Authors: Stella Newman
‘You do want to punish me.’
I laugh, and stand to go: ‘You all set for conference? Starting in five?’
‘Be up in a tick,’ he says, rubbing his shoulder distractedly. ‘Just have to make a quick call.’
‘Ri
ght
– we’re finally signed off with legal as of ten forty-three a.m. this morning, so let’s make this brief,’ says Roger. ‘I want this laid out by end of play – subs, studio, all hands on deck. First things first – pagination – the final Bechdel is running at eleven thousand words, so we’ll need two more editorial pages on current plan, bumping by four in total. Dean – put a call in to PrintPro asap,
check they’ve got paper stock.’
‘The run will be bigger too . . .’ says Sandra.
‘And Jonesy, I’m sorry to break it to you, but we’re going to have to surgically remove your thumb from your arse.’
Jonesy tips his head back in protest. ‘Can’t you trim it to one extra page of editorial and drop the crossword and some of the classifieds? You can’t expect me to get two full pages of ads this close
to deadline.’
‘And who’s going to apologise to seventeen thousand angry subscribers whose commute we’ve ruined? I didn’t think so. Two full pages – get Fletchers. Promise them Wimbledon centre court – well, you can promise them women’s semis.’
‘Number of copies . . .’ says Sandra, tapping her pen irritably on the table.
‘Yep,’ says Roger. ‘Print run – this’ll be our biggest issue since the
hacking scandal, we’ll need to box out to retailers – I’d say . . . forty per cent?’ he says, glancing briefly at Sandra.
‘Twenty per cent or returns will be huge.’
‘I’m not risking running short on a story this size – forty per cent. OK – Bechdel on the cover, I need to work out the headline with subs. Right,’ he says checking his watch. ‘Next, turkeys: copy’s legalled and subbed, just need
to sign off the main image – Sandra, the spreads?’
Sandra silently moves to the centre of the room and lays out four different images on the table, each more distressing than the last.
‘These were taken by the whistle-blower who’s our main source. He took them on a phone he sneaked in but it’s repro quality. So we’ve got the hatchery shot here,’ she says, pointing to a photo of a huge metal
contraption with a rotating blade. ‘This shows the macerator where the live chicks are thrown when they’re “surplussed”,’ she says. ‘Then this shows the reduced living space of the female birds on the breeding farm. Then the shed birds – you can see the general state of distress.’
‘Fucking hell,’ says Jonesy, turning to the side as if to vomit. ‘Good job you’re not doing this in December’s issue.’
‘And this fourth one is the abattoir – showing breaches of care in waiting time for the gassing.’
‘This one,’ says Roger, pointing at the picture of the shed birds, their skins torn and their wounds infected. ‘Horrific. Says everything you need to say in one image.’
‘You can’t run that in colour,’ says Jonesy, shaking his head. ‘Too much blood, retailers will kick up a shit storm, you’ll get
delisted.’
‘We cannot afford to fall foul of the majors again, Roger,’ says Sandra.
Jonesy looks at her with surprise, then he snickers. ‘Good one, Sandra.’
‘Good
what
? Oh, right, yes, “foul”, I see. The point is, Roger, there’s no point having a huge exclusive like the Bechdel if your readers can’t buy the magazine. We could change the shot to black and white?’
‘Play the game, Roger,’ says
Jonesy.
Roger’s face creases in annoyance. ‘Bring back the good old days when newsagents sold newspapers – and you could print the truth, without worrying about pissing off your chief client at a supermarket . . . Fine, run it mono,’ he says, throwing up his hands in resignation.
‘What are we going to trail on Twitter?’ says Azeem. ‘Can we seed the Bechdel on social media?’
‘Are you not listening?’
says Sandra.
‘A picture of my derriere, for what it’s worth,’ says Roger.
‘Yeah – not sure three B-list celebs retweeting our tweets translates to a single punter walking into a bloody newsagent,’ says Jonesy, shaking his head.
‘Guys – I can show you the data?’ says Azeem.
‘I don’t care about the data, tweet the goddamn turkeys. Choose the most powerful image from the spread.’
Sandra shakes
her head again. ‘Same problem as the retailers. We need something less gory.’
‘Picture of a turkey escalope?’ says Jonesy.
‘No emotional engagement,’ says Roger.
‘How about the poults, the newborn chicks?’ I say, thinking back to Sophie’s Christmas lunch and the photos of little yellow balls of fluff that Rafe had shown us on his phone, just as Sophie took the cooked bird out of the oven. ‘Chicks
are far more photogenic than grown-up turkeys, and the Internet goes mad for a fluffy baby animal?’
