Ellen Berry - The Little Bakery on Rosemary Lane - The best feel-good romance to curl up with in 2018

Roxanne blanched. She detested the phrase ‘figure-fixing’, implying as it did that women’s bodies were on a par with faulty guttering, and needed to be rectified. ‘Er, that’s good to know,’ she muttered. ‘So, have you worked together before?’

‘Oh, lots of times. We’re quite the team, the pair of us. We go way back …’ She beamed, as if reflecting upon how fabulous they were together. ‘So, she’ll be working alongside you, offering lots of support as we move away from arty-farty shoots towards practical, useful fashion …’

A sense of dread was juddering up inside her. ‘What sort of thing d’you mean?’

‘Like, “Here are the hundred best knickers to squish in that nasty wobbly tum!”’ Marsha beamed at her, as if astounded by her own genius. Roxanne started to speak, but Marsha charged on: ‘That’s what women want, and we might as well accept it. Big bottoms, porky thighs, saggy boobs, bingo wings, that hideous knee fat that sort of hangs down … we’re all desperate to cover up our problem areas, aren’t we?’

Roxanne shifted uneasily on her seat. ‘Er, I’m just not sure about the message we’ll be putting across—’

‘Well, it’s where we’re going and Tina will be in charge of all that.’

For a moment, Roxanne just stared at her as this new information sank in. ‘You mean Tina will be in charge of all of our fashion?’ she asked carefully. ‘Or just these figure-fixing pages you’re planning to introduce?’

‘Ha. Yes and no. Or, rather, yes and yes. From now on a ll of our fashion will be body-correcting, using the cheapest brands available, and shot economically in a studio. So, no more arty outdoor shoots with your fancy photographers, okay?’

‘But we’re known for beautiful photography,’ Roxanne said, aghast. ‘It’s what the magazine is all about …’

‘Oh, no one gives a fig about that anymore. We’re all about quantity and value now – and Tina’s remit will be to oversee it all.’

What the hell will I be doing, then? Roxanne wanted to ask, although she couldn’t quite manage to string the right words together. Almost thirty years she’d spent, creating gorgeous images. She adored her job and couldn’t imagine doing anything else; only now, it seemed her skills were no longer required. ‘So, uh … what will her job title actually be?’ she managed to croak.

Marsha fixed her with a cool stare. ‘She’ll be fashion-director-in-chief.’

‘Fashion-director-in-chief?’ Roxanne repeated. ‘I’m sorry, but what even is that?’

‘It’s the person who heads up the fashion department of course …’

‘But I head up the fashion department!’

‘Yes, and I think this’ll be good for you,’ Marsha said firmly, ‘and your professional development. Tina’s a powerhouse and we need that strong direction, the clout she’ll bring us in the industry. I know you’ll get along like a house on fire …’

Oh, will we? Roxanne opened her mouth to speak but no words came out.

‘Please don’t look so worried,’ Marsha remarked.

Stop telling me how to arrange my face! ‘It’s just a bit of a shock,’ she muttered, digging her nails into her palms now. ‘I mean, if Tina’s being brought in to do my job, then where will I fit in?’

‘How d’you mean?’ Marsha pulled a baffled look, and then – in an act that struck Roxanne as unspeakably disrespectful – bent to rummage in her leather satchel and pulled out a small, oil-stained paper bag from which she extracted a Danish pastry. As if Roxanne had ceased to exist, she took a large bite.

For a moment, all Roxanne could do was watch her, chomping. Oh, sorry, was I interrupting your breakfast? What was the etiquette here? It didn’t feel right to question Marsha while she was cramming baked goods into her face, but then, weren’t they supposed to be having a ‘chat’?

‘So,’ she managed, her voice unsteady now, ‘am I to understand that Tina will be managing my team and essentially doing my job?’

‘Yes,’ Marsha conceded, nodding emphatically whilst still chewing, ‘but don’t look at it like that. It’s just a slight restructuring and you’ll learn so much …’

‘And when is she starting?’

Marsha swallowed and took another bite. ‘On Monday,’ she said, a flurry of crumbs shooting from her mouth.

Roxanne flinched. ‘On Monday ?’

Marsha nodded. ‘Yes. I know her editor very well so I’ve managed to arrange for her to be released immediately. Time is of the essence here, I’m sure you understand …’

‘Of yes, of course,’ Roxanne said, wondering if she understood anything anymore. ‘So, er, is that all?’

Marsha nodded, her cheeks bulging like a hamster’s. ‘Yes, thank you for your time …’

‘Thank you ,’ Roxanne exclaimed, polite to the last and willing herself to hold it together as she sprang up from the seat and strode out of Marsha’s glass box. Thank you, thank you, thank you. She would probably have expressed her gratitude if Marsha had kicked her in the teeth.

‘Roxanne? You forgot this!’ Marsha was standing up now, still chewing, bovine-like, waving her scrapbook and planting greasy fingerprints all over it. As Roxanne darted back to retrieve it, Marsha frowned and sniffed its appliquéd cover. ‘Does this smell of burning to you?’

All eyes were upon Roxanne as she made her way back to her desk with her stupid old-school scrapbook wedged under her arm. At least, it felt that way. In a decade of working here, Roxanne had always regarded the office as her second home, with its scruffy old swivel chairs and temperamental toaster and dog-eared magazines piled everywhere. In some ways she preferred it to her real home as all the team were here, the lovely people who cared about magazines as much as she did and who were like family, really. Ibiza jaunt with Amanda aside, she had never been one for holidays. If she did force herself to go away – alone, usually, on some kind of ‘activity break’ where you were pretty much guaranteed to meet other single people – she tended to spend the second half of the week sketching ideas for shoots and itching to return to work.

Not today, though. Right now, she’d have given anything not to be here – to be magically transported back to her flat, with the door firmly locked. She was aware of Jacqui’s gaze following her as she lowered herself onto her chair back at her own desk. Zoe was staring openly, her mouth ajar. Yes, I’ve just been told some awful news, she wanted to announce, just to be done with it. Someone’s being brought in over my head, so I’m effectively demoted – but, hey, I’m fine with that because, apparently, I’m going to ‘love’ her!

She glanced back at Marsha, insulated from the rest of the team in her glass office. Her predecessor, Cathy, had never used it, preferring to have a desk out here in the main space, in the thick of things. Marsha was on the phone now, stuffing more pastry into her pursed little mouth.

‘Everything okay, Rox?’ Serena murmured from her own desk, which faced Roxanne’s.

‘Yes, it’s fine,’ she said briskly, catching Kate giving her a quizzical look.

‘Want to nip out?’ Serena whispered. ‘Get a coffee or something?’

‘No thanks.’ Avoiding eye contact, Roxanne shook her head.

‘Are you sure? You look awfully pale. Was it something she—’

‘I’m-fine-honestly,’ she barked, causing Tristan to spin his head around from the art department. Roxanne started rummaging in her top desk drawer, not because she needed anything but to give herself something to do. Like the top of her desk, it was a terrible tip. She delved amongst staplers, rolls of Sellotape, parcel labels, bulldog clips, cans of hairspray, notebooks and lip balms in a cacophony of flavours, willing Serena to stop giving her sympathetic glances, and wishing everyone would just leave her be.