And it was. He’d used it to pack some of his stuff the day he’d left.

Instantly the room was dense with the ugly emotions of that day. Oliver furious–again. Lisa angrily defensive–again. Oliver objecting that theirs was no longer a proper marriage. Lisa sarcastically telling him to divorce her.

‘I’ll give it you back.’ Oliver proferred the holdall hopefully, but it was no good. The mood was sombre and, in silence, they finished getting ready for work.

When she couldn’t stall any further, Lisa said, ‘Well, bye.’

‘Bye,’ he replied. To her surprise she had tears in her eyes.

‘Aw, don’t cry.’ He bundled her in his arms. ‘C’ mon, Editor-Girl, you’ll smudge your make-up.’

She managed a wet giggle, but her throat ached as if a big round stone was stuck in it. ‘I’m sorry things didn’t work out for us,’ she admitted, in a low tone.

‘Well,’ he shrugged. ‘Shit happens. Did you know that –’

‘– two in three marriages end in divorce,’ they said together.

With effort, they managed a laugh, then disengaged.

‘And at least it’s amicable now,’ she said awkwardly. ‘Like, we’re, you know, talking to each other.’

‘Exactly,’ he cheerfully agreed. She was distracted by the sheen of his lilac linen shirt against the silky chocolate of his throat. Jesus, that man knew how to dress!

As she pulled the door closed, he called, ‘Hey, babes, don’t forget.’

Her heart lifted and she opened the door again. Forget what? I love you?

‘Get a lawyer!’ He wagged his finger and grinned.

It was a beautiful sunny morning. She walked through the buttery sunshine to work. She felt like shit.

41

Lisa suddenly realized that no one had mentioned the shows. Or should she say, The Shows!!! She could never think of them without seeing them lit up in neon. They were the highlight of an editor’s job. Twice a year, jetting off to the buzzy hub of Milan or Paris. (She flew everywhere else but the shows were so glamorous that naturally one ‘jetted’ to them.) Staying at George V or Principe di Savoia, being treated like royalty, getting front-row seats at Versace, Dior, Dolce & Gabbana, Chanel, receiving flowers and gifts simply for showing up. The four-day circus teeming with egomaniac designers, neurotic models, rock-stars, film-idols, sinister millionaires in gold, chunky jewellery, and, of course, magazine editors – eyeing each other with savage hatred, checking out how high their seat was in the pecking order. Party after party, in art galleries, nightclubs, warehouses, abbatoirs (some of the more cutting-edge designers just didn’t know where to draw the line). Where you simply couldn’t be more at the centre of the universe if you tried, dear.

Of course, it was written in stone that you bitched that the clothes were unwearable nonsense designed by misogynistic wankers, that the post-show presents weren’t as lavish as the previous year’s, that the best hotel room was always bagsed by Lily Head-ley-Smythe, and what a huge pain it was having to travel a mile outside the city-centre to see some young hotshot display his groundbreaking collection in a disused bean-canning plant, but it was still unthinkable not to go. And it hit her like an avalanche of Kurt Gieger loafers that there had been no talk of the shows at Colleen. Seeing Oliver must have triggered thoughts of them.

It was probably all in hand, she soothed herself. There was likely to be a budget provision for both herself and Mercedes to go. But what if there wasn’t? The freelance budget she’d been given couldn’t accommodate the costs. Not even close. It could barely have paid for a croissant at George V.

With rising panic Lisa knocked on Jack’s door and didn’t wait for him to answer before she marched on in. ‘The shows,’ she said with an involuntary wheeze.

In surprise, Jack looked up, frozen in a hunched pose over what looked like a ton of legal documents. ‘What shows?’

‘Fashion shows. Milan, Paris. September. I will be going?’ Her pounding heart was too big for her chest.

‘Sit down,’ Jack gently invited, and instantly she knew those words were bad news.

‘I always went when I was editor of Femme. It’s important for the profile of the magazine that we have a presence there. Advertising, all that,’ came out in a garbled rush. ‘We’ll never be taken seriously if we’re not seen…’

Jack watched her, waiting for her to finish. The sympathy in his eyes told her she was wasting her time, but never say die.

A deep breath steadied her, ‘I am going?’

‘I’m sorry,’ Jack crooned, his voice like Savlon. ‘We don’t have the budget. Not this year, anyway. Maybe when the magazine is more on its feet, when the advertising has increased.’

‘But surely I–?’

Sadly he shook his head. ‘We haven’t the money.’

It was the pity in his look as much as his words that finally hammered the truth home. The full awful reality slammed into her. Everyone else would be there. Everyone in the whole world. And they’d notice she wasn’t, she’d be a laughing stock. Then an even more awful thought filled her head. Maybe they wouldn’t notice.

Jack was pouring oil on troubled waters like no one’s business, promising to buy syndicated pictures from any number of sources, how Colleen could still do a fantastic spread, how the readers would never know that their editor hadn’t actually been…

It was then that Lisa realized she was crying. Not angry, tantrummy tears, but pure, sweet grief that she was powerless to control. Infinite sadness heaved out of her with each sob.

It’s only a few silly fashion shows, said her head.

But she couldn’t stop crying and from nowhere came a memory, completely unrelated to anything. Of when she was about fifteen, smoking and mooching around Hemel town centre with two other girls, complaining about how shit it all was.

‘Full of spastics,’ Carol’s slick mouth had twisted with bored disgust as she surveyed the high street.

‘And pricks with shit clothes and shit lives,’ Lisa had agreed nastily.

‘Look, that’s your mum, isn’t it?’ Andrea’s blue-mascaraed eyes were catty and amused as, with a nod of her backcombed head, she’d indicated a woman across the road.

With an unpleasant lurch Lisa saw her mother, dowdy and ridiculous in her ‘best’ coat. ‘Her?’ Lisa had scorned, exhaling a long plume of smoke. ‘That’s not my mum.’