The Forgotten Girl. Kerry Barrett

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СКАЧАТЬ did you get these?’ I asked Emily.

      She grinned at me.

      ‘There’s a guy called Kevin, works in the library in the basement,’ she said.

      ‘There’s a library?’ I was impressed with her knowledge.

      ‘It’s not massive, but it’s brilliant,’ she said. ‘Anyway, Kevin’s got a daughter about my age, I gave him some advice about something, and bob’s your uncle – he bent the rules and let me take the magazines away.’

      I was impressed. I studied Emily carefully. She had strawberry blonde hair that was twisted back and up on her head, Adele-style, and she was wearing capri pants and a fitted fifties-look blouse. She looked great and absolutely nothing like the interns I was used to, who were like one great identical mass of oversized tote bags and false eyelashes.

      She looked back at me for a moment then lowered her eyes shyly.

      ‘Just thought they might be helpful,’ she said.

      ‘They’re not just helpful,’ I said, picking up the Twiggy issue. ‘They’re life-saving.’

      She grinned again.

      ‘How long are you here for, Emily?’ I asked.

      ‘One more month,’ she said.

      I made a note on my to-do list to speak to HR about taking her on full-time, and to re-do the budget I’d just sent to Lizzie to pay for her, then smiled at her.

      ‘There are some photos in there,’ she said, gesturing to the magazines. ‘I found them inside one of the issues.’

      She leafed through the pile and pulled out an A4-size black and white glossy print.

      ‘It’s the team who worked on the very first issue,’ she said.

      I looked at the photo. There were about ten people in the shot, their arms linked. At the centre, holding a magazine, was an older woman – about fifty-ish – stylish in a boxy Chanel suit. It was mostly women and they all looked incredible. I breathed out.

      ‘Those clothes,’ I said.

      ‘I know,’ Emily said. She came round my desk and leaned over my shoulder.

      ‘That’s the first editor,’ she said, pointing to the older woman.

      I nodded.

      ‘Margi Matthews,’ I said. I’d read about her, of course. She’d come from the States and had been a real trailblazer.

      ‘And that is Suze Williams,’ Emily pointed to a young woman at one end of the picture. She had dark hair in a crop just like Twiggy’s, and she was wearing a very short, black pinafore dress over a white long-sleeved t-shirt and white tights.

      ‘No way,’ I said. Margi was the founding editor of the magazine, but it was Suze who’d made it what it was now. She’d been editor in the late seventies and had taken Mode from its cautious beginnings as a fashion mag, to one of the most controversial and sassy women’s mags in the business.

      ‘She started out as editorial assistant,’ Emily said. ‘She worked on the very first issue, and eventually took over.’

      ‘I didn’t know that,’ I said, staring at the pic. ‘Can you take some of these, go through them and make some notes about features that catch your eye?’ I said, a germ of an idea taking root in my mind. ‘I’ll take the other half.’

      ‘Of course,’ Emily said, looking like I’d given her a present. ‘I’d love to.’

      She took a bundle of mags from the top of the pile and headed out of my office.

      I sat back in my chair, pleased with her initiative, and started leafing through the issues. They made me really sad. It was such a brilliant magazine and if Lizzie had her way it would be the end. I loved digital and how you could react to things happening immediately online, but in my opinion there was nothing better than treating yourself to a glossy magazine and curling up on the sofa to read it. Grace was a great magazine, I liked it a lot, but it didn’t have the history that Mode had. It had changed its image so many times over the years that its early days as Home & Hearth were completely forgotten now – except to magazine geeks like me.

      I read for well over an hour, jotting down ideas. Magazines had really changed, that was for sure, but what surprised me about those early editions was just how blunt and honest they were. There was loads of sex in them, hard-hitting features on things like abortion and racism, there was humour, advice, and a real feeling of being in this together. We could learn a lot from these issues, I thought.

      I picked up the photograph of the first Mode team again and stared at it. There were only about ten people in the picture. They all had their arms linked and they were laughing. Margi Matthews, in the middle, was holding a round glass of champagne and the man to her left, who was wearing Mad Men style glasses, was gripping the bottle. There was so much energy and enthusiasm oozing out of the photo I could almost feel it.

      I tapped the photo against my chin, thinking. The difference between the team in this picture and the team I was looking at – the nervous, quiet, worried team I had – was astonishing. Somehow I had to get that enthusiasm into my team if we were going to have any chance of beating Grace’s brilliant sales. I couldn’t rely on Vanessa to come up with exciting ideas, that was clear. I needed a right-hand woman. Someone I could work with. Someone who knew me inside out. In short, I needed Jen.

      She and I had worked together on and off for years. We’d met when we were both interns on magazines in the same company. Our careers had followed similar paths and we’d ended up as deputy editor – me – and features director – her – on Happy magazine. We’d loved working so closely together. I was in awe of Jen’s creativity and her knack of knowing exactly what the magazine needed each issue, while I knew I was better at managing a team and getting the job done.

      We’d worked so well together in fact that we’d hatched a plan. We’d started plotting to launch our own online magazine, which we’d planned to call The Hive. We’d approached writers, spoken to designers, I’d even had some tentative meetings about getting finance in place. The feedback was enthusiastic, there was a real buzz about it and things were moving. And then Lizzie had called me to chat about this job. I’d not mentioned it to Jen at first, thinking it would come to nothing. But somehow I’d gone for one interview, then another, then presented to the board… and suddenly I was the new editor of Mode. I had to tell Jen – and more importantly we had to put all our plans for The Hive on hold.

      Not surprisingly, Jen was furious. She’d put a lot of work into The Hive.

      ‘Carry on,’ I’d said, as we sat in our favourite bar the day I told her. ‘Carry on without me.’

      She’d shaken her head, her bleached blonde hair brushing her shoulders.

      ‘You know that wouldn’t work,’ she’d said. ‘It’s called The Hive for a reason. It’s not a solo venture.’

      ‘I’ll help,’ I said desperately. ‘At evenings and weekends. I’ll do whatever you need me to do.’

      Jen stared into her glass.

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