at work happen because people are stuck in the same environment and getting along together is both pleasant and convenient. But I really hope the friendship between Lin and Georgie and me is the deep kind, the kind that lasts. We certainly worry about each other enough. But then, women always worry about their friends: itâs so much more comfortable than worrying about yourself. For instance, Lin and I indulged in some serious worrying over Georgie after the office party two Christmases ago.
Office parties, as everyone knows, are an essential item in contemporary romance. What Almackâs was to Georgette Heyer, what Cinderellaâs ball was to the fairytale, what the movie premiere is to the B-list celebrity, the office party is to chick fic. In the City, secretaries tart up to seduce their dishiest bosses while excluded wives rant down their mobiles, and So-and-So from Foreign Investments makes an exhibition of himself with That Blonde from Money-Laundering.
In publishing, contrary to Bridget Jones et al, there are very few dishy bosses: Peter Mayer at Penguin in the good old days of fun and fatwas was, I am told, the exception to all rules. But since it is perfectly true that us girls tart up more for ourselves than the opposite sex â if Nigel is anything to go by, men donât notice anyway â we duly tarted. That is, Lin wore something with ethnic embroidery and tatty hemlines, mascara too dark for her colouring and a smudge of lipstick; I did my best to cover the bulges in a loose silk shirt, daringly pink, which made me look like an oversized Christmas parcel; and Georgie wore an Armani suit, all slimline trousers and stylish tailoring, which must have made a major contribution to her mounting credit-card debt. She looked sensational, with her tits looming from a wispy little top under the collarless jacket, her hair an exquisite blonde disorder, and a couple of face jewels (they were all the rage that year) on her cheekbones. And all for the massed might of Ransome Harber, including not only the resident imprints but also the Design Department, which, like Publicity, dealt with everyone, Contracts, who had turned procrastination into an art form, and the power-mad control-freaks from Sales, who, in the teeth of the evidence, still believed they knew How the Market Works.
From five-thirty, every ladiesâ loo was choc-a-block, while the men wandered around complaining because there was no one else to answer the phones, opening bottles, sampling their contents, pulling the odd premature cracker and, in extreme cases, wearing paper hats. Georgie, Lin and I finished our titivation in Georgieâs office, where she had thoughtfully provided us with a portable mirror and desk lamp for makeup purposes. Then we emerged, headed for the drinks as usual, and several glasses later, when Lin had peeled off to discuss folklore with Graham from Phoenix, Georgie and I found ourselves talking to Calum McGregor, the Art Director.
Cal is the reason the Design Department can tell a writer like Todd Jarman that his title is too long. It is thanks to Cal that Ransome Harber has never been up for the Worst Dust Jacket award at the Frankfurt Book Fair. He claims he can turn a sleeper into a bestseller simply by changing the packaging, and has, on occasion, proved it, with a little help from Promotions. The fact that heâs dyslexic and is said never to have read a book in his life is irrelevant. Colleagues complain heâs a stroppy perfectionist who makes their lives hell, picks their work to bits, and always thinks he knows whatâs best â unhappily, he usually does â though if heâs been particularly difficult he will sometimes compensate by buying them a beer later. At the time of that party he was still a year or so short of forty, with floppy dark brown hair that made him look much younger, designer specs, and a face which, without being classically handsome, was â is â
Office parties, as everyone knows, are an essential item in contemporary romance. What Almackâs was to Georgette Heyer, what Cinderellaâs ball was to the fairytale, what the movie premiere is to the B-list celebrity, the office party is to chick fic. In the City, secretaries tart up to seduce their dishiest bosses while excluded wives rant down their mobiles, and So-and-So from Foreign Investments makes an exhibition of himself with That Blonde from Money-Laundering.
In publishing, contrary to Bridget Jones et al, there are very few dishy bosses: Peter Mayer at Penguin in the good old days of fun and fatwas was, I am told, the exception to all rules. But since it is perfectly true that us girls tart up more for ourselves than the opposite sex â if Nigel is anything to go by, men donât notice anyway â we duly tarted. That is, Lin wore something with ethnic embroidery and tatty hemlines, mascara too dark for her colouring and a smudge of lipstick; I did my best to cover the bulges in a loose silk shirt, daringly pink, which made me look like an oversized Christmas parcel; and Georgie wore an Armani suit, all slimline trousers and stylish tailoring, which must have made a major contribution to her mounting credit-card debt. She looked sensational, with her tits looming from a wispy little top under the collarless jacket, her hair an exquisite blonde disorder, and a couple of face jewels (they were all the rage that year) on her cheekbones. And all for the massed might of Ransome Harber, including not only the resident imprints but also the Design Department, which, like Publicity, dealt with everyone, Contracts, who had turned procrastination into an art form, and the power-mad control-freaks from Sales, who, in the teeth of the evidence, still believed they knew How the Market Works.
From five-thirty, every ladiesâ loo was choc-a-block, while the men wandered around complaining because there was no one else to answer the phones, opening bottles, sampling their contents, pulling the odd premature cracker and, in extreme cases, wearing paper hats. Georgie, Lin and I finished our titivation in Georgieâs office, where she had thoughtfully provided us with a portable mirror and desk lamp for makeup purposes. Then we emerged, headed for the drinks as usual, and several glasses later, when Lin had peeled off to discuss folklore with Graham from Phoenix, Georgie and I found ourselves talking to Calum McGregor, the Art Director.
Cal is the reason the Design Department can tell a writer like Todd Jarman that his title is too long. It is thanks to Cal that Ransome Harber has never been up for the Worst Dust Jacket award at the Frankfurt Book Fair. He claims he can turn a sleeper into a bestseller simply by changing the packaging, and has, on occasion, proved it, with a little help from Promotions. The fact that heâs dyslexic and is said never to have read a book in his life is irrelevant. Colleagues complain heâs a stroppy perfectionist who makes their lives hell, picks their work to bits, and always thinks he knows whatâs best â unhappily, he usually does â though if heâs been particularly difficult he will sometimes compensate by buying them a beer later. At the time of that party he was still a year or so short of forty, with floppy dark brown hair that made him look much younger, designer specs, and a face which, without being classically handsome, was â is â
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