and had taken an interest in the family company. The idea that she might actually meet one of the Garnets
– and Joshua in particular – gave Jo an exhilarated feeling in her stomach. He was magazine royalty, the JFK of publishing.
Frieda spotted the adoration on Jo’s face and led her swiftly back to their small office.
‘And here, as you have seen, is our office. You’ll be assigned copy to type because some of our journalists prefer to handwrite
their pieces. You’re not to make any amendments apart from spelling and punctuation, and to copy what you are given word for
word from the handwritten notes. Do you understand?’
Frieda looked at Jo with a stern expression and Jo smiled back. She was about to start working on a magazine – practically
with Joshua Garnet! – and she would do anything she was told.
October 2002
Every morning Jo would stand outside Garnet Tower smiling to herself. Set in the heart of Covent Garden, the shiny dark red
skyscraper dominated the skyline, and all the theatres and boutiques of the West End cowered underneath it. Jo would watch
the extremely thin and glamorous magazine writers, editors and designers rush into the foyer with an obvious sense of purpose.
Then Jo would do the same, flashing her staff pass at the docile security man and squeezing herself into the mirrored lift,
taking care not to look at her reflection because the sight of her size-sixteen bottom in comparison tothe size-eight girls hurt.
Gloss
was on floor nineteen, directly under
DG
magazine – standing for
Discerning Gentlemen
– and above
Honey
, the most popular teen magazine not just in the UK, but in Europe too. Jo would breathe in the smell of power, domination
and money. Garnet Publishing was the largest and most successful magazine company in the UK, and Jo was thrilled to be part
of it.
The work, however, bored her to tears. And there was so much of it.
For her first few weeks Jo kept her head down and concentrated on her typing. Her computer was temperamental and it kept on
crashing. When Jo paused to try to reboot it, or to read through an article before typing it up, she would catch Frieda frowning
at her, and she’d quickly start moving her fingers again, trying to look busy. She was used to hard work, but Frieda expected
such exactness that she felt under pressure.
‘It has to be perfect, Joanne. Do it again, please. And faster this time too. We do have a deadline to reach.’ Frieda said
to Jo at least once a day while the other girls smirked, and she found she was working harder than she’d ever done, especially
as she wasn’t invited to join in the gossip and tea breaks with the other girls. Jo didn’t care. Friends were a luxury, but
her career was not, and because she’d chosen it over William she was determined to make it. She was going to become a features
writer.
The first part of her plan to become a journalist was to look the part. One Saturday, Jo went to Top Shop and out went the
smart skirts and blouses and in came Helmut Lang military-style touches, Anna Sui-inspired embroidered skirts, extra-long
scarves, slouchy boho bags and longer skirts – anything that was a cheap version of what had been on the catwalk. Jo ignored
the fact that most of the clothes she bought were size eighteen because size sixteen was suddenly too tight, andshe didn’t care that she looked faintly ridiculous because she had a bottom, large tits and ample thighs. She wanted to ooze
self-confidence and dressing like a mousy secretary wasn’t the way forward. Strictly speaking Jo kept within the Garnet dress
code for administrative staff, but she could tell Frieda disapproved of her new outfits. When dressing like she was a journalist
didn’t cut it with any of the editorial staff she spotted in the foyer, or with Rachel, who still looked straight through
her, Jo turned to more drastic measures.
For years Jo’s dull medium-brown hair had hung limp
– and Joshua in particular – gave Jo an exhilarated feeling in her stomach. He was magazine royalty, the JFK of publishing.
Frieda spotted the adoration on Jo’s face and led her swiftly back to their small office.
‘And here, as you have seen, is our office. You’ll be assigned copy to type because some of our journalists prefer to handwrite
their pieces. You’re not to make any amendments apart from spelling and punctuation, and to copy what you are given word for
word from the handwritten notes. Do you understand?’
Frieda looked at Jo with a stern expression and Jo smiled back. She was about to start working on a magazine – practically
with Joshua Garnet! – and she would do anything she was told.
October 2002
Every morning Jo would stand outside Garnet Tower smiling to herself. Set in the heart of Covent Garden, the shiny dark red
skyscraper dominated the skyline, and all the theatres and boutiques of the West End cowered underneath it. Jo would watch
the extremely thin and glamorous magazine writers, editors and designers rush into the foyer with an obvious sense of purpose.
Then Jo would do the same, flashing her staff pass at the docile security man and squeezing herself into the mirrored lift,
taking care not to look at her reflection because the sight of her size-sixteen bottom in comparison tothe size-eight girls hurt.
Gloss
was on floor nineteen, directly under
DG
magazine – standing for
Discerning Gentlemen
– and above
Honey
, the most popular teen magazine not just in the UK, but in Europe too. Jo would breathe in the smell of power, domination
and money. Garnet Publishing was the largest and most successful magazine company in the UK, and Jo was thrilled to be part
of it.
The work, however, bored her to tears. And there was so much of it.
For her first few weeks Jo kept her head down and concentrated on her typing. Her computer was temperamental and it kept on
crashing. When Jo paused to try to reboot it, or to read through an article before typing it up, she would catch Frieda frowning
at her, and she’d quickly start moving her fingers again, trying to look busy. She was used to hard work, but Frieda expected
such exactness that she felt under pressure.
‘It has to be perfect, Joanne. Do it again, please. And faster this time too. We do have a deadline to reach.’ Frieda said
to Jo at least once a day while the other girls smirked, and she found she was working harder than she’d ever done, especially
as she wasn’t invited to join in the gossip and tea breaks with the other girls. Jo didn’t care. Friends were a luxury, but
her career was not, and because she’d chosen it over William she was determined to make it. She was going to become a features
writer.
The first part of her plan to become a journalist was to look the part. One Saturday, Jo went to Top Shop and out went the
smart skirts and blouses and in came Helmut Lang military-style touches, Anna Sui-inspired embroidered skirts, extra-long
scarves, slouchy boho bags and longer skirts – anything that was a cheap version of what had been on the catwalk. Jo ignored
the fact that most of the clothes she bought were size eighteen because size sixteen was suddenly too tight, andshe didn’t care that she looked faintly ridiculous because she had a bottom, large tits and ample thighs. She wanted to ooze
self-confidence and dressing like a mousy secretary wasn’t the way forward. Strictly speaking Jo kept within the Garnet dress
code for administrative staff, but she could tell Frieda disapproved of her new outfits. When dressing like she was a journalist
didn’t cut it with any of the editorial staff she spotted in the foyer, or with Rachel, who still looked straight through
her, Jo turned to more drastic measures.
For years Jo’s dull medium-brown hair had hung limp
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