Chapter 4

The Directors' Dining Room was on the top floor but one of the management tower.  The very top floor was occupied by the senior directors, including God himself, the Chief Executive.  The rumours about what lay above this floor - on the roof - varied enormously.  Some were prosaic, like the suggestion that there was a helicopter landing pad.  Others, which argued for example that there a swimming pool, were more imaginative, while some, like the idea that there was some kind of masonic temple dedicated to the god Mammon to be found up there, were just weird.

As soon as Bernice came out of the lift she could tell that she had entered a different world.  The carpets were so thick you wondered whether it was safe to trust your weight to them.  The walls were panelled with rich, dark, exotic woods, and the sensitively placed uplighting was discreet but effective.  Before going into the dining room itself, publishers and fortunate guests would gather in the Albert Wright Memorial Room, which was basically an upmarket private bar.  Here drinks were served by men and women in surprisingly ornate uniforms.  The waiters were notably solemn-faced and silent as they moved around topping up glasses and proffering trays of crudités held with white-gloved hands.  Bernice felt as if she had stumbled into some ancient fiefdom perched high atop a hill.

Martin was already there, chatting with a man she recognised as the publisher next door to him.  She was introduced, but the other soon made his apologies - something about seeing Head of Establishment regarding an important matter - and left Martin and Bernice to enjoy the extremely dry sherries the waiter had brought them, and to admire the view from the windows that ran the length of the room.

It was certainly fine.  Wright's was the tallest building for miles around, and looking out to the east there was not another tower block to be seen, so the effect was of looking down on mere mortals from some divine viewpoint.  Noting the winding roads clothed with thousands of houses, peppered here and there with fluffy explosions of foliage, she was reminded of the neat little back gardens she had seen from the train.  The gulf between the new Southdon to the west with its canyon of half-hearted skyscrapers, separated by a dual carriageway, and the older part of the town with its tumble-down shops and ill-judged pedestrian precinct, was also evident.

"And up there you can see the City of London", explained Martin.
She strained her eyes through the heat haze and pollution, and could indeed see the outline of the NatWest tower and lesser corporate fortresses around it.  Because of the distance it felt as if these regions too were being viewed from a great height, making even them seem small and insignificant.

"Ah," said Martin at one point as they chatted, "here's Charles.  Come and meet the MD."

Bernice was pleasantly surprised when the Managing Director of her division - known cryptically as Mariner 3 Group - turned out to be not some squat, red-faced sexagenarian, but a rather tall, handsome man in his 40s, with striking golden hair, combed back in long rippling lines, a fine profile and piercing blue eyes.  When he smiled - which he did surprisingly frequently - tiny creases exploded around his eyes in a way that Bernice found charming, attractive even.  He was dressed immaculately in a suit that showed the youthful outline of his body, a health that was emphasised by the natural tan of his face.

"Charles," said Martin slightly too jocularly as they went over to meet him, "let me introduce you to Bernice Stuart, the launch editor for our new business title."

"Welcome aboard, Bernice," said Charles, turning on his best smile - which was pretty good.

"You know, I've always thought that launches are central to what publishing is about - the next generation, expanding the fleet, that sort of thing.  Certainly I look back on the days when as a publisher I was launching titles - "

"Wasn't one of them Yachting Now?" Martin asked, knowing the answer full well.

"Yes, that's right, one of our flagships now.  And that's what it's all about: the next flagship.  Because you see when it comes to portfolio management it's the linchpins that count.  The rest are just ballast for balancing things out, or perhaps there for defensive purposes.  We really see this business arena as pivotal, and so the potential has to be immense.  I want you to know that we've all signed off on this one - though it's still got to wash its face of course.  Which reminds, me, Martin, did you run out those new forecasts for me? - the last figures were looking pretty smelly."

"Yes, I've got them on my desk; they'll be with you this afternoon.  I've managed pull it back by a fair amount but I think it's something we're going to have to take a view on."

"Well, I appreciate that, Martin, " Charles continued, still smiling occasionally at Bernice like the head monkey signalling benevolently to a junior member of his troupe, but now directing his conversation entirely at Martin, "but you understand that I don't want to start giving health warnings so soon.  It's about managing expectation back at base - people must buy in to it."

"Quite," said Martin.  Quite, thought Bernice.  She had been surprised how little she had understood of what Charles had said, and worried that she might be losing her grip.  But she did at least grasp that Charles was good at his job: unlike many senior managers he was obviously on top of what was going on under him.  He also had a charming manner that he used to devastating effect.  For example, somehow he had managed to keep Bernice waiting quite happily, held by his hypnotic smile and the occasional perfectly timed glance thrown in her direction while he got deep into details with Martin.  After the surprises of this morning she felt happier in the knowledge that Charles would be fighting their corner on the Board.

The gong for lunch was sound by the head waiter: "lunch is served" he intoned, and the assembled throng passed through the richly-carved double doors to the dining room.  There the seven tables were laid out to form a large, slightly squashed 'W' - rather a nice touch, Bernice thought as they looked at the formal seating plan pinned to a free-standing board covered in green baize by the doors - with the top table reserved for the most senior managers.  Martin and Bernice sat near the bottom of one of the oblique arms of the 'W', a reflection of Martin's relatively lowly place in the corporate hierarchy.

The food compared well with that offered by the top London hotels and even with quite a few of its leading restaurants, many of which Bernice had visited for press meetings.  She was unsurprised to find champagne served at the appropriate point.

"Well then, to echo Charles and his nautical metaphor, welcome aboard.  Here's to The Business."  Martin said, his champagne glass full and raised.

"Er, which business is that Martin?  Publishing, or business in general?"  Bernice asked.

Damn, thought Martin, he'd forgot to talk this through with her.  That was one of the problems about taking executive decisions: you sometimes forgot to tell the non-executives that you'd taken them.

"Right, yes.  No, this 'Business' is your 'Business' - our 'Business'..."

"Yes...?" continued Bernice uncertainly.

"I mean that's what it's called - the new magazine."

"It is?  I had naively imagined that we might discuss such an important matter before a decision was made.  I presume this name is the result of extensive market research, then?"  Bernice felt her anger and despair rising again.  Had she made a terrible mistake accepting this job?

"Well, yes, to a certain extent.  It's something I've been thinking about for a while, talking it through with people.  Marketing needed a name, you see," he said suddenly, as if this explained everything.

"So you gave them one, no?"

"Is there anything actually wrong with the name, or are you just upset on principle?" blurted out Martin, himself getting annoyed now.  Who was in charge here, after all?

"Principle, in business...?"  Bernice said sarcastically.

Martin was angry with her and angry with himself now.  This little tête-a-tête was not going as he had hoped.  He was the bloody publisher after all.  He was allowed to do this sort of thing.  OK, he should have told her before, but the name was all right, wasn't it?  He wondered, as he so often did, what Cortes would have done in this situation.  And then, continuing this train of thought, he said out loud:

"You know, I try to follow the example of Cortes in these things."

"Cortes?" she asked, "is he some kind of publishing management guru?"

"No, no, no, Hernan Cortes, the Great Conquistador," Martin continued.

Bernice was about to say: Oh, right, the mass murderer of Native American peoples you mean, but something in Martin's look, now strangely distant, told her keep this thought to herself.

"He was a man who believed in taking decisions - often very difficult decisions - and living with the consequences.  He believed that it was better to take a decision and stick by it, than to spend ages fiddling around.  I think he would have made a good publisher,"  he added without irony.

"A particular interest of yours, Cortes?" asked Bernice, sufficiently intrigued by this turn of conversation to forget about her anger over the name of her magazine for the moment.

"Well, yes, to a certain extent," said Martin, pleased at her apparent interest.  "I studied him at university, have been interested ever since.  You probably noticed the map of the Aztec Mexico City in my office.  In fact - " did he dare reveal his great secret to her?  Yes, why not? - "I'm actually working on a screenplay about him," he concluded almost shyly.

"Yes?" said Bernice, rather intrigued by this surprise admission.

"I know what you are thinking: why a screenplay?  What does he know about films?  And you're right of course.  But the trouble is, having read The True History - "

"The True History?" asked Bernice, wondering if he was some kind of freemason.

"Yes, The True History of the Conquest of New Spain - written by one of Cortes' followers.  Absolutely amazing story.  Brilliant journalism in fact, you should read it if you've not come across it.  Anyway, there's no point trying to write a novel because The True History is a novel, only better than any novel because it's all true.  So I thought a screenplay - besides which it would make a stunning film, don't you think?"

"Yes, quite probably," she said defensively.  She was interested and quite touched to find that her new boss was not yet a cold, calculating business machine, but that he had his foibles like the rest of humanity.  Although not the slightest bit interested in someone that if she thought about at all she regarded as a mass murderer, she was pleased in some absurd way that Martin had this obsession - which it clearly was.