Sandra’s eyes narrow.
‘Yep, that’ll work,’ says Roger.
Azeem scribbles it down on a Post-it note, which will invariably end up on the sole of his shoe.
‘Do you want me to help source some shots?’ I say. ‘You’ll be snowed under.’
‘Lifesaver, Laura, cheers.’
‘Rodge?’ says Kiki. ‘The final Bechdel
piece is covering the Feeding Africa charity he runs?’
‘Have you had a thought?’
‘If you wanted to kill two birds with one stone, how about your cover line is just “STUFFED” – and then you do two subheads, “Damian Bechdel and the Missing Charity Money”, plus “Behind the Scenes at SunFarms”?’
‘Put “DOUBLE STUFFED”!’ says Jonesy, smirking. ‘You’ll sell shitloads.’
‘You could even trail The Dish
under that?’ says Azeem. ‘London’s Worst New Restaurant . . .?’
‘Yeah – “The Evisceration Issue”!’ says Kiki. ‘Corrupt philanthropists, turkeys and chefs . . .’
‘You cannot trail a food review on the cover,’ says Sandra, indignantly.
Roger gives me a reassuring look. ‘It’s too tabloid, all of it. We focus on Bechdel – and keep it simple: “TRUTH AND LIES IN THE BECHDEL FAMILY”.’
To: Laura
From: Sandra
Subject: Inappropriate behaviour
Roger is too diplomatic to say anything but may I remind you your role in conference is to take minutes, not input on picture sign-off on feature editorial – this is not magazine by committee. Thoroughly inappropriate behaviour yesterday – deeply unhelpful and sets a bad precedent.
To: Kiki
From: Laura
Subject: !
Just got an email
from Sandra – subject header ‘Inappropriate behaviour’. I thought she’d discovered those photos you showed me of her licking Fergus’s neck at the pub quiz. Delete them, and delete them from your bin and your iCloud – the iCloud is not safe!
To: Laura
From: Roger
Subject: URGENT
Fuck! The housekeeper’s bottled it – call emergency meeting in one hour with core team, in the meantime find Heather
– she’s not answering her phone!
To: Roger
From: Laura
Subject: re: URGENT
She’s in the loo. She says calm down – she’ll be with you in five.
To: Laura
From: Roger
Call off the emergency meeting! Heather’s put in a call to the housekeeper’s lawyer, we’re back on. Jesus Christ, I’m getting too old for this game.
To: Laura
From: Adam
Subject: Shane MacGowan
Are you sure you didn’t fake
the whole tooth thing just so you could get out of eating at LuxEris? Maybe go nil by mouth till Sunday? I want you to fully enjoy your shredded wheat at the Skegness Travelodge xx
To: Adam
From: Laura
Subject: On the mend
I’m still coming on Wednesday – if you’re cooking?
To: Laura
From: Adam
Subject: Masochist
I’d wait a couple of weeks if I were you. I’ll be introducing new dishes to
the menu.
To: Laura
From: Dad
Subject: Hello!
Did you go back to the restaurant last night?
To: Dad
From: Laura
Subject: re: Hello!
No – I broke my tooth, feels like I’ve been punched in the face by Tyson. I’m eating there again tomorrow. Does £450 for a crown seem extortionate to you? And that’s the cheap one, not even the ceramic!
Such a manic day – putting v. exciting scoop to bed
– am running round keeping everyone fed and watered/coffee-d. Roger’s normally calm under pressure but he’s super-stressed today.
To: Laura
From: Dad
Subject: re: Hello!
Don’t scrimp on your teeth – they’re yours for life.
Your mother used to love the adrenalin of a proper exclusive. She’d have been glad you’re getting to experience that environment.
To: Roger
From: Laura
Subject: Quick
one
I don’t want to interrupt – you seem pretty ensconced – but shout if you need anything? Will bring in afternoon tea (and maybe carrot cake?) in an hour.
To: Azeem
From: Laura
Subject: I want to adopt him!
I’ve spent the last hour sourcing pics of baby turkeys. If you don’t think this is the cutest thing you’ve ever seen then you are probably a serial killer.
To: Roger
From: Laura
Subject: Sorry to interrupt . . .
It’s coming up to 7.30 p.m. Was going to get you guys pizzas and beers. Yell if that’s not OK?
To: Roger
From: Laura
Subject: Me again . . .
I don’t want to bother you but it’s 9.50 p.m. – I’m thinking of heading home.
To: Laura
From: Roger
Subject: re: Me again . . .
Thought you’d have left ages ago! Just finalising with legal.
