Cate gazed around the cocktail reception of the British Society of Magazine Awards, held every year at Park Lane’s Grosvenor House Hotel, and couldn’t help but wonder once again how she had managed to be up for a gong. Sand was such a tiny magazine compared to the industry players walking around the room; there were five hundred representatives from right across the spectrum, from Vogue to GQ via Golf World and Country Life. From issue one, sales of Sand had been surprisingly strong. A magazine packed with gorgeous clothes and exotic locations had struck a chord with the general public over a long hot summer, and the high-paying, high-end fashion and cosmetic advertising had just started trickling in. But editing and publishing her own magazine still felt something of a hobby, so to have been nominated for Launch Editor of the Year had stunned her. Looking around the reception, Cate felt slightly fraudulent and undeserving to be there, like a child who had wandered from the playpen to the grown-ups’ room and was about to get found out any second.
‘So, who do you know? Who are the big names here?’ asked Sand’s art director, Pete Miller, who looked awkward in a rented dinner suit and dirty trainers as he guzzled a buck’s fizz. Cate was grateful that, despite the huge cost of a table, Nick had insisted the whole team should come. She craned her neck to look at the sea of black tie and cocktail dresses. ‘A few people. And there are a few people I’d rather avoid, so if I give you a nudge, hide me.’
She wasn’t sure what was making her feel more nauseous: butterflies at the prospect of winning an award, or anxiety at the thought of bumping into William Walton. Although she had long recovered from her dismissal from Class magazine, which seemed another lifetime away, the recent fight with Serena had dredged up all her feelings of rejection, shame and inadequacy. She had spent the last three weeks throwing herself into work and long hours, trying to distract herself from the absolute pain of betrayal that Serena had inflicted. She had surprised herself by feeling nothing for David’s fecklessness. In fact he had been simple enough to jettison from her life, despite all the deliveries of expensive flowers. But Serena: that was a different matter. Cate still felt so fragile and bruised, she would rather have skipped the entire award ceremony in favour of another solitary night alone with a bottle of wine, where no one could touch her or hurt her.
Cate excused herself from Pete, who had begun a ham-fisted attempt to chat up Ruth the picture editor, and went to freshen up in the ladies’ room. She reapplied her lip-gloss and took a moment to check her reflection in the mirror. An emerald-green Matthew Williamson silk evening dress floated over her curves, her long hair was brushed over her shoulders, sweeps of blush made her cheekbones look high and round: at least she looked good. She went into a cubicle, locked the door and took a few deep breaths. Gradually she was aware of voices in the adjoining stall. ‘Apparently she is a shoo-in for the Launch Editor award,’ said the first voice, followed by the gentle snorting sound of white powder disappearing up a nostril.
Another voice responded tartly. ‘I mean, we would all win awards and prizes if Daddy bankrolled us with a magazine to play with, just because we’d been fired.’
Cate tipped down the toilet-seat lid and perched on the edge of the cold plastic, not daring to breathe and wishing that she could tap together the heels of her Jimmy Choo sandals and be whisked off home. The dinner had yet to start. Maybe she could slip out unnoticed and be home for eight. It wasn’t as if she was going to win anything anyway.
‘Someone looks miserable, considering she’s about to collect an award,’ smiled Nick Douglas, catching her coming out of the ladies’ room.
‘Where have you been?’ she asked, pasting on a smile. ‘You’re supposed to be here supporting me on the eve of victory.’
‘I’ve been checking out the table plan with Vicky and Marie.’
Cate felt a ridiculous stab of jealousy. Nick was perfectly entitled to socialize with members of the staff – even the prettiest members, she thought. She remembered the way all the Sand girls had been flirting with him over drinks at the office. While her feelings for Nick had petered out, or possibly been suppressed over the last few months with David on the scene, now she was back on her own, she had once again felt that familiar stir of emotion when she walked into the office. She still found herself spending a little extra time getting ready every morning so she would look her very best. It annoyed her, but she couldn’t stop herself.
‘You’ll be delighted to know we’re on table ten,’ said Nick. ‘Not that far from the stage, which I’m taking as a good sign.’
‘Hmmm,’ she said distractedly.
She forced herself to perk up. ‘Yes. Just nervous, I guess.’
