Following the management meeting Bernice saw far less of Martin than she had before. Until then he had always been popping into their office 'to see how things were going' - even though there was little to see - or else asking her to pop into his office for a quick word which turned out to be quite a slow and ultimately rather pointless word. She presumed that he was simply exercising his prerogative as a publisher to check up on her, but in this she was doing him an injustice. He was absolutely sure of her abilities: these quick words were simply for the pleasure of her company, though he would have been very reluctant to admit this.
Now she only saw him if she needed to go into the advertising office, which was a little way down the corridor from hers, for example to pass on changes to the flatplan - the layout of pages in the magazines showing where each article began and ended, and where the advertisements would go. She was impressed to find Martin literally with his shirt-sleeves rolled up, often on the telephone talking earnestly with someone; she was relieved to see that the number on the board showing the total pages sold and to whom was climbing steadily if slowly. Around him the other sales reps - or reptiles as Chris had baptised them - were visibly cowed by his presence, quite rightly fearing for their jobs if they failed to deliver. She was glad that her own problems of meeting the launch schedule meant that she had little time to worry about whether there would be any blank pages left by unsold ads. That was what Martin was paid to do.
At the beginning of that week the editorial production department, Kate and Terence, had gone up to the new typesetters to pass pages for the first time together. This entailed making final corrections to the boards that contained the strips of text laid down as specified by Wobs in his layouts, with holes left for pictures which Wobs had also carefully marked up and measured off to fit the gaps. In some ways this was the hardest part of the production process in that it involved reading page proofs - photocopies of the boards - again and again to check whether the typesetters had made all of the corrections that had been marked on the previous set of page proofs. Inevitably they hadn't, which meant them going back once more. Often this process of throwing corrected page proofs back until perfect would go on late into the night. With the new design of a launch things were even harder: everyone was still getting used to the various styles used throughout the magazine. The next issue would be easier. Perhaps.
As things stood, Bernice was concerned that she might need to send up some of the writers to help with the passing of pages - the final sign-off when the magazine was sent to the printers. This was something journalists usually hated, since they regarded it as in some sense 'beneath' them; but she knew the Yasmeen would do an excellent job and that it would be good practice for Chris. In the event it proved unnecessary. Partly out of professional pride, Kate and Terence stayed for several days until the early hours correcting pages, throwing tantrums, and finally checking all the editorial boards until it was possible to mark off nearly all of them on Kate's sacred Board as 'done'.
The final tidying-up was completed that Friday morning, with just a few pages left over from the night before that needed to be checked one last time. These came down on the motorbike courier service that plied between Wright's and the various typesetters used in the EC1 area. There were no further corrections to make, so the issue was finally and formally closed.
"Hip-hip-hooray!" said Bernice as Kate came off the phone after telling the typesetters to send all the pages down to the printers. They had been holding on to them as long as possible so that they could slot in the advertisements. In the end, though, so many of the latter had yet to arrive that Kate had agreed with Sue, who was looking after the gathering and placement of the ads, that they would send off the editorial pages first, allowing the printers to start planning the magazine - that is, preparing their presses to print it - and that the ads would follow separately.
There was a tremendous atmosphere in the office, a sense of general relief and relaxation. They had done it: against all the odds they had somehow written the words, designed the pages and produced the magazine. As Bernice luxuriated in the sense of accomplishment she was conscious of why she was a magazine journalist, and that she lived for moments of accomplishment like these. Perhaps this was what giving birth felt like, she mused.
"Well, we must celebrate," said Chris. Bernice had visions of Martin bursting in through the door with champagne, but she knew that for him the nightmare was continuing. Ads still had five pages to fill and only today to find them.
"I think we're talking a major excursion to Achilles', here," she said. It was slightly early for lunch, but Achilles' was open from the early morning - Bernice occasionally called in there for breakfast when she needed something to help her face the long day ahead - and they could allow themselves this indulgence. Even pulling back the schedule for the next issue by one week, as agreed with Martin at the management meeting, she felt fairly confident that the next issue should prove to be slightly less hectic than this one.