By now they had eaten their dessert, taken some of the cheeses, and drunk the rather fine coffee.  It was time to visit the other departments she would be working with, particularly the marketing and production functions.  She was rather disappointed to find that these were housed in the management block - and so were relatively inaccessible for her and her staff.  Normally she would have encouraged a close working relationship between all these departments, but obviously one penalty paid in working for a larger company was the greater distance, conceptual and also physical, between different departments.

First of all they went to the central marketing function.  This was a huge open plan office on the third floor, very light with various little glass boxes for some of the more senior marketing managers.  The walls were covered with charts and diagrams and there were numerous full magazine racks like the ones in Martin's office.  The were also calendars everywhere.  She was taken across this room to a little island of desks that handled the magazines of Charles's division.  Amongst those working on them was Tim Phipps, who was incredibly small, but perfectly formed.  He had gold-rimmed glasses, partly obscured by his cobweb-fine blond hair, wore a white shirt crisply ironed, bottom-hugging trousers and a yellow silk tie.  His desk was almost obsessively tidy, with neat piles of papers, folders, trays, and pens and pencils lined up in rows.  She noted his carefully manicured fingers and his pale, delicate skin.

"Tim," said Martin, "allow me to introduce Bernice, the editor of The Business."

"Pleased to meet you," she said.

"Good to have you with us," he replied, smiling warmly.  "I must say how much I'm looking forward to working on this launch.  And what a great title: The Business - brilliant choice, if I may say so," he said sincerely, without any sycophantic intent.  "Fantastic marketing possibilities.  Obviously given the extremely tight schedules I have had to start briefing agencies for mailshots and media packs.  Perhaps, Martin, we could have a meeting ASAP to bring you both up to date?"  Tim tilted the perfect oval of his head to one side and raised an eyebrow slightly.

"Good idea, I'll get my secretary to fix it up.  I'm sure you two will get on like a house on fire.  But if you'll excuse us, we must be moving on.  See you around."

"Ciao," said Tim brightly as Bernice moved off.  She felt heartened by Tim's air of enthusiasm and professionalism.  She knew that much of the success of the first issue depended on his work.

The production department, alas, did not engender such confidence.  It was one floor down from marketing, and was also a huge open-plan office.  But this was dark, like some Dickensian chancery.  Its walls were covered with racks of bulging, dusty envelopes, curling charts and fading pages from long-closed magazines.  The only sign that it inhabited 1988 and not 1888 were the numerous calendars around the place proclaiming the former date.  And where the marketing department had buzzed, with lots of young people rushing around manifestly busy and enjoying it, the production staff was a full generation older and slower, and looked depressed and demotivated.  The Production Executive attached to Bernice's magazine, Sue Lemaitre, was no exception.
 
There was no getting away from the fact that Sue was large.  Her arms and legs had a positively pneumatic look to them, while her head and body seemed to have a race going between them as to who could turn into the closest approximation to a sphere first.  The chocolates on her desk helped explain why she was large, but why she ate the chocolates was less apparent to Bernice when they were introduced.

"Hello, Sue, pleased to meet you," Bernice said when Martin introduced them.

"Hi," was all Sue could manage, and even that left her breathless.  Bernice decided to save attempts to create a livelier rapport until later.  Martin would be handling most of the aspects of production, and so she hoped she could leave what looked likely to be a major concern to him.  In fact he was already wrestling with it, having sent back proposed printing schedules and prices several times, asking for something better on both.  In a way that he never understood, he always got them too, as if his mere wish was enough to change the universe in some subtle way and to produce new conditions that fulfilled his demands.  Or so sometimes he thought when he was feeling flippant.

"Well, that's about it really," said Martin as they came out of Production.  "Who else is there?  Our Advertisement Manager I gather you've already met" - gossip moved fast here, she thought, and noted that Martin too preferred to draw a veil over Mr Bob Percival, "otherwise just a few odds and ends.  Trevor, you'll doubtless meet in due course - you certainly won't be able to miss him.  Hayley - she's one of the telephone operators, you'll get to know her only too soon.  And assuming you didn't abseil down from the roof this morning, you must have met Brenda when you came in, which means everyone in the building knows who you are, even if you don't know them.  But you'll soon be bumping into people around here, it's like one big village here."

In fact Martin was quite wrong in this, as he knew in his heart of hearts.  Wright's, as any other big company, was rather like London: it was made up of many villages, adjacent but rarely in direct communication.  Instead, people tended to move within their own small circle, wondering who all these strange faces in the corridor were.  Martin himself knew relatively few people, but put that down to an isolating effect of being a publisher, which certainly made things worse.  But as Bernice was soon to find out much to her chagrin, large companies are actually surprisingly lonely places for most people.

Luckily she had her own personal village, admittedly small and rather disgruntled at the moment.  After she had parted from Martin at the lifts - he went up, and she went down to move across to the other building - she put behind her some of the less happy events of her first day and started to concentrate on the task in hand.  First of all they needed to produce a dummy magazine, and they had about two weeks to do it in.

Back in her office she found the three journalists sitting around listlessly.  What they needed was something to buck them up.

"Right!" she said as she came through the door, making poor George jump.  "Apologies for my absence - I was doing the rounds with Martin.  As you will appreciate, we have a lot to do, and not much time to do it in.  First, we need a dummy - don't worry, I'm not asking for someone to volunteer," she joked, trying to coax some life from them.  Janice smiled, Pete tried while George and Dave remained impassive.

"Pete, we talked about an article this morning - you know personal versus career kind of stuff.  Could I have three thousand words on that by Friday please?"  Pete looked slightly stunned, unused to this kind of deadline, but said "Well, of course I'll try my best, I - "

"Great, I look forward to reading it.  George, one thing I need is a book review.  You've probably come across something that looks interesting recently that might be relevant.  Could I have a couple of thousand words, also by Friday?"

George's mouth fell open: his normal deadline was a month or two, not a day or two.  She took his silence for assent.

"Dave: let's see.  What do you know about stock markets?"  This was just a hunch on her part.

"Well, I've read a few things about it," Dave said diffidently.

"Fine.  Could you give me two or three thousand words about how the dynamics of the international stock markets affect business life?  Oh, and if you could include some stuff about forex and futures as well, please.  Friday OK?"

The effect on Dave was startling: he seemed to come to life, with even a smile playing across his haggard features.  "Yeah, sure, that could be quite interesting..." he seemed to say to himself as he began to muse on the possibilities.

"Oh, and Janice, don't think you're going to get off so lightly.  What I need is a calendar of business events for the next three months - standard stuff, data, place, summary.  Also by Friday please, OK?"

Janice was almost pathetically grateful for this serious attention, practically the first she had been given in her life.

Next chapter

Chapter 5 (13 July 1988)

The last thing Bernice needed was to spend a few hours being inducted into the great institution that was Wright's, but Martin was adamant that it was something she needed to go through, if only so as to be able to manage her staff better.  The logic of this escaped her, but she did recognise that knowing more about how a big multinational company like Wright's saw and presented itself to its staff could be useful for future articles and her own general understanding of how corporate business worked.

And so on the Wednesday after joining she approached the twin towers of Wright's with another experience in store for her.  Personnel, being a support function, was in the North building, on the sixth floor.  There was a presentation suite there, set out rather like a small and very plush cinema.  Here the company film was shown giving the history and background of Wright's.

According to the stentorian upper-class voice on the soundtrack - it sounded like some World War II propaganda film - Wright's was set up in 1887 by one Albert Royston Wright.  He had the idea of publishing illustrated calendars in the year of Queen Victoria's Silver Jubilee.  Following the success of what would now be called a one-shot, he expanded his range, producing a number of different models - though whether this was done with the benefit of market research is not recorded.

His most successful line were the Thought for the Day calendars:  each day was accompanied by a pithy little thought or saying that appealed to the Victorians' penchant for moralising and their desire for order.  Business boomed, until the famous advertising copyline 'Start the day the Wright way with a Wright's calendar' became as well-known as the Bubbles images of Pears' soap.

In true capitalist fashion, Wright's found that it needed to expand into new areas, partly to protect its current line of products, and partly to maintain its growth, something that was taken for granted.  It started producing diaries, and then a weekly family magazine.  This foray into publishing was so successful that it rapidly expanded its activities here, partly through organic growth, but particularly through acquisition and merger, until by the 1950s Wright's had grown into one of the biggest general publishers of books, magazines and related sundries in the UK.

Thereafter further acquisitions and mergers saw it expand overseas and move into new areas such as directory publishing.  More recently it had taken its first faltering steps in electronic publishing with various online database in the US, not entirely successfully as Bernice later gathered.

All of this was presented like some epic tale, centred at first round the heroic young Albert Wright, and then on the dynasty that he founded.  Every phrase and image was a cliché, Bernice noted, and as such belonged to the true tradition of bardic poetry that was first created in Homer's Ancient Greece.

