The Other Half Read online

  With so much time devoted to getting her son presentable, Maggie couldn’t spend as long on her own appearance as she had in the past. She’d always been reasonably comfortable with her looks and still took care about what she put into her body—indeed, she had long been renowned among her peers for her healthy eating habits and unique dress sense. But these days she often felt drab. A quick dab of mascara had to suffice before she flung on her clothes—something comfortable that she could spill food down was vital in her line of work.

  Presently, Jamie left for the office. His publishing house was in the West End of London and he had to drive to Guildford and catch the train. At eight thirty another local mum came to collect Nathan—they took turns walking the children to the village school.

  “Bye, love.” Maggie kissed him and handed him his packed lunch.

  “Bye. Look after Monday.” Monday was his gerbil.

  “Of course,” said Maggie, knowing full well she would ignore the animal. He had been a gift from her friend Jean, who—to Maggie’s frustration—indulged Nathan as she had no children of her own. Personally, Maggie found Monday a bit too ratlike for comfort, but because Nathan loved him, didn’t have the heart to say so.

  * * *

  Back in the house, she leaned against the kitchen door frame, closed her eyes, and listened. There was the low hum of the refrigerator, the regular shum, shum of the washing machine. Otherwise it was silent. It was at moments like these that she persuaded herself she was glad they’d moved out of London. Here in Surrey it was much quieter, and though her social circle was tamer, she loved being closer to nature, noticing what season it was, waking to the sound of birds rather than traffic. Shere, the village where they lived, was exceptionally pretty.

  Time to get cracking. Literally.

  Today she was testing recipes for “Pulling Dishes,” an article for Men suggesting meals to help a man to score with a prospective girlfriend. Hardly a credible concept—it would take more than a well-cooked meal to lure me into bed, thought Maggie—but it was more fun than the dreary suggestions many magazine editors went for. It was only a way of dressing up old favorites—soufflé, goat cheese salad, tagliatelli. In an ideal world she’d rather have written something more controversial that drew on her expertise in nutrition and interest in subjects like GM-free crops and organic farming. Yet somehow she’d slipped into producing more traditional pieces because it was easy, the money was good, and Jamie had lots of contacts in the magazine world.

  She opened the refrigerator and got out eggs, butter, cheese.

  Damn, she thought. I forgot to order more milk. How could I have made such a basic mistake? I’ll have to nip out to the shop. As she reached for her bag, she sighed to herself; it’s obviously going to be one of those days.

  * * *

  A couple of hours later and she had one recipe almost complete.

  Artichoke Soufflé with Three Cheeses

  There’s nothing more likely to whet a woman’s sexual appetite than a well-risen soufflé. But if you want to impress her, don’t be fooled into thinking bigger is better. In fact, a small dish with a collar tied around is rather more tempting. Then you can pile the mixture up high and when it’s cooked remove the collar to reveal something quite spectacular.

  She laughed at the thought of being seduced by a soufflé. She had a vision of being cajoled into the bedroom for some “intercourse” and being surprised by the sight of a man, his penis happily erect and tied with a red ribbon.

  I guess the first test of good copy is that it should do something for the writer herself, she thought.

  Better focus, make a drink. Maggie had been an early convert to proper coffee. Even as a student, when her fellow undergraduates had been content with the filthiest instant made with—horror of horrors—powdered milk, she had had a percolator in her room. In the run-down Victorian terraces of Manchester this had been unusual, but now in their immaculate, well-equipped kitchen her perfectionism seemed less misplaced. These days she had one of those espresso makers that went directly on the gas burner—something about the ritual of using a more basic implement appealed to her sense of authenticity.

