The Little Bakery on Rosemary Lane: The best feel-good romance to curl up with in 2018. Ellen BerryЧитать онлайн книгу.
d’you mean?’ Marsha pulled a baffled look, and then – in an act that struck Roxanne as unspeakably disrespectful – bent to rummage in her leather satchel and pulled out a small, oil-stained paper bag from which she extracted a Danish pastry. As if Roxanne had ceased to exist, she took a large bite.
For a moment, all Roxanne could do was watch her, chomping. Oh, sorry, was I interrupting your breakfast? What was the etiquette here? It didn’t feel right to question Marsha while she was cramming baked goods into her face, but then, weren’t they supposed to be having a ‘chat’?
‘So,’ she managed, her voice unsteady now, ‘am I to understand that Tina will be managing my team and essentially doing my job?’
‘Yes,’ Marsha conceded, nodding emphatically whilst still chewing, ‘but don’t look at it like that. It’s just a slight restructuring and you’ll learn so much …’
‘And when is she starting?’
Marsha swallowed and took another bite. ‘On Monday,’ she said, a flurry of crumbs shooting from her mouth.
Roxanne flinched. ‘On Monday?’
Marsha nodded. ‘Yes. I know her editor very well so I’ve managed to arrange for her to be released immediately. Time is of the essence here, I’m sure you understand …’
‘Of yes, of course,’ Roxanne said, wondering if she understood anything anymore. ‘So, er, is that all?’
Marsha nodded, her cheeks bulging like a hamster’s. ‘Yes, thank you for your time …’
‘Thank you,’ Roxanne exclaimed, polite to the last and willing herself to hold it together as she sprang up from the seat and strode out of Marsha’s glass box. Thank you, thank you, thank you. She would probably have expressed her gratitude if Marsha had kicked her in the teeth.
‘Roxanne? You forgot this!’ Marsha was standing up now, still chewing, bovine-like, waving her scrapbook and planting greasy fingerprints all over it. As Roxanne darted back to retrieve it, Marsha frowned and sniffed its appliquéd cover. ‘Does this smell of burning to you?’
All eyes were upon Roxanne as she made her way back to her desk with her stupid old-school scrapbook wedged under her arm. At least, it felt that way. In a decade of working here, Roxanne had always regarded the office as her second home, with its scruffy old swivel chairs and temperamental toaster and dog-eared magazines piled everywhere. In some ways she preferred it to her real home as all the team were here, the lovely people who cared about magazines as much as she did and who were like family, really. Ibiza jaunt with Amanda aside, she had never been one for holidays. If she did force herself to go away – alone, usually, on some kind of ‘activity break’ where you were pretty much guaranteed to meet other single people – she tended to spend the second half of the week sketching ideas for shoots and itching to return to work.
Not today, though. Right now, she’d have given anything not to be here – to be magically transported back to her flat, with the door firmly locked. She was aware of Jacqui’s gaze following her as she lowered herself onto her chair back at her own desk. Zoe was staring openly, her mouth ajar. Yes, I’ve just been told some awful news, she wanted to announce, just to be done with it. Someone’s being brought in over my head, so I’m effectively demoted – but, hey, I’m fine with that because, apparently, I’m going to ‘love’ her!
She glanced back at Marsha, insulated from the rest of the team in her glass office. Her predecessor, Cathy, had never used it, preferring to have a desk out here in the main space, in the thick of things. Marsha was on the phone now, stuffing more pastry into her pursed little mouth.
‘Everything okay, Rox?’ Serena murmured from her own desk, which faced Roxanne’s.
‘Yes, it’s fine,’ she said briskly, catching Kate giving her a quizzical look.
‘Want to nip out?’ Serena whispered. ‘Get a coffee or something?’
‘No thanks.’ Avoiding eye contact, Roxanne shook her head.
‘Are you sure? You look awfully pale. Was it something she—’
‘I’m-fine-honestly,’ she barked, causing Tristan to spin his head around from the art department. Roxanne started rummaging in her top desk drawer, not because she needed anything but to give herself something to do. Like the top of her desk, it was a terrible tip. She delved amongst staplers, rolls of Sellotape, parcel labels, bulldog clips, cans of hairspray, notebooks and lip balms in a cacophony of flavours, willing Serena to stop giving her sympathetic glances, and wishing everyone would just leave her be.
Roxanne wasn’t sure she could handle anyone being kind to her right now. She thought again of that time with the fish slice, when her mother had smacked her upper arm: it wasn’t the actual event itself that had triggered her tears. It had been later, when she’d run out of Rosemary Cottage and up into the hills by herself, and had happened to come across Len from the garage with his wife, Pat, and their two young children. They were out with their dogs and had beckoned her over to join them.
Hey, what’s happened, Roxy? You look all upset!
People had called her ‘Roxy’ then. Not anymore; she had cast that off like an unwanted jacket when she’d moved to London. Pat had hugged her, and that’s when the tears had flowed.
Roxanne shut her desk drawer, delved into her bag and pulled out the small notebook in which she wrote copious to-do lists. There was tons to get on with, and keeping busy would at least get her through the rest of the day. She had a shoot coming up and she needed to call in clothes and accessories from fashion PRs, as well as trawling her favourite vintage shops for quirkier pieces. She wanted to book a new model – a fresh face – rather than one of her regular girls, which meant arranging a casting. Plus, there were Kate and Serena’s shoots to oversee, and a whole raft of product launches Roxanne should show her face at over the coming week.
She made a barrage of calls until lunchtime rolled around, at which point she grabbed her bag and darted out of the office before anyone could ask to join her.
On a bench in Golden Square, clutching a chicken sandwich she didn’t want, she called Sean.
‘Oh, darling,’ he said, when she’d splurged what had happened. ‘Tina Court! She’s meant to be a bit of a terrier …’
‘You know her?’
‘Just in passing. We haven’t worked together. So, what’re you going to do?’
‘Nothing. I mean, what can I do? Marsha’s within her rights to bring in whoever she wants …’
Sean sighed. ‘Just sit tight, darling, and see how things pan out.’
‘Yes, I will. Sorry to land all of this on you. I know you’re busy shooting today—’
‘Hey, I’m okay for a couple of minutes,’ he said gently.
She cleared her throat. ‘Pringles all ready?’
‘Huh?’
‘For the party,’ she prompted him.
‘Oh. Haha – well, Louie’s been onto the caterers. Foie gras lollipops! I don’t think so …’
‘Let me know if you need anything,’ she added, before they finished the call – knowing, of course, that he wouldn’t, and that this was hardly a casual flat party where one might expect friends to bring a bottle of wine. No, this was an extravaganza with waiting staff, a seafood bar and a budget of thousands, and right now she couldn’t wait to slick on her red lipstick and get her hands on that first glass of wine.
The office announcement about Tina’s