Amy was used to this particular drawback of working in the fashion industry, but she wasn’t used to feeling as though every woman she saw would be more likely to go out with the actor of her dreams than she was, including the fifty-year-old lady who worked in the accounts department (could be fantastic in bed—all maturity and experience). On her way up in the lift she scrutinized herself in the cruel mirrors. Yeuch, she thought, even if I see him again, he won’t want to know; he’s so glamorous and talented, I just pin hems and ply bulimics with sandwiches for a living. The lift doors opened and Amy was greeted by an infantry of Vuitton luggage and a rail of clothes, plus several scuffling fashion editors. “Amy, thank Christ, we had no idea where you were. Help me with these, we’re off to Dorset,” Nathalia yelled. Nathalia was pure Eurotrash. Blond, perma-tan, father owned Germany or something, and Amy was terrified of her. “What are we going to Dorset for, I’m supposed to be working on my Council Estate Glamour shoot,”