  Around the house were various tributes to Maggie’s ongoing campaign to get things aesthetically right. She would prefer to slave stripping layers of paint off a cornice herself than hire someone else to do it, lest they chip a vital plaster detail. Equally, she was happier to have no paintings rather than twee prints that anyone could have; unlike some of the other stockbroker-belt women locally, Maggie wasn’t one for off-the-shelf style. When she and Jamie had lived in London, their friends had admired her individualism and confidence in her own vision—their home had even been featured in a couple of magazines. Here Maggie felt her insistence on using pure pigment paints and real candles on the Christmas tree was probably seen as arty-farty and pretentious. Yet while she wasn’t prepared to compromise to keep others happy and seem less threatening—that would have meant denying herself pleasure—sometimes she felt lonely, cut off from kindred spirits and those with more eclectic tastes.

  Perhaps that’s why I want a second child, she thought. Or maybe it’s because as a toddler Nathan seemed happy to be endlessly cuddled, whereas now he’s inclined to push me away and say I’m being soppy.

  Whatever the reason, over the last few months Maggie had been broody—and with it came a desire to make love so strong that at times it seemed overwhelming, despite the passion-killing thermometers. But Jamie had not been in the mood for sex of late. Maggie knew it was a tough time for him professionally and was loath to seem too pushy.

  The coffee failed to do the trick, and no amount of aphrodisiac recipe-testing was going to alleviate her sexual frustration. There was only one solution. Retail therapy.

  It’s ages since I’ve treated myself to a spree purely for my own pleasure, she reasoned.

  But first, damn it, she would take a little time getting ready. Experience had taught her that shopping in one’s grottiest clothes was a mistake—lines failed to flatter, and even her favorite colors made her appear washed out. Thanks to good skin, naturally fair hair, and a leggy physique, Maggie scrubbed up both well and quickly, and within minutes the tired tracksuit had been replaced by a honey-colored silk shirtdress that helped her feel less suburban mum and more city chic. Settled behind the wheel of her car, she pumped the volume up on the CD player much louder than usual, blasting an old favorite from her student days into the countryside.

  Forty minutes later she was in Kingston. She swept into the mall, got out of the car, scooped up her bag, and flicked on the alarm. First stop, John Lewis. She took the escalators to the second floor, turned left, and breathed a sigh of relief.

  There they were. Hanger upon hanger. Push-up bras and basques, F-cups and G-strings, French knickers and frilly panties.

  She prowled around like a lion assessing its prey. Yes! That one. And that. And those …

  There are blessings to being a 34B, she thought. I might not have the bosom to make a man stop dead in the street, but it’s relatively easy to find something that fits. And it was well worth driving a bit farther for all this choice.

  Within minutes Maggie’s arms were full of lilac silk, black lycra, pink cotton, and white lace. Then, on an uncharacteristic whim, she picked up a red-and-black basque with suspenders and headed for the fitting room.

  The assistant counted the number of hangers and agreed to hand her the surplus items through the curtain. The good thing about the changing room was that it was private, well-lit, and spacious. The bad thing was it had three angled mirrors so she could see every imperfection.

  Still, she reasoned, determined to see the bright side, it means that whatever I choose will look good when I get home. Unlike those mirrors designed to make me appear three inches taller and twenty pounds lighter than I really am.

  Although over the years people had told Maggie she had a nice figure, she’d always considered herself rather androgynous. She hankered for a more volu
ptuous shape, a defined waist, and breasts that hadn’t lost their pertness after childbirth. Sometimes she had a vague suspicion Jamie liked women who were more generously endowed …

  As she tried on the different items, Maggie was amazed how each of the various styles seemed to give her an entirely new persona: white broderie anglaise, and she was pretty, young, and innocent; grey marl, she was doubtless more interested in comfort than sex; in a black lycra G-string and seamless bra, there were several more notches on her bedpost. In the past, she would have opted for the latter—the combination was simple and sporty, not too sexually overt.

  Maybe I should be more daring, she urged herself, as she slipped on the black-and-red basque.

  She adjusted the straps and swiveled around. Without stockings it was hard to gauge the full effect, but she had a good imagination. Her nipples were clearly visible through the sheer black lace.

