It Had to Be You (5 page)

‘Have you seen the new
GQ
today?’ Brian didn’t bother with pleasantries.

‘I’ve got it right here.’

‘Me and Debbie are extremely naffed off to see Man Down hasn’t got any coverage again this month.’

‘I did say that a four-page interview and photo shoot might be a
little
optimistic.’

‘They’ve interviewed David Cameron before, haven’t they?’

‘Well, yes,’ Lizzy said inadequately. ‘Yes, they have.’

‘I want to see Man Down up there with all the luxury brands, Lizzy. I want to see it in the next James Bond film being stocked in Bond’s frigging toilet bag. You don’t see 007 failing to save the world because he’s in bed with blocked nasal passages, do you? That’s a good line actually, write it down.’

‘What’s the update with the launch?’ A squeaky voice cut in, making Lizzy jump. Brian dominated their conversations so much she sometimes forgot Debbie existed.

‘It’s all looking good.
Holistic Monthly
and
Well Woman
have confirmed they’re coming down, and the
Aylesbury Herald
have also said they’ll hold a double-page spread for us. I’m also speaking to a couple of online sites and sending the products out to our key bloggers.’

The Baxters were bringing out a new product called Santa’s Little Helper for Christmas. Lizzy was organizing a soft launch in Aylesbury town centre in August. It had to be that far ahead to meet all the key magazines’ lead times.

‘Have you looked into the Red Arrows doing a fly-by?’

‘In all honesty, Brian, I’m not sure the budget will stretch to that.’

The call concluded a gruelling forty-five minutes later. ‘Double-check the Red Arrows won’t do a freebie, yeah?’ Brian instructed. ‘Tell them we’ll throw in a year’s free supply of Man Down.’

Lizzy hung up and massaged her temples. Managing client expectations could be a nightmare.

It was a beautiful summer’s evening as Lizzy left the office. Poppet had texted to say she was going out for work drinks in Soho. Did Lizzy want to join them?

She was just considering it when a man walking past did a sharp double take, reminding Lizzy that the spectre of ‘Girl Who Gets Jilted …’ was still alive and present. Not relishing the thought of being gawped at by a pub full of people, she texted Poppet back saying she was going to collapse in front of the TV and watch
Come Dine With Me
on catch-up.

She was struggling through the door with two Sainsbury’s bags when her phone went off. Lizzy’s heart sank when she saw the caller.

‘Hi, Lauren!’

‘You’ve got two minutes. The market’s in freefall and my bids are getting hit faster than a red-headed stepchild.’

At twenty-four, Lauren was the youngest of the Spellman children. As a child she had reached Grade 8 at piano and represented her county in sport at everything. These days she was a trader for a bank in New York and got up at 4.30 a.m. every morning to go to boot camp before work. Everyone in the family was terrified of Lauren, although Lizzy’s mum pretended she wasn’t.

Aside from the fact they were sisters, Lizzy had nothing in common with Lauren. Lauren was ruthlessly single-minded and had no sense of humour – apart from being the only person Lizzy knew who actually laughed at
Tom and Jerry
. Mrs Spellman always said she’d known her work was cut out when she’d gone into Lauren’s bedroom when Lauren was two, and had found her youngest daughter changing her own nappy.

Lauren wasn’t a bad person; she just had zero empathy skills. Privately Lizzy had always wondered if her sister might have a mild touch of Asperger’s, which was probably why she’d ended up doing so well in the City where they dealt with numbers and not humans.

‘Holding up?’ she barked. Lauren talked in short staccato sentences. Time was money on the trading floor, she would tell her family. People needed an answer there and then.

‘Um, I’m fine. I mean it’s been pretty hellish, but …’

‘So you’re OK?’

‘Yeah,’ Lizzy said. ‘I guess I’m OK.’

‘You need a life plan,’ her younger sister told her. ‘Have you looked at those pension options I sent you?’

‘I am going to get round to it,’ Lizzy said lamely. ‘It’s just been really busy at work.’

‘Oh. My. God. You’re a financial time bomb and one day it’s all going to explode in your face.
And
I bet you’re still getting pissed every night with Nic and Poppet.’

‘I am not.’ Lizzy looked guiltily at the bottle of Chenin Blanc she’d just bought from the supermarket.

