The Little Bakery on Rosemary Lane: The best feel-good romance to curl up with in 2018. Ellen BerryЧитать онлайн книгу.
for their bones sometimes. Sean’s agent, Britt Jordan, looked as if she might snap. Even her back – which was entirely visible in a tiny grey sheath of a dress – looked starved, with all the nodules visible. You could actually count the vertebrae. Roxanne was sick to death of carb-avoiding these days. She tucked into a second cone of bhel puri and washed it down with her champagne. Who could blame her? It had been a horrible day, the sort that needs its rough edges smoothed by something chilled and delicious, and this particular vintage was doing the job extremely well.
‘Hey, Rox, you’re looking good, darling!’ Britt had glided over towards her.
‘Thanks, Britt. So are you. Isn’t this great? I hear you had quite a hand in the organising …’
‘Oh yes, I had to, or we’d have been sitting in the pub with a dish of dry-roasted nuts.’ She laughed huskily. ‘But he’s loving it, isn’t he?’
The two women glanced over to where Sean was holding court with a group of younger men and women by the DJ booth. Everyone was laughing and sipping champagne. ‘I think he is,’ Roxanne said with a smile, genuinely happy to see him enjoying himself.
Britt turned to her. ‘All that not wanting a big fuss … it’s all show, isn’t it? Who wouldn’t want a gorgeous party like this?’
‘Yes, you’re right,’ Roxanne said, surprised that Britt was spending time with her. A notorious networker, she usually flitted from one potential client to another, eager to make contacts that might benefit her roster of fashion photographers. Roxanne booked Sean regularly, as she had before they were seeing each other, so there was no need for any schmoozing where she was concerned.
Britt’s expression turned serious. ‘Um, I hope you don’t mind me saying, but I’ve just heard your news …’ Roxanne frowned, uncomprehending for a moment. ‘About Tina Court being brought in over you,’ she clarified.
Oh, right, cheers for that! ‘It’s not really like that,’ Roxanne said quickly, trying to take a sip from her glass before realising it was empty.
‘Isn’t it? Because Sean said—’
‘No, it’s just a sort of restructuring,’ she explained, prickling at the fact that they had discussed it at all. Of course, they were friends; Britt had represented Sean for many years. But, still, Roxanne wasn’t thrilled at the thought of being gossiped about.
‘Really? Why are they doing that?’
‘Erm, I guess Marsha wants to bring in someone with a strong fashion background as hers is more, er …’ Roxanne trailed off. What was Marsha’s area of expertise again? Diets. Celebrity diets, at that. All made up, of course; Roxanne knew from inter-office gossip that she used to harangue her interns into writing any old tosh. ‘She’s more health-focused,’ she added carefully.
‘But she has you to produce the fashion pages,’ Britt was insisting now. ‘Oh, it’s awful, Roxanne. So insulting. Everyone’s gutted for you—’
‘Everyone?’ Roxanne’s face seemed to freeze as Louie, Sean’s assistant, landed beside them clutching a large glass of red wine.
‘Yeah, we can’t believe it, Rox,’ he said, glancing around as they were joined by Johnny, a make-up artist who was also clearly in the know.
‘I admire you, I really do,’ he announced, enveloping Roxanne in a hug.
‘I don’t know what for, Johnny,’ she said with a tight laugh, disentangling herself and grabbing another glass of champagne as a waiter glided past.
‘For putting on a brave face tonight,’ he exclaimed.
‘Oh, I’m not being brave – I’m fine, really. I’m having a great time—’
‘We’re all amazed you’re here at all!’ added Dinny, a fashion editor from another magazine who had popped up seemingly from nowhere. She clamped a hand around Roxanne’s wrist. ‘If it was me, I’d probably go into hiding …’
‘Or throw myself off a bridge,’ quipped Johnny.
What? ‘Honestly, it’s not a big deal,’ Roxanne said, a shade too loudly as the DJ had misjudged the end of a track and the music stopped abruptly. ‘And of course I’d be here for Sean’s birthday.’
‘Well, you’re very stoical!’ Louie gushed.
‘You show them, Rox,’ Britt added. ‘You poor, poor thing. It’s so demeaning for you …’
‘Erm, would you excuse me for a minute?’ Roxanne hoisted a rigid smile, still catching snippets of conversation as she strode away. She really had to escape from this group, before she drowned in a pool of pity.
‘She should get her CV out pronto …’
‘D’you think she’ll resign, or what?’
‘Christ – I would …’
And worst of all: ‘I suppose she has been in that job a terribly long time …’
As Roxanne wended her way through the crowds, she tried to emit an aura of quiet dignity. She gulped her champagne and glanced around, looking for someone to talk to who wouldn’t go on about Tina Court joining the team and her own career being truly up the spout. Perhaps, she thought bitterly, she could gather everyone around to decide which bridge exactly she should hurl herself off? If only her old friend Amanda was here – but then, this wasn’t her sort of party at all. After her stint as a magazine publisher’s receptionist Amanda had retrained as a primary school teacher; i.e., got herself a proper job. The parties she threw were casual affairs with bunting, sausage rolls and cheap prosecco in her kitchen or unruly back garden.
What was the big deal about Tina Court anyway? Amanda taught children to read and write – she helped to shape their futures – and here Roxanne was, despairing just because someone new was being brought in to oversee the fashion pages and drag them downmarket. She stood for a moment, sipping her now-lukewarm champagne, aware of an unpleasant tightening sensation in her chest.
Fashion Guilt, that’s what it was. It had happened before when she was trying to pull together a cover shoot and a PR had sent the wrong fake fur jacket for the model to wear. Roxanne had been moaning to Kate in the office when a little voice in her head (the Fashion Guilt voice) hissed, ‘You watched Syria being bombed on the news last night. And you’re sitting there, nibbling your Pret a Manger sushi and drinking your coconut water and grumbling about a fluffy jacket?
Wondering what to do with herself now, Roxanne found herself back at the Indian street food stall. She wolfed another cone of bhel puri, then regretted it immediately: all that puffed rice seemed to be swelling up inside her. Uncomfortably bloated, she stood tall and tried to hold in her stomach. No sign of Serena or Kate, and Sean appeared to be busy, still surrounded by friends, filling the studio with his wonderful infectious laugh which she had loved from the moment she first heard it. She would go over to join him soon, but right now it felt better to give him his space. She caught his eye, and he smiled. How handsome he looked tonight in a crisp white open-necked shirt and smart dark grey trousers. She didn’t mind in the slightest that legions of younger women were perpetually clustered around him. That was what it was like, in this sort of world – just harmless flirting. Roxanne was overcome by a rush of pride in him, and almost wished she could fast-forward to the moment when they were home together, undressing and tumbling into his bed.
However, it was only 9 p.m., and there were hours to go yet. Aware of her tipsy state, Roxanne fixed her gaze on the area of floor in front of the DJ booth. She inhaled deeply, reassuring herself that she was perfectly capable of holding her own as she strode towards it and started to dance.
That felt good. She could sense any remaining tension floating out of her pores, dissipating into the fragrant air, as she started to move. Never mind yoga with its slow pace and emphasis on breathing; Roxanne had one of those restless minds, so was it any wonder she found it so hard to concentrate