My Magazine Ch. 04

The draft list of regular content was satisfactory. It was not a perfect formula, nor original nor forever. Although research had established that a large percentage of readers of publications preferred a stable layout that enabled them to find things where they expected them to be, and to have their favourite articles and titbits retained, research respondents also indicate they prefer to be titillated by new content and appealing new ideas. Achieving good balance was like walking the tight-rope.

She played back her summary:

Content of My Magazine Issue 1, random order.

People in the news.

Photo/caption presentation of good-looking people wearing fashionable clothes on the street or in shops.

Social Camera: Random shots at functions, subjects to include celebrities named – emphasis on facial character/style.

My Letters: Maximum 100 words; best letter award.

Just Look at Him! Male celebrity doing something – modelling, cooking, sailing etc plus an in-the-face profile linking back to influential women in his life.

Emerging Fashion Trends.

Best picks from foreign agency selections.

My Car: New vehicles from the female user/driver perspective. Interesting women and the car they drive and why they chose that vehicle.

My Favourite Room: Four women each month describe their favourite room in their house and why, and what was their contribution towards that appeal.

My Quiet Read: 2000 words of fiction. (Purchased from agencies – must be UK-based writers).

Tips on Buying: Each month four items that make consumers scratch their heads when purchasing, ranging from unwanted hair removal systems to a replacement microwave including what to do with the old one.

The Little Black Dress & Variants: TLBD glorified, each week with a photo and caption in a box in a panel. Then another classic addition for almost Everywoman's wardrobe.

My Books: Newly published.

My Videos: New on the market.

Women & the Law: Legal ramblings (hopefully by Sue Boyd, LLB (Hon)).

Provocative Poetry: From Lizzie Childs.

Deepening Your Understanding of the Arts.

Do Something Crazy Occasionally: Timothy Brandon and photographer accompany somebody doing something a little different – from taking a mud bath to staying on a working sheep station and mucking in.

News feature: Women Around the World Trying to Make a Difference (Culled from agency material and rewritten into a chatty commentary by our chief subeditor Tina Roach).

Rodo Queen's Bar Talk: (Yes a name change) Rodo's column of gossip and sincere utterances by Sweet Young Things.

Antiques & Valuable Memorabilia: Get someone!!!

Change of Mind: Madam X – a successful estate salesperson relates case histories names changed) where clients didn't buy or lease the type of dwelling they originally wanted and often not in the locality they desired to live.

TV & DVD Rentals to Sharpen Your Intellect.

Wine to Put Down Or Quaff Anytime Soon.

Ideas for Making Your Home Beautiful.

For Women Afloat: Stories about women mariners, gear for women mariners and boats with feminine appeal that are simply not floating fishing buckets.

Something Interesting Happened to Me the Other Day: Column by Jenni Giles (goes on page facing back cover).

My Travel: Supplied material unless our writers are sponsored to travel somewhere if we publish sponsorship details/

Accumulating Assets: Brenda responsible for generating this article each month.

Note 1: To satisfy insane interest we must have an article on royalty each month and one horse and one dog or cat story a month. Also an article with picture of an interesting nondescript woman preferably elderly and perhaps on crutches, in a wheelchair or carrying an injury to indicate that we are not exclusively an upmarket magazine for upmarket darlings. I would expect us to have many such examples of women who don't have it all!

Note 2: Because of insane interest we must find a supplier of a popular syndicated column by an Astrologist.

Note 3: No recipes, no food stories, no beauty and make-up stories. Other mags are stuffed with such articles. We concentrate on intelligence, looking good, creating wealth, expensive homes, cars and focus on the Good Life because that's where our focus is. Other mags have that content too but we do it better.

Jenni's phone went.

"Hi Garth." Jenni said and responded to his questions where was she and what was she doing. "I'm sitting at a restaurant with the manager looking at me curiously I'm running hot writing down thoughts for my new magazine."

"Oh that was not me being nosey," replied her over-worked accountant Garth Oliver. "I just wanted to know if you are free to have lunch with me."

Jenni glanced at her watch – 2:10, thinking it must be the latest invitation to lunch she'd ever received.

"Yes, somewhere that serves innovative salads and drinkable coffee."

Garth didn't know of any place like that close to his office and Jenni's advice was to use his instinct or better still to ask Mrs Hughes because receptionists tended to know lots of things.

"How do you know the name of my receptionist?"

"Because I'm good at remembering names and because I suggested she might be good for you to take to bed with all her experience."

"God Jenni that's a foul suggestion and she may be listening to this conversation."

"Oh Garth don't be such a Wally. Why would she be listening to you talking to me? She'd learned long ago that you specialise in boring phone calls."

"When will you be here?"

"Well since you specialise in exact figures I'll be outside your office in twenty-four minutes."

"I guess you will arrive in twenty-four minutes at the risk of breaking your neck."

"Bye Garth."

What an unnecessary complicated phone call, thought Jenni. Garth was much easier to converse with when he was grumpy. Perhaps he was tense because he required her advice on how he can get Mrs Hughes interested in him sexually? Oh god, not that!

She timed her arrival for twenty-three minutes and thirty seconds after the phone call.

Garth was already on the pavement peering at his watch. He really needed a woman, smiled Jenni, thinking he hadn't always been this way. He'd been a young tear-away at school, a trouble-making ring-leader. As twelve-year-olds she became the first girl he ever respected when he zeroed in on her and asked if she would like to go with him behind the caretaker's shed for a bit of a cuddle. She actually said no thanks before calmly whacking him across the face, making his nose bleed.

The next day he presented her with an apple.

The waitress placed Garth's house red and Jenni's Home Paddock gewürztraminer from Nelson, New Zealand, in front of them and departed.

Garth immediately asked Jenni if she could kindly help him recruit an assistant. To her surprise, Jenni found she was quite disappointed that he was not asking for advice on how to court Mrs Hughes.

It wasn't easy, but then that's typically Garth. She finally managed to clear in his own mind the kind of person he wanted: male or female, competent, good personality who'd be compatