‘That would be absolutely fine with me,’ said Rose.
‘Nope,’ replied Minnie. ‘This is Rose’s opportunity, Oliver. Not yours. Besides, Joss seems to be the only publicist that doesn’t favour you over everyone else.’
‘Fine, whatever,’ he said, continuing to fiddle with his notepad.
‘Do we have a backup in case we can’t get Milo?’ asked Rose.
‘Not yet. But I’m sure if we can’t get him we’ll just rope someone else in at the last minute. There’s always some desperate D-list musician hanging around in the wings,’ said Liz. ‘I have a list on my phone.’
‘For the love of God, please do not share that list with anyone,’ said Minnie.
‘Yes, yes, I know,’ nodded Liz.
‘We also need to set up a meeting with Izabel,’ said Minnie. ‘And then another one with Michael.’
Michael was the publisher of MODE and had also been given the job of publisher for StandFirst, which was bizarre given that he was in his mid-fifties and a raging alcoholic. Minnie often excluded him from meetings, staging fake ones with just him, her and Oliver, so that he wouldn’t realise he wasn’t being included in the real meetings, which he never did because he was always too drunk to notice.
Izabel had refused to have meetings with him anymore because she claimed they always made her clothes smell of vodka. ‘The leather that Celine uses really holds on to the smell of alcohol,’ she once told Minnie in an email.
The meeting concluded and Annabelle cornered Rose.
‘I really appreciate you helping me,’ she said, smiling sweetly.
‘You’re welcome,’ Rose replied. ‘And I’m sorry about the other day. I get weird when I’m tired.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Annabelle replied. ‘For what it’s worth, I think you guys would make a great couple.’
‘What?’
‘Oh nothing, I just mean … I don’t know what I meant. Sorry. I’m just so excited!’
‘Annabelle. I really need to get back to this. I’ll send that email, okay?’
‘Amazing, thank you!’
Rose sat down at her desk and plugged in her headphones hoping everyone would leave her alone.
She opened Joss’s last email to her and felt her insides contorting as she typed.
Hi Joss,
Hope all is well. Getting in touch because I’d love to know if Milo might be available to perform at the launch of our new supplement, StandFirst, on 20 July. Appreciate it’s very last minute but we’ve spotted a gap in his tour schedule and wondered if we might be able to make something work.
Let me know if you might be interested and I can pass on further details.
Kindest,
Rose.
After work that day, Rose left the press office without a word and went straight into the second-floor bathroom, heading for the last cubicle at the end of the row. She sat with the toilet seat down, closed her eyes and pictured herself standing alone in an empty field. She opened her mouth and let it out, imagining a sound louder than any human could possibly make. Her fingers curled, digging into her legs, her face contorted until it hurt, every single fibre in her body fired up to amplify the scream. She let it continue until hot, globular tears were rolling down her cheeks and her breathing resumed.
When Rose opened her eyes, she saw there was a small sliver of blood on her thigh. Panicked, she quickly scanned the cubicle for the source of the cut she’d developed. A rogue piece of glass? An unexpected sharp corner somewhere on her way in? Only when she reached for toilet roll to clear it up did she see the blood on the nail of her index finger.
PART III
ONE
It was the night before the hen do and Rose could no longer avoid the ‘Give her a shot, she’s tying the knot’ group. She had managed, so far, to get away with quietly observing the conversations from a safe distance: skimming past chatter about the ‘Legs Bums and Tums’ classes the hens had been going to together (Jessie: Omg my thighs are literally THROBBING like hams after that) but fulfilling any financial or logistical obligations when asked.
Since she’d last checked in, and duly paid the £250 as requested, without knowing what she was paying for because the bridesmaids had been ‘sworn to secrecy’, conversation had run from where you could find the cheapest feather boas to estimated salaries of each of the single men coming to the wedding. For a group of women with so much of their own money (mostly family wealth), they were also weirdly obsessed by how much, or how little, other people had.
The start time (9 a.m.) had also been fervently discussed.
Fran: Hang on, 9am in Salisbury?
Grace: Lol are you sure?
Jessie: Yes – the bridesmaids are all staying in the *mystery* location the night before.
Fran: But the rest of us aren’t …
Jessie: I know – sorry, babe. Just drive up early and stock up on caffeine! Or there’s a 6.30am train from Waterloo.
Rose could tell this exchange would have triggered a splinter WhatsApp group with Fran and a few others bitching about the early start.
Meanwhile, she still hadn’t sorted a lift. The train would work but she’d be doing herself no favours by isolating herself from the group even more so early on. It would be something that was talked about, possibly in the splinter group.
Rose: Sorry I’ve missed a bunch of messages. Does anyone have space in the car tomorrow from London?
