“Ladies and gentlemen, that concludes the agenda. Further briefings will be forthcoming. Until then, I remind you to observe the confidentiality outlined. Information should be passed only to key team members. Good morning.”
The journalists left slowly, some turning to their neighbour with muttered remarks, others looking at watches or putting on coats before heading towards the door.
Mr. Collins and I filed out from the back of the room, managing to avoid Mr. Jarrett before he could burst my bubble with a cynical prod.
“What did you think?” said Mr. Collins. “Enjoy it?”
I nodded fiercely. “I’ll say. There’ll be loads we can do,” I said. “We can come up with tons of ideas.”
Mr. Collins smiled at me almost fondly. “Excellent. I’d bet myself a shilling that’s how you’d respond.” He dropped his voice. “You know, sometimes I fear I’ll end up like Jarrett.”
“You never would,” I said, aghast.
“Not with you at my heels, Miss Lake,” said Mr. Collins, going all formal. “First sign of cynicism and you’ll bash it out of me.”
I laughed and was about to agree when a thin, greying man I hadn’t noticed before came over.
“Ah, Collins,” he said, “I thought it was you.” He grinned warmly and they shook hands. “How are you, old man?”
“Hello, Simons,” said Mr. Collins. “It’s good to see you. May I introduce my colleague Miss Lake?”
“How do you do, Miss Lake?” said Mr. Simons, shaking my hand. “I’m so sorry to interrupt, but I wondered if I might have a quick word with you, Guy?”
“How do you do?” I said in return. “Mr. Collins, shall I meet you downstairs?”
Mr. Collins said, “Yes, thank you, Miss Lake,” and with a “nice to meet you” to Mr. Simons, I made my exit.
There was a ladies’ lavatory in the corridor, and even though I didn’t need to use it, I locked myself in one of the cubicles and hung my bag on the hook on the back of the door, sitting down to write up a few thoughts in order to kill time. I was already thinking of features we could run in Woman’s Friend.
After a moment, I heard some ladies come in. They seemed more interested in chatting about the meeting than in using the facilities, so I went back to writing my notes. I planned to stay another couple of minutes and then head downstairs. I certainly wouldn’t eavesdrop on their conversation.
“Did you see that Vogue came?” one was saying. “And that coat! So beautiful.”
“Astrakhan,” said the other. “Pre-war, surely? Gorgeous.”
“I’ll say,” said the first one, sighing. “Do you know, I thought it was quite an exclusive event when I saw her, but then I looked around and they seemed to have invited any old sort. Did you see Woman’s Friend? I thought it had closed years ago, the poor old thing.”
With that, not eavesdropping went straight out the window.
“Oh, Freddie, don’t,” said her friend. “I suppose the Ministry wants to get the message out to everyone, including the old ducks. Though Lord knows what war work they’ll be able to do. Knitting socks, probably.” She laughed loudly.
I opened my mouth but managed to hold my tongue. Shouting at a stranger from inside a lavatory would not have been in keeping with the occasion. Even Mr. Jarrett, who had thought Mr. Collins was dead, probably wouldn’t do that. But these women were the absolute limit.
“Honestly, Diane,” replied the other. “I thought even the old dears had given up on Woman’s Friend. They can’t keep their editors either. First they dragged Henrietta Bird out of retirement and now apparently they’ve scraped the bottom of the barrel and given Guy Collins the job.”
At this, I nearly shot out and went for them both. I stood up and shoved my notebook into my bag. Who were these women? Bending down, I looked under the door, but all I could see were two pairs of legs, both in high-heeled shoes, one black suede, the other a flamboyant green crocodile.
“Is he still going?” said her friend. “Good grief.”
“I assume so, if only just. Jarrett was talking about him.”
I heard a powder compact click shut.
“I thought he had some sort of breakdown? Collins, that is.”
I stood stock-still, holding my breath.
“No idea,” said Freddie in a funny voice, which I assumed was because she was putting on lipstick. “He’s a has-been either way, so I suppose spot on for the job.” She gave a silly little laugh. “There, that’s better. Heaven only knows what we’ll do when Max Factor runs out.”
Heaven only knew what I was going to do if she didn’t stop being so awful.
I looked around me and felt ridiculous. Two minutes ago, I was on top of the world listening to a Ministerial briefing, and now here I was, hiding in a lavatory wanting to punch someone. How the mighty have fallen.
But I wasn’t going to stand for this sort of talk. I pulled the toilet chain forcefully to give them fair warning and then slammed the lock open on the door.
Trying to exhibit every ounce of cold disdain possible, I went through the charade of washing my hands. The two women were still repairing their makeup and gossiping. They didn’t seem to notice me.