Along with the other four new apprentices being processed that day, she emerged blinking into the artificial light neither moved nor shaken, but a little wiser.  She recognised now why there seemed to be so many calendars and diaries everywhere she had gone yesterday.  In a way it was appropriate for a publishing company to be so pre-occupied with deadlines, since without such schedules, magazines are impossible.  And on a more general level, business itself is largely about the organisation of time.  Indeed one of the reasons people have such a desperate need for employment - as well as financial ones - is that it provides a structure to the day, the week, the year, a sense of overall order that is otherwise largely missing from a secular society.  Whether money is the principal god of these times, or - as the root of all evil - its devil, business is certainly the main religion of today, she concluded.

It was with these thoughts passing through her mind - with the usual view to employing them at a later stage in an editorial or article or two - that Bernice passed from the presentation suite to the central personnel office for the final stage of her induction.  As a manager she was granted the pleasure of the Personnel Director's attention, rather than dealing with one of his minions.

Dan Scowcroft unfortunately corresponded precisely to one of her management stereotypes.  He was in his fifties, thin and red-faced, and with an unfortunate skin complaint that caused his forehead and scalp to flake in a rather unsightly manner, and left a kind of fallen halo of skin on his ill-chosen dark three-piece suit.

"My dear, come in," he said when his secretary showed Bernice to his office.

"Welcome to Wright's - the right decision coming here, ha-ha.  Now, you've been inducted, I believe, yes, so perhaps if I can just finish you off, so to speak, ha-ha.  First things first: here are your Wright's Managers Diary and Wright's Managers Calendar."

These symbols of office intrigued her.  As she later found out, everybody at Wright's was given similar items, but of an appropriate kind.  For example, the workers received a simple fold-up paper diary with little space on it for writing appointments - based on the assumption that workers don't have appointments, presumably, and that they just get on with it.  They were also given chunky day-by-day calendars printed on grease-proof laminated card that had to be flipped over - to remind them that time was passing, or perhaps to wake them up in the morning.  Each day had some sententious reminder designed to encourage productivity - generally along the lines of 'when in doubt, ask about.'

Top managers like Scowcroft, on the other hand, had massive leather-bound day-by-day diaries printed on hand-woven paper, to allow for their crammed schedules.  They were also given ten-year wallplanners, tastefully decorated with timeless masterpieces of the Italian Renaissance.  This was presumably to save them time by not having to read the thousand words or more each picture might represent.  Bernice's gifts fell between the two: a weekly diary of a reasonable quality, plus a tasteful monthly calendar showing works of minor British landscape painters.

As well as the ceremonial handing over of the sacred calendars and diaries, Scowcroft was responsible for giving her more serious pieces of paper like her the appropriate job description (Editor Grade 2B*), contract and terms and conditions of employment.  No one-week notice periods here, she noted, but three months rising to six after 10 years in the job.  She was also given a hefty folder containing background information about Wright's, its canteens, nearby sports facilities, and discounts available at local dry cleaners and florists.

"Well, that's the end of the formal part of our meeting, so if you don't have any questions" - this did not seem to be an invitation so much as a statement of fact - "perhaps we can pass on to other matters.

I gather from Michael Davies, your publisher, that you will be recruiting a number of staff in the next few months.  This, of course is highly complex process - you know, Maslow's Hierarchy and that sort of thing - and one in which mistakes made early on can be costly to correct.  So I just wanted to offer my services should they be of any use to you."

The last thing Bernice wanted was Mr Scowcroft sitting in on her interviews.

"That's really very kind of you, " she said in her best liar's voice, "I think I'll talk that through with Martin if I may," she said, pausing slightly on his name, "to see what he thinks.  But if I need help with Maslow's Hierarchy I'll certainly come to you."  Probably not a good idea to poke fun at someone on the main Board, but Bernice was feeling tired after all the propaganda and the events of the day before, and so felt like hitting back a little.  Luckily Scowcroft was so insensitive as not to notice the heavy sarcasm.

"Well, as you wish.  But if I could just give you a couple of pieces of advice - and this is entirely off the record you understand.  First, our coloured brethren.  Now, the point is that legislation being what it is these days, it really can be more trouble than it's worth employing them.  Now of course I'm not saying that you shouldn't, but just bear in mind that there may be other candidates just as suitable and without these problems." Bernice could hardly believe her ears, but was too surprised to say anything immediately.

"And secondly, the same thing really, women.  I'm sure you know what I mean, a certain age, pregnancy a possibility - it just causes problems for all concerned.  I'm sure I need say no more."

"In case you hadn't noticed, Mr Scowcroft," Bernice said with emphasis and barely controlled rage, "I am a woman of a certain age...."

"Of course, of course, but this is nothing personal, you understand - just personnel, ha-ha - I'm regarding you not as a woman, but as a manager...."  This he obviously intended as a compliment, but before Bernice could correct any misapprehensions he might be labouring under, there was a knock at the door.

"Oh, sorry, Daniel," a rat-like face said around the door, "I didn't know I was interrupting."

"Ronald, no, please, do come in, we were just finishing."

I was just about start, thought Bernice.

"Bernardine, this is Ronald Feltham, he's our Union Representative on the Personnel Council."

Bernice thought that Ronald was strangely deferential for a union representative, what with his bowed head and hunched shoulders.  She half expected to see a cloth cap clutched in his hands.  Presumably he was fairly marginal in the union organisation.

"So if you'd just like to toddle off with Ronald..." said Scowcroft as if Bernice could want nothing more.

"Er, why?" asked Bernice bluntly.

"Well, we have this, um, arrangement with the union that they meet new journalists when they arrive - to introduce themselves, explain the situation, that sort of thing."

"I see," said Bernice, though she didn't really.  But she was more than happy to get out of the presence of Scowcroft before she committed a serious faux pas.  Like breaking his jaw.

After getting up and going to the door quickly so as to avoid shaking hands with this odious man, she was followed outside by Ronald after he had thanked Daniel profusely.

Outside his attitude was rather different.

"So, Bernardine was it?" he asked chummily.

"Bernice, actually," she replied.

"Strange, could have sworn Dan said 'Bernardine'.  Anyway, I'm your FoC.  Welcome." 

Him, Father of Chapel - the local head of the journalists union, which was organised in so-called chapels?

"In the Union yourself?"  She was.  "What chapels did you have at your place?" - her place being her last employer.  None was the answer, since the company was so small it didn't seem worth having all that bureaucracy.

They had reached his office by now, a tiny little cupboard right at the end the corridor.  He saw her disapproving glances.

"Yeah, typical bloody management, eh?  Stuff the workers.  It's all about power of course, Them and Us.  That's why we've got to stick together," he said firmly.

The idea of sticking together with Feltham did not appeal to Bernice.

"Anyway, here's something you'll find useful," he said, fishing out a battered folder from his desk and extracting a dog-eared document.  "Perhaps you could photocopy it and return it to me sometime?"

"What is it?" asked Bernice as she took the stained, stapled papers rather gingerly, unsure where they had been.

"It's the official Chapel Launch Schedule."

"Launch schedule?  What, it tells me how to launch a magazine?"

"Not exactly, it simply lays down how long management should allow you for each phase."

"Ah, I see," said Bernice, deeply sceptical.  "And how long is the entire launch process according to this?"

"Well, the initial discussions with management about staffing, salaries etc should last a couple of months, then - "

"I have two months..." she said coolly.

"Oh, that's OK then.  After that there's the basic planning - "

"No, you don't understand: I have two months to launch the title from scratch.  Starting yesterday."

He really didn't understand.  Two months?  Two months??  He was obviously wasting his time here.

"Yeah, well, if you need my help, you know where you can find me," he said curtly.

"Thanks," she said, leaving an office that by now had become sweaty.  And also where not to find you, she thought, as she went back down to her office to get on with a launch in the real world.
Bernice was delighted to watch the office suddenly being to stir itself as the nearness of the deadlines had its effect on her team.  Luckily the exact nature of the articles was not so important at this stage: almost anything would have done for the dummy.  In fact in the week before joining she had banged out three pieces almost without stopping to think.  What was more important was having some words to work with - any words - and for her staff to have some thing to do.  Without busy-ness, business would be dead.  And so would The Business.

Next chapter

Chapter 6 (14 July 1988)

Hiring Dibbs had been Bernice's first act as editor; other staff had been given to her, but to find the rest would require some hard work.

The advertisement had gone in The Guardian at the beginning of the week.  It was a reasonably large, composite ad that announced an important new general business launch with tremendous opportunities for ambitious and talented journalists - but then didn't they always?  The pattern of the replies was pretty much as she had expected: relatively few for senior posts such as Assistant Editor (who had in any case to be written to with the news that the appointment had already been made, with thanks for their interest and best wishes for the future) and Art Editor, and literally hundreds for the junior post of Reporter.

Bernice remembered well her own experiences of applying for the first job in publishing.  It was the standard dilemma: you couldn't get experience until you had it.  As a result, breaking this vicious circle was difficult, and required many applications, and to any job that presented itself.  Once you were in you could then think about working for a magazine in a field that interested you.