By now they were classified as regulars at Achilles', and he welcomed them even more warmly than he had that first time. They had still not come to terms with all of his sandwich concoctions, but Wobs at least had tried most of them and seemed to have survived, so gradually they became more adventurous, essaying some of the wilder flights of gastronomic fancy.
"OK," said Chris, "since today's a special day, I think I'll do something rash. No, no, it's no good," he said histrionically, "you won't stop me, I'm going to do it: yes, I'll have the Achilles Special today." And despite gasps of mock horror and cries of 'don't be a fool' he proceeded to order the Achilles Special: a cheddar cheese sandwich.
"Aiee," said Achilles, raising his hands in mock defence, "she is off today. But could I perhaps suggest you a melon and fried beef?" Heartbroken, Chris allowed himself to be consoled with this close substitute.
After everyone had been suitably allocated their sandwiches and drinks, Bernice turned to Kate and asked:
"But tell us what there typesetters were like - they sounded pretty awful."
"God, awful isn't the word. I've seen a few forsaken typesetters in my life, but these take the biscuit. You know the kind of places you find in some of the backstreets of EC1: crumbling warehouses that look as if they are fronts for drug-smuggling operations, or hideouts for bank robbers, well the premises of Zippy Typesetters - what a name - were even worse.
Most of the building seemed to be occupied only be large rats. Zippy were up on the top floor which you reached by one of those cage lifts that they always use in films whenever something horrible is going to happen. That's when it's working: otherwise it's the stairs, all three floors of them. Filthy, they are, packed out with old bits of yellowed paper and dusty boxes and oily rags that look as if they've been there for ages.
Upstairs you have one large open-plan office which is complete pandemonium. There are the typesetting machines dotted around the place, and then the make-up artists' boards - Wobs, it's a good job you weren't there to see how they banging stuff down, various transistor radios blaring away, great mugs of coffee leaving rings on the boards, with greasy pies in their hands" - Wobs looked unhappy at the thought of all his hard work being treated so carelessly - "and they all seem to have been recruited from the dross of every other typesetter in the area."
"And that's being kind," interjected Terence, who had been nodding sagely during Kate's description. "You explain the simplest bloody thing, and they get it wrong; you point out the error and they try to correct it and still get it wrong; you point it out again and they correct it and not only get it wrong but introduce new errors at the same time - which meant that we had to read all of the bloody proofs again and again." He shook his head at the memory of it. "Mind you, half of them look like they haven't slept for several nights - staring blear-eyed at the little screens of their typesetting machines. What a job."
"I have to say that I was a little unhappy leaving all the pages there last night. I almost feel that I should stand over them when they send them off today or else they will end up in Penzance instead of Milton Keynes," said Kate, who had succeeded in awakening all her old fears during her all-too vivid description of Zippy's.
"Oh, I'm sure it'll be OK," said Bernice, not at all sure, but not wanting to dissipate the great feeling they all had. She just wished Pete had been there - and had been able to play more of a part in the first issue. Not because his absence had caused her huge problems - which it had, but let that pass - but more because she knew that he desperately needed to feel part of a success. She made a mental note to give him a call when they got back to the office, to see how Elaine and the new baby were doing. She had already sent some flowers from the office to the former looked forward to seeing the latter in due course.
They continued chatting away during their leisurely lunch, reminding each other of particularly daft moments in the office, of how somebody had said this, and how someone else had said that, and Bernice noted with pleasure how they were starting to generate their mythology, and to refer naturally to certain historical landmarks in their office life together. Almost despite herself she started thinking about the article she could write on this theme.
They were drinking one of Achilles' special coffees - really special these, since they were made in the Greek manner, thick, black and sweet - when they saw Martin peering in through the window, a slightly strange expression on his face. They all cheerily waved him, wanting to share their general feeling of well-being. He entered, rather suddenly, Bernice noted.