‘I know you’re going to win it,’ said Nick, moving a fraction closer to her, so the space between them seemed to exclude everyone else. ‘You’re the best in the business and you’ve proved it with this magazine.’ He smiled, his hazel eyes warm and encouraging and she felt her mood lift a little. She had been used to her father telling her she was an also-ran, a master in the art of the mediocre; so to hear such unabashed confidence in her abilities coming from a male voice lit a light inside her.
‘Come on, let’s go and win some awards.’
Forty miles away, in the heart of Surrey, Camilla Balcon was also trying to impress, but she had no glossy magazine covers to hide behind. The task at hand was to convince the members of the Esher Conservative Association that her track record, her ideology, her passion were enough for her to be chosen as their next prospective parliamentary candidate. Looking out onto a sea of faces in this chilly hall, expressions running the spectrum from bored to challenging, she tried to compose herself. Camilla was never this nervous in court, but then in court she was shielded by the law. Whether she won or lost was down to her agility in manipulating the law to best serve her client. She had rules and precedents to lean on and she was good: the best. But tonight, she felt far more exposed. People were judging her on her ability to be the constituency’s next MP, not on her ability to present a set of facts.
Still, she had thought her speech addressing the association’s committee members had gone well. Camilla was, after all, a natural public speaker, and she had surprised even herself with the force of her views and the depth of her beliefs. She was opinionated yes, but political? That had been the challenge. Living at Huntsford for eighteen years and being force-fed her father’s bludgeoning views had taught her how to fight her corner, but she had never been particularly political, despite the endless sniping debates over the dinner table. And her lack of political allegiance was the one thing that had worried her over the last few weeks as she had swotted up on party policies: would her views come over as passionate, genuine and committed?
Standing in front of the party in the Esher Conservative Association headquarters, a grand hall that was like an overgrown gentlemen’s club, she wondered if she had done enough to clinch it. Having survived a twenty-minute barrage of questioning from the floor on everything from the euro to education, she took a final look at the party members who would decide her fate, fixing them with a farewell smile that she hoped struck the right balance between authority, competence and graciousness.
Gillian McDonald, chairwoman of the association, and wife of Charles, Camilla’s boss, stood up to thank Camilla and make the final address before the members went off to vote.
‘We won’t be long,’ she whispered to Camilla as a ripple of applause rang around the room.
Camilla walked off the stage and into a dimly lit corridor where her two rivals, Gerald Lawrence and Adam Berry, were sitting with their wives on a row of chairs propped against the wall.
She smiled weakly at them, realizing at once how badly she wanted the opportunity, and wondering which of the three of them would be chosen. They had already done well to get this far, having been whittled down from a list of sixty-five applicants approved by Tory Central Office. She looked at the man nearest to her. Gerald Lawrence was a local solicitor, balding, stooped, fifty-ish. Not only were his views firmly right wing – always a winner with the large number of over-fifties in the audience – but he had also lived in Esher all his life and had served as a local councillor for five years. That was one thing Camilla knew she couldn’t compete with; she knew that a fair percentage of the crowd would welcome a local representative rather than someone they perceived had been drafted in from London.
The second candidate was even more dangerous competition. Local businessman Adam Berry had made a million in retailing. He was a self-made Tory dream who was also handsome, under forty years old, snappily dressed, and had a sheen of Thatcherite charm that had no doubt helped him make his money. He didn’t have Camilla’s considered, intelligent manner – she had seen him speak and thought his views a little shaky and vague – but of the three of them, Berry probably ticked the most boxes. He had the classic Tory image and strong local support.
‘This is it then,’ said Berry as they were beckoned back into the main hall.
The three candidates stood next to each other at the front of the stage. Camilla held her hands clasped in front of her, nervous sweat gluing them together as Gillian McDonald stood to speak.
‘We have been honoured to have three such fine individuals willing to represent us as Esher’s PPC,’ she began. ‘However, we can only invite one person to fight for the constituency seat in the next general election.’ Gillian paused. For Camilla it was agonizing.
‘And on this occasion the committee has decided it would like to invite Camilla Balcon to be the candidate to fight for us.’