And so Bernice spent considerable time going through the applications for the Reporter's post, weeding out those with simply no hope, trying to gauge from the often quite short letters of application and the condensed life stories hinted at in the bare Curriculum Vitae's exactly what these people were like and whether they would fit in with her plans for the magazine.

She was very conscious of her responsibility in doing this.  After all, she was making decisions that would materially affect the careers of many people.  Those who were really keen would continue to apply for other posts and eventually obtain them.  But there were bound to be some who, through force of circumstances, were unable to do so, and would be forced to compromise, to give up their dreams.  She wanted to make sure she did everything possible to help those most deserving.

The number of applications for the more senior posts was much smaller, which made selection of the shortlisted interviewees much easier, but it also meant that the scope for choice was narrower.  Getting the right person was therefore more a question of luck.

Although she had refused the help of Dan Scowcroft in the selection process, she did recognise that it was important to have someone else there to provide an alternative viewpoint.  It was often quite easy to get the wrong impression, or to miss something obvious on your own, so having a second opinion was always valuable.

For the selection of the Sub-editor, she asked Kate to help.  She was an obvious choice in that it would be principally with Kate that the sub would be working.  For the others, she asked Martin to be present, who was naturally pleased to be involved.  He could reasonably have insisted on his participation, and Bernice appreciated that he was effectively granting her a favour by not doing so.  Her request for his help was almost an unconscious repaying of the favour so as not to be too much in his nominal debt.  Of such things were company politics made.  For the Art Editor, which was a much more subjective matter, she asked both Kate and Martin to help her.

Finding the Art Editor was a priority.  Without him or her, the magazine had no form: she needed to hire somebody fast so that they could get on with the design - something that was required for the dummy even before the launch issue.  There had been only four applications so far - it was still early days, but Bernice knew that there would not be many more.  After all, those who are most enthusiastic for a job apply soonest, so applications arriving later are less like to be the successful candidate, all other things being equal.

Janice had booked one of the interview rooms in the personnel department.  It was dreadful, and hardly calculated to put candidates at their ease.  It was an internal room with no windows, so the only light was artificial.  There was one round table and five chairs.  A few of the company's magazines had been placed on the table, and covers of others blown up and hung on the walls in a very faint attempt to give the room some character.

Janice had contacted the candidates and arranged for them to come in at 45 minute intervals.  In some ways it was ludicrous trying to judge someone's abilities in this time-span but realistically Bernice was unable to spare any more.  Besides which, she always felt that a good interviewer should know within a few minutes whether the person was right or not.

Martin and Kate turned up a few minutes before the first candidate was due to arrive - Kate coming in specially -  and they agreed on a basic structure to the interview: Bernice would lead things, using the applicant's CV as the starting point.  The others had copies, and would add their own questions as they went along.

The first candidate was internal to Wright's.  The jobs had been advertised internally before they had appeared in the national press, as was only right.  John Thirlmere was currently Art Editor on Steel Today, and so was understandably keen to move on from having to use pictures of steelworks and forges every month.  His CV showed him to have been a loyal servant of the company, but unfortunately the portfolio of designs that he had brought with him as requested - presumably the best that he had produced in the last few years - were as slablike as the iron blocks they described.  Although the interview process was duly completed, including a request to make up some test pages for them in another interview room nearby, all three of them agreed that they need someone with a little more pizzazz.

The first external candidate certainly had something.  She was dressed in what looked like some designer concoction: whether this was her normal art editing gear was not entirely clear.  Besides, as Bernice well knew, interviews do strange things to people, causing them to suspend their better judgement and to act in all sorts of extraordinary and uncharacteristic ways.

Camilla Litton worked for Stellar Publications according to her CV, a company unfamiliar to her interviewers, and earned a very considerable salary there.  Bernice feared that even if she were as good as the salary implied, they would not be able match the latter, and so would not be able to take her on.  However, it shortly became clear why her salary was so high when she brought out her portfolio, rather reluctantly as they noted.

Her entire portfolio consisted of spreads - in several senses - of naked women in various improbable postures and situations.  Stellar Publications turned out to be one of the leading publishers of pornography.  Although Kate and Bernice disapproved strongly, Bernice could see how poor Camilla was doubly trapped: first by her high salary, which meant that she would find it hard to match it elsewhere, and secondly by the subject of her work, which meant that it was difficult for anyone to judge her artistic abilities since the content so overpowered the form.  After a rather brief discussion of her current work, she too was asked to make up the test pages.

While she was doing that they interviewed the third candidate, Elmore Bowen.  When Bernice saw that he was black she couldn't help thinking of the appalling Mr Scowcroft's injunctions.  As a result she was probably inclined to look more favourably on his application.  As she talked through his CV with him - rather an uncertain collection of jobs here and there - he emerged as a tremendously gentle character who belied his large and powerful frame.  But as she half-feared, his portfolio was very weak, consisting of a few flyers, small local magazines and suchlike.  Bernice was struck by how unfair it all was: he had probably had limited educational opportunities, and as a result now had limited ones in employment.  Rather like Camilla, he was now trapped by his past which made it difficult for him to break out and create a different future.  And his test pages turned out indeed to be simple - too simple, unfortunately, even for someone as sympathetic as Bernice.

The three of them were getting tired now.  Sitting in that small room, concentrating on catching every hint or sign, trying to listen to the candidate's answer while formulating the next question - it was draining, even with constant supplies of coffee brought in by Janice after every candidate arrived.  It was also depressing as the interviewees passed by without any obvious winner among them.  To spend hours in this way without a result - and with so much else to do - was hardly fun.

At least the next candidate looked like he might wake them up a little.  The name on his CV was simply Wobs: whether this was a first or last name was not clear.  He was a small leprechaun of a thing, who seemed little bigger than a child, and to possess a child's constant energy.  His short black hair was tightly curled, his face triangular and his eyes an indescribable colour mixing grey, yellow, green and brown.  He came in listening to a Walkman, which would cause him to swerve his body occasionally, presumably responding to some imperious rhythm in the music.  He was also clutching a bottle of Lucozade, as if to refresh himself during the interview, and a bulging portfolio.

Bernice expected Martin to be outraged by all this, but when she glanced at him she saw that he was staring transfixed at Wobs' T-shirt which showed a strange stylised drawing of a man with blonde hair and a beard wearing a multi-coloured cape made of feathers.  Underneath was the word 'Quetzalcoatl'.  Martin seemed unable to take his eyes off it.

The leprechaun finally acknowledged their presence by switching off the Walkman, removing the earphones and sitting down, though he would still sometimes shake his head as if to some internal music that was still going on in his brain.  

"Right, then," said Bernice, "thanks for coming in to see us.  My name's Bernice, this is Kate and this is Martin.  We're respectively the Editor, Production Editor and Publisher of the new title mentioned in the job ad."  Wobs seemed to nod as if he understood, although it may just have been another cymbal clash in his head.

"Er, your name here is Wobs - just Wobs?" asked Bernice.

"Right," Wobs said with a faint Irish accent, as if she had grasped the situation correctly, and no further explanation was necessary.  Bernice found herself unable to pursue this line of enquiry.  Kate, she knew, was indifferent to these matters of form, but she was surprised that Martin, usually quite a stickler for these things, did not take the matter up.  But he still sat there, looking at the T-shirt, obviously deep in thought.

There was not really much to say about Wobs' CV.  After graduating from art school he had been working - freelance she assumed - on a wide variety of commercial and non-commercial projects.  Although she tried to explore some of his past work he seemed to have little to say, and so they passed on to his portfolio.

This proved to be immensely varied, and much of it was pretty outrageous too.  Anything that could be done graphically, Wobs seemed to have tried.  Most would have been completely inappropriate for a business magazine, and yet there was something there, particularly in the more normal work he had brought, that suggested he might just have what they were looking for: a completely fresh approach to designing a business magazine.  But one thing was still unclear to her: why did he want the job?

"Well, this is certainly an impressive portfolio," said Bernice, with Kate nodding in agreement, "though obviously not directly relevant to a business title.  I wonder what it is that attracts you to this particular job?"

"Well," Wobs began, in what was to prove a rare flight of rhetorical outpouring, "I've decided that I need to get more business-like so I thought the best way would be to join a business magazine.  I've looked at a few titles and think that I can do as good.  Then this job came up and I said to myself 'Wobs, this has your name written on it'..."

"Fate, you mean?" said Martin suddenly.

"Well, in a manner of speaking, you could say that," replied Wobs unperturbed.

"What about the salary?" asked Bernice, wondering if getting more business-like meant that he needed some cash.

"Yes, I'd like that too," he answered, apparently without sarcasm.

"What about deadlines?" asked Kate, "how do you think you will cope with having to produce 120 pages a month on time?  Do you mind working quite late?"

"Well, you see, I'm lucky because I don't sleep that much," Wobs replied, "so if there's work to be done, I'll just do it."  And there was something in his demeanour that suggested he would.

