Linda looks approving. ‘YES! That’s what I like to hear, women’s pleasure, front and centre. Massive market too, up for grabs, you’re going to make a killing. I really wanted Hudson to move more explicitly into that area but they wouldn’t listen. You did it so well at The Know, we wanted more. I’m assuming you have investment, but so long as there’s no conflict of interest, I’d certainly be keen to have a conversation about it. And I can put you in touch with some other potential investors too.’

Harri speaks hesitantly. ‘On that theme—legally, I was a little concerned that Hudson might argue that we were setting up a rival product, and I wanted to make sure…’

Linda waves a hand, airily. ‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that. Firstly, I think you can technically argue that yours is a health site, not a woman’s lifestyle site. Different category. Secondly, and most importantly, after all you’ve been through with this company, Hudson are lucky that you’re not suing them into oblivion.’ She sniffs, making it very clear that she’s slightly cross that Harri hasn’t already launched a lawsuit.

‘Anyway, congratulations! Officially, I’m very…what’s the word? Pissed off. Entre nous? I think this is a brilliant, brilliant move! Sisters doing it for themselves. Although,’ Linda’s face darkens, a thought only just occurring to her. ‘Who in the name of fuckery is going to edit Panache, now? We have big plans.’

Harri has an answer prepared. ‘I always thought that Giles Robinson, editor-in-chief of Panache, had a nice ring to it.’

Chapter Fifty-Nine

It’s not a dream job.
My dreams are bigger than that

Imogen

Please not the bank. Please do not be the bank.

I hold my phone at arm’s length. Withheld. Is it withheld or unknown that’s bad?

I was on such a high after the conversation with Linda Morris. It would be so typical if, the moment that I decided to follow my heart, my heart was stopped in its tracks by my overdraft. Again. It’s beating a violent and erratic tattoo. Quitting your job was a bad idea! Bad idea! Bad idea! Ah, fuck it. I’m going in. Death before dishonour. Bankruptcy before prison. I slide my thumb across the screen.

‘Hello?’

‘Hello? Am I speaking to Imogen? Imogen Mounce?’

‘Ah, may I ask who is calling?’ Imogen has run away to Brazil. To Beirut. To Barry Island! That’s impossible, Imogen Mounce died ten years ago! Sorry, wrong number, this is Mimogen Ounce!

‘This is Ruby Kahn, I’m the editor of Guardian Weekend.’

‘Oh? Hello? Do I…’