"Here you are," he said, an odd edge to his voice.
"Here we are," said Chris, misjudging Martin's tone.
"I've been round half the pubs and cafés in Southdon," he said breathlessly.
Chris was about to make some facetious comment about what tough lives publishers led, but luckily thought better of it. Much as he hated to admit it to himself, he was beginning to realise that he came pretty low in the pecking order at Wright's, and therefore had to watch what he said rather more than had been the case at university, where he was famous - and appreciated - for his quick and sharp tongue.
"Is something the matter, Martin?" asked Bernice, worried by his breathlessness and the look on Martin's face.
"There's been a fire at the typesetters - no, that's putting it too mildly: the typesetters has burnt down would be a better way of putting it. Kaput, everything, gone." He stopped to get his breath back. Everyone fell silent.
"I was sitting in the ad office at the end of the morning, exhausted by all the grovelling I was having to do to sell some of these blasted ad pages, when Sue rushed in, completely hysterical. The call had gone through to her because there was no one in the editorial office...." He paused briefly as if to suggest that there should have been. "It was the head of Zippy's, ringing to tell you about the disaster. Apparently a fire had started in the rubbish in the stairs - a cigarette end or match, the firemen thought, probably one of the couriers. By the time the staff upstairs had discovered it, the flames were raging everywhere. They had barely enough time to get themselves out, let alone any of the magazine pages."
Kate had gone white.
"You mean...everything?" she asked faintly.
"Everything," said Martin.
Kate wanted to die. There and then, she wanted the earth to open up and just take her away. Losing the cleared pages was an utter disaster, but there was worse. Like a good production editor she had made photocopies of all the articles and of all the layouts. These she took with her to the typesetters so that she could refer to them in case the typesetters managed to 'mislay' them, as frequently happened. She would normally have taken them back to the office as soon as she had finished the issue. But at three o'clock in the morning the night before, she had not felt up to packing up the many hundreds of pieces of paper and carrying them home in a taxi, and so had intended to go back there that afternoon to collect all her copies. Now that would not be necessary....
"What's up Kate?" asked Bernice, knowing Kate well enough to recognise a very major crisis. Kate explained, half hoping that Bernice or Martin might simply strike her down, ending it all.
"I see," said Bernice as Martin also went an odd colour.
"OK, let's keep calm about this," she said, rising to the occasion. "First things first: who has copies of their work?" She had, of course, and she had also taken copies of the few articles from external contributors so that she could work on them at home.
"I have," said Yasmeen.
"I have some drafts," said Dave, though it was not clear whether this meant odd jottings or a near-final copy.
There was a pause.
Chris remained silent: nobody had said anything about back-ups to him.
"Right," said Bernice, making a quick calculation of outstanding work. "Next question: Martin, can arrange for the building to be kept open for us over the weekend?"
"Hmm," said Martin, "that's going to be tough - but I think I can swing it," he said, delighted to be presented with an opportunity to show his influence.
"So who's in for a little weekend working?" she asked.
"Count me in," said Yasmeen, glad of an chance to make up for her previous absence.
"Oh absolutely," said Chris.
Kate looked at Terence, who nodded solemnly.
"Us, of course." Bernice was pleased to note that the editorial production department now seemed to form a single unit.
"I'll come," said George, even though he had no copy in the first issue. Bernice was touched by this. "Well, for some of it anyway, I can't leave - ...."
"That's fine George." But what about Wobs, who was in many ways the linchpin?
"This is a great pity," he said, "I was supposed to be somewhere Saturday, but it looks like I won't be making it."
"Thanks, Wobs," said Bernice.
"Can I come?" asked Janice timidly.
"Of course," said Bernice, "we need you. Right then, let's get back to the office and get moving. Oh, yes, one other thing, Martin, we'll need another typesetter - preferably non-flammable."
