Chapter One
An Appointment with the Boss
The sight which met the receptionist’s eyes as I stumbled through the glass revolving door must have been one worthy of a comedy award. My face was flushed red from all the running and the wind had swept every dripping wet hair over to one side of my head. With my coat buttoned crooked and the heel of my shoe in my left hand, I wouldn’t be surprised if I was mistaken for a drowned rat.
Andrea, the receptionist standing behind a semi-circular white desk, barely looked up from her computer as I walked further into the lobby. I swung my bag onto the counter and panted loudly, resting my head on my crossed arms. Andrea continued to type and only spoke once she’d finished her email.
“You’re late,” she said. She was trying to sound angry but there was laughter in her voice; no doubt she found my unusual appearance highly amusing.
“I know,” I straightened up, “I was late leaving school...and then I missed the train...’cos it started raining and my heel came off...”
“Well you’ve missed your appointment...” she scrolled down the endless list of bookings she had typed up in a spreadsheet. “Your father should be finishing up with the editor in about ten minutes, and then he has a five minute window until the photographer gets back.”
“Ok. Do you know why he so urgently wants to talk to me?”
My mother started hurriedly tidying behind the desk, putting pens back into pots and gathering empty mugs. “I think we both know, don’t you?”
I nodded sadly, dragging my bag from the desk and limping down the nearest corridor.
“Don’t expect any coffee,” Mum called from the lobby, “we’re running desperately low and it’s so expensive...”
I’m sure I’ve told my mother a hundred times before that I can’t stand coffee, but I didn’t say anything and carried on towards my father’s office. I reached the end of the corridor and threw myself into a soft leather armchair, resting my head on the wall and staring at the ceiling. This foyer was smaller than the main one, painted bright white and was studded with little round wall lamps that gave out light so dazzling it made me squint. On black metal tables were tall, spiky plants and as it was nearing Christmas, ice-blue tinsel was draped on every possible surface. A rather dead-looking tree twinkled dimly with fairy lights.
When I left school an hour and a half ago at four pm (was if really only an hour and a half? It felt like half a day), I found I had received a text message from Hannah, Mum’s personal assistant, telling me I had to be at the office by five as my Dad wanted to talk to me. This was unusual; I rarely have to make an official appointment to see my own father.
But I was more worried about the fact that I was already late, and the next train to the other side of London left in just fifteen minutes time. It would normally have taken me twenty minutes to run to the station, but in the bitter cold, heavy rain, growing darkness and herds of people on every street, I was unlikely to get there in less than half and hour.
It was worth a try anyway, I decided, pocketing my phone and breaking into an ungraceful skip. Soon I was soaked to the skin and my fingers were numb, despite the thin woollen gloves I wore. You might be wondering why I was going to so much trouble just to catch a train which ran several times an hour anyway, but I’m not telling you now because I think you’ll find out soon enough.
It couldn’t have been much earlier than ten past four that I was weaving through the never-ending swarm of people, occasionally tripping on a loose paving slab or running into a small child. Catching the heel of my shoe down a drain-grate it conveniently snapped in half, leaving me to hobble the next mile to the station.
I really was kidding myself that I would catch the train in time. Flying down the two flights of grey stone steps to the Underground platform, I could literally hear my train leaving without me on it. That’s when I gave up the running, bought a ticket for the four fifty-two train and sat in a coffee shop for the next quarter of an hour, knowing I would be in trouble when I did finally make it to CHAT Magazine Headquarters. I sipped at a weak hot chocolate which looked and tasted of dishwater, texting Hannah and telling her to please beg for mercy from my father on my behalf. She refused.
On the train, I got looks of both sympathy and...more sympathy. I couldn’t bear to think of what I looked like at that moment, but I guessed people were thinking I’d just gone surfing fully-clothed. I stood lopsided, pushed up against the doors, wondering why on earth I was putting myself through this. I arrived at my destination by quarter past five.
It seemed like I had only just caught my breath, and then I was running again. By now the sky was inky-black, but Trafalgar Square was illuminated with golden and glittering Christmas lights. I made the executive decision that the fastest way across was to go straight through the crowds, trying my very best not to kill any pigeons in my haste. I have to admit I was a bit jealous of all these happy tourists wrapped up warm in fur coats, bobble hats and pashminas. They also seemed to take great joy in standing in my way. Living in London all my life, I have learnt that this is what tourists do best.
By now the rain was falling in sheets. Even if I had jumped underneath a fountain I couldn’t have got much wetter, and the water was so cold my cheeks felt like they were being pricked with hot needles. I was tiring quickly too, not used to so much physical activity in one go.
At half past five I arrived at the office, thoroughly stressed out and really not in the mood to talk to anybody politely.
Dad’s office door swung open and out walked Editor in Chief Tommy Beadle. Straightening his thick-framed glasses, hugging a pink clipboard and pulling down a tartan waistcoat he saw the state I was in, and smiled awkwardly. He shuffled over to me and said in his hushed voice, “I’d be nice to him if I were you, Lydia. He’s in a worse mood than usual.”
“Why?” I asked.
Tommy said nothing and shuffled away towards the elevator, pretending he hadn’t heard me.
Reluctantly leaving my chair I walked over to the door and pushed it slowly open.
“Dad?”
The room was blissfully warm compared to outside, the heaters pumping out far too much hot air for what we could afford. The curtains were drawn firmly shut, blocking out the hectic scenes from the street, and my feet sunk into the thick burgundy carpet. The walls, also painted the same boring white as every other wall in the building were decorated with modern, artistic paintings with swirling colours. Framed magazine mock-ups dominated the whole of one wall and a few tacky awards sat proudly on the shelves. Several piles of paper surrounded my father as he tapped on the keyboard behind his desk in the corner of the room. Seeing me, he glanced up, only to lower his head again to the computer as he talked to me.
“It’s nice of you to grace me with your presence, Lydia,” he said with his usual sarcasm.
“Yes. I know I’m a bit late...”
“Over half an hour. What kept you?”
“Mr Harley asked me to help with the after-school auditions for next term’s musical. It was only when I left school at four that I got the text from Hannah, and by then it was impossible I would catch the train in time, so I had to wait for the next one.”
There was no point in telling the full story as it would only bore him even more, and I doubt he was listening properly anyway.
“Well, I have five minutes. Luckily,” he added deliberately to make me feel bad, “sit down.”