To: Roger
From: Laura
Subject: re: Me again . . .
So is it all clear? Is it safe to publish?
To: Laura
From: Roger
Subject: re: Me again . . .
Safe? No. But some levels of risk you just have to live with.
Roger arrives late on Wednesday and spends an hour with the door shut before summoning me. When he does, his glasses are already on, which is never a good sign.
‘Is everything OK, Roger? You must be relieved yesterday’s over.’
He nods. ‘Long day. I’ve got some bad news, I’m afraid.’
I feel a lurch in my stomach. Please don’t say you’ve found a lump. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Me? It’s not me, it’s
your piece. I’m going to have to go back on my word, I’m afraid.’
He’s changed his mind. Goodbye Adam.
Adios
, holiday. ‘No re-review?’ I say, trying desperately to strip the disappointment from my voice.
‘I mean, I can’t come with you tonight,’ he says, looking confused. ‘I’m sorry – it’s short notice but perhaps you can still find a friend?’
‘Oh Roger, I was worried for a minute. I’ll go alone
if necessary.’
‘OK. Sorry . . . I . . . I’m taking Thursday and Friday off, having a little rest. Nothing in the diary that can’t be moved is there?’
‘I’ll take care of it. So, if it is a rewrite, do I email you the revised copy tomorrow?’
‘You know what you’re doing, run it past a sub and legal, and run the Persian and the noodle.’
I’m just about to leave his office when I turn back again.
‘Roger – are you sure you’re OK?’
‘Just feeling my age.’
‘Make sure you get some proper rest at the weekend.’
He shoos me out of the office with a smile.
‘Soph, it’s me. I need you to come to dinner tonight at Adam’s restaurant.’
‘Soph, me again, it’s five thirty p.m. – I can’t go on my own, I’ll look like a stalker.’
‘Kiki – are you in the pub with Azeem? Or some dodgy Tinder bloke? Either
way, call me asap, it’s six thirty p.m.’
Ah, finally! Oh, no.
‘Hey, babe, where have you put my avocado slicer, I can’t find it anywhere?’
‘Amber – meet me at Bank station in an hour, I’m taking you for dinner.’
Just as I’m about to leave the office, Sophie calls.
‘Manic day, I decided to do the Celina Summer fortieth – and spent the whole day with her agent. I have so entirely made the wrong
decision, but anyway, do you still want me as your dinner date?’
‘Amber’s on her way there . . .’
‘Oh . . .’
‘Come!’
‘I can’t handle your flatmate in an enclosed space.’
‘Please?’
‘Can’t you get rid of her?’
‘No – but I need you for moral support.’
‘Oh bollocks . . . OK, but I’m not sitting next to her.’
Kissinger would have a hard time playing peacemaker between those two.
‘I didn’t
have an arse that tiny when I was five,’ whispers Sophie, as the three of us follow the hot-panted hostess through the restaurant.
‘She was probably born a boy,’ I whisper back. ‘Try not to stare.’
‘Why did she look at us as like we smell of fish sauce?’
‘Ignore the attitude – it’s all part of their
brand
.’
‘Ladies, your table,’ says the hostess, spreading her arms like she’s introducing the
Academy Awards. We’ve been led to a premium corner seat with a fantastic view of the bustling room. ‘Enjoy your meal,’ she says to Amber – who’s the only one of us who looks like she belongs here.
‘Just popping to the little girls’ room, babes,’ says Amber, dashing off the minute we’ve sat down.
‘Powdering her nose, is she?’ says Sophie.
‘She gave all that up after the last deep colonic.’
‘So which one is he?’ she whispers as she meerkats towards the kitchen.
‘Three-quarter sleeve whites, standing at the pass.’
‘Talking to the waitress? You never said he was so good-looking!’
‘Stop staring! Look over there, isn’t that what’s her face?’
‘She’s even thinner than she looks on telly! Do you think we’re the only ones in here with our original faces and bodies?’ she says, surveying
the room of stretched, snipped and sculpted skin. ‘You do know Zoolamber’s nose isn’t real? Sinus problems my arse, I reckon her first nose worked fine till she shoved half Colombia up it.’
‘Sshhh! She’s on her way back, and her ears work fine.’
‘I hate this crowd,’ says Sophie. ‘All these over-fumfed Shane Warne-y types. And their girlfriends are all two decades younger. I bet my ex will walk
in any minute. Seriously, where are all these people in the daytime? You never see them in Sainsbury’s. It’s like
Made in Chelsea
meets
TOWIE
meets
When Plastic Surgery Goes Wrong
!’