Fifty Is Not a Four-Letter Word (4 page)

The show must go on. Cuban
son
is filling the air, and I’m about sozzled enough to have a go at salsa. Earlier in the year, as a team-boosting exercise
for my staff, I organized a series of lunchtime salsa classes. They were a huge hit. I make a wobbly beeline for my cousin
Mike, who fancies himself a bit of a Ricky Martin on the dance floor. I flare my nostrils, flick my bob in a poor imitation
of Rita Moreno in
West Side Story,
and grab him by the bottom. He winks at Stanko—who is looking particularly handsome in faded Levi’s and a tight gray marl
T-shirt—and whirls me into position. Tap one, two, three. Tap one, two, three. I’m not a natural at this, and the alcohol
is beginning to play havoc with my counting. But Mike’s good, and I allow him to lead. Soon the music and our bodies are in
perfect harmony. “Dip!” commands Mike. I’ve seen dips but have never managed one of my own. “Dip!” he orders again. And so
I dip. And so I land on the floor, hard on my coccyx, with my dress drawn up around my waist, revealing my Norman Foster tights
and no knickers underneath. Eighty-five people turn to cheer, except Olly, who’s right in my sight line and has a look of
horror spreading across his face as I start pulling frantically at the fabric rucked up around my middle. I see him whisper
something into Vanessa’s ear, and they are gone.

My coccyx is bruised, but no major damage has been done. I’m too far gone to feel embarrassment. Or pain. Mike pulls me up,
both of us laughing dementedly, as Jack shouts, “Countdown!” Everybody starts counting backward:
Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one
. . .

“Happy New Year, my darling.” Jack’s lips meet mine tenderly and then move away a fraction. “And happy—” I put my index finger
to my mouth in a shushing motion.

My stomach lurches to the rhythm of popping champagne corks. A new scary thought occurs to me. We vowed to be the generation
that would die before we got old. Now it looks as though we’re still going to be alive when the
next
generation gets old. The big 5-0 can no longer be denied. Can’t go back and can’t stand still. Okay, half-century woman,
time for your next act.

T
he first day back at work after New Year’s is a Thursday. I stride in through the open-plan office toward my private nook
in the corner, trying to look purposeful, flinging casual hi’s and smiles and Happy New Years at the few (
very
few, I note) staff members who’ve managed to make it in on time. My body feels leaden, and there’s a brick that has lodged
itself behind my temples.

My assistant, Tanya, has already been to the market to buy flowers—cut hyacinths in my favorite shade of lavender blue—and
an extra-dry cappuccino, 99 percent froth, a dribble of milk. The arrangement is that I ring her on my mobile five minutes
in advance of arriving, and she scoots straight out for the coffee, so it’s piping hot and ready when I arrive. Spoiled? Did
I ever suggest otherwise?

Tanya’s only twenty-nine, but she’s an assistant of the old school. She doesn’t resent taking my clothes to the dry cleaner’s
or popping out to do some shopping for me. My devastation of a desk is her greatest challenge, requiring ruthless culling
and cleansing every single week, as it threatens to be submerged in an avalanche of clippings, press releases, unsigned invoices,
unsolicited manuscripts and to-do lists, which, once written, are never consulted again. Tanya would do her dump-and-Dettox
routine every day if I let her. Putting my detritus into little piles with Post-it notes labeled in the neat copperplate she
learned at evening classes is her favorite job of all. I know because she told me so at her last appraisal.

Unlike all my past assistants, who either viewed the job as a springboard to becoming editor a couple of weeks down the line
or were secretly researching novels that would expose the bitchy world of glossy magazines while making them a mint, Tanya
has worked for me for five years. She’d rather die than have my job. I think she feels sorry for me. Can’t understand why
anyone would want all that nasty responsibility.

“Simon wants to see you at ten o’clock,” says Tanya. Simon is the managing director, and Global Magazines is the kind of outfit
in which even the mailroom boys call the big boss by his first name. It doesn’t really signify openness and informality, other
than in the most superficial way. Global is as hierarchical as any other big corporation—the execs have the share options
and the bonuses and stake themselves out in their glass-walled offices on the top floor, while the worker bees scrabble for
space on the overcrowded floors below.

