The Forgotten Girl. Kerry Barrett

chuckled.

      ‘You got that right.’

      No response. Clearly humour didn’t work.

      ‘Is the interview done?’ I asked. Perhaps Dawn had said something amazing that we could spin.

      ‘It’s done, and her PR has approved it,’ Vanessa said. She stared at me as if challenging me to tell her to start again.

      For a moment I considered pulling rank, spiking the whole thing and getting a new cover star. But it was early days and I needed the team behind me if I was going to make this happen.

      Instead I smiled.

      ‘Great,’ I said. ‘It’s good to have it in the bag. What about next issue?’

      Vanessa made a show of flicking through the pages in her notebook and I forced myself to stay smiling.

      ‘I’m talking to Sarah Sanderson’s agent,’ she said. I groaned inwardly. Sarah Sanderson was a breakfast news presenter who’d been around for donkey’s years. Maybe it was time to get tough.

      ‘She’s not the right cover star for us,’ I said. ‘Scratch that. Give the interview to one of the other mags if you like. We need someone younger, sassier, more exciting.’

      Vanessa pointedly scored out something on her notebook and gave me a steely glare.

      ‘Like who?’

      I looked round at the tiny team.

      ‘Let’s have a brainstorming session tomorrow,’ I said. ‘We can line up some really exciting interviews. Anything goes – don’t just stick to actresses and musicians. Think about politicians, sports stars, writers, bloggers – anyone doing anything or saying anything interesting.’

      Vanessa scribbled something in her pad without meeting my eyes.

      ‘Oh and Vanessa,’ I said. ‘I don’t want publicists approving interviews.’

      She rolled her eyes.

      ‘Tricky,’ she said.

      ‘I know,’ I admitted. ‘Let them sit in on the chat if they have to, but remember we’re Mode magazine – they need us just as much as we need them. In the future, let’s be a bit sassier.’

      Vanessa made a face.

      ‘Do we have one?’

      ‘I’m sorry?’

      ‘A future. Does Mode magazine have a future?’

      My stomach lurched. I’d been hoping to give the team a boost before I started talking about closures and redundancies. But judging by the grim faces that surrounded me, I had to tackle this now.

      I was sitting behind my desk, but now I got up and came to perch on the front instead.

      ‘Honestly?’ I said.

      Vanessa nodded, her pale lips a tight line.

      ‘I hope so,’ I said.

      I took a breath.

      ‘I have always wanted to work on Mode,’ I said. ‘This is my dream job and I was so excited about it.’

      ‘But?’ Vanessa said.

      ‘But things are trickier than I thought,’ I admitted. ‘Our circulation is lower than it’s ever been.’

      ‘Because of Grace?’ said the art editor – a tiny redhead called Milly.

      ‘Because of Grace,’ I agreed. ‘They’ve really raised their game, and of course print’s a tricky place to be anyway because of digital. But Grace’s success is proving there’s still a place for glossy mags – we just need to remind people we’re here and we’re the best.’

      There was a murmur of voices, but Vanessa wasn’t giving up yet.

      ‘I heard they want to close us,’ she said, raising her voice so I could hear her over the chitchat.

      Everyone fell silent and stared at me.

      ‘Is that true?’ Milly asked. ‘Are they closing us?’

      I thought about lying, but they were all seasoned magazine journalists. I knew I couldn’t fool them.

      ‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘It’s not true. But it’s a possibility.’

      The chitchat became a hubbub of voices. I let them all talk for a moment, then I held my hands up.

      ‘Hold on,’ I said. ‘Listen …’

      Eventually everyone stopped talking.

      ‘Okay,’ I said. I closed my eyes briefly and sent up a silent prayer to the magazine gods that I was doing the right thing and that my already depleted team wouldn’t all hand in their notices immediately and leave me trying to save Mode on my own.

      ‘They’ve given us nine months to turn things round,’ I said. ‘To improve sales, to get our brand out there, to get people talking about Mode again.’

      I paused.

      ‘We’ve got a lot of work to do.’

      I spent the next hour fielding questions about exactly what Lizzie wanted (‘I don’t know,’ I said), about what redundancy packages might be on offer (‘I don’t know,’ I said), about how they would measure our success and whether it would just be sales or if it would be profits too (‘I don’t know,’ I said) and how I was planning to make this all happen.

      ‘I don’t know,’ I said, yet again. ‘But I do know this is a brilliant magazine with a long history.’

      I looked round at the team once more.

      ‘And I know you’re all great writers and editors and designers,’ I said. Vanessa made a face but Milly smiled. ‘I want this to work and I can’t do it by myself, so I need you all on board.’

      I thought for a moment.

      ‘Let’s spend tomorrow afternoon coming up with some ideas,’ I said. ‘Not just cover stars, but let’s think about what we can do to get a buzz round Mode magazine again. Anything and everything you can think of – I don’t care how off the wall the ideas are, but I want everyone here to come up with something.’

      I wrapped up the meeting and the team all filed out of my office and back to their desks, muttering to each other – no doubt saying all sorts of rude things about me – and I was alone once more.

      ‘Bloody hell,’ I said out loud, feeling shell-shocked by my morning. But, I had to admit, being honest with the team had been the right thing to do, even if Vanessa had forced my hand a bit.

      Hopefully we could come up with some exciting ideas tomorrow, I thought, leaning back in my chair. I already had lists of cover stars, features ideas and campaigns that I wanted us to try, but I knew that I needed this to be a team effort. I needed everyone with me if this was going to work.

      Not for the first time that day, I wished I was still working with Jen. She was such a brilliant sounding board for ideas – and always came up with different approaches and creative ways of doing something.

      But I was on my own with this, and I had to do my best.

      I spun round in my chair and stared out of the window at the bustling Soho streets below me.

      ‘I can do this,’ I said out loud. ‘I can bloody well do this.’

      ‘You can do anything you want,’ a voice said. A very familiar Australian accent that I’d not heard for more than five years. ‘You always have.’

      I froze. Then slowly, I turned my chair round so I was facing into my office again.

      ‘Damo,’ I said. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’

      The huge figure of my ex-boyfriend