(2013) Four Widows Read Online Free Page B
trotted through the main revolving doors on heels, clutching coffees, relieved to hit the ice-blast atmosphere. Not me, I shivered violently. Acute tiredness, I suppose.
How did I get here, Holyrood, I reflected, pausing before I walked through the security turnstile to the lifts. Strong sunlight powered through 4,000 panels of glass, throwing large circles of light on the floor. I could have been standing in the headlights from an alien spaceship. Extraterrestrial abduction away from this life, now there’s a thought.
London to Edinburgh happened faster than I could click my Pierre Hardy heels. I handed in my notice and four hours later received a call from the deputy editor on Edinburgh Tribune , a broadsheet affectionately known as ET , with weekend supplements, one of which was a style magazine about to get its own launch.
He barely made time for polite introductions or even to confirm that I had indeed stepped down as Editor on 2Glam magazine before getting straight to the point: there was a job on Corset Magazine . Was I interested?
I flew up to Edinburgh and back in the same day for the interview, which took place over lunch at the Balmoral Hotel on Princes Street. ET deputy editor Archie Shaw met me with an iron-fist handshake. Short and dense, he had grizzly bear facial hair to match his black flat-top cut, which didn’t move when he did. He got down to business without wasting words–there would be no conversation regarding my decision to swap London for Edinburgh because, as far as he was concerned, I didn’t have a personal life. The message was clear: it was all about the magazine and if I didn’t concur, I was out.
By the time coffee was served, I was offered the job as two sugar cubes rolled into Shaw’s cup like dice: he was taking a gamble on me.
We steamrolled through details, both in the mood for brisk business and keen to escape the thick quietness of the hotel dining room with its immaculate-set tables; napkins the size of pillow cases folded fiercely.
The final details were tied up at the bar where I confirmed I would accept the position as Editor on Corset Magazine. It was the fastest most effective interview I’d ever had and an indication of what the job would be like: head-down hard work.
Shaw assured me that I had a dream team waiting for me. From him, I took this to be praise indeed because Shaw didn’t look like a man forthcoming with a compliment.
“The Boy will look after you,” he said.
“The Boy?”
“Jim. Thinks he’s a rock god but he’s got it.”
The interview ended there. Shaw left with a final fierce handshake. I watched him, furry figure darting through the opulent entrance of the grand old hotel and wasn’t sure what to think but sincerely hoped I had it .
Shaking away the memories, I made it up to my office to find the team was waiting, keen to see how the Elvis James interview had gone. There was a huge level of expectation, especially since Elvis had worked behind closed doors for 15 years, never once making a personal appearance at his own shows.
I shook my head as I walked to my desk.
Jim threw down his pen. “Shit, man.”
I sighed and flung myself into my chair, feeling the sedative effects of gin mixed with wine.
Jim Williams, “The Boy,” aforementioned by Archie Shaw, worked as showbiz editor on the newspaper and was my deputy on Corset . When we were first introduced I blurted out, “Oh no!” I’d meant to think this but an inappropriate vocal tic took over.
Breezing over embarrassment with a firm handshake to crush bones, I said it was great to meet him while thinking, must relocate this one . I set Tom Ford standards in an office: suit up or ship out. And, no, a wetsuit didn’t count. Jim by contrast had the surfer look going on–solid-trunk neck, Tony Hawk T-shirt and jeans falling off his backside to show off, dear God, designer underpants. It was a look more at home skateboarding on the South Bank than an editorial office. To
How did I get here, Holyrood, I reflected, pausing before I walked through the security turnstile to the lifts. Strong sunlight powered through 4,000 panels of glass, throwing large circles of light on the floor. I could have been standing in the headlights from an alien spaceship. Extraterrestrial abduction away from this life, now there’s a thought.
London to Edinburgh happened faster than I could click my Pierre Hardy heels. I handed in my notice and four hours later received a call from the deputy editor on Edinburgh Tribune , a broadsheet affectionately known as ET , with weekend supplements, one of which was a style magazine about to get its own launch.
He barely made time for polite introductions or even to confirm that I had indeed stepped down as Editor on 2Glam magazine before getting straight to the point: there was a job on Corset Magazine . Was I interested?
I flew up to Edinburgh and back in the same day for the interview, which took place over lunch at the Balmoral Hotel on Princes Street. ET deputy editor Archie Shaw met me with an iron-fist handshake. Short and dense, he had grizzly bear facial hair to match his black flat-top cut, which didn’t move when he did. He got down to business without wasting words–there would be no conversation regarding my decision to swap London for Edinburgh because, as far as he was concerned, I didn’t have a personal life. The message was clear: it was all about the magazine and if I didn’t concur, I was out.
By the time coffee was served, I was offered the job as two sugar cubes rolled into Shaw’s cup like dice: he was taking a gamble on me.
We steamrolled through details, both in the mood for brisk business and keen to escape the thick quietness of the hotel dining room with its immaculate-set tables; napkins the size of pillow cases folded fiercely.
The final details were tied up at the bar where I confirmed I would accept the position as Editor on Corset Magazine. It was the fastest most effective interview I’d ever had and an indication of what the job would be like: head-down hard work.
Shaw assured me that I had a dream team waiting for me. From him, I took this to be praise indeed because Shaw didn’t look like a man forthcoming with a compliment.
“The Boy will look after you,” he said.
“The Boy?”
“Jim. Thinks he’s a rock god but he’s got it.”
The interview ended there. Shaw left with a final fierce handshake. I watched him, furry figure darting through the opulent entrance of the grand old hotel and wasn’t sure what to think but sincerely hoped I had it .
Shaking away the memories, I made it up to my office to find the team was waiting, keen to see how the Elvis James interview had gone. There was a huge level of expectation, especially since Elvis had worked behind closed doors for 15 years, never once making a personal appearance at his own shows.
I shook my head as I walked to my desk.
Jim threw down his pen. “Shit, man.”
I sighed and flung myself into my chair, feeling the sedative effects of gin mixed with wine.
Jim Williams, “The Boy,” aforementioned by Archie Shaw, worked as showbiz editor on the newspaper and was my deputy on Corset . When we were first introduced I blurted out, “Oh no!” I’d meant to think this but an inappropriate vocal tic took over.
Breezing over embarrassment with a firm handshake to crush bones, I said it was great to meet him while thinking, must relocate this one . I set Tom Ford standards in an office: suit up or ship out. And, no, a wetsuit didn’t count. Jim by contrast had the surfer look going on–solid-trunk neck, Tony Hawk T-shirt and jeans falling off his backside to show off, dear God, designer underpants. It was a look more at home skateboarding on the South Bank than an editorial office. To
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