"Well," said Bernice, at something of a loss confronted by this singular person, If nobody has any other questions perhaps we should pass - "

"I have a question," said Martin suddenly again.  "That T-shirt, where did you get it?"  Kate and Bernice looked at Martin and then at each other.

"Oh that, well, I have a cousin who travels a lot, and when he comes across a T-shirt he thinks will interest me, he sends it."

"And this one?" continued Martin.

"This one came from Mexico," said Wobs.

Martin nodded, satisfied, and finally Bernice understood.

While Wobs was carrying out the make-up of the test pages in the other room, the last candidate was due to appear, but Janice came in to say that she had phoned in to say that she had 'changed her mind', and wouldn't be coming in.  Bernice wondered what chain of events lay behind such a decision, but soon forgot about it.  She was more interested in seeing what kind of work Wobs would produce.  As far as the others' test pages were concerned, all three of them were in agreement that there was something lacking, something that Wobs seemed to have, though only his work would show for sure.

After a short break, the three of them met up again when the allotted period for the completion of the test was finished.  They had given all of the candidates some sample copy from Rubber International, one of Martin's magazines, plus some transparencies selected by Bernice and Kate, together with headlines, captions for photos and some general guidelines for the design - size, style etc.  From these a two-page layout was to be produced in around 30 minutes.  When they went in to look at Wobs' work, they found that he had not only produced the two-page layout required, but three alternative versions.  All three were well-constructed, business-like and yet completely different.

"I like alternative things," he gave as his reason.

Bernice looked at Kate, raised her eyebrows quizzically, and receiving the nod of approval looked at Martin, who also concurred.

"When could you start?"  asked Bernice, fearing the worst: she needed somebody that could start soon, otherwise they would have to use freelance designers and layout artists for the first few issues.

"Well, I'm a bit busy tonight, but tomorrow morning?"  Wobs was not joking. 

"Brilliant," said Bernice.  Kate looked pleased: perhaps the magazine would happen after all.

After tying up the loose ends with Wobs, they saw him to the lifts and down to the entrance.  Then, as they were about to return to their respective offices, Martin said: "It's fate, you know - " and they were not sure if he was serious or not.

Next chapter

Chapter 7 (15 July 1988)

Wobs joined the next day as promised.  Despite the key role it may have played with Martin, the Aztec T-shirt was gone, replaced by another that showed a stylised bird with an olive sprig in its beak.  Underneath were the words: 'pigeon love.'  Bernice somehow sensed that this would be just the first of many such intriguing garments, and felt doubly pleased by her appointment.

After Wobs' induction - to which his only comment was 'weird music' - Bernice spent some time with him, explaining her ideas for the magazine, its component parts and the kind of look she wanted.  She said he had a week to come up with designs for the dummy, including the cover.  During some of that time he would also have to lay out the dummy, though with the repeated pages they would be using there would be no more than 32 pages to put together on this occasion.  Then he would have a week or so to review the design before honing it for the launch issue.  Wobs seemed untroubled by these completely unreasonable deadlines.

His reception in the office had been rather cool.  Pete made some effort to welcome him, but she could see that he was sceptical that Wobs was going to be the ace designer they needed to make The Business a resounding success.  George, as she might have predicted, did not take to this small, strange person, muttering something about 'young people today', while Dave barely took any notice, too engrossed by the newspaper cuttings and magazines strewn over his desk as he researched the article she had asked for.

At least Dave seemed to be getting stuck in.  She had been disappointed to receive a formal memo from Peter asking it to be put on record that his deadline for the article was far too tight, and that his work was bound to be prejudiced as a result, and that he hoped it would not be held against him.  George was even worse: he seemed just to sit at his desk all day, chewing his pen, turning over a few books in a rather desultory fashion.  Luckily she had built in quite a lot of slack to the deadlines to allow for just these eventualities.  She would do a few more articles herself over the weekend so as to have something to give Wobs on Monday in addition to the three she had already written.

It was a long and hard weekend.  At times she felt quite desperate, wondering why she had taken on this impossible task.  What was she trying to prove, and to whom?  But she knew that it was just the exhaustion talking, and something kept her going during the long hours of work.  Perhaps it was partly the thought of Dibbs joining on Monday, of reinforcements arriving in the nick of time.

Certainly she felt that the office was transformed by Kate's arrival, as if suddenly shaken out of a deep torpor by this energising presence.  True, Pete seemed rather suspicious of this newcomer who already had Bernice's confidence, but before long he realised that she was a real professional, and as such would be invaluable for the magazine.  George seemed indifferent, as did Dave, though the latter quickly recognised her abilities too, even though he knew the two of them were doomed to clash sooner or later.

Kate brought with her two vital pieces of equipment.  The first was The Board.  This was simply the schedule for the coming issue, showing when articles were due from the journalists, how long they would be, when they had to be at the typesetters, when laid out by the Art Editor, and when finally approved as pages and sent down to the printers.  The Board was Kate's bible: once the dates had been decided they became set in stone for her, rock-like certainties that enabled her to work to any hour to make them happen.  As a corollary, she regarded late copy as an insult to The Board, something quite unforgivable; her reactions grew progressively violent the later the articles were.  This was partly what made her such a fearsome - and good - production editor.  Bernice knew that with Kate in the office things would happen.

The other item that came with Kate - though actually sent in by her the previous week - that would prove crucial to the success of the magazine was The Test.  This innocuous looking piece of paper contained on it a few paragraphs of an article written by Bernice long ago, wickedly modified.  The article itself was nothing special: what was important were the errors it contained.  Some were gross, others less obvious, while some were invisible to all but the most discerning eye.  It was with The Test that Kate and Bernice would recruit the Sub Editor, Kate's right-hand man or woman whose standards would have to match Kate's own stratospheric levels.

Before getting Janice to send off copies of The Test to applicants for the post of Sub Editor, she read it through again.  It brought back so many memories - of her early days as a journalist when she had made precisely the kind of errors now enshrined in The Test, and of the lessons she had learnt by comparing her initial copy with the polished version as produced by Kate, and of the past interviews she and Kate had carried out using The Test.

It read as follows:

2000 AD, the start of the second millenium, - what a day that will be.  The dawn of a new era, when man will be able to re-look fondly back over centruries of history and things he has done.  But what about company's?  What have they then got to look forward to?  It depends.  Companies who are fighting-fit for the future will have already dismissed thoughts of what they would have had had they done something else when they were as successful as they were: they will be looking to fulfill their fates way into the next millenia, hopefully better than what they were: others won't think of that and will get blown out.

But we Brits must not be totally disinterested in planning for this Big Day; it doesn't behove us not to avoid the way of cowardly pusillaniminity of leaving it to Chance; God knows what happens if you do.  Instead, at this point in time, is the the moment to carefully think about doing things for the future, but pushing the parametres further back:- as if this was their last chance.  We've got to to go with the flow.

2000AD looks a long way a way, but it isn't.  Its closer then you think.  Pull your finger out now.

Even now, Bernice was not sure whether she could knock this tangled wreck of prose into something resembling good clear English, cutting to the bare bone of meaning that lay hidden beneath so many layers of gross error, empty bombast and lazy slang.  She was glad that she no longer had to take The Test to prove herself, though in a sense every feature that she wrote and gave to Kate was subject to the same stringent standards, and would be just as ruthlessly rejected if it failed to measure up to them.

When the rest of the team arrived on Monday, Bernice tried a little small talk to get some interaction going in the office.

"So, people been up to anything interesting this weekend?" she asked.  Silence.  "Pete?" she said, prodding harder.

"Oh, well, you know, the usual: playing with the kids, a bit of DIY, cleaning the car...." his voice trailed away as if embarrassed at having to expose such everyday but deeply personal details.

Er, right, thought Bernice.

"George, what about you?" she persisted.

"Oh, rather quiet, I'm afraid - spent most of it with the family or in the garden - you know us old codgers," he said self-deprecatingly.  But again, Bernice sensed that she was probing areas that he was reluctant to talk about.

"Dave..." Bernice was getting depressed by this failed exercise in jollying along the office.

"Uh?" he said, "yeah, well, read a few books...."  He shrugged his shoulders as if to say: what do you expect?

Kate joined in, seeing Bernice's flagging energy.

"And you, er, Wobs" - she still had not got used to the name - "anything exciting?"

"No, just raving as usual..." he said, smiling his strange, ancient smile.  Today's T-shirt showed a stylised whale's fluke; underneath were the words 'Lordly Mountains.'

"Pardon?" asked Pete, seriously concerned about this admission of mental instability on the part of their new Art Editor.

" - You know, down the disco like," Wobs explained.

"Ah..." said Pete, unconvinced.