Camilla’s brain froze as she heard the announcement, not quite able to grasp the meaning. Was it her? Had she got it? Momentarily confused, she looked over to Gillian, who was smiling warmly at her. The crowd erupted into cheers as Gerald and Adam reached across to shake her hand charitably. In a second, she was surrounded by party members wanting to shake her hand and congratulate her.
‘It will be fantastic to have a strong young woman representing Esher,’ beamed one elderly woman, shaking her hand warmly.
‘It was because I admire your modernist views,’ said another. ‘The party has to fight the central ground.’
A man of around sixty with a craggy face and fine silver hair walked straight up to Camilla and touched his hand lightly on her shoulder.
‘Congratulations, Miss Balcon. You got my vote. Not that you needed it,’ he said with a wink.
She grinned back at him, grateful she was getting support from all quarters: young, old, traditionalists and activists, who saw in her a more liberal future for their party.
‘I knew your father from his political days,’ said the silver-haired man, and Camilla’s happy smile evaporated at the mention of Oswald’s name.
‘Is that why you voted for me?’ she queried, hoping her triumph wasn’t about to be undermined by the shadow of Oswald doling out favours. She knew that if her father got wind of the fact that even one person had voted for her because of his time in the Lords, he would never allow her to forget it. Even if Camilla became prime minister on her own merits, Oswald would still believe it was all his doing.
The old man shook his head, the hint of a smile on his lips.
‘I voted for you in spite of your father, not because of him,’ he replied, before drifting off into the crowd.
Camilla tried to stop him, desperate to know who he was and what he knew about her father, but he was gone. She spent the next thirty minutes gratefully receiving praise and flattery from everyone in the room. But no compliment was sweeter that night than the one from the old man with the silver hair.
Cate and Nick filed through into the Great Hall for dinner. The ceiling had been draped with folds of black cloth and tiny white fairy lights, like a sea of stars. The room was filled with the noisy buzz of backslapping and the sound of competitive boasting. Determined to enjoy herself, Cate was still so nervous that she hardly touched her rack of lamb and instead downed almost a bottle of New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc. By the time Simon Patterson, the ribald TV presenter and master of ceremonies for the awards’ presentation had taken the stage, Cate was feeling a little dazed and tired.
‘And now we come to the category of Launch Editor of the Year,’ said Patterson after a ten-minute volley of industry in-jokes. Half a dozen magazine covers flashed up on the screen behind him, forcing Cate awake with a start. As each cover flashed up, the magazines published by big companies were supported by a huge roar. When the Sand cover appeared, the ten people on Cate’s table made as much noise as possible, including Pete Miller banging on the table with an empty bottle of wine, but their cheer sounded tiny in the huge hall. From behind her, there were encouraging shouts of support, and Cate inwardly thanked them for their kindness, whoever they were.
‘I’d like to invite Hugo McElvoy, the chairman of Alliance Magazines and sponsor of the Launch Editor of the Year category to come up to make the award,’ said Simon Patterson as a robust, grey-haired man in his sixties made his slow way to the stage.
‘Oh no,’ groaned Cate, ‘my old boss. The sweet irony.’
Reaching the podium and adjusting the waistband of his trousers, he read out the nominations from the card in front of him.
‘This year, the competition was so fierce, we have also decided to award a highly commended prize,’ said McElvoy, looking out to the crowd, which had fallen still. ‘This award goes to a glossy new launch that has really revamped its market, and found a clear niche in a competitive market.’
Cate felt Nick’s hand clasp hers. Could this be us? Could this be us? thought Cate, fiddling with the stem of her glass.
‘And the highly commended award goes to … Greg Davies, editor of Men’s Style Weekly!’
Cate felt her shoulders sink as a ripple of applause swelled up around her.
‘Who wants to come second anyway?’ said Nick, leaning over and squeezing her shoulder.
‘The winner of this category,’ continued Hugo McElvoy, fighting with the microphone which had started producing a horrible squeaky feedback, ‘is a publication that has made an enormous impact in a very short space of time. The judges described the magazine as fresh, sexy, and a breath of fresh air in the industry, and its editor as a talented, driven, risk-taker. The award for Launch Editor of the Year goes to … Cate Balcon for Sand magazine!’
There was a loud roar of applause. As she stood up to go to the stage, Nick grabbed her and hugged her so tightly she could feel the warmth of his fingertips through the thin fabric of her dress.
