Friend of the Family

‘Just relax,’ said Dr Al Saraf soothingly.

‘That’s fine for you to say,’ she said, unscrewing one eye enough to see that the syringe was still half full, ‘you’re not the one being pumped full of gloop.’

The doctor laughed. ‘Remember that the gloop is good for you.’

She’d already had a two-hour consultation on the benefits of today’s session. How the cocktail of B12 and various other secret ingredients would promote muscle growth and balance her hormones, as well as boosting her energy and keeping her alert.

He pulled out the needle and pressed a ball of cotton wool into the crook of her arm. ‘There, all done. Wasn’t so bad, was it?’

Depends on whether you’re used to getting jabbed, thought Amy. She gave a non-committal grunt.

‘The good news is that once your system becomes accustomed to these vitamin shots, you can start doing it yourself.’

‘Injecting myself?’

The doctor nodded. ‘It’s a far superior method to taking supplements orally. It takes a bit of practice, but I can provide you with everything you need. Saves you coming all the way across London once a fortnight, hmm?’

It made sense, but Amy could barely stomach the sight of needles when Dr Al Saraf was handling them. The idea of injecting herself at home made her feel queasy. Then again, she needed something. With the rush to get the new issue finished, and the next two issues after that planned and commissioned in preparation for her three-week holiday, she felt more run-down than ever. Despite telling herself that she just needed a rest and some sunshine, Dr Al Saraf’s tests had shown that she had a yeast infection, a micro-nutrient deficiency and high cortisol levels, which warranted a more comprehensive plan than the simple injections that Juliet had recommended.

Once Dr Al Saraf had demonstrated how to safely self-administer her shots, he came with her to reception. Within a few minutes, Amy had paid a four-figure bill and collected two boxes of Bliss

Vit vials and syringes.

Out on Harley Street, she looked back at the Georgian terrace, feeling a little kick of . . . something. Did she feel more clear-headed? More energised? She was sure that getting a treatment – any treatment – in a place so synonymous with medical excellence had a placebo effect on its own. But she definitely did feel more positive, which had to be a good thing, right?

There was no denying that David’s relaxation pact couldn’t come soon enough as far as Amy was concerned. She was running on empty, down to the last fumes before the engines coughed their last and the jet nose-dived into the tarmac. She hadn’t wanted to admit it to David; hadn’t wanted to admit it to herself, but the stress of the changing workplace was taking its toll.

She had once read a pop-psychology book – those happy, happy days when she had had the leisure to actually read – that had offered the idea that all humans needed to feel progress. Workers needed to feel valued, getting promotions or bonuses, seeing projects completed. Parents needed to see their kids grow and bloom and yes, even fly the nest. If you didn’t have progress, if you didn’t feel you were moving forward, that was when the problems began. Lack of motivation, lack of energy, dissatisfaction in relationships, putting on weight.

Unconsciously, Amy touched her stomach. She was fine in that department, at least. Well, as long as she stuck to her no-carbs, no-red-meat regime. One burger and she’d be the Michelin Man. But in every other danger area, she knew she was struggling. With William gone, she could feel the screws tightening at Genesis Media. Even her efforts to escape and refresh her career were another source of stress.

She still hadn’t heard from Mode. The day after the company had announced that Ros Kimber was stepping down, she had sent a carefully worded email, expressing an interest in the position, to the HR director and Douglas Proctor, but had received nothing beyond a one-line holding message saying that they’d be in touch. That had been over a week ago, and the intervening silence had suggested to Amy that maybe her stock in the industry wasn’t as high as she’d thought.

At least central London was bathed in sunshine: not the kind that made workmen strip off their shirts and office girls wear sandals and little shorts, but enough to make everything look bright and vibrant. Standing on the stone steps of Dr Al Saraf’s clinic, Amy took off her jacket and tucked it under her arm, feeling the sun warm her skin.

‘Amy Shepherd? Is that you?’

Amy’s stomach sank. Suzanne Black was also an editor, her equivalent at Silk magazine. Silk had pretensions to be an edgy fashion title, using waif-thin models and dressing them in unknown-but-out-there designers, but in reality it was just another conventional women’s glossy with advice features, get-the-look spreads and beauty tips. Amy took some satisfaction from the fact that it had a tenth of Verve’s circulation, but was constantly irritated that advertisers seemed to hold the magazine – and its editor – in such high regard.

‘Hello, Suzanne.’ She was about to ask what the other woman was doing in this part of town, but on any given day you might see anyone from London’s fashion fraternity popping into one of the many clinics for a shot of discreet Botox or filler.

‘So what do you think about Ros leaving?’ said Suzanne. ‘I hear she was kicked out for demanding too much money.’

‘Really?’

‘Well, some have been saying she wanted a million per year; others that she wanted a new job title. Personally, I think it was a grudge between her and one of the management. That’s the inside track, anyway.’

‘Don’t you think she, well, just wanted to move on?’

Suzanne frowned. ‘Move on? From the best job in media?’ She barked out a laugh.

‘Maybe she’s looking for a new challenge.’

‘There is no bigger challenge than Mode, sweetie. I mean, we both know that, right?’

Amy didn’t entirely agree with her. She had spent so long absorbed in the world of magazines that she had barely stopped to consider the world outside. But when she did, she had started to notice that many of her old colleagues were forging big careers in new sectors: retail, advertising, PR. Suzanne had probably recognised that too, but Amy didn’t want to debate the relative merits of the Mode editorship compared to other careers. The other woman was making a direct challenge: Are you applying for the job?

‘I should go,’ said Amy, glancing at her watch. Suzanne gave her a thin smile of disappointment, her attempts to extract Amy’s precise intentions unsuccessful.