Chapter Ten

‘You and I have cause for a little drinkie.’ Martin is standing over my desk, grinning and pulling at his cuffs. It’s been twenty minutes since the deadly dull features meeting and my brain has just about woken up. There’s a strange mistiness behind his eyes which I don’t think is brandy-based this time.

A drinkie? Odd. It’s way past my birthday now. It’s not time for my appraisal. And usually when Martin has some good goss or company news, he calls everyone round a table of shortbread and dishes it out in one communal blast. That way the toasting fizz goes on expenses.

But I’m not one to look a drink horse in the mouth, so I grab my coat. It’s 3.45 p.m. The day is pretty much over anyway. I’d hit a wall trying to puzzle out who would want to buy ad space next to our six-page examination of insects as the protein source of tomorrow. A pet shop? Someone who makes bug spray?

Safely ensconced at Martin’s club, I am making myself comfortable on a squeaky leather bench while my boss examines the cocktail menu. God knows why: he could recite it back to front and in Cantonese by now, most likely. Martin comes to this chi-chi dark little bar so regularly that we often run final cover proofs over here for his sign-off. Odds are, he’ll be there toying with a Whisky Sour and musing out loud on the best pancetta region of Italy.

Something both fluttery and squidgy is jiggling about in my tummy. What is he about to say? He’s ordered us a bottle of champagne, so we’re clearly celebrating. Am I being promoted? Pay rise, heaven forbid? Am I finally getting a New York work trip to do foodie networking stateside? I have wanted better American business connections for so long, to go after the big food conglomerates. Plus, admittedly selfishly, there are so many places I want to visit again: Katz’s Deli, Barneys, Serendipity for a frozen hot chocolate. The weekend I spent in the Big Apple was no way long enough to cram in a properly big, juicy bite. Maybe I could Inception the features team into thinking they should do a travel piece on the latest New York food crazes – cupcakes baked in mugs at the moment, apparently – and then I could make a legitimate plea to sell some space to travel companies. We could run an off-the-page offer for a discount at the Magnolia Bakery and it would be just plain rude not to check it out first …

‘So.’ Martin clears his throat as the beautifully clear champagne is poured by the waiter, half over his shoulder.

I am still mentally checking myself in for my BA flight to JFK. Could I convince Pete to dip into the savings and come with me?

‘We’re getting you that intern.’

Ah. Not exactly what I’d call cause for celebration, but it’s something. I could do with the help.

He coughs lightly again. ‘Because we need our ad revenue to increase.’

Martin is now studiously avoiding my eye.

He finishes in a rough voice. ‘Or else.’

Wow. I really am going to need that help. It turns out Martin’s extra bullish calls for better features in our meeting today were because his investors are getting itchy and want to sell the magazine. Unless we can show that we can be crazily profitable over the next months, the money men might pull out, or flog us dead cheap to someone else. And what’s the fastest source of cash at our disposable? The ad sales department. Otherwise known as: me. Shortly to be known as: me and an intern.

‘I’ll let you do the hiring.’ Martin’s hands flap around his face as if this whole situation is a wasp that won’t leave his doughnut alone. ‘Well, not so much hiring as looking though the letters we get sent asking for work experience and fishing someone decent out. Some clever chap.’

I’m just going to let that slide, in the circumstances. Circumstances being that I want to stick a straw in that bottle of Krug and down it.

‘Hang on, Martin. Why don’t we get another ad sales exec in? I’m sure we could find someone on a temporary contract, like … a sort of maternity cover.’

He bristles and I know this was the wrong way to phrase it. ‘Why?’ he asks sharply.

‘Ha ha!’ I shoot him double finger pistols in a desperate act to look jolly. ‘No, not like that, not for me. But wouldn’t someone working alongside me be more effective? I’ll have to train an intern.’ I secretly fancy myself as a kind, cool mentor type, but not when I’ve suddenly had my targets doubled before the guilt alcohol has even had time to soften the blow.

‘Another you would bugger the profits, ‘scuse my French. An intern would be … how can I say it?’

‘Keen to learn?’

‘Free. And it’s all about the profits, Ellie. We need our circulation and web hits up pronto, so I’m going to be on Features like truffle oil on chips.’

Martin has his own brand of sayings that my Reading upbringing can’t quite compute.

‘It’s up to you to get bigger ads, bigger clients. I don’t want to think about …’ He breaks off, frowning and pressing his lips together. His eyes stare blankly at the bar but I hope his look of sadness is for the Crumbs’ staff and their futures, rather than his ability to come here and put charcuterie boards on expenses.

Jee-sus. This is pretty serious. I’m going to have to pull my socks up. And find an intern with similar sock-pulling skills. We need revenue or Crumbs isn’t going to be such a fun magazine title any more, and way too apt.