Simon and I aren’t exactly friends, but we rub along. We know precisely where the line is drawn. So, for example, I invite
him and his wife to the New Year’s Eve party, certain (as is my intention) that they will refuse. “So sorry,” will come the
reply, “but unfortunately, we have a prior commitment . . .” I’ve done the right thing by inviting Simon, he’s done the right
thing by not accepting. We’ve known each other for twenty-two years, longer even than I’ve known Jack, as I’ve worked my way
around various magazines in the company, ending up—for the last eight years—on
Jasmine
, “the magazine for women who live life to the full.” Code for “women who are knackered all the time.”

I say to Tanya, “
Ten o’clock!
What can be so bloody urgent? I’ve got about a million things to do, and it means I’ll have to cancel the ideas meeting.
Why doesn’t he ever ask if it’s convenient?”

Tanya shrugs. “You know that’s not how he thinks. Look, you’ve got no outside appointments today—I’ve deliberately stalled
on everything external until next week—so it shouldn’t be a problem to switch the ideas meeting to this afternoon. Say three-thirty,
if that’s okay with you. I’ll send an e-mail around while you’re in the meeting.”

“You’re an angel,” I reply. “How about scones with jam and cream, as it will be almost teatime by the time we get going. That’ll
blow everyone’s diet on the first day back, but at least it will liven us all up.”

Tanya’s eyes go all sparkly. A tea party to organize! I wouldn’t be surprised if she does name cards and a seating plan.

“What did you think of
my
little gathering?” I ask.

“You looked amazing. No one would ever believe—”

The problem with personal assistants is that they get to know those things that are personal to their employer. All those
forms they fill in for you, the ones in which date of birth is a compulsory field, are an instant giveaway. “I’m not asking
you how I looked,” I reply, trying not to sound as irritated as I suddenly feel. “What did you think of the party?”

“Completely brilliant. It was two o’clock before I could drag James away. And you know how much
he
loves parties—not. The food was incredible. We spent ages talking to your friends from Australia. And did you see James on
the dance floor, looking like a pretzel struck by lightning? It shouldn’t be allowed in public.”

I smile, feeling momentarily cheered at Tanya’s graphic description of her adoring boyfriend. “Jesus, it’s two minutes to
. . . I’d better get going.”

• • •

When I arrive in the outer chamber, Genevieve, Simon’s assistant, informs me he’s on the phone and asks me to take a seat
for a couple of minutes. I arrange myself on the white wraparound leather sofa that, in a nod to modernity, has recently replaced
the black wraparound leather sofa. Sitting on this supermodel of a sofa, this Kate Moss of couches, makes me feel like a proper
editor. Like the Kay Thompson character in
Funny Face,
circa 1957, who points a gloved finger at her staff, declares, “Think pink,” and, voilà, the entire set changes color to
fulfill her rose-tinted fantasy. The fact that I
am
a proper editor and have no need to fantasize about the Hollywood version is too hard for me to compute. Nah, not me. Surely
not. Even after all these years, it surprises me that I do what I do rather well, have even won awards for doing it. I sometimes
look around at my team, waiting for someone to make a decision, and then realize that they’re all looking at me, waiting for
me
to make a decision. Being decisive isn’t a problem; remembering that it’s what I get paid for sometimes takes me by surprise.

Here in the outer office, wooden floorboards have been imported at great expense. On top of the oak boards sits a vermilion
shag rug, and on top of the rug a large curved smoky Lucite coffee table. A huge marble-based arc lamp sheds its beam on the
carefully arranged magazines—from
Hot Property
and
Metro Girl
to
Exquisite Interiors
(whose exquisite editor, Mark, has been personally responsible for the antechamber refurb). It’s all very ’70s and very modern.
Not really the kind of look that would put Simon at his ease. His wife’s a chintz-and-swags kind of woman, and Simon’s office
was equally traditional until recently, with its old-fashioned French-polished partner’s desk and manly sofa, upholstered
in burgundy and green stripes to match the upholstery of his office chair. John Lewis in a nod at Ralph Lauren.