After the awards, Cate had had to fend off the crowds of well-wishers who were gathering around her table. Cate’s old friend Laura Warren, features editor on Class, gave her a kiss on both cheeks and wished her well. ‘You must be feeling pretty pleased with yourself,’ Laura smiled.
‘Thank you so much,’ said Cate. ‘What a funny old year, hey?’ she added, laughing.
‘Isn’t revenge sweet?’ said Laura, waving a flute and wobbling visibly on her heels.
‘How do you mean?’ said Cate, pouring herself some hot black coffee in a vain attempt to sober herself up.
‘Haven’t you heard?’ said Laura. ‘William Walton and Nicole Valentine were fired on Monday. It was sooo embarrassing,’ she gushed, excited to be able to impart the hot gossip. ‘Nicole refused to leave her – your – office. She practically had to be carried out by security, and then it turned out that ten grand’s worth of stuff had gone missing from the fashion cupboard. Obviously she nicked it.’
‘Nicole was sacked for theft?’ said Cate, her hand over her mouth in disbelief.
‘No, silly!’ laughed Laura, having to sit down. ‘They were both fired by the top brass. Hugo McElvoy himself, I think, for the relaunch they “masterminded” three issues ago. Have you not seen the circulation figures? Down by about fifty per cent. Apparently it was so bad, McElvoy insisted that they both had to go. It was such an ill-conceived vision: the advertisers just hated it. It was madness to try and make Class like Glamour.’
‘Oh dear,’ laughed Cate, glowing.
‘Apparently,’ continued Laura, enjoying the wealth of gossip at her disposal, ‘it didn’t help that Hugo was on the judging panel for these awards and he wanted to know why the editor of Sand wasn’t working for his company. When he found out Walton had fired you … well, that was the last straw.’
Cate sat there, stroking her Perspex trophy, and grinned. She wasn’t a vengeful person, but this evening was starting to taste sweet.
‘Don’t be surprised if you get a call pretty soon to go back to Class. That’s the word on the street.’
Cate shook her head good-naturedly, ‘I do miss you all,’ she said, pouring Laura a cup of coffee. ‘But why would I go back when they fired me at the beginning of the year?’
Laura rubbed her thumb and forefinger together. ‘Money, my love. Ask for double your old salary and I’m sure you’ll get it.’
Feeling drained, emotional and more than a little drunk, Cate decided to go home while she was on a high. She craned her neck over the crowd to find Nick, who was standing several tables away talking to a dark-haired man in his fifties who was peering at him intently through half-moon spectacles. Catching his eye, Nick made his excuses and came over to Cate, weaving through the bodies and chairs, carrying a bottle of champagne.
‘Here she is, the proud winner,’ he said, grabbing a glass and filling it with Moët.
‘You’ll never believe it.’
‘Hey, you’ll never guess what!’
They both said it at the same time and stood there grinning.
‘OK, you go first,’ said Nick.
‘William Walton and Nicole Valentine were fired!’
‘Old news,’ laughed Nick. ‘The hot gossip, Miss Balcon, is that not one, but two MDs have approached me in the last twenty minutes, wanting a meeting to discuss buying our company. And one of them is Alliance Magazines. Hugo McElvoy said – and I quote – “It would be a pleasure to get Cate Balcon back on board in a senior editorial capacity”. I’d be publishing director and Sand would be brought into their women’s magazine portfolio. They love us!’
Cate started to giggle, building in her throat, until it came out as a deep belly laugh. It was difficult to believe she had felt so miserable only a couple of hours earlier.
‘What’s the matter?’ said Nick.
‘Oh, it’s just been such a funny night. I think I’ve had too much champagne.’ She continued to giggle, only stopping when they turned into hiccups.
‘So what shall we say to the suits?’ asked Nick after she’d gained control.
A buyer for Sand was being offered to them on a plate. They each owned twenty-five per cent of the company. That would rake in a lot of money.
‘I say “Bollocks to them”!’ said Cate defiantly, clinking her glass against Nick’s bottle.
‘So do I, Cate Balcon,’ he smiled, throwing an arm around her bare shoulder, ‘so do I. It’s me and you together on this one. Sand is our baby and I think we should look after it just a little while longer.’