much, Fiona; I couldn’t be more flattered or excited if you’d … well, I can’t think of anything. Crikey. It’s just amazing.”
She really must stop saying things like crikey ; it made her sound as if she was back in the sixth at Heathfield.
She got an interview two weeks later. She rather liked Jack Beckham, terrifying as he was; he reminded her of Matt Shaw. He was dark and heavily built, with quite a strong London accent, and he looked completely out of place in the rather rarefied air of Charisma ’s offices. Not that they were too much like those of most of the magazines she knew, full of pretty, posh girls in miniskirts chatting up models and effete photographers. The atmosphere here was much more serious, with a couple of very intellectual-looking men—one the assistant editor—and the features department, which was next to fashion and twice its size, was full of the sort of girls who had probably, Eliza thought, been to Oxford, clever-looking creatures with wild hair and arty clothes, with voices two octaves deeper than their twittering counterparts’. Their office, moreover, was full not of clothes rails and beauty products, but great piles of books and records and a couple of tape recorders, and the pictures on the walls were not of Jean Shrimpton and Pattie Boyd, but Kenneth Tynan and Norman Mailer.
Beckham’s office was full of smoke; he had a cigar smouldering in an ashtray on his desk and a cigarette in his mouth. He leaned back and studied her.
“So you’re Fiona’s great discovery. I hear you were a deb or some such rubbish.”
“I was,” said Eliza, “but that wasn’t my fault.”
“Well, I suppose not.” He smiled at her. He had liked that. “What makes you think you can do this job for us?”
“I don’t—yet. It was Fiona’s idea. But I’d love to try. I think Charisma is amazing.”
“And what’s the most amazing thing you’ve read in it?”
This was a test; she’d prepared for it.
“I think the piece about the down-and-outs. It was … well, it was great. So well written, and the photographs were—”
“Bollocks,” said Jack Beckham.
“I’m sorry?”
“I said bollocks. I bet you don’t have the slightest interest in down-and-outs.”
“I …” This was perfectly true; she smiled at him reluctantly.
“Tell me the truth: what really grabbed you?”
“OK, the piece about the cloakroom attendants at all the big hotels.”
“That’s more likely. Why?”
“Well, because I must have met lots of them. And never realised what extraordinary lives they lead. And the people they deal with on a daily basis.”
That was a pathetic answer; it made her sound like what she was: a spoilt, upper-class girl.
“Good. I like that. That’s what we try to do in all our features. Turn accepted ideas on their heads. Think you can convert that into fashion?”
“I … I don’t know. I mean … surely that’s Fiona’s job. She’s the editor. I’d just be her assistant.”
“Yes, yes, but we don’t want some crap yes-girl in that job. We want someone with balls. Understand what I mean?”
“Yes, of course I do.”
“I interviewed Bernard Woolfe once. For the Sunday Times . Bit full of his own importance, I thought.”
“Well, in his world, he is very important,” said Eliza staunchly. She wasn’t going to be tricked into bad-mouthing her present boss.
“Tell me why you think so.”
“He’s done something amazing with that store. Especially the department I work in. It’s the first to have anything like that.”
“Well, maybe. Like him, do you? It’ll be very different working for me, you know.”
“I can see that.”
“You can?”
“Yes.”
God, she shouldn’t have said that. Now he was going to ask her in what way. But he didn’t. He laughed instead.
“You have a certain honesty, Miss Clark. I like that. Now, you’re not going to get married and have a baby like that wretched Lucy creature, are you?”
“Absolutely
She really must stop saying things like crikey ; it made her sound as if she was back in the sixth at Heathfield.
She got an interview two weeks later. She rather liked Jack Beckham, terrifying as he was; he reminded her of Matt Shaw. He was dark and heavily built, with quite a strong London accent, and he looked completely out of place in the rather rarefied air of Charisma ’s offices. Not that they were too much like those of most of the magazines she knew, full of pretty, posh girls in miniskirts chatting up models and effete photographers. The atmosphere here was much more serious, with a couple of very intellectual-looking men—one the assistant editor—and the features department, which was next to fashion and twice its size, was full of the sort of girls who had probably, Eliza thought, been to Oxford, clever-looking creatures with wild hair and arty clothes, with voices two octaves deeper than their twittering counterparts’. Their office, moreover, was full not of clothes rails and beauty products, but great piles of books and records and a couple of tape recorders, and the pictures on the walls were not of Jean Shrimpton and Pattie Boyd, but Kenneth Tynan and Norman Mailer.
Beckham’s office was full of smoke; he had a cigar smouldering in an ashtray on his desk and a cigarette in his mouth. He leaned back and studied her.
“So you’re Fiona’s great discovery. I hear you were a deb or some such rubbish.”
“I was,” said Eliza, “but that wasn’t my fault.”
“Well, I suppose not.” He smiled at her. He had liked that. “What makes you think you can do this job for us?”
“I don’t—yet. It was Fiona’s idea. But I’d love to try. I think Charisma is amazing.”
“And what’s the most amazing thing you’ve read in it?”
This was a test; she’d prepared for it.
“I think the piece about the down-and-outs. It was … well, it was great. So well written, and the photographs were—”
“Bollocks,” said Jack Beckham.
“I’m sorry?”
“I said bollocks. I bet you don’t have the slightest interest in down-and-outs.”
“I …” This was perfectly true; she smiled at him reluctantly.
“Tell me the truth: what really grabbed you?”
“OK, the piece about the cloakroom attendants at all the big hotels.”
“That’s more likely. Why?”
“Well, because I must have met lots of them. And never realised what extraordinary lives they lead. And the people they deal with on a daily basis.”
That was a pathetic answer; it made her sound like what she was: a spoilt, upper-class girl.
“Good. I like that. That’s what we try to do in all our features. Turn accepted ideas on their heads. Think you can convert that into fashion?”
“I … I don’t know. I mean … surely that’s Fiona’s job. She’s the editor. I’d just be her assistant.”
“Yes, yes, but we don’t want some crap yes-girl in that job. We want someone with balls. Understand what I mean?”
“Yes, of course I do.”
“I interviewed Bernard Woolfe once. For the Sunday Times . Bit full of his own importance, I thought.”
“Well, in his world, he is very important,” said Eliza staunchly. She wasn’t going to be tricked into bad-mouthing her present boss.
“Tell me why you think so.”
“He’s done something amazing with that store. Especially the department I work in. It’s the first to have anything like that.”
“Well, maybe. Like him, do you? It’ll be very different working for me, you know.”
“I can see that.”
“You can?”
“Yes.”
God, she shouldn’t have said that. Now he was going to ask her in what way. But he didn’t. He laughed instead.
“You have a certain honesty, Miss Clark. I like that. Now, you’re not going to get married and have a baby like that wretched Lucy creature, are you?”
“Absolutely
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