anelle Salinger, esteemed editor of Poise!, regular guest on shows like Through the Keyhole, glamorous, gorgeous, and still as giggly as a girl, casts her shimmering smile around the room at her ‘girls’.

‘Okay.’ She claps her hands together. ‘Everybody got coffee? Everybody ready?’ Her team of editors smile as they lean forward slightly, getting ready to throw their ideas out for the next issue of Poise!.

Although December, they’re already working on their huge spring issue, preparing their readers for the beginnings of summer. The fashion department is strewn with bikinis, elaborately embroidered and beaded kaftans, thongs so studded and bejewelled they are almost works of art in themselves.

The editors all know what spring and early summer means to the women who buy the magazine – sun, sea, sand and sex, even to their thirty-something young mums who are up to their eyes in baby food and nappies. ‘A girl has to dream,’ Janelle always says, although despite having her own child it’s hard to imagine that Janelle was ever up to her eyes in anything other than Crème de la Mer.

‘My Yummy Mummies,’ Janelle calls their readers, referring, as she so often does, to their demographic of women in their thirties with successful careers, loving husbands, beautiful children, stylish homes, fantastic friends, and wonderful wardrobes. And if they don’t already have all that, the Poise! readers definitely want it.

‘Of course we can have it all,’ Janelle often laughs. ‘Look at me.’ And looking at her you would certainly think she has it all. Married to Stephen Golding since the year dot, they have one daughter, Diaz (shortened to Dee, rather than the far more common Di), a palatial home in Holland Park that Janelle redecorates – or rather asks her friend Tricia Guild of Designer’s Guild to redecorate – every three years.

Currently the house is super-minimalist chic, which means that all the interior stories in the magazine for the past few months have been super-minimalist chic. Every Christmas Janelle and Stephen host a staff party, and although Vicky thought the house was certainly… dramatic… she wouldn’t want to live there, couldn’t believe that anyone could, in fact, live there.

The floorboards, three years ago stripped back when Janelle was going through her country phase, have subsequently been painted gloss white. The original Georgian fireplaces were thrown out to make way for clean holes in the white wall, with a heavy slab of black soapstone above. There are two pieces of furniture in the enormous double drawing room where all the parties are held: a giant chunk of driftwood from Bali that serves as a coffee table, although God forbid you should ever attempt to balance a cup of coffee on the uneven surface, and an oversized sofa, low-slung and hard, in a colour that Vicky always thinks of as ‘dreige’.

On the walls are three huge canvases – vibrant splashes of colour that Janelle bought from the Saatchis and that were written up in every newspaper as being one of the most expensive art transactions of the year.

‘Don’t you love it?’ Janelle asked excitedly when everyone arrived for the party. ‘It’s now truly my haven,’ and she’d breathed deeply, stretching out her arms so her gauzy white cotton djellaba lifted up to show her bare feet and toe rings.

That had been Janelle getting back to nature, and like all her phases it hadn’t lasted long. Now, in this conference, she was back in a full, patterned Prada skirt, flat alligator pumps on her feet, and a Michael Kors fur shrug around her shoulders.

‘For this June issue…’ Janelle pauses dramatically, ‘I’m thinking…’ another dramatic pause, ‘…Africa!’

There is a round of excited applause from the fashion girls, while everyone else tries not to laugh.

‘Gorgeous beaded necklaces,’ Janelle continues, her voice loud with excitement, ‘colour, vibrancy, animal prints. I’m thinking fashion shots on the Masai Mara, profiles of Peter Beard. Think Gorillas in the Mist, White Mischief. Think “I had a farm in Africa.” British colonial, Jamaica Inn…’ Vicky catches the eye of the assistant editor and quickly suppresses a snort of laughter, for Janelle has a tendency to do this. Her mind works so quickly it frequently goes off on tangents, and what, after all, did Jamaica Inn have to do with Africa, other than being decorated in a British colonial style?

But Janelle isn’t paid a disgusting amount of money for nothing, hasn’t been the editor of Poise! for about a decade without there being good reason. She has vision and foresight, and immaculate taste, even though she has sometimes fallen off the wagon for a while. She knows what her readers aspire to, whether they can afford it or not, and she knows how to give it to them in a way that has driven their circulation up and up until Poise! ranks in the top three women’s glossy magazines.

‘Right.’ Janelle finishes her directive and looks eagerly around the room. ‘What have we got? Let’s start with… fashion. Stella?’

Stella, poor beleaguered fashion editor, quickly reshuffles her notes, moving all her story ideas out of the way, because she, poor woman, had been thinking boats. Yachting. Navy and white, splashes of orange. Classic, traditional, she’d been planning a huge nautical theme, plus of course the obligatory article on flattering swimsuits, and a look-book pull-out of the greatest accessories of the summer.

