‘It was okay,’ I replied. ‘He got a bit tearful when the speeches started, but apart from that he looked happy enough.’
‘I heard you were accosted by Jonny Delaney.’
I was tipping back the last of my orange juice, but Lucy’s comment made it go down the wrong way. I panic-coughed until my throat cleared. ‘How do you know that? Did he write something online?’
She went slightly pink, almost the same shade as her hair.
‘I bumped into Mike coming in.’
‘And how didhehear?’
‘He had Jonny’s newPRman with him. Who, for the record, is sexy as fuck.’
‘Nick Jones was here?’
‘Yeah, with Mike.’
As publisher, Mike looked after the financial side of things – he wasn’t supposed to get involved editorially. But six months ago the magazine had been bought by The Octagon Group, a corporation that made soft drinks, and our new overlords only cared about the bottom line. We’d been promised that things wouldn’t change, but, of course, they had. Our expenses were pored over and there had been a freeze on pay rises. But worse was the fact that Mike had started encouraging me to put more commercial bands in the magazine to help reach a wider mainstream audience. I’d pushed back; it was at odds with why our readership had remained loyal for so many decades. But I’d finally relented with the Hands Down review, and the improved sales figures of that month’s issue proved, frustratingly, that Mike had been right.
My eighteen-year-old self would have branded present-day Zoë a sell-out, but teenage me never had to pay rent on a flat in zone two.
My desk phone rang. Mike’s name flashed on the display, but I let it ring. This needed a face-to-face.
Mike’s office was tucked between the loos and the fire escape. The walls were lined with teak panelling untouched since 1970, and the glass in the windows was criss-crossed in that fireproof mesh that reminded me of school.
He was sucking an unlit e-cigarette as I entered his office. He may as well have been sucking on a biro for all the satisfaction it was giving him.
‘Lucy told me about your visitor this morning.’
He removed the cigarette from his mouth and threw it into a drawer. ‘You seem upset.’
‘Let me guess: he wants more coverage in the magazine for his crappy boy band.’ He opened his mouth to speak, but I wasn’t done. ‘That wasn’t cool, Mike. You shouldn’t have taken a meeting with him. You know you can’t meddle in editorial.’ I was standing over his desk; its green leather top was pockmarked by ink and scratches.
‘I thought, under the circumstances, I’d make an exception.’
‘What possible reason could—’
‘He’s just been appointed Marcie Tyler’sPR.’
‘Oh. Shit.’
This was some sort of cosmic joke.Ha ha, universe – good one.
Mike was looking at me with suspicion. He had twenty-five years on me and had served with theSASin the Falklands. He knew a thing or two about interrogation and could elicit a straight answer out of anybody simply by raising an eyebrow.
He was arching his left one now. ‘Anything I should know, Zoë?’
‘We had a bit of a disagreement last night.’
‘What happened?’
I was surprised Nick hadn’t told him – or maybe he had and Mike wanted my side of the story.
‘He thought I was rude to Jonny Delaney from Hands Down.’
‘And were you?’
‘We had a frank and robust exchange of ideas.’
