir Robin bloke on?'

‘They'll probably make us all wear compulsory slogan T-shirts as well,' said Catherine gloomily. ‘I hate it when management get these stupid ideas.'

‘Well, I'm not bloody wearing one,' Gail declared. Her face became more shaken. ‘They can't close us down! Don't they
care
about what we're doing here?'

Catherine suddenly felt drained. ‘All they care about is profit. I know, it's hard for me to understand as well, but at the end of the day, this is business, Gail.' She sighed. ‘Bloody Sir Robin bloody Hackford! What does he know about what the modern woman wants? He'd be better off in charge of
Saga
magazine.'

Despite it all, Gail let out a wheezy laugh. Catherine smiled back. ‘I'm being really unprofessional. I shouldn't be saying this . . .'

Gail leaned across and squeezed her arm. ‘That's what I'm here for.'

The unexpected gesture made Catherine well up.

‘Hey, come on, don't get upset!' Gail jumped up and got her a box of tissues.

‘I'm being pathetic,' sniffed Catherine.

‘Crap. Even hot-shot editors are allowed to have feelings sometimes. You've got a lot on your plate, Catherine.'

Catherine swallowed. ‘I know. It's just . . . well, you said it yourself. We're doing such good things here. Sometimes I think
Soirée
Sponsors has become more important than the magazine.'

Gail squeezed her arm again. ‘Come on, don't throw in the towel yet. Let's give those buggers what for. I have faith in you, Catherine. You're a fighter.'

‘I don't feel like one at the moment.'

Gail folded her arms across her enormous chest, her spirit back. ‘You're not going to take this sitting down, Catherine, I won't let you. You're bloody good at your job, and Valour are lucky to have you. And don't let a bunch of ponces in posh suits tell you otherwise!'

Catherine managed a small smile.

‘That's better!' declared Gail. ‘You want me to come down and give 'em a piece of my mind?'

A vision of Gail charging into the boardroom to challenge Sir Robin flashed into Catherine's mind, and she laughed out loud for the first time in weeks. The release felt good. Smiling, Catherine leant down to retrieve her handbag.

‘One more thing before you scoot off,' said Gail. ‘I wanted to run something past you quickly. I had a call from Nikki Jenson earlier . . .'

It was shortly after 1.30 p.m. when Catherine got back to the
Soirée
office. As it was lunchtime, most of the team were out, probably making the most of the September sunshine. Harriet was at her desk, and she caught Catherine as she strode into her office.

‘Catherine?' she called out. ‘The
Press Gazette
has called three times today. They want to know if you have any comment on the latest sales figures.'

Catherine paused. ‘Can you email me their name and number? I'll call them back.'

‘Also, Adam has called a few times for you.'

Catherine looked distinctly unimpressed. ‘That can wait,' she said, and disappeared into her office, closing the door behind her.

Harriet bit her lip. There was something going on. Catherine had told Harriet she was going over to Martyr House this morning. And each time he'd called, Adam had sounded increasingly stressed. As if on cue, Harriet's desk phone rang.

‘It's Adam. Is Catherine back yet?'

‘I'll see if she's free,' said Harriet, and put him on hold.

She dialled Catherine's line. ‘It's Adam Freshwater again.'

‘Tell him to take a running jump, preferably off a very high building.'

Harriet took Adam off hold. ‘Catherine is in a meeting at the moment,' she said. ‘She'll call you back as soon as she can.'

Adam tutted. ‘Get her to call me on my mobile.'

Inside her office, Catherine knew she should take Adam's calls, but she was so annoyed at him for not standing up for her. She was dreading his ‘Project 300' speech. She also knew she was unfairly directing all of her anger and frustrations at him, and he had probably been given a rollicking by the board himself earlier . . .

Catherine rested her chin on her hands and stared hopelessly out of the window.
Am I getting too old for all this?
The phone interrupted her thoughts.

‘Cath-a-rine!' cried a voice. Catherine rolled her eyes. Isabella. How the hell did Isabella have her direct line? Before she had a chance to find out, Isabella cut to the quick.

‘I hear your meeting didn't go very well today.'

Catherine sat up. ‘How do you know that?'

Isabella laughed lightly, delighted at her consternation. ‘Oh, news travels fast in this industry, my dear! Of course, it does help when one is so well-connected. But don't expect me to reveal my sources!' She chuckled again.

‘Have you rung up to gloat, Isabella?' Catherine asked sharply. ‘Because I'm really not in the mood for it.' She heard an intake of breath.

‘Of course not, darling! This is just one editor offering commiserations to another. Really, I feel terribly for you.' Catherine had never heard anyone sound so gleeful. ‘Of course, it doesn't help that Sir Robin Hackford has wanted to shut down
Soirée
ever since he joined Valour.'

Catherine's stomach dropped. ‘What are you talking about?'