Great, thought Bernice, really great.  And what did I do? she asked herself rhetorically.  Work, bloody work.  Great weekend we all had by the sound of it.  But she knew that if anything things would get worse: once the launch was in full swing none of them would have much time to do anything outside work, except sleep - if they were lucky.  Bernice felt a twinge of self-pity as she accepted that her social life - already worryingly quiet - would well-nigh disappear for the next few months.  Thank God I'm not worrying about getting old and left on the shelf, she thought, and immediately started worrying about it.

There were some fifteen candidates for the post of Sub Editor, most of them fresh from university or in their first jobs after school.  Bernice suspected that many of them saw their application as simply a way into journalism, but she knew that as far as Kate was concerned, and quite rightly, being a sub was a way of life, not a stepping stone to becoming a 'glamorous' reporter.  Most of those who had applied would need to be rejected, but from their CVs it was hard to tell who would be truly committed to working in the production department.  The only way to tell was to send them The Test.

Ideally The Test would have been carried out under controlled conditions within the office - perhaps with a few telephones ringing, wild cries being exchanged across the room and constant interruptions to reproduce the authentic feel of a typical editorial department.  But given the constraints of time, this was not really feasible.  Instead, the candidates would be allowed to do it at home, spending as long as they liked on it, and using what help they could.  She knew that The Test was sufficiently formidable for it to retain its worth even in these unrepresentative circumstances.

One of Kate's first tasks that Monday was to go through the Tests that had been sent back.  Bernice flinched each time she heard Dibbs' characteristic cries of "Bloody Hell!", "Moron!", and "God Almighty!" in response to the attempts at correcting the twisted prose of The Test.  She feared that none would survive the scrutiny, but in the event she was being too pessimistic.  Slightly.

"Well, Kate," asked Bernice at the end of this process, "what's the score."

"I just don't know why these people bother.  Half of them are completely illiterate.  I reckon there are about two worth looking at," she replied.

"Two?  Don't you think we ought to bring in a couple more just in case?" asked Bernice, worried that Kate's high standards might deprive them of a sub for months.

"In case what? We want to start up our own Adult Literacy Project?"  Production Editors can be harsh at times, driven by their unremitting desire for perfection.

"OK, you're the chief - " which Kate was when it came to matters of style and usage.

"Janice, could you fix up for these two to come in, tomorrow if possible?" asked Bernice.  Janice said she would with pleasure, and meant it, never having been treated quite so well by her (male) bosses before.  She had never thought that work - the hitherto boring business of opening letters, answering the phone, typing and the rest - could be transformed into something so enjoyable by virtue of the fact that the person she was working for treated her like a human being not a slave, and as somebody whose contribution had an importance beyond its sometimes trivial results.

Setting up one interview proved no problem, but the other shortlisted candidate was more troublesome.  He had to come down from the north, and had difficulty taking time off work.  When Janice told Bernice of these problems the latter was tempted to say 'forget it' - after all, there was always the other person.  But her professionalism got the better of her, and she managed to find another spot in her Wright's Diary when she and Martin could see him.  When Janice rang back he then asked whether the money for the fare could be sent to him in advance.  Bernice again nearly called it off, but once more thought better of this action: after all, it was not his fault if he was short of cash, was it?  So the two sub editor candidates were fixed up for Thursday.

Meanwhile on Wednesday, she and Martin were seeing potential News/Features Editors.  Originally she had planned for George to handle Features.  But it soon became apparent to her that poor George was completely incapable of filling this role.  She found out after she had tacitly accepted him that far from being a reporter he was in fact Executive Chief Editorial Manager - a typically grandiose name that meant in effect Office Boy.  Yet deeper treachery from senior management.  She had therefore decided to cover the Features Editor's post herself to begin with, and to hire a separate News Editor who would also have feature writing as an important part of their job.  Later, she would pass the Features Editor function either to Pete or possibly the News Editor, depending on how things went.  Luckily the newspaper ad for the job had been suitably ambiguous, speaking only of 'senior editorial positions involving news and features.'

The pile of CVs that had come through for this post were not particularly encouraging: a few more senior journalists who obviously had been left on the shelf and saw this as an opportunity to get off it, and other more junior journalists chancing their arm by applying for a post that they were probably not quite ready for.  It was hard to tell from looking at them who if anyone might be the person they were looking for.  This meant bringing most of them in for the long process of interviews.  For unlike the post of Art Editor, which could be decided by looking at past work, or indeed that of sub-editor which could be filled using The Test to weed out unsuitable applicants, finding somebody for the job of News Editor needed direct observation and the right questions.

The first few candidates failed to withstand this kind of close scrutiny.  They were obviously cruising in their careers, and had applied on the off-chance that somebody was desperate enough to take them on without demanding too much.  But it soon became clear from Bernice's quite aggressive questioning that she wanted more than they could offer.  Martin was content to play a secondary role in this, impressed by what he saw, and happy to let her practise her interviewing technique, one of the key managerial skills.

By the time the sixth candidate came in, Bernice had pretty much established the pattern of her questions.  After the usual formalities had been dealt with, she began be leading them through their CVs.

"So," she said, "Yasmeen Patel, born 29.1.65 in Bombay - that sounds interesting - what's Bombay like?"

"I wish I knew - my parents left India when I was 2, so I don't really remember anything about it.  I'd like to go back one day," Yasmeen said.  She was quite tall and well-built for an Indian, Martin thought, not really knowing that much about Indian physiques, but having an opinion nonetheless.  He was also struck by the fineness of her features and her beautiful, long, straight black hair, almost blue in its blackness, that rose from her temples like a crown over her head, and then fell in a thick mass over her shoulders.

"You'd like to go back to live?" he asked.

"No, just to visit.  Although ultimately my roots are there, all of my family and friends are here.  I have no illusions on that point."

"Even though you got excellent results at 'O'-level, you didn't stay on to do 'A's: why was that?" asked Bernice, who believed that even the earliest, apparently irrelevant parts of a CV tell a story.

"My parents needed my help in their shop.  We are a big family and things were quite tight then."  She said this without a trace of bitterness.

"So you were working in your parents' shop and later started doing 'A'-levels at night school..." continued Bernice.

"That's right, I managed to find somewhere reasonably local that I could get to after finishing work in the evening."

"What kind of shop did/do your parents have?"  asked Martin.

"A newsagents-cum-corner shop," said Yasmeen.

"Really?" said Bernice, genuinely interested.  "So you grew up with magazines and newspapers as companions?  I'm surprised that didn't put you off for life."

"No, not at all," replied Yasmeen seriously, as if Bernice were casting doubt on her commitment.  "It meant that I got to know about hundreds of magazines from reading the SOR copies before they were dumped " - one of the harsh realities of publishing is that all of the unsold copies supplied to newsagents on a so-called SOR or 'Sale Or Return' basis get destroyed rather than re-used in any other way - "and later on through helping my father do the paperwork I also became familiar with the distributors and publishers to a lesser extent."  She probably knows more than I do about publishing in general, thought Martin ruefully.

"So tell us how you got into publishing," continued Bernice, warming to this serious young woman.

"Well, after the 'A'-levels I just did a course in journalism - " she said, as if it were quite natural to do so, and as if anybody could do the same and then get a job afterwards, which Bernice well knew was not the case " - and then applied for jobs.  The one I got was at the Sugar Marketing Council as Editorial Assistant."

"Well," said Bernice, "I'm sure that fitting in the course work around a job which if I'm not mistaken was probably seven days a week as well as being long hours - right? - " Yasmeen shrugged vaguely, as if to say, well, nothing very terrible - "was hardly straightforward, but anyway, that's the how, what about the why: why journalism?"

"I suppose partly because I had grown up with all these magazines around me, I had this romantic image of the people putting them together, of creating something from nothing.  I was also very conscious of how important magazines are.  I mean, mostly people buy one or two a month, and so tend to discount their overall importance in the scheme of things.  But working in my dad's newsagents" - she was starting to relax a little now - "I saw literally thousands and thousands of magazine being sold every week, and this just from our tiny shop.  I had this vision of millions and millions of magazines being sold up and down the country.  And not just sold, but read and often kept.  Newspapers are something that you buy and discard, but people really care about magazines.  You choose a magazine as an expression of yourself and your interests, you get excited about them, you look forward to them coming out next week or next month.  I suppose I wanted to be part of that, to produce things that people wanted, to be part of their lives."  She stopped, conscious that she had got carried away by her enthusiasm.  Which was precisely what Bernice was looking for.

Good answer, Bernice thought, and Martin too was impressed by this analysis of the role magazines play in society.  He made a mental note to use some of it in his next report to Charles.

"Tell us about your work at the - what was it? - Sugar Marketing Council," Bernice continued.

"Well, it's nothing glamorous.  I joined in 1985 as Editorial Assistant.  This meant collecting information, writing press releases, that sort of thing.  Then in 1986 I became Reporter on SMaC News - that's the monthly newsletter the Council produces.  At first I was writing simple news items, doing some subbing and production work, then later I started writing features.  From 1987 I have been Assistant Editor on this, and I have frequently stood in for the Editor.  I enclosed some samples of my work with the CV that I sent you."