  Is that truly me reflected in the glass? she thought. It seems the kind of thing other women wear—women I usually reproach for their lack of discretion. Yet maybe I should admire their audacity.… It’s a far cry from my usual purchases and hardly in keeping with my understated style, but there’s something about its sensuality—the red ribbon trim, the black boning, its sheer impracticality …

  She stood back for a proper look. There was no doubt that it pushed her up and pulled her in to great effect.

  Damn the cost, damn my usual taste, damn perceiving it as tarty, damn the fact that over the last few years shopping has come to mean Waitrose and things for Nathan or for the house, thought Maggie. Why should I be so restrained?

  And to her surprise, as she handed her debit card to the matronly woman behind the till, she felt wonderfully empowered.

  If that didn’t do the trick tonight, nothing would.

  3

  The meeting room was large for just two people, with empty chairs arranged neatly around a clear glass table. With the air-conditioning on full blast it was cold. Chloë flicked off the fan and laid several magazines in front of her.

  “Would you like some coffee?”

  “Please. That would be great.” James clicked open his briefcase, got out his iPad, and pushed up the sleeves of his jacket in a way that asserted he meant business.

  Chloë made a mental note: good hands, attractive wrists, not-too-showy watch. She and Rob often discussed the various components that gave male forearms their unique appeal. She picked up the phone and called Patsy. “Could we have coffee for two, please? We’re in the meeting room.”

  “So,” said James, “you wanted to discuss a new magazine idea.”

  “I have a proposal.”

  “Oh?”

  “I believe there is a gap in the market for a new women’s monthly.”

  “Does your editor know about this?”

  Was it Chloë’s imagination, or did he sound a little worried about meeting behind Jean’s back? Jean had implied that they knew each other socially as well as through work, after all. Chloë endeavored to put him at ease. “I didn’t feel she had to yet. What I’m talking about is not a direct competitor to Babe.” She took a deep breath and started her Powerpoint presentation.

  “I realize there are many magazines, and in some ways the market is overcrowded,” she continued, expanding on the bullet points highlighted on the screen in front of them. “It’s certainly jam-packed in the teen area, right up to women in their late twenties. Babe is one of those, as you know, and of course it does very well, with its niche firmly established. And there is ample reading matter for those over forty. But I believe there is a gap for women between those ages, say between twenty-eight and forty.”

  “You don’t think this gap’s already been filled?”

  “I don’t.” Chloë moved on to the next slide, titled The Competition. “Your reader of these magazines”—she gesticulated to the array before them—“is perceived as pretty traditional. The expectation is that she is married, with children, or certainly in a relationship. She is into clothes, not high fashion. She is into dinner parties, recipes, and gardening. Which is all very well, but I’ve undertaken research that shows there is another kind of woman, and she’s interested in a lot more than this.”

  “Research?” James sounded impressed.

  “Yes.” Chloë handed him a copy of her proposal document. “You’ll find full details in here, but I’ll run you through the basics.” She clicked the mouse. “I held a number of discussion groups, selecting ABC1 women I know or friends of friends who work in a cross-section of industries, some with, some without children. All of them, without exception, felt there was no magazine that catered exactly to their tastes.”

  “Where did you do this research?”

  “At my home. I found it worked well if the group could relax over a glass of wine, away from the office and family. I provided samples of all these magazines and asked what they liked and didn’t like about them, what sorts of interests they had, what they wanted to see, what they hated, what they loved. And I discovered my initial hunch was right. There is a gap in the market.”

  At that point there was a knock and Patsy came in with a tray. With her hair gelled into spikes and dressed in a miniskirt and clumpy platforms, she could have made an impression, yet she was so busy ogling James that Chloë feared she might drop everything.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “My pleasure.” Patsy grinned like a teenager. James seemed oblivious, but it did allow Chloë several seconds to assess him further. He was well-spoken, she’d already noted, and she guessed he was mid to late thirties. Hmm, she thought. He’s not really that handsome, certainly no Ryan Gosling or Brad Pitt—his features aren’t regular and his hair needs a trim. He could do with losing a few pounds too. Yet he’s one of those men who seems very, well, male, I suppose, and that’s undeniably attractive …

  “I see,” said James, after Patsy had reluctantly left. “So have you some idea of what this magazine might be like?”