‘Most of your Facebook updates are about going on hungover McDonalds runs.’ Lauren broke off to shout at someone in the background. Lizzy heard the word ‘Asia’ and what sounded like ‘Nike’.

Her sister came back on the phone. ‘You know what your problem is, Lizzy?’

‘I’ve got a feeling you’re about to tell me.’

‘You’ve never grown up. You’ve never matured from your fifteen-year-old self. You need to stop getting drunk and start saving.’

‘You try living in London.’

‘Don’t give me that. You’re happy to fail at life, but you need to start
trying
at life. You could begin by giving up sugar. You’d see instant results: men, work, your weight; everything. Look, I’ve got to go. Glad you’re feeling better. Bye.’

It had been two weeks since ‘Girl Who Gets Jilted …’ had gone viral. Since then there had been a new political scandal, a BBC news presenter had been snapped topless on holiday showcasing a surprisingly large pair of whoppers, and an oil spill off the Gulf Coast had caused the
Daily Mail
to go into meltdown about the country running out of petrol, just stopping short of telling their readers to start stockpiling tinned food. Lizzy was no longer being asked for her autograph on the bus, and her Twitter follower count had dipped back into treble figures. Lizzy was now officially old news. ‘Your fifteen minutes of fame are over, my friend,’ Nic told her. ‘Now you know how
X Factor
contestants must feel.’

The only downside to being back in anonymity was that journalists were ignoring her calls again. Lizzy was leaving another voicemail about Night Night Baby when Antonia burst through the door with a White Company bag clamped under one meaty arm.

‘Darling, don’t think that for a moment! You are a
wonderful
talent!’ She went into the meeting room and shut the door.

Lizzy knew who her boss was on the phone to. Jocasta Reynolds-Johnson was Haven biggest client. Zen Ten, her organic skincare range, was stocked in Waitrose and other outlets across the UK. Jocasta ran her business out of an industrial park in the Cotswolds and actually wasn’t very Zen at all. She was always ringing up on the edge of a meltdown shouting about how stressed she was. Most of Antonia’s time was taken up placating Jocasta and trying to keep her from going to another agency.

Antonia emerged fifteen minutes later. ‘Jocasta’s about to blow a gasket.’

‘What’s happened?’ Lizzy asked.

‘Some distribution cock-up. I think I calmed her down. Fuck! We simply
cannot
afford to lose Zen Ten.’ She wiped her forehead. ‘Speaking of which, I’ve just taken on a new client. One of my dearest friends Tils has come up with the most inspired idea ever. It’s going to totally revolutionize the market.’

‘Oh?’ Lizzy didn’t like the gleam in her boss’s eye.

Antonia reached into the White Company bag and pulled out something that looked like a headband with two antennae attached to it. ‘Meet your new project! This little beauty is called a Happy Halo.’

‘Are they deelyboppers?’ Lizzy said confusedly.

‘Dear girl, they are so much more than that! Come on, we’re meeting Tils at Highroad House in half an hour.’

Highroad House was a members’ club in nearby leafy Chiswick that Antonia practically lived at. ‘Tils’ turned out to be a nervy blonde perched on an oversized sofa surrounded by boxes of the aforementioned Happy Halos. She launched straight in to explaining the concept to Lizzy.

‘So I got the idea from this
amazing
shaman I met on a retreat in Mexico.’

Her eyes gleamed fanatically. Lizzy started to get a horrible sinking feeling.

‘Each antenna has a crystal inside. When it wobbles, it sends vibrations from the crystal through the body to rebalance your chakras and unblock stuck energies. It’s also
rilly
good for healing unhappy auras.’

‘Look how black Lizzy’s aura is,’ Antonia said. ‘It’s all the alcohol she drinks.’

‘Then this is exactly what you need!’ Tilly cried. ‘Here, try one with the pink crystals.’

Lizzy put a Happy Halo on, painfully aware that there was a table of rather attractive silver foxes having a lunch meeting next to them. The cheap plastic headband dug into her head.

‘The healing element sounds great,’ she said carefully, ‘but I don’t really understand. Why deelyboppers?’

‘To move the energy around, dumbo!’ Antonia roared.

‘And everyone loves a deelybopper, don’t they?’ Tilly said. ‘You can heal yourself
and
have fun at the same time!’ She pushed a piece of paper across the table to Lizzy. ‘Each one comes with a certificate of authentication to show Shaman Ron has personally blessed each crystal.’