Though not now that Mark has gotten his hands on it. Iconic black-and-white photographs signed by David Bailey, Richard Avedon,
and Helmut Newton adorn the walls. The Bailey is a photograph of the Krays, all harsh lighting and menace; the Avedon, an
original print of the elegant model Dovima out and about in the African bush wearing inappropriate evening-wear and stroking
an elephant’s tusk; the Newton, a girl naked but for platform shoes, a whip, and a monocle, standing beside an empty swimming
pool. I think all this might be a bit much for poor old Simon, especially the Newton, what with him being a self-declared
family man. My guess is that he would far rather have had a blow-up of himself shaking hands with Margaret Thatcher, but Mark,
the style oracle, stamped his Gucci boot.

The desk is a clean sweep of glass. My heels clickety-clack across the floor as Simon stands and gestures toward the seat
facing his. Simon is what, in a former age, the one I grew up in, you’d call dapper. Like Roger Moore in
The Saint
. He’s quite a lot shorter than Roger Moore, but slim and tightly packed, like a well-wrapped parcel. His trousers have razor-sharp
creases and never sag or bag, and his tie never turns itself over to reveal the label or strays a bit to the left or right.
There’s always a handkerchief in Simon’s breast pocket, one that looks as though its base might be a cardboard cutout, with
only the pointy triangular bit at the top made of cotton lawn, and neatly monogrammed. His hair never flops, it sits there
as though lacquered into place, so abundant it could almost be a wig. He’s how I imagine a Stepford Husband might look. Except
for the flaky skin. The flaky skin that sometimes sheds like first snowflakes onto his navy pin-stripe lapels. I never did
get the chance to tell him about Eve Lom’s cleanser, the miracle cream that cleans, exfoliates, and tones all at the same
time.

I sit, crossing my legs and tugging at the hem of my skirt in order not to expose too much thigh beneath the transparent glass.
I think I preferred his old desk.

I’m uneasy, and I don’t know why. I have this strange sensation that my legs are beginning to sweat under my ultra-sheer tights,
the moist warmth starting somewhere around mid-calf. My legs have never spontaneously sweated in their entire lives. It’s
not what legs do, unless they’re manacled to a giant radiator on full blast. I think Simon has started talking, but this strange
warm rush, like a tidal wave, is surging through my body, and the little indentation between my breasts and my rib cage (still
not substantial enough, thank heavens, to hold a pencil—I checked last week) is wet. And now my armpits are distinctly clammy,
and my neck is hot beneath my hairline, and my face is hot, hot, hot, as if it’s burning. I feel shaky, and I know he’s talking,
but I don’t know what he’s saying.

“Are you all right, Hope? You look a little . . . flushed.”

“Yes, fine. I mean . . . I’m fine, Simon, thank you. I just felt a little odd for a moment.”

“Perhaps Genevieve could get you a glass of water.”

“Yes, that would be lovely.” I’m all-over damp but recovering, although from what, I’ve no idea. Simon presses a button and
says over the intercom, “Be a love, would you, and get a glass of water for Hope?”

“I’m so sorry. Most peculiar. I feel absolutely okay again. I’m afraid I may have missed something you said.”

“Not to worry. It happens to Harriet all the time. You must be about the right age for . . . for—what does Harriet call them?—power
surges. That’s it, power surges.”

My mouth hangs open. I’ve been outed in the middle of my very first hot flash, and it took a man—not just any man but my boss,
for heaven’s sake—to tell me what was going on. My humiliation is total.

“You didn’t miss anything important,” he continues, as though his previous pronouncement was never made. “I was merely inquiring
after your Christmas break.”

Get a grip, woman. “Oh, yes, it was lovely. Absolutely lovely.” I sound totally moronic.

Genevieve walks in with the water, and I sip gratefully.

“Now, Hope, I want you to listen very carefully to what I am about to say.”

“I always listen carefully to what you say.” That’s failing to bring a touch of levity to the exchange after our disastrous
opening scene. Discombobulated. I love the sound of it, but not how it feels.

A sharp intake of breath from Simon. “For eight years now, you have been one of my star editors.” Oh no, it’s a new year’s
state-of-the-nation speech. “You took
Jasmine
to new heights of circulation and created a wonderful buzz about the magazine.”

“Thank you.” Simon is being unusually complimentary. Being a glass-half-empty sort of person, I focus on the word “took.”

“But in the last three years . . .” There, I was right. “In the last three years, things have not been going so well. Times
are changing, Hope, but you’re not, and neither is the magazine.”