Isabella laughed again. ‘Oh, darling, you must know. Everyone knows! Sir Robin has made no secret of the fact he thinks
Soirée
had its day long ago. Apparently he's determined to plough the money back into new media ventures. That's the problem with hiring these financial types: they haven't got a creative bone in their body! Who would imagine, the chairman of Valour not liking magazines!'

‘Sir Robin Hackford doesn't have the monopoly on
Soirée
's future,' Catherine pointed out acidly. ‘That's what we have a board of directors for.'

‘Quite! And other board members – I believe your chief executive and group finance director were among them – resisted his opinions for quite some time. But Sir Robin's predictions seem to be coming true. They can't argue with those disastrous sales figures!'

Catherine resisted the urge to ask which of Valour's directors Isabella was sleeping with.

‘Goodbye, Isabella,' she said, and put the phone down. Fuming, she clicked on to her emails. She needed to let off some steam, and her friend
Teen Style
's Fiona MacKenzie, was always a good outlet.

She quickly typed Fiona's name in and pressed send. A moment later, a horrible thought occurred. Catherine checked her sent items and her stomach dropped. She had sent the email to Valour's director, Fiona MacDonald-Scott instead.

Catherine groaned and put her face in her hands.

ADAM CAME INTO
the office the next morning to deliver his speech. But before he started, Catherine had a few words of her own she wanted to say to her team.

If Isabella had rung purely to heap more misery on her, she would have been furious to have learned that it had actually had the opposite effect. Spurred into action by her nemesis's foul gloating, Catherine had stayed up half the night formulating a game plan to revitalize the magazine. When she finally turned in at 4 a.m., her newfound resolve had momentarily faltered. She had a hell of a task in front of her. Not only to save
Soirée
and the jobs of her staff, but the hopes and dreams of all the young people on
Soirée
Sponsors. Catherine had forced the thought out of her mind again, and tried to find sanctuary in sleep. The enormity had been almost too much to think about.

‘Can we all gather round?' she called across the floor. ‘I've got an important announcement to make.' She waited until everyone was standing around her.

‘Uh-oh, Catherine's put her heels on,' murmured Saffron to Harriet. ‘She always does that when she has bad news.'

Catherine looked at the expectant, nervous faces. ‘I am sure most of you are aware that
Soirée
's sales have been falling for a while now. Not dramatically, I hasten to add, and in the current climate I can assure you we aren't alone. However, Valour's board have shown concern that
Soirée
isn't performing as well as they would like it to.' She smiled tightly. ‘Therefore, they have devised a plan called “Project 300”, which Adam will explain to you in a minute.'

You're on your own with this one, buddy
, she thought. She had just seen the contents of the box he had brought in with him. A disconcerted hum started amongst the staff, and she held up her hand to quieten it.

‘I'm aware that – quite understandably – some of you are worried about what this means for
Soirée
.'

‘Are there going to be job cuts?' someone asked nervously.

Catherine crossed her fingers behind her back and tried to stand tall, no mean feat in a pair of circulation-killing Kurt Geigers. ‘No, I can't imagine that is going to happen. I'm confident we can meet the target that has been set for us.'

Adam glanced questioningly over, but Catherine ignored him. There was no way she was letting her team carry the burden of closure with her for six months, whether he liked it or not. ‘We do need to be realistic and understand that things are changing.
Soirée
is still the best magazine on the market, but we've got to up our game, become even better. We
all
need to dig deep, myself included.' She paused. ‘So I'm making some changes. I know it's not ideal, but I've got a few last-minute updates for the next month's issue. I'll need you all to work late for the rest of the week to help me implement them.'

Across the room, the chief sub-editor, who was in charge of production and making sure the magazine got out on time, went green. ‘But it's meant to be at the printers by now!' he protested.

Catherine looked solemn. ‘I'm asking a lot, I know, but we need an extension on this issue. It will be the first and last time, and I know it's cutting it fine.'

She continued. ‘From next Monday, for two weeks, I will be taking half the art team to an office down the corridor to work on a redesign.'

At this the chief sub let out a strangulated cry; with Christmas looming they were coming up to their busiest time of year! Catherine ignored him. ‘My belief is that
Soirée
needs something radical to keep it looking fresh and new.'

The art director nodded his head enthusiastically. ‘I've got some great ideas I've been dying to try out.'

Catherine nodded. ‘We are still going to cover green issues, but we are going to drop the eco-living standpoint we've been taking. It's too niche, too preachy and our readers are intelligent and well-informed enough to make their own choices on how they want to live.'

Draped over Harriet's desk in a frilled shirt and tailored knee-length shorts, Alexander cheered. ‘Hear bloody hear! I thought we were going to turn into
Crusty Weekly
at one point. All that hemp wallpaper and “build your own urban compost toilet”. Urgh!' There were titters around the office, and Adam went rather pink, but Catherine made no attempt to reprimand her fashion director.