All of them eventually got jobs – Charlie as a hairdresser, Zandra in a restaurant, Kevin on the shop floor at Comme des Garçons, Geraint on the door in a cutting-edge club, and Lisa in a high-street clothes shop, where she lifted more of the stock than she actually sold. A wonderful barter system got going. Charlie would do Lisa’s hair, she’d steal a shirt for Geraint, Geraint would let them into Taboo for nothing, Zandra would give them free tequila sunrises at the restaurant where she worked. (A mini-barter system was in operation there, because the barman wouldn’t insist on dockets from Zandra in exchange for low-grade sexual favours.) The only person who wasn’t in the loop was Kevin because the shop he worked at was so expensive yet so minimal that, if he nicked one single thing, the entire stock would diminish by twenty-five per cent. But he added general, free-floating kudos to the whole group in these frenzied days of mid-to-late-eighties label worship.

None of them would spend money on food – like cups and furniture, that too was a waste. If ever they were hungry they’d descend on the restaurant where Zandra worked and demand to be fed. Or else go on a shoplifting spree at their local Safeway. Strolling around the aisles, eating as they went, then shoving the wrapper or the banana skin at the back of the shelves. Sometimes Lisa insisted on actually taking stuff out with her, she liked the thrill it gave her.

Life continued like this for eighteen months, until the wonderful intimacy began to disintegrate into squabbles and rows. The novelty of having a rota for cup use had begun to wear thin. Then Lisa’s magazine-executive boyfriend decided to take a risk and swing her a job on Sweet Sixteen. Though she had no qualifications and barely an education, she was scarily smart. She knew what was in, what was on its way out, who was worth knowing, and she always looked spectacularly, astonishingly, just-this-minute fashionable. Seconds after something had appeared in Vogue, Lisa was arrayed in a cut-price version of it, and, most importantly of all, dressed with conviction. Many people wore puff-ball skirts because they knew they should, but most of them couldn’t shake the accompanying air of confusion and shame. Lisa sported hers with aplomb.

Then, as now, the magazine she was working on was low-budget crap and it was hard to find a flat that she could afford to rent. But the difference was that back then having a shit job on a magazine was thought to be fantastic – being employed by a magazine at all was what was important. And trying to find a half-decent place to live was a huge step forward – after living in the squat. Those were circumstances to be savoured. A source of pride, not embarrassment. Even though she was at the bottom of the heap, she was still the success story of Five Live in a Squat in Hackney.

And now look at them. Charlie worked in a salon in Bond Street and had lots of private clients, all of them horribly rich women. Zandra reverted to Sandra, went home to Hemel Hempstead, got married and had three children in speedy succession. Kevin was also married – to Sandra. It turned out he’d only said he was gay because he thought it was fashionable. Geraint was dead, he’d tested HIV positive in 1992 and his lungs gave out three years later. And Lisa, look at Lisa now. All those years of hard work, just to end up like this, back at the start. How had it happened?

Back in the nightmarish present, Lisa climbed into her hotel-room bed and smoked cigarette after cigarette, waiting for the Rohypnol to deliver four hours of merciful oblivion. But round and round the same ugly thoughts went. She was appalled at the huge task ahead of her on Colleen and hated being here. But there was no way out. She couldn’t return to London. Even if there was an editor’s job going – which there wasn’t at the moment – you’re only as good as your last ABC audit. She’d have to make Colleen a sure-fire success before anyone else would employ her. Trapped.

She picked up the foil card of Rohypnol and suddenly suicide seemed gloriously tempting. Would sixteen tablets be enough to kill herself? Probably, she decided. She could just close her eyes and eddy away from everything. Go out on a blaze of glory, while her name was still a byword for successful, high-circulation magazines. Preserve her reputation for all eternity.

She’d always been a survivor, and had never before contemplated suicide – and she was only doing so now because dying seemed the most appropriate way to survive. But the more she thought about it, the more killing herself wasn’t an option: everyone would simply think she’d cracked under the pressure and they’d gloat like mad.

She squirmed, thinking of every magazine person in Britain showing up at her funeral, bringing their murmury soundtrack of She couldn’t hack it, you know. Poor girl, couldn’t stay the pace. Turning to each other in their sleek black suits – they wouldn’t even have to change out of their work clothes for the funeral – and congratulating themselves that they were still, by virtue of being alive, players. No burn-out here, no sir!

Not being able to stay the pace was the worst crime in magazine publishing. Worse than hitting the burgers hard and becoming a size twelve, or telling the world that short hair was in when everyone else’s money was riding on shoulder-length locks. Working on the principle that there was only so much endurance knocking around, magazine folk joyously embraced the news that a colleague was ‘taking a long, well-deserved rest’ or ‘spending more time with their family’.

A tragic accident was the only way out, Lisa decided. A glamorous tragic accident, she amended. Forget falling under a low-rent Irish bus, that would be even more embarrassing than topping herself. She’d have to fall out of a speedboat, at the very least. Or crash in an orange ball of flame while helicoptering to some fuck-off location.

… She was on her way to Manoir aux Quatre Saisons, I believe.

Actually, I heard it was Balmoral Castle. At the personal request of you-know-who.

But what a fitting way to go. Fabulous in death as in life.

Burnt to a crisp, I’m told, like an overdone steak. The super-bitchy tones of Lily Headly-Smythe, editor of Panache, interrupted Lisa’s sleepy reverie.

… Rumour has it that Vivienne Westwood’s going to base her next collection on it, all the models will be done up like burn victims.

Fantasy back on track, Lisa eventually fell asleep, comforted by thoughts of her society-pages death.

11

The week carried on. Lisa moved through her grey-bordered life like a sleepwalker. Albeit, a well-dressed, bossy one.

On Friday, the rain stopped and the sun came out, which caused great excitement amongst the staff – they were like children on Christmas morning. As they arrived into work, there was a stream of comments.