But Stella has worked with Janelle forever, knows how mercurial she is, and is well used to thinking on her feet.

‘Africa is a wonderful idea,’ she stalls for time slightly. ‘Prada has these incredible saris, and I’m thinking lions, Virginia what’s-her-name with the lions –’

‘McKenna,’ Vicky adds.

‘Yes, thank you, Vicky. I’m thinking about her, a classic blonde beauty, very Grace Kelly in colonial clothes. Sexy cargos and Michael Kors striped tops. Love the shrug by the way, Janelle, one of the highlights of his collection.’

‘Oh thank you.’ Janelle beams, always happy to be complimented on her sartorial choices.

‘And…’ Stella thinks quickly, ‘I’m also thinking Africa, South Africa… Morocco!’ Her eyes light up with inspiration. ‘I’m thinking Talitha Getty on the rooftop, hippy chic in Africa, wonderful embroidered seventies-inspired flowing clothes; I’m thinking Allegra Hicks kaftans, Louboutin beaded thongs. Long hair, candlelight, smoking joints on a beach at midnight…’ Stella’s voice grows slightly wistful as she pauses to remember her youth.

‘I LOVE it!’ Janelle shrieks. ‘Just what I was thinking! It’s going to be fabulous!’ They all turn as the door of the office opens and Leona, the features editor, the woman to whom Vicky is closest at work, rushes in.

‘Oh God, I’m so sorry,’ she says, taking her place at the table and throwing a grateful smile at Vicky who has already placed a cappuccino in front of her empty seat. ‘I just completely overslept, slept right through the alarm clock.’

‘Late night last night?’ Janelle smiles, for despite her reputation she is not difficult to work for, does not, as do some other editors, terrorize her staff for not doing things the way she wants them done.

Janelle’s staff may make fun of her, but they are fiercely loyal and they love her. They love her because she treats them like her family. She is firm when she needs to be, and always fair even when she is hopelessly inconsistent. Others may look at her and think her grand, but in fact Janelle has always strived to be on an equal footing with her staff, and knows that the best way to get the best results is to create an atmosphere of fun and friendship.

Leona lets out a barking laugh. ‘If you’re suggesting what I think you’re suggesting, you must be crazy.’

‘You do have that just-been-shagged look, actually.’ Stella looks over at her with a smile.

‘Now I know you’re crazy.’ Leona unbuttons her coat and lets it fall back on the chair. ‘I have a two-year-old, a six-year-old, and a career. The last time I had a late night because of sexwas probably my wedding night. Nowadays the shorter it is the better, as far as I’m concerned.’

Becky, the lifestyle editor, starts to laugh. ‘I’m having a competition with myself. Last Saturday I actually managed to get it down to eight minutes.’

‘Eight minutes?’ Vicky splutters, horrified. ‘That’s terrible! You mean sex lasted eight minutes?’

‘Yup,’ Becky says with a wide grin. ‘And that was from foreplay to closure.’

‘Good for you.’ Leona rolls her eyes. ‘I’m still at fifteen, and let me tell you, that’s an effort.’

‘Speed sex!’ Janelle shouts, clapping her hands. ‘I love it! We have to do a story on speed sex! Vicky, you and Leona need to talk about this.’

‘I can’t believe we’re actually going to do a story about wanting sex to be over as quickly as possible. God, maybe I don’t want to get married after all.’

‘It’s what I keep telling you.’ Leona turns to her. ‘You keep thinking that marriage is the happy ever after, but baby, it’s just the beginning, and it ain’t all hearts and flowers.’

‘Far from it,’ Becky concurs. ‘I used to be a romantic too, Vicky. And then I got married and was dragged into the real world.’

Vicky shrugs. ‘I can’t help it. I just want to wear that white meringue down the aisle.’

‘God forbid.’ Janelle puts her hand on her heart and raises her eyes to the ceiling. ‘No employee of Poise! is ever going to get married in a white meringue, not when Matthew Williamson would make you something fabulous.’

‘Well I’ll let you know when to contact him,’ Vicky snorts, ‘but I’m warning you: don’t hold your breath.’

‘And in the meantime you just enjoy those marathon sexsessions while you’re still getting them,’ Leona says.

‘Right, back to features,’ Janelle interrupts. ‘Much as I’d like to hear about your sexlives all day, we’ve got a magazine to get out.’

Every now and then a story comes out that captures the media’s imagination, and speed sexends up being one of those stories. The spring issue hits the newsstands at the end of February, and almost immediately the features desks of newspapers pick up the story, followed quickly by radio and TV.

Vicky had given the story to Deborah to write, figuring that as a married mother of three Deborah would presumably be well versed in speed sex, and even if she wasn’t she was an experienced-enough journalist to be able to pull it off.

