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buses that no one would ever read.
    Slightly more pressing was the fact that she had no idea what a beauty director did. She knew it was a big job. With a big salary—$150,000! No wait, $160,000! She hadn’t even worked out how much that was in pounds . . . a lot! Seventy-five, eighty grand! She could almost buy a flat with it!
    This Alexis woman seemed to know her, know about everything she’d done, had read her work, yet how could she? Why would she? She frowned at herself, then stared into the mirror long and hard, waiting to see something, someone different, someone like the kind of person she expected would get a job at Darling magazine. Someone whose brilliance was shining. She mouthed at herself in the mirror,
    “Hi, I’m Kate Miller, beauty director of Darling magazine. ” She looked too happy. She pursed her mouth, stuck her chin up.
    “Kate Miller. Darling magazine.”
    “Magazine” spoiled the flow of the words.
    “Kate Miller. Darling. ”
    That could work. She twisted her hair back up. It rested there for an instant then tumbled down again. She flicked it behind her ears. The conscious effort of trying to be someone she wasn’t made her laugh. Beauty director, Darling magazine? What was she thinking?
    It could only be a mistake.
    She made her way quickly back to her desk and started typing before she’d even sat down properly.
    Dear Lizbet,
    I’m afraid I think you have made a mistake. Could you please call me to discuss? Or should I speak to Alexis?
    Kind regards, Kate Miller
    She hit Send.
    She sat back in the chair and breathed deeply, hoping Lise would call back, but instead of feeling relieved at having done the right thing, doubts began to fall thick and fast. What if it wasn’t a mistake? They knew her name. Her phone number. But most importantly, they knew her work. But how? Of course! The Internet! Someone there would have read the Trisha interview last night, Maidstone time, which was yesterday morning New York time. Hot off the press. Anyone in the Darling office could have alerted Alexis to it—maybe it was on the BBC website even! Or some Trisha Hillmory blog!
    Kate’s fingers rapidly typed in to Google: Trisha Hillmory Maidstone Bazaar . Quick as a flash, up popped the link, on top of the page of hundreds of entries on the newscaster. Those magic three words again: By Kate Miller. She was hot and it had taken an American to spot that—well, was that so strange? Wasn’t that what Americans were good at? This was the call she had been waiting for, the door that had opened, the story that had so far evaded her, that she should now chase. She could not, should not, throw this opportunity away.
    The phone rang. Lise!
    “So . . . guess who turned up at the gym today to see me! Booking in for a very personal session?” Her friend giggled.
    Kate hugged the phone close and spoke loudly into the mouthpiece, hoping she could be heard above the “I like to move it, move it” that was pumping away in the background, its rhythm accompanying every swish-swish of machinery, rowing machines, stair-walkers, and assorted pieces of equipment Kate had vowed never to set foot on.
    “Lise! Stop it! This is important!”
    “My lovely Steve! Isn’t that great? I was so surprised—he’s not exactly your average gym type, let’s face it—but he’d taken time out specially to see—”
    “ Lise! Listen to me! I’ve been offered a job in New York!”
    There was a long pause at the other end of the phone, and then:
    “Oh, my God !” she shrieked. “Oh, my God that’s . . . that’s . . . weird!”
    “Only I think I’ve just turned it down. I think it was a mistake, Lise; they said I knew Gustav and Lisette and that everyone loves my celebrity stories. I mean, that’s not me, is it?”
    There was a pause. Then a sigh.
    “You’ve just turned it down? I don’t understand, Kate. You’ve been offered a job in New York, and you’ve just turned it down. Are you nuts? I mean, I’m not being