I told myself I would not create a scene with them. After all, I was very lucky to come to the meeting in the first place. The women roundly deserved to be ignored. I dried my hands and headed to the door, putting my nose in the air, ready to feel the exhilaration of taking the moral high ground.
But I’d never been a fan of moral high ground.
So I turned around.
“Hello,” I said politely. “Emmeline Lake, Woman’s Friend. As you seemed to be rather interested, you might like to know that Guy Collins is doing a terrifically good job as Editor. But thank you so much for your concern. Good morning.”
And then I did my first attempt at a Mrs. Edwards smile, one that could shut up a Public Relations man, and left.
As I began to head up the corridor to the lifts, I allowed myself to savour what felt like a small triumph. My point had been made, but in an appropriately dignified way.
Then I realised I had left my bag on the back of the lavatory door.
“Blast,” I said less appropriately, just as a man I recognised as Mr. Boe walked past. He looked appalled, said, “Really!” and speeded up. Unsurprisingly, swearing wasn’t the Ministry’s thing. I hung my head, less in shame and more in frustration.
“Excuse me, miss, if you were part of the publishing briefing, might I ask you to move along to the lifts now, please?”
A young man the colour of milk clasped his hands and looked at me dolefully. “It’s just that the meeting is over.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “I’ve been rather a chump and left my handbag in the ladies’ lavatory. Might I just dash in and get it?”
The man wrung his hands but nodded. “If you see any of your colleagues in there, might you have a word along the same lines?” he asked. “Security, you do understand.”
“Of course,” I said, now feeling in with the Right Sort. “Actually, I did notice a couple of ladies still in there. Not lurking or anything worrying,” I added, and then I frowned. “At least I don’t think so. I’ll go and get them out, shall I?”
“Would you?” said my new friend. “We can’t have that. Then I would be grateful if you could make your way to the lift.”
“Of course,” I said. “Thank you. You’ve been very kind.”
Feeling bolstered, I took a breath, pushed my shoulders back once again, and returned to where my two adversaries were still deep in conversation and now mucking about with their hair.
“The poor thing obviously has the worst crush on Collins,” said the one in the crocodile-skin shoes. “It really is rather a scream.”
“Oh, Freddie, how desperate,” said the other, licking the top of a finger and dabbing it along one of her eyebrows.
“Isn’t it? I know there’s a war on, but…”
They both laughed. It was cheap and uncalled for, and promise of best behaviour or not, I wasn’t having it.
“Really?” I said. “I’m not sure that you do.”
They both turned, openmouthed. I felt my heart speed up.
“I mean it’s hardly the way to speak of a fellow member of the press, is it? ‘All stick together, birds of a feather,’ ” I said, quoting the song as if it was some sort of emergency law.
Freddie recovered herself first. “Oh, I think you must have misheard,” she said, which rather suggested I was deaf. “We were chatting about a friend. Come along, Diane.”
She picked up her clutch bag from beside the sink and tucked it under her arm.
“I don’t think I did,” I said quietly. “I distinctly heard you being most unpleasant about Woman’s Friend and Guy Collins. You know, you can say what you like about me,” I added. “Even though it isn’t true. But please don’t be rude about our Editor. He has every right to be here.”
Diane gave her friend a nudge. “Let’s go, Fred, this is dull,” she said.
But her colleague didn’t move. She just tipped her head to one side and looked at me as if I had tried awfully hard but still come last in the egg and spoon race. “Every right to be here? That would be a ‘stop the press!’ piece of news. You wouldn’t be the first secretary to fall into a bout of schoolgirl passion. I assume he is still doing his tortured artist act?” She sniffed. “You silly girl, I’m afraid it’s only fair to tell you that your magazine is seen as quite the joke. And sad old Guy plugging along on it. Sorry. Just thought you should know.”
Now I nearly laughed. It was an extraordinary display. A grown woman spreading gossip and pushing me around because I was new. It was like being back at school.
“Thank you,” I said, standing my ground. “It’s kind of you to care, but you really needn’t. Woman’s Friend’s War Effort Recruitment Plan has been in preparation for some time. Mr. Collins won’t say a word if you ask, but I can tell you that the Ministry is due to receive it soonest. In fact, I assume that was why we were invited today. But I shouldn’t be saying a word.”
So stick that in your pipe and smoke it.
“Excuse me,” I said, sweeping dramatically (as far as I could in a confined space) past them and into the lavatory. Then I grabbed my bag, as if it were quite the done thing to leave it there in the first place, and walked out before either of them had a chance to say another word.
“I’m so sorry, I did try, but they insisted they wouldn’t be rushed,” I said to the worried young man who was waiting outside. “Thank you again. Good morning.”
And then, as I had no wish to encounter the two women again in the lift, I ran to the doors marked STAIRS and rushed out as fast as I could.