"Yes, thanks for that, they were very good," said Bernice.  And they were - a little staid perhaps, but well-written and with some original angles to them, insofar as the subject matter allowed.

"So why do you want this job?" Bernice continued.

"Well, I enjoy what I'm doing SMaC a lot, and the people I work with are great, but I feel that I need to progress.  I like challenges, I like to be stretched, and really I'm just cruising now as Assistant Editor on a small title.  And there is little likelihood of John - the Editor - moving on in the foreseeable future."  Conscious that this sounded rather negative, she continued:

"The other reason I wanted to apply for this post goes back to what I said earlier about being part of people's enthusiasms, lives even.  Obviously huge numbers of people work in business, so the prospect of being part of general business title, especially one that is going to take a new approach to that market as the advertisement said, is very appealing.  I would love to write for and about those people, their interests, their concerns.  As I also said, for many years I read magazines on just about every subject under the sun, so I think that I am well-placed to write about general business rather than specifically about particular areas."  She paused, hoping that she was saying the right things.  Neither Bernice nor Martin gave any indications as to whether she was - part of the ritual sadism of interviews.

"Looking further ahead," asked Bernice, "what longer-term ambitions do you have?"  Always an interesting question: what do people really want from their careers?

"Well, I think that if I were luckily enough to get this job there would be a lot for me to learn, so I think that my ambitions would be catered for some time to come.  But in the longer term I would hope to progress up the ladder a little - Assistant Editor, Deputy Editor...Editor."  

"Oh, so you want my job, do you?" asked Bernice smiling.

"Well, not yet, but I suppose one day I would hope to be Editor of something similar," Yasmeen said.

"And what about a publisher afterwards?" asked Martin.

"I'm afraid we don't have one on SMaC, so I don't really know what a publisher does.  Perhaps I will when I know more about the specifics of the job."

Bernice couldn't help smiling.  Yes, just what do publishers do...?  She would have to remember to ask Martin in a less public forum than this.

"OK," said Bernice, becoming business-like again, "let's talk specifically - about this job, which is basically News Editor on our new title, with some feature writing as a secondary but important function.  What sort of articles would you expect to see appearing?"

"Well, I've put together a few ideas that I've had about that" - here she handed out a neatly typed list of features to Bernice and Martin - "I don't know if these are the kind of things you had in mind..."

Bernice looked down the list: Office Hierarchies, Technology at Work, Alcoholism at Work, Working from Home, Writing Memos, Briefing Designers, etc etc, some 30 or 40 of them.  It was an impressive list, not least because it included quite a few that Bernice had not thought of.

"Very impressive," said Bernice.  "I presume that in drawing up this list you also gave some thought to the overall aims of the magazine?"

"Well, yes, to come up with appropriate articles I tried to imagine very clearly a typical reader and their typical needs.  I saw them as somebody working in an office with a few people, with a boss who in turn had a boss or two above them.  I thought that the magazine could try to address all the elements in common that people who work in offices have.  That is, nothing specific to one industry, but the things we all know about, or worry about when we work in offices.  Particularly the social aspects: I am fascinated by the idea that we spend most of our waking moments in an office, and yet we tend to try to ignore its presence in our lives.  In fact it seems to me to be one of the main forces in modern life - another reason why I'd love to write about it."

Couldn't have put it better myself, thought Bernice.  Perhaps she should be Editor now....

"Right, what about notice periods, if you got the job, when could you start?" asked Bernice.

"I'm on a month's notice," said Yasmeen.

After what had so far proved to be a dream of an interview, Bernice was brought back to earth with a bump.  A month?  she thought, forgetting that this was quite normal and eminently reasonable.  It was only through exceptional circumstances that others, including herself, had been able to join sooner.

"Is that a problem? asked Yasmeen, worried at Bernice's sudden silence.

"N-no," stammered Bernice, clearly indicating it was.

Yasmeen felt desperate.  She wanted the job badly, but really could not join sooner.  John, her Editor, was away for two weeks, so she was effectively running her magazine.  Besides which, her own sense of professionalism meant that she couldn't abandon the company that had given her her break in journalism.  She felt trapped.

"Well, I think that's about all we wanted to ask you, I'm sure you have some questions you want to ask us," said Bernice.

She did, many, but Bernice's clear indication that her notice period was a problem meant that she was disinclined to waste much time asking lots of details.  She was nothing if not realistic in these matters.  Knowing that she was expected to ask something, she enquired about things like salary, holidays and such like, but without much interest now. The interview had at least been useful practice, she thought, drawing from it what consolation she could.

"OK, obviously we have other people to see, so we will let you know as soon as possible," said Bernice, annoyed with herself that she had signalled her problem with the notice period, and disappointed that what had started so well was ending so badly.  "Thanks for coming in."

They all shook hands and Yasmeen left, as serious as when she had entered.  

There were a few minutes before the next candidate was due to arrive.

"Pity about the notice period," said Martin.  "But we may not have much choice.  The other interviewees certainly didn't shine.  We'll just have to keep our fingers crossed for the last two."  

Bernice grunted vaguely in assent, conscious that her mind was working away in the background, wondering if it might be possible....

But first there were the last two candidates to see.  Who knows, perhaps one of them would fit the bill perfectly? she thought without much conviction.

Next chapter

Chapter 8

They didn't.

In a way she was relieved, because she had already decided that Yasmeen was the one she needed.  She admired the way she had overcome obstacles at home to become a journalist, her approach to writing, her ideas, her enthusiasm.  The month's notice was deeply inconvenient but she refused to let herself be beaten by a detail such as that.  With Martin's agreement - he also thought Yasmeen the best candidate and trusted to Bernice's judgement about the feasibility of waiting the month - she rang Yasmeen that evening at her digs.  

Someone else answered the telephone and then bawled 'Yasmeen - it's for you-hoo'; there was then a short pause followed by approaching footsteps.  Then Yasmeen's voice, as calm and collected as ever: "Yasmeen Patel here" - even at home she sounded like a journalist on the phone.

"Hallo, Yasmeen, Bernice Stuart here from Wright's" - it felt strange already to be a representative of the company she had only joined last week - "sorry to trouble you at home, but I wanted to contact you as soon as possible.  Can you talk now?" as if she might be deep in some other meeting.

"Of course," said Yasmeen, still betraying no excitement, though this was only through application of tremendous will-power.

"Basically we'd like to offer you the job of Features Editor on our new launch; the salary and conditions will be as we mentioned.  I really hope that you'll accept," said Bernice, honestly.

"But what about the one month's notice?  I've thought about it, but I can't see any way round it," said Yasmeen, perplexed for a moment.

"Oh, we think you're worth wait," said Bernice simply.

"Thank you - for that and for the job.  I'd love to come," said Yasmeen.  "One thing I did think: I could do some work for you in the evenings and at weekends, or at least start preparing things so that when I arrive I'm productive immediately."

"That's great, Yasmeen," said Bernice, delighted that Yasmeen had come up with the same idea she was about to suggest.  "Have a think about some of those titles you came up with, and we'll talk about it tomorrow evening - if you're in, that is," Bernice said, realising that not everyone sacrificed their social lives to work as she did.

"Certainly I'm in.  I look forward to talking with you - and joining the team."

Bernice felt strangely elated given that she had just chosen someone who would be unable to contribute much initially.  But she had a hunch the Yasmeen would more than repay that initial deficit, if indeed there was one.  And she suspected that young Yasmeen might well prove even more surprising than even she or Martin imagined.

And as for that team Yasmeen was so glad to be joining, well, there were still two more members to find.

In all over 60 hopefuls applied for the post of Reporter.  She managed to whittle this down to a more acceptable 15 by excluding those whose application letters and CVs disqualified themselves by being badly organised or illiterate, and also the rank outsiders.  Some of these were very strange.

There were the usual dreamers who hoped to break into publishing after a lifetime of being a bank clerk and knowing nothing of the reality of the job, but there was also even odder applicants.  For example, the 45-year old ex-publisher, who for some reason had resigned and wanted now to 'get back to the coalface'.

His CV was most extraordinary, not least because the last salary he had given was that of a senior publisher with one of Wright's major rivals: it was a cool £45,000, nearly double what Bernice was earning as Editor.  Why somebody should give up that kind of money to become a humble reporter even she had difficulty understanding, much as she prized the profession.  Was being a publisher such a terrible task - or had he discovered that money was indeed an evil?  As well as being confused by his CV, she was secretly slightly disturbed by this attempted crossing of hierarchy levels, where somebody currently her superior was asking to be her junior.  Something deep within her jibbed at this; she knew that that way lay madness, at least from a business point of view.

As far as the others were concerned, there was little to choose between them.  Because of the numbers involved, she was forced to limit the interview to 30 minutes.  For a similar reason Martin excused himself completely, pleading the necessity to do some work with his other titles.  Besides, for this most junior post, her judgement alone should suffice, and he had no real qualms about leaving the decision to her.

