She says goodbye to the person on the other end of the line and puts the phone down. ‘Sorry about that,’ she says. ‘I should be able to leave the photographer to get on with things but sometimes he can need a little more guidance. We’ve a big edition coming up and it’s all hands on deck to make it really special. No one wants to fuck it up.’
‘That sounds exciting,’ I say with a smile.
She shrugs. ‘Between the two of us, it is and it isn’t. There’s a lot of pressure to get it just right. Print editions are fighting for their lives out there at the moment. Who wants to pick up a magazine when they can get the latest fashion, features and gossip online in minutes? We’re pushing hard to keep selling and keep relevant.’
‘That must be a lot of pressure for you?’
‘It is and isn’t,’ she repeats with a smile. ‘I love it, which is why I keep doing it. I think I’ve learned to thrive under pressure, but at the same time I’m responsible for keeping the show on the road, keeping my staff in a job and growing our digital content too. It’s certainly busy.’
Her phone rings again and she lifts it before hanging it straight back up, then lifts the handset and lays it on her desk off the hook. ‘But listen, you didn’t come here to listen to me talking about how busy I am! Thanks for sending over the sample columns. I had a good read of them last night and Becca, I’m in.’
I hardly dare to believe what I think I’m hearing. She’s in? In what? In for having me on board? ‘I’m in!’ is usually a positive statement, isn’t it?
But what if I’m wrong? What if she means she’s in a state of disgust that I would insult her with such nonsense? Or in shock at my audacity at thinking I had a voice her readers would want to entertain?
I don’t know how I should react – whether to smile or cry – so I just stare at her while trying to remember how normal human beings use their own faces. It’s possible that I look as if I’m mid stroke.Speak, Becca!I think,For feck sake! Open your damn mouth and say something sensible!
‘You’re i-in?’ I stutter.
‘Yes. I loved them!’ she says enthusiastically. ‘You have such a relatable voice – and not just because I’m a similar age and my children are leaving me behind while they forge ahead into their futures like yours are. You just get that mix of humour and heart that our readers love so right. I laughed when I read them, and I had a little cry too because, seriously, when you wrote that motherhood inevitably breaks all our hearts, I felt that in my bones. I mean, we put all the work in and then they just clear off! When I showed them to my deputy and features editors they agreed with me. We think you’d be a great asset to the magazine.’
‘You d-do?’ I stutter again, watching for signs on her face that maybe she had but now that she’s met this stuttering eejit who doesn’t even know how to react like a normal person she might just be reconsidering that decision.
‘I do. Look, I don’t have unlimited means. I’d like to tell you that I do, but truth be told, every month I get through without having to go full Hunger Games with my staff to appease the powers that be is a bonus. What I do have, though, is a modest budget for contributors. We’d love it if you were able to provide us with five to seven hundred words on surviving your forties each month. I’ll have to brainstorm with the team, and you of course, but we’ll come up with a name for the column and branding. You’ll have editorial freedom, within limits. Write what you want – but try and stay clear of ripping into the industries most likely to advertise on our pages. I like your warts-and-all approach. What it’s like trying to figure out who you are, while caring for older relatives, your children and your friends, while working and trying to maintain a relationship – or build a new one,’ she says with a wink. ‘Give us menopause chat. A forties-is-the-new-thirties attitude. I want that “there’s life in the old gal yet” approach – but without using that phrase. It makes me feel queasy. Something about “old gal” feels like we should all be wearing tweed skirts and twinsets and supping gin out of hip flasks down at the stables.’
I’m listening as she chats excitedly about the words I’ve written, and the style I’ve adopted. I beam with pride when she tells me she almost peed laughing at my menopausal take on ‘Position of the Fortnight’, which had been the closest thing to porn many a teenage girl in the nineties saw in each edition of the now sadly defunctMoremagazine. But my version wouldn’t be about sex, but instead about getting a good sleep while dealing with night sweats, aches and pains and a back that goes out more than I do.
‘I’m so glad you liked it,’ I say, delighted with myself for being able to speak a coherent sentence with the appropriate facial expression in place.
‘Seriously! I loved it. And when I say I almost peed, I’m not lying. I’ve had two vaginal births, and a hysterectomy. I’m always just one belly laugh away from needing Tena Lady.’
Her honesty and willingness to talk about the things we have often been urged to keep under wraps warms my heart. It’s exactly how I want to write. I don’t want every word women read to be aspirational. I want what I write to be relatable. Life is bloody hard enough without thinking you’re getting it wrong all the time and everyone else is sailing along in a state of near perpetual bliss.
I don’t want my words to amount to a how-to guide of how to look younger and fight off the natural ageing process. Women in their forties and fifties are not solely fixated on their looks.
There’s an incredible warm glow inside me as I listen to Grace, and for once it’s not a hot flush. It’s just sheer pride.
‘So,’ she says, cutting through my little internal celebration, ‘here’s the catch.’
Catch? I freeze. I don’t like catches. I don’t like little surprises on the end of nice news. I am always immediately suspicious of them. They scream of ‘if something looks too good to be true…’
My concern must be written large all over my face as Grace immediately moves to reassure me. ‘Oh, God. Don’t look so stressed. Don’t worry. It’s not bad. It’s… well… let me put it this way: how good are you at working under pressure?’
I snort. Everything in my existence seems to be under pressure at the moment; what difference would throwing one more log into the bin-fire of my life make?
‘I may require a large glass of wine at the end of the day, but as it happens, I’m quite good at pressure. Most of the time,’ I reply, wondering if it’s appropriate to start regaling her with stories of my sons, the unexpected pregnancysituation, the new romance or making sure my mother doesn’t kill herself by climbing into her attic or breaking a hip trying to shovel snow on her own. But then I remember this isn’t actually a friendly natter over coffee. This is a work situation and I am supposed to be professional – even if we were only discussing incontinence a few moments ago.
‘Look,’ I tell her, ‘I’m used to working to frequent and shifting deadlines. The majority of the business-to-business clients I have worked with over the years have very exacting standards and are never afraid to shift the goalposts at the last minute and expect everyone to fall into line behind them. This creates pressure all of its own.’
She nods.
‘I juggle creating content with hitting their deadlines, targeting specific issues within their industries and making even the driest of copy sound entertaining. This gig… well, this is me doing something for me. Something that feeds my soul. Truth be told, this is something I should’ve pursued years ago but, you know, life got in the way in the way it tends to do. Parenting. Lone parenting. That kind of thing. And then I got too settled in my comfort zone. But this? This is what I want to do and I’ll do anything to make it work. Pile the pressure on. I’ll make it happen.’
I’m hoping my speech has come across more Jerry Maguire–esque than just the desperate ramblings of a woman who knows this might be her last chance to take control of her career.
I’m also hoping that even though I’ve told her to pile on the pressure, she doesn’t pile too much on. I can’t help but feel a little like a human version of Buckaroo right now. One cowboy hat too many and I’ll be kicking my emotional baggage all around me.
‘Great,’ she says, grinning. ‘Because here’s the thing. April is our fortieth anniversary edition and I really think that will be the perfect time to launch you as our latest voice.’