Deborah had filled the copy with quotes, and three case studies of married couples who thought speed sex was the answer to their prayers, and only indulged in anything longer on the occasional times when they were on holiday without the children, which didn’t happen very often.

The case studies had agreed to be photographed in the magazine, and had already appeared on This Morning and GMTV. Deborah was flattered that her career picked up again instantly, with magazines and newspapers she hadn’t heard from for years suddenly getting in touch with her and asking her to do features.

Vicky has just got back to her desk after an extended lunchbreak in the local park, where she and Leona had ignored the fact that this was London and they were surrounded by office workers eating sandwich lunches, and had subsequently stripped down to bra and knickers (that were actually shorts) to take advantage of the unseasonably hot day.

Ruth buzzes her. ‘Deborah’s on the phone,’ she says. ‘She wants to talk to you about some radio show she can’t do. Do you want to take it?’

‘Of course,’ Vicky says, and picks up the phone. ‘Hi, Deb. Still enjoying your new-found celebrity? Did I hear you were on the Wright Stuff the other day?’

‘I know!’ Deborah giggles. ‘My kids are thrilled. They keep telling everyone their mum’s famous. Did you see it?’

‘No. Sorry. How was it?’

‘It was great, but I looked terrible. I was enormous.’

Vicky shakes her head silently. Deborah can’t have been enormous. Inarticulate? Possibly. Nervous? Probably. But enormous? ‘How can you have been enormous when you’re, what, a size six?’

‘Actually I’m an eight, but that’s not the point. Just as we were going on air they zoomed in on me and I saw myself on this bloody monitor, and I swear I’m all chin. I never even realized I had a double chin and now all I see when I look in the mirror is chin.’

Vicky laughs. ‘That’s ridiculous. You’re slim and beautiful, and you absolutely do not have a double chin.’

‘Well if you ever decide to do an article on removing your double chin, I’ll be the guinea pig.’

Vicky laughs again.

‘I’m serious,’ Deborah says earnestly. ‘I’m seriously thinking about it. Can’t I do a piece for you about it? Apparently they do it with liposuction and there’s no scarring, nobody would ever know. They just go in behind your ears and one tiny incision under your chin and suck all the excess chin out.’

‘Oh my God. You’re serious. You’ve looked into this. Deborah, for Christ’s sake, you do not have a double chin! What does Dick think about this?’

‘He thinks I’m being ridiculous and says there’s no way he’s going to pay for me to have a non-existent chin removed, which is why I’m trying to get someone to take a piece on it, then I won’t have to pay, and if I wait until Dick goes on his next business trip, he won’t even have to know.’

‘You’re nuts,’ Vicky says as Deborah sighs. ‘So what’s this about a radio show?’

‘Oh yes. I’ve got a christening in the country this weekend but Radio Two want me to be a guest on some evening show talking about, you guessed it, speed sex. I can’t do it so I thought maybe you could.’

‘When is it?’

‘Saturday night.’

‘Oh great. How do you know I haven’t got a fantastically hot date on Saturday night?’

‘Have you?’

‘Wishful bloody thinking,’ sighs Vicky, because for the last few months her dating life has been disastrous, or, as she likes to say to Leona, ‘What dating life? I have no dates and no life.’

Throughout her twenties Vicky had an incredible time. As a young staff writer she was constantly meeting eligible men, bedding them if she felt like it, having relationships if she chose, or affairs if that was what was on offer. She was, as the saying goes, footloose and fancy-free, never worrying about the future because it was assumed that sometime around thirty Prince Charming would show himself and she would then go on to live the life that her brother appears to have stolen from her, which is all the more irritating because he’s three years younger, and really, what right did a thirty-two-year-old have to have everything she was supposed to have?

Unlike some of her friends, Vicky had been dying to turn thirty, knowing that thirty was when it would all happen, when her happy ever after would start. It never occurred to her that it wouldn’t happen, that five years on she would still be exactly where she was ten years ago, except with a better wardrobe, a bigger flat, and fewer prospects.

At twenty-five there were men everywhere. Tall men. Short men. Funny men. Ugly men. Nevertheless, men. So many men, so little time, she would say then, when elderly aunts would ask why she didn’t have a boyfriend.

Now, at thirty-five, the good men have slowly dropped out of the dating pool leaving the weakest specimens behind, and Vicky is well aware that the older she gets, the harder it’s going to be.

‘There are always the divorcees,’ Kate said to her recently, but Vicky has always shuddered at the thought of inheriting someone else’s baggage.

‘What if they have children?’ she said. ‘I don’t want to be involved with someone else’s children, plus it means the ex-wife is going to be in your life forever. Thank you very much, but no. I need to find a single man, not a divorcee.’

