Fifty Is Not a Four-Letter Word by Linda Kelsey Read Free Book Online Page B

world will hardly be a poorer place if Hope Lyndhurst gives up being
     an editor.”
    I’m fully in charge again. This is what I do best. “Look, we’ll have plenty of time to talk this over later, but now I have
     to brief Megan. At midday I want everyone to gather round, and I’ll make the announcement. Make sure everyone who’s in today
     stays here—all appointments, however important, are to be canceled. Simon’s coming at three-thirty. Ring that bar in St. James’s,
     and if it’s available, book the private room in the basement for six o’clock. Tonight we’re going to get hammered. Drinks
     on me. Or rather, drinks on Global. Let’s see if I can give my company Amex a heart attack.”
    My tears are all dried up, but everyone else’s have only just begun. When I tell Megan, she cries. The fashion editor, the
     beauty editor, the art director, and—probably because these things are catching—the intern who started this morning all cry.
     The junior features assistant, my current candidate for penning a secret best seller about the bitchy world of women’s magazines,
     doesn’t cry. She has started taking frantic notes and is grinning. I had her sussed right from the start. My features editor,
     Ally, and my two boys—Saul and Cosmo, picture editor and style assistant, respectively—are looking shifty, which suggests
     to me that Mark has already had “words” and that all three are moving camp. In Cosmo’s case, extremely camp. Saul, on the
     other hand, is a father of three and as straight as Fifth Avenue. He can’t afford not to have a job, not even for a fortnight.
     Their early absconding suits me fine; that’s three fewer to worry about.
    The rest are genuinely shocked and deeply upset, for me, for the magazine, for themselves. I tell them to be ready to fire
     questions at Simon about their future, but to be prepared for him to prevaricate. “Dig out your contracts when you get home
     tonight,” I say, “so you get a clearer idea of where you stand.” I promise to talk first to HR and if I don’t get any answers,
     to an employment lawyer who is a family friend. I promise to do everything I can on their behalf: write references, recommend
     them to other editors, give them time off for interviews—whatever they need to get themselves sorted. “And remember, tonight
     we’re going to get hammered. Until then try and make it business as usual.”
    • • •
    I leave them standing in forlorn clumps, like the wilted specimens on the last day of the Chelsea flower show. Back at my
     desk, I dial Jack.
    “Jack Steele is either on the phone or with a client. Please leave your name, number, and time of call, and he will get back
     to you as soon as he’s free.”
    “It’s me, darling, with some not so good news for the New Year. I’ve been put out to grass. Like the old mare that I am. Just
     like that. Try and call, but if I don’t pick up, it’s because mayhem has broken out. I’m taking the whole team to Baz’s bar
     later, so if you want to join the wake, you’ll know where to find us. Otherwise, I’ll be home late—very late and very drunk.
     Tell Olly, and tell him I’m fine.”
    I’ve passed the first hurdle. I’ve not let my team down. I’ve not let myself down. Now what the hell am I supposed to do?
    • • •
    Thursday night is as I knew it would be. Everyone gets rip-roaring, rat-arsed, out-of-their-brains, off-their-faces hammered.
     I know, these are not genteel descriptions for a woman of my age. They’re not words I normally use to describe a state of
     inebriation—I pick up the cool vernacular from Olly and the kids but never use it for fear of shaming Olly to death—but in
     the circumstances, “rat-arsed” sounds about right. I’ve told everyone who wants to invite their partners to do so. The thought
     of a giant hormonal gathering of hens, with Saul and Cosmo muttering on the sidelines, is more than I can handle. As it is,
     the tears flow as