  “I do. I’ll give you a taste—you’ll find more in my proposal. It will have more of an edge. It will be for women who like fast cars, high fashion, and occasionally getting drunk. It will be for women who work, but also for those bringing up children—neither will be the sole focus. It will debate politics and social issues—stirring up our readers’ passions. And when we feature food and recipes, we’ll offer practical advice, featuring something creative to do when you arrive home and there’s nothing but a can of tuna and baked beans in your cupboard, say, rather than meals that take an entire week to prepare. It won’t have endless features on how to get your man, or how to lose five pounds in a week—the other magazines already do that. Though it will talk about sex—gay sex, straight sex, dangerous sex, impotence, the lot.”

  She paused. “Above all, it will be exciting, vibrant, and bold. It will be up-front, plain-speaking, but fun. That, in my opinion, is where these magazines have got it wrong.” She picked one up. “Look at the layout and the typography! Dull, dull, dull! The photography? It’s so five years ago.

  “Now,” she said, handing him the latest copy of a magazine from Japan. “This is more like it. The typography, the color, the shots—groundbreaking!”

  “I agree.” James seemed infected by her enthusiasm. “Graphics is an area where the Far East is often one step ahead.”

  “Exactly!”

  “So your target woman, tell me more—what’s she like?”

  “Me, I suppose.”

  “Somehow I thought so.” He grinned, and added, almost as an afterthought, “Sounds appealing.”

  “Well.” Chloë blushed a little. “I realize that seems a bit egocentric, what I mean is; I’ve been working in this business for eight years now, and I still don’t think there’s a magazine that’s exactly me. Anyway,” she focused again, “I don’t want to lose the thread of my presentation.” She reached once more for the mouse.

  “It’s okay,” James interrupted. “I’m interested by all I’ve heard so far, but I’m rather push
ed for time. I’ll take this home and read it. Meanwhile, what, precisely, would you like from me?”

  “Gosh.” Chloë was taken aback by his immediate validation of her hard work. This was something she felt so vehement about; it had been whizzing around in her head for months. But this was the first time she’d talked to anyone who could help make her vision a reality. She’d bounced ideas off Rob, she’d had her discussion groups, but chiefly this was her baby.

  “I’d appreciate the opportunity to explore it further, but I think I’ve taken it about as far as I can on my own time. Now I’d like UK Magazines’ backing.”

  “Such as?”

  Chloë was impressed he’d gotten to the point so fast. “I was hoping I could be seconded to special projects to develop the idea.”

  “Mm. I’ll need to think about that. I presume you’d want to be the acting editor.”

  “Yes.” Chloë was flattered he thought her fit for such a key role, though it was the very post she hoped for. “So I’d rather you didn’t tell Jean quite yet.”

  “You’re taking a risk, aren’t you, telling me? And at Babe’s offices.”

  “I am, but I really believe in this.” A story came to Chloë’s mind and she smiled. “Recently my uncle bought a sports car, after driving around in sensible little hatchbacks for years. He’s seventy-three. ‘Life is not a rehearsal, Chloë,’ he said. ‘Don’t wait until you’re retired to start realizing your ambitions.’ It might be clichéd, but I could see his point. That evening I started to draft a proposal for this magazine.”

  James appeared touched. “I like your thinking. So, tell me, what position are you in here at Babe?”

  “Features editor.”

  “I’m sure they’d hate to lose you. Babe is doing well. Yet I daresay they can hire a replacement, and a visionary editor to launch a new project is harder to find. I do warn you, though, we’re not talking about a permanent post initially. Until you’ve put together a sample issue of the magazine, gone through more formal research, and tested with potential advertisers, any move would be only temporary.”