stairs. His faded burgundy bathrobe, stopping at his knees, revealed long, finely-muscled golden calves. 'I think it's the least you can do, personally,' he added, flashing her a smile so brilliant it could have been spotted from the moon. 'I was just in the shower myself,
12
and you gave me such a scare screeching like that that I lost my balance and fell over. Face down on the taps, as it happens,' he said, arriving on the ground floor and raking her with a rueful glance from beneath his thatch of damp, butter-coloured hair.
Despite herself, Jane sniggered. Falling face down on the taps was too ridiculous.
'Glad you find it funny,' remarked the man from upstairs, raising an eyebrow. 'I'll have a couple of shiners by the morning. Guaranteed.'
Contrite, Jane realised she wasn't giving him the best of incentives to assist her. 'I'm terribly sorry,' she stammered. 'Perhaps if you rub some steak on them?' She had a vague idea from somewhere that this helped.
'I'd rather eat it, frankly,' he replied. 'Anyway, what were you yowling about? What's the problem?'
'Well,' Jane muttered, suddenly feeling silly. 'There's, um, there's a rather large spider in my, um, bath.'
'Spiders won't hurt you,' said her neighbour breezily. 'It won't even move unless you make it. The whole point of a spider is being a spider. They don't go in for sightseeing or aerobics.'
'Well, this one's got a leotard on, actually,' flashed back Jane, remembering the nasty markings and determined to claw back some dignity out of the situation. She turned on her heel to re-enter the flat, only to encounter the closed door. 'Oh, and I'm locked out as well.' She banged her fist on the door in frustration.
'Hang on a minute.'
As if she had much choice, Jane thought, slumping against the door and watching the long legs lope back upstairs. She was hardly going to rush out and catch a bus dressed like this, was she? Not that it stopped some people.
13
Two minutes later, he had bounded down again, opened the latch with a credit card, entered the flat and flipped the spider out of the bathroom window. 'Thank you so much,' said Jane, stiff with embarrassment as well as cold. She had noticed by now that her legs were not only blue with the chill, but needed a shave. Her standards were beginning to slip after all.
'It's a pleasure. I'm Tom, by the way.' He flashed her another knee-trembler of a grin.
Tm Jane.'
'Yes,' he said. 'I know.'
'You know? Her heart swooped in a somersault. He knew her name. Jane surrendered herself to the thrilling thought that he must have more than a passing interest in her to bother finding out what she was called.
'Yes. There's a pile of bills with your name and address on them by the door.'
14
'I want ideas. Big ideas. Huge ideas. Circulation-rocketing, magazine-of-the-year-award-winning ideas.'
The editor of Gorgeous put the tips of his manicured fingers together, pursed his lips and glared at his staff. Jane shifted uncomfortably on the sofa between the art director and the fashion assistant, both of whom were gazing vacantly into space.
Josh flicked an invisible bit of dust off the lapel of his Prince of Wales check suit and stared through his monocle at his features department. In other words, Jane. There had been talk, when Jane started, of recruiting a crack ideas team to help her, but it had so far failed to materialise. Nor, Jane knew, was it now likely to. Gorgeous operated on the principle common to most publications, that keeping staff costs down was as important as keeping the circulation up. The standard belief that the overworked staff would feel elated by the enormous responsibility and positively revel in the lack of support also applied.
'What I particularly want,' Josh continued, 'is some really brilliant, original, ingenious, attention-grabbing gimmick. I'm sick of seeing The Sunday Times stealing a march on us with Tara Palmer-Tomkinson. She should be writing for Gorgeous. She's done wonders for their
12
and you gave me such a scare screeching like that that I lost my balance and fell over. Face down on the taps, as it happens,' he said, arriving on the ground floor and raking her with a rueful glance from beneath his thatch of damp, butter-coloured hair.
Despite herself, Jane sniggered. Falling face down on the taps was too ridiculous.
'Glad you find it funny,' remarked the man from upstairs, raising an eyebrow. 'I'll have a couple of shiners by the morning. Guaranteed.'
Contrite, Jane realised she wasn't giving him the best of incentives to assist her. 'I'm terribly sorry,' she stammered. 'Perhaps if you rub some steak on them?' She had a vague idea from somewhere that this helped.
'I'd rather eat it, frankly,' he replied. 'Anyway, what were you yowling about? What's the problem?'
'Well,' Jane muttered, suddenly feeling silly. 'There's, um, there's a rather large spider in my, um, bath.'
'Spiders won't hurt you,' said her neighbour breezily. 'It won't even move unless you make it. The whole point of a spider is being a spider. They don't go in for sightseeing or aerobics.'
'Well, this one's got a leotard on, actually,' flashed back Jane, remembering the nasty markings and determined to claw back some dignity out of the situation. She turned on her heel to re-enter the flat, only to encounter the closed door. 'Oh, and I'm locked out as well.' She banged her fist on the door in frustration.
'Hang on a minute.'
As if she had much choice, Jane thought, slumping against the door and watching the long legs lope back upstairs. She was hardly going to rush out and catch a bus dressed like this, was she? Not that it stopped some people.
13
Two minutes later, he had bounded down again, opened the latch with a credit card, entered the flat and flipped the spider out of the bathroom window. 'Thank you so much,' said Jane, stiff with embarrassment as well as cold. She had noticed by now that her legs were not only blue with the chill, but needed a shave. Her standards were beginning to slip after all.
'It's a pleasure. I'm Tom, by the way.' He flashed her another knee-trembler of a grin.
Tm Jane.'
'Yes,' he said. 'I know.'
'You know? Her heart swooped in a somersault. He knew her name. Jane surrendered herself to the thrilling thought that he must have more than a passing interest in her to bother finding out what she was called.
'Yes. There's a pile of bills with your name and address on them by the door.'
14
'I want ideas. Big ideas. Huge ideas. Circulation-rocketing, magazine-of-the-year-award-winning ideas.'
The editor of Gorgeous put the tips of his manicured fingers together, pursed his lips and glared at his staff. Jane shifted uncomfortably on the sofa between the art director and the fashion assistant, both of whom were gazing vacantly into space.
Josh flicked an invisible bit of dust off the lapel of his Prince of Wales check suit and stared through his monocle at his features department. In other words, Jane. There had been talk, when Jane started, of recruiting a crack ideas team to help her, but it had so far failed to materialise. Nor, Jane knew, was it now likely to. Gorgeous operated on the principle common to most publications, that keeping staff costs down was as important as keeping the circulation up. The standard belief that the overworked staff would feel elated by the enormous responsibility and positively revel in the lack of support also applied.
'What I particularly want,' Josh continued, 'is some really brilliant, original, ingenious, attention-grabbing gimmick. I'm sick of seeing The Sunday Times stealing a march on us with Tara Palmer-Tomkinson. She should be writing for Gorgeous. She's done wonders for their
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