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Chapters (64)
  1. Cover
  2. About the Author
  3. Dedication
  4. Chapter One
  5. Chapter Two
  6. Chapter Three
  7. Chapter Four
  8. Chapter Five
  9. Chapter Six
  10. Chapter Seven
  11. Chapter Eight
  12. Chapter Nine
  13. Chapter Ten
  14. Chapter Eleven
  15. Chapter Twelve
  16. Chapter Thirteen
  17. Chapter Fourteen
  18. Chapter Fifteen
  19. Chapter Sixteen
  20. Chapter Seventeen
  21. Chapter Eighteen
  22. Chapter Nineteen
  23. Chapter Twenty
  24. Chapter Twenty-One
  25. Chapter Twenty-Two
  26. Chapter Twenty-Three
  27. Chapter Twenty-Four
  28. Chapter Twenty-Five
  29. Chapter Twenty-Six
  30. Chapter Twenty-Seven
  31. Chapter Twenty-Eight
  32. Chapter Twenty-Nine
  33. Chapter Thirty
  34. Chapter Thirty-One
  35. Chapter Thirty-Two
  36. Chapter Thirty-Three
  37. Chapter Thirty-Four
  38. Chapter Thirty-Five
  39. Chapter Thirty-Six
  40. Chapter Thirty-Seven
  41. Chapter Thirty-Eight
  42. Chapter Thirty-Nine
  43. Chapter Forty
  44. Chapter Forty-One
  45. Chapter Forty-Two
  46. Chapter Forty-Three
  47. Chapter Forty-Four
  48. Chapter Forty-Five
  49. Chapter Forty-Six
  50. Chapter Forty-Seven
  51. Chapter Forty-Eight
  52. Chapter Forty-Nine
  53. Chapter Fifty
  54. Chapter Fifty-One
  55. Chapter Fifty-Two
  56. Chapter Fifty-Three
  57. Chapter Fifty-Four
  58. Chapter Fifty-Five
  59. Chapter Fifty-Six
  60. Chapter Fifty-Seven
  61. Chapter Fifty-Eight
  62. Chapter Fifty-Nine
  63. Epilogue
  64. Acknowledgements

Harri smiles. ‘I’ve got to pop upstairs for a bit, I’ve been summoned by the boss man.’ She dusts herself down for invisible lint, non-existent wrinkles. ‘Actually, I’ve just realised what the time is, you can probably get going.’

How does she do it? Harri is one of those magical people who always gives the impression of having showered no more than thirty minutes ago. After about 4 p.m., I start to feel stale. Biscuit crumbs collect on my knees and elbows, regardless of what I’ve actually eaten. Harri is a human toothpaste advert. A riddle, wrapped in an enigma, wrapped in a heavenly cloud of Santal 33. She has her own Wikipedia entry, which I know off by heart—but even though I’ve been her eternal intern, on and off, for over two years, I know almost nothing about her life outside Panache. All I have are the rumours. Giles the fashion director has hinted that she had an affair with a famous movie star, back in the nineties. Araminta, my old boss at Splash!, sniffed that the movie star was on the fringes of the Brit Pack, and now only gets work popping up in home insurance adverts—but then, Araminta put most of the budget up her nose and the magazine got shut down after six months, and I don’t think she enjoyed watching Harri’s star soar as hers descended. Poppy, a woman I interned with at Sleek a while back, reckons that Anna Wintour herself tried to headhunt Harri, and Harri turned her down.

I believe a three-year-old child could identify Harri as the editor of a fashion magazine. I have absolutely no idea how old she is. There’s a whisper of a wrinkle in the corner of her eyes, and I can’t work out whether she has perfect skin, or access to the most expensive, subtle Botox going. Probably both. I’ve never seen another person with hair as shiny as hers in my life. Not even on TV. Not even on Instagram. But sometimes she twists it up and pins it with a chewed Biro. And when she pulls the Biro out, it falls perfectly into place. (I tried it once on a night shift—bad idea—and I had to cut the lid out with nail scissors.) Harri has eyebrows like Elizabeth Taylor. Once, I asked her what she used to get the perfect arch, and she said ‘Vaseline.’