Lizzy stared at Shaman Ron, who looked like a tanorexic Father Christmas. No wonder he was so happy; he was probably laughing all the way to the bank.

‘How many did you buy?’ she asked.

‘The initial order is twenty thousand.’ Tilly peered hopefully at Lizzy. ‘Do you think
Vogue
will do something on it?’

On the way out Antonia turned to Lizzy. ‘Between you and I, this is like, a favour, yah? Tils had a
rilly
hard time after her shit of a husband left her for his life coach and she needs a break, OK?’ She grinned nastily. ‘I’m relying on you to pull this off, Lizzy.’

Lizzy had written hundreds of press releases in her time. Revolutionary new cement powders, fluorescent birdseed, a natural Viagra. There had even been a brief stint looking after the British Tomato Growers’ Association. Whatever had come her way, Lizzy had always taken pride in thinking up inventive ways to pitch to a suspicious and often openly hostile media. Seven years into her career she feared she’d found the product that had finally defeated her.

She’d been writing the Happy Halo press release for two days now. No matter what spin she put on it, it still sounded like a crock of outlandish shit.

‘It’s PR, not ER!’ Antonia told her. ‘Just sprinkle some of your magic on it!’

The only magic Lizzy needed was a vanishing act. She was going to be the laughing stock of the PR world. That was if ‘Girl Who Gets Jilted …’ hadn’t made her enough of one already.

‘Have you put it out yet?’ Antonia bellowed across the office.

‘I’m just about to.’ Closing her eyes, Lizzy pressed ‘send’. Too late for any more changes: it was now winging its way into the inboxes of some of the most influential journalists in the industry.

She went to the loo and had a gloomy wee. They should have told bloody ‘Tils’ the Happy Halo was a dud from the start.

When she got back to her desk there were the standard out-of-office responses, plus an email from someone called Elliot Anderson. Lizzy wasn’t familiar with the name; he must have been added to her media list. With a tentative feeling of hope she opened it.

Dear Lizzy,

You may spend your life peddling meaningless drivel but some of us have real jobs to be getting on with. Why don’t you try and get one yourself, instead of conning innocent people into buying this crap?

Best wishes (not),

Elliot

It struck exactly where intended. Lizzy was tired, worn-down and humiliated. She didn’t need some pompous idiot telling her that her life was shit!

Dear Elliot,

It sounds like you’re in dire need of a Happy Halo! Please let me know if you’d like me to send over any images or samples.

Best Wishes (and cheer up),

Lizzy

She sat back and pressed ‘send’. The euphoria lasted all of a second. ‘Shit,’ Lizzy muttered. Rule number one of PR: never fire off a sarky reply to a journalist, even if they are an obnoxious git!

‘Any response yet?’ Antonia boomed.

‘Um, a few tentative enquiries!’ Lizzy consoled herself with the thought that at least she’d never heard of this Elliot Anderson. With any luck he’d be a complete nobody.

‘
The
Elliot Anderson?’ Poppet gasped. ‘As in Elliot Anderson off the news? Gorgeous Elliot Anderson, who’s engaged to the fashion designer Amber de la Haye?’

‘Don’t tell me that!’ Lizzy wailed. ‘I’d convinced myself he worked for
Salmon and Trout Weekly
!’

Poppet pulled her iPhone out of her bag. They’d met at a cheap and cheerful bistro for a quick bite after work. She got Elliot’s Wikipedia page up and showed Lizzy. ‘I can’t believe you haven’t heard of him!’

‘I’ve got BuzzFeed! Why would I need to watch the news?’

Poppet began reading. ‘“Elliot Nathaniel Anderson (born 4 February 1981) is editor at large at the
Financial Times
and economics correspondent on the ITV
News at Ten
.”’ She gave Lizzy a significant look. ‘“Anderson’s presenter career started by chance when ITV’s
News at Ten
economics editor – due to break a world exclusive – was taken ill just before broadcast. Anderson, who happened to be in the ITV building for another interview, stepped in and proved a natural in front of the camera.” Ooh, look! And his dad was a lord!’

She showed Lizzy a picture. Elliot Anderson had thick, dark-red hair and was about thirty years younger than Lizzy had envisaged.