‘But that’s ridiculous,’ Kate said. ‘Anyone thirty-five upwards is going to have baggage anyway, and frankly I think there’s something deeply suspicious about someone in their late thirties or forties who’s never been married. The last thing you want to do is fall in love with a commitaphobe.’

‘I don’t buy that stuff about it being odd when men are single in their thirties. Look at Daniel. He’s not odd.’

‘So why aren’t you having a proper relationship with him instead of just the occasional shag?’

‘God, no. He’s not my type.’

‘But you like him and you fancy him enough to have sex with him?’

‘Yes,’ Vicky admitted reluctantly.

‘Then I bet there’s something wrong with him and you’re just not telling me.’

‘Okay, you got me. There is something wrong with him. His penis is orange.’

‘Oh ha ha. I just don’t want you to keep thinking your life is going to start when you get married.’

‘Thanks a lot,’ Vicky grunted. ‘I think my life already has started. Some people would kill to have my life.’

‘Just as long as you remember that,’ Kate said. ‘Does that mean you’re going to stop banging on about wanting my life?’

‘No. I do want your life. But how am I supposed to have a husband, kids, dogs, an Aga and a house in the country without a man?’

‘You could start with the Aga and the house in the country.’

‘I would, except I think I’d die of loneliness.’

‘God, there’s no winning with you, is there? You’re just too bloody clever by half.’

‘How do you think I got to be Features Director of Poise!?’ Vicky grinned.

But she wasn’t feeling quite so good about it at night. Lately, when she’d taken her make-up off she had been shocked to notice that tiny lines had started appearing around her eyes, lines that she’d swear hadn’t been there a month ago.

And talking of her eyes, the skin underneath suddenly seemed very thin. Now, when she had late nights, no amount of Touche Eclat managed to conceal it, and her skin seemed to show every drink, every odd cigarette, every vice that had managed to go unnoticed in her twenties.

During her twenties her weight had gone up and down like a yo-yo. If ever she felt her jeans were becoming ever so slightly tight, she would cut back for a couple of days and lose five pounds in the process.

Now those five pounds seem to be permanently attached to her stomach. She’s been cutting back for a month, and she’s only lost a pound and a half. At exactly what point in her life did diets stop working and, more to the point, why?

Everyone seemed younger at work. Not, obviously, Janelle, who was truly ageless – the joke being she had a portrait of herself locked away on the top floor of the office that was ageing far more mercilessly than that of Dorian Gray’s – and not Stella or Leona, who were slightly older than Vicky, but every freelancer seemed to be getting younger and younger, and the fashion assistants who came and went with every season were practically still in kindergarten.

Vicky was forever getting phone calls from freelancers pitching ideas, and as soon as she heard their bright, young, eager voices, she wanted to tell them to go away and come back again in ten years, when they had a bit more life experience and actually understood the demographic of their readers.

Some of them even had good ideas, but it was all about execution, and the brightest twenty-four-year-old in the world couldn’t understand what buggy envy was really like – that feeling when you were pushing your second-hand Peg Perego down the high street thinking it was pretty damn hot all things considered, only to pass three Bug-a-Boos that you could swear were sneering at your instantly inferior Peg Perego.

Admittedly Vicky doesn’t quite understand that one either, but luckily Leona is around to take care of any commissions that Vicky can’t quite get her head around – age being less of an issue than children, or Vicky’s lack thereof.

She swore she would never say that even the policemen seemed like children, but she thought it all the time. Just the other day a policeman had stopped her and spoken to her sharply for driving the wrong way down a one-way street (she had been genuinely lost and hadn’t known it was one-way), and she had to physically stop herself from echoing her mother and saying something like, ‘Show a bit of respect, young man’, for he truly did look twelve years old. I’m old enough to be his mother, she thought, as she drove off fuming, and then with a start she realized she really was.

The problem is that Vicky doesn’t particularly feel any older. She may have the lines, the lack of energy, the dearth of decent men, but she still thinks of herself as twenty-five. She still listens to Kiss FM, still wears all the latest trends, still thinks of herself as looking just like the fashion assistants.

When they talk about clubbing in Soho, holidays in Ibiza, Vicky wants to join in, feels entitled to join in, even though she has become increasingly aware that they look at her strangely, that they do not see her as one of them, that they think of her in a similar vein to the way they think of their mothers, and that’s despite her Chloe trousers and ever-so-pointed Jimmy Choo boots.

‘I was there when Manumission first started,’ she wants to shout. ‘I used to go to Bar Italia for cappuccinos at five in the morning when you were still in nappies.’ But now she doesn’t. Now she realizes that the slightly embarrassed silences she gets when she tries to join in, tries to prove she is just like them, are just that: slightly embarrassing, and mostly for her.

Vicky has never had a problem fitting in. But now she finds that she does not have a place in the world. Or at least not the place she wants.