She felt quite strange in these interviews.  Perhaps because she had already recruited three key members of staff - the Production, Art and Features Editors - she felt slightly more relaxed at the start.  But gradually the steady progression of hopefuls - the spotty youths who knew nothing about anything, the ageing graduates desperate to enter the industry, people with failure written through them like rock from Brighton - wore her down.

Soon she could judge somebody within the first five minutes of the interview.  Thereafter it became something of a game, a ritual that had to be gone through.  Once or twice, unforgivably, she found herself falling asleep during some particularly boring account of past activities or future aspirations.  She felt the odd twitch of power, conscious that for that short span of time she wielded almost unlimited control over these people.  They had come here asking for a favour, and as such had to be compliant.  In those thirty minutes she could theoretically have asked almost any question, however impertinent or intrusive, and most people would have answered.  That she did not was down to her professionalism and personal ethics, but she knew that many others gave in to these unjustifiable liberties - she thought of Martin's moment of weakness during their initial 'chat' - and was glad when such sessions were over, and the temptation out of the way.

She was also glad when in the middle of these it was time to interview the two shortlisted candidates for the post of sub editor.  Glad because it broke the monotony of asking the same questions and receiving similar answers, and glad too because Kate would be there to stop her falling asleep and to act as a natural brake on her baser managerial instincts.

The first candidate, Kirstie Maccleby, had scored reasonably well in The Test.  Though her version of the Test lacked real style, she had expunged the grossest errors - unlike some other candidates who, unbelievably, had happily let through some of The Test's worst excesses.  Her work had not been the best  - that honour belonged to the second interviewee - but she was clearly very competent and would do if need be.  

She was also incredibly dull, as if she went through life pedantically correcting mistakes because she had not the imagination to do otherwise.  And although dullness was hardly an indictable offence, Bernice felt very strongly that her office had to have a certain magic, a certain pumping energy if it was to succeed.  She already had some dead weight in the shape of George and Pete, and Dave looked as if he could rarely be bothered to rouse himself, so she needed some help for Kate, Wobs and Yasmeen who all mercifully had the qualities she was after.

As Kate and Bernice waited for the second candidate to turn up, it looked increasingly likely that they would be forced to go with Ms Maccleby.  The other interviewee, Terence Wilbur, had already asked for yet another postponement, giving train timetables as the problem.  This meant that it was now nearly 7 o'clock in the evening, with both of them already tired after long, stressful days.  

"Damn him, let's give him another five minutes, and then tough," said Bernice.

"Did you read his Test?", asked Kate pointedly.

"Well, I glanced at it late last night," said Bernice, knowing what was coming.

"Read it again," said Kate peremptorily, prepared to fight hard for something that was important to her.

"OK, OK," said Bernice, conscious that she should already have done this properly.  She opened Mr Wilbur's file, took out his version of The Test, and began studying it:

The Year 2000 will mark the beginning of a new era, a time when Mankind will look back over centuries of history and achievement.  But in what circumstances will today's companies find themselves when the day arrives?  That depends.  Those prepared for the challenges of tomorrow will have already put aside thoughts of past glories and dreams of what might have been; they will be looking to forge new and brighter destinies that will take them far into the next millennium.  Others, however, may be more shortsighted and fall by the wayside as a result.

British firms are not exempt from this stark choice.  There can be no foolish reliance on luck, uncertain at the best of times.  Instead, companies must begin now to plan for the future with care - but with vision and boldness too.  Both are required because new times require new ideas.

Tomorrow is closer than you think: start preparing today.

On re-reading it Bernice had to concede it was pretty damn good - obviously her mind had not been at its best the night before.  Perhaps he was worth waiting for.

"OK, let's give him another 15 minutes - but after that I really must go home - I've a feature to write this evening," she said.  Again, she added mentally.

Kate assented reluctantly, recognising that poor Bernice did have a lot to do in very little time.

It was fourteen minutes past seven when the security man on reception announced that there was a Mr Wilbur for Bernice.  Semi-reluctantly she went down to pick him up, not in the best of humours.  Mr Wilbur was in his early thirties and turned out to be tall, dark and stocky, square-jawed and with a noticeable seven o'clock shadow, and black bristly hair cut very short.  He was dressed in an anonymous duffel coat, chunky crew-neck sweater and jeans.  He was slightly pale, and he had a handkerchief wrapped around his right hand, which meant that Bernice did not shake hands as she normally did when meeting candidates.

"Are you OK?" asked Bernice, feeling a little guilty about her earlier ungenerous thoughts.

"Ay, fine, fine - sorry I'm late.  I hope I'm not too late?" he said with a noticeable northern accent.  

"No, don't worry about it," said Bernice, still a little taken aback by his appearance.

She could see that Kate too was a little surprised when they returned, and she too restrained her urge to offer her hand, but said nothing.

They talked a little about his CV, but in his case there was little that was directly relevant to the post of sub-editor.  He was currently a temporary librarian, and he made no bones about his dislike for the job.  He had always loved words, he said, but found that end of the business depressing.  Before becoming a librarian he had trained to be a teacher of English, but soon realised that he was not cut out for this kind of work either.

But words remained his passion.

"Passion?" Bernice picked him up on his choice of phrase.

"Ay, passion.  I hate it when I read a book or a newspaper and the grammar is all over the shop, or there are spelling errors.  It makes my blood boil.  Don't they ever check these things?"  he asked, getting quite worked up just thinking about it.

"Have you ever done any subediting before?"  He hadn't.  "What do you think the job would entail?" asked Bernice.

"Well, I presume I would get given the words by the journalists and then I'd go through it and find any errors and correct them."

"What would you do if it were riddled with errors?"

"Well, I suppose I'd re-write the bloody thing myself - as I tried to do in that there test thing.  That was fun, I must say, though I hope there aren't as many errors in the words your journalists write."

"Oh no," answered Bernice, " - there are far more.  Well, sometimes.  But how would you handle a journalist who continued to hand in bad copy, or late copy?"

"Er sorry, copy?"

"Sorry, jargon - terrible habit" - but then a profession wouldn't be a profession if it didn't have its secret jargon designed to exclude the uninitiated - "copy is just the raw words."

"Well, I suppose I'd try to reason with them, pointing out ways they could improve their writing."

"And if that didn't work?"

"Well, I can shout pretty loudly," he said with a smile.  And you probably can, thought Bernice.  Which suddenly reminded her about his hand.

"What happened to your hand?" she asked suddenly, one of those marginally unreasonably questions she had repressed during the rest of the day.

"Oh, that, that's nothing.  A graze," he answered defensively.

"Did you fall over or something?" continued Bernice.

"No, I just hit it against something, shall we say," Bernice was worried by this turn of events: was he violent?

"Can you be more explicit," she went on.

"Well, if you must know," said Terence rather annoyed by now, "there were these young hooligans who were worrying some poor soul outside the station.  I hate bullies, so I encouraged them to stop."  He said no more.

"Did they?" asked Kate.

He just smiled and nodded.

Conscious that they had strayed from the point, Bernice went on:

"What about notice periods?"

"Well, I'm on a week, but I reckon I'd need another week to sort out accommodation down here, if that were all right."

"OK," said Bernice.  "Any other questions, Kate?"  Kate said no, so she asked Terence whether he had any for them.  

"Look, I could ask you a whole row of clever questions about the job, but basically I'll take the job whatever your paying and whatever the conditions.  I want to work with words, and I feel this is the job where I can do it, and do it well."

It was a simple declaration, but one that gained by that simplicity despite flying in the face of all the rules about job interviews.

"Fair enough.  Tell me, are you getting the train back tonight?  Yes, I thought so.  Well, given that you came all this way tonight, it seems to me only fair that you have a decision as soon as possible.  I wonder if you mind stepping outside for a moment, please?" Bernice asked.

When he did so, she turned to Kate:

"Well, what do you think?"

"You know what I think," Kate answered.

"I know that he did The Test well, and that he seems as passionate about words as your are.  I'm not so sure about his vigilante activities," said Bernice, playing devil's advocate to a certain extent.

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about that," said Kate, "I think you'll find he's a mild a lamb.  Anyway, I'm sure I can handle him."

Coming from this petite woman and referring to this hulk of a man, Bernice thought the comment strange, but knew that Kate had many hidden depths.

"So I'll take that as a 'yes' shall I?" Bernice asked.  Kate smiled and nodded, rather as Terence had done.

Bernice called Terence back in.

"Well, the good news is that we'd like to offer you the job."  He smiled.  "Obviously we appreciate you need to make arrangements to move down here, and we hope that you'll do that as soon possible.  Any problems, just let me know."

And that was that.  Which just goes to show, thought Bernice after they had symbolically shaken their left hands with Terence and wished him a more peaceful journey home than he'd had in coming, that it was always worth putting up with that extra inconvenience and waiting for that extra minute in order to get the right person.

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