As promised, Mr. Collins was waiting outside the building. I could tell he had enjoyed the morning enormously.
“Well then, Miss Lake,” he said heartily, “what did you make of it all? I say, are you all right? You look rather red-faced.”
“I’ve just run down the stairs,” I said, which was true, although three flights had made no difference at all to the fury I felt over Freddie and Diane.
Mr. Collins nodded and didn’t enquire about the lavatories, as generally no one in their right mind would.
I wanted to put my thoughts in order before telling him about the fracas so that it didn’t look as if I had had some sort of overexcited brainstorm, and not only argued with complete strangers but showed off about a lofty plan that didn’t actually exist. I had already decided not to mention the nasty jibes the women had made about him.
I shoved the incident to the back of my mind and focused on the meeting itself. Before Freddie and Diane’s nastiness had cast a shadow over things, I’d had the time of my life. It was one thing to be doing your bit as a matter of course—everyone in the country was doing that. But it was quite something to sit in a room full of proper journalists and be told we were needed to play a specific part.
We stopped momentarily at a boarded-up newsagent so that Mr. Collins could buy a copy of the Radio Times. Someone had painted BAD LUCK ADOLF—WE’RE STILL OPEN in large black letters on the boards.
“If you ever want someone in journalism to look up to,” said Mr. Collins, tucking the magazine under his arm and thanking the lady for his change, “Monica Edwards is one of the best. She can paint an entire picture in one line, never misses a deadline, and doesn’t shy away from the truth. Ignore the Jarretts of the world, Emmy. Monica is the sort of person you want to model yourself on.”
I was eager to hear more about the people he had worked with in the past, and as I questioned him further, I pushed rotten Freddie and Diane to the back of my mind. I was sure Mr. Collins would not be put off by their nastiness, although I did hope he wouldn’t be cross with me for taking them on.
When we arrived back at Woman’s Friend, Hester, who was looking unusually serious, handed Mr. Collins a telephone message, at which he frowned but immediately called a meeting to debrief everyone on the morning’s events. As I would entirely expect from him, he had taken the directive that information should be passed only to key staff members to mean the entire Woman’s Friend team. He was clear that we were to keep everything close to our chests, but nevertheless, no one on the team was left out of the shared mission.
“We’ll have a proper meeting on Monday,” he said. “Bring in your ideas on how we can help the effort and we’ll speak then. One more thing,” he added, looking thoughtful. “Don’t just think about how we can promote the Ministry’s recruitment campaign. Think about the women. They’re the ones keeping everything going while the boys are away. Think about the readers. Our job is to help them, just as much as we help the war effort.” He looked at the clock on the wall. “Now you must excuse me, as I will be out of the office for the rest of the day.”
And with that, he had gone. My heart sank. It meant I would have to wait to speak with him about my argument and rashly promised Big Plan. I supposed at least it meant I could organise my thoughts.
I did not read anything dramatic into Mr. Collins leaving, but Hester had a different idea and rushed over to me as soon as the meeting dispersed.
“IT’S A PERSONAL THING,” she said in a deafening stage whisper that would have reached the Upper Circle in even the largest theatres of the West End. “MR. COLLINS’ FRIEND ISN’T AT ALL WELL.”
“Thank you, Hester,” I said at a normal volume. “If it’s personal, then it’s a good idea to keep it to ourselves.”
Hester nodded keenly. “Yes,” she said. “The lady calling said it was private, so I’ve made sure everyone knows.”
“Ah,” I said.
“You know,” whispered Hester. “Just in case it turns out the person is dead.”
“Hmm,” I said. “So telling everyone should avoid any upset?”
“That’s right,” said Hester, looking pleased that I’d managed to catch on. “Because if someone is dead, we can all pretend we don’t know, so there won’t be any kind of a scene.”
“Very thoughtful,” I said, thinking that this would be easier if we actually didn’t know, but it was a bit late for that now. “Good thinking. In the meantime, why don’t we try to come up with some ideas for how we can help win the war?”
“Me as well?” said Hester. “Do you think Mr. Collins will be interested?” She looked at me earnestly, her round face full of enthusiasm. It was impossible not to be charmed, even if she did have the broadcasting range of the BBC.
“Absolutely,” I said. “We all will. Your ideas are as valid as anyone’s.”
Hester looked chuffed, and now that the pressure was off in terms of keeping a confidential message confidential, returned to her usual MO by laughing like a maniac.
“Imagine,” she said once she had calmed down, “the Government has asked us to help win the war.”
I laughed then as well. Hester may have been only fifteen, but she sounded exactly as I felt.
“I know,” I replied, with more concern than I hoped Hester would grasp. “And it’s really very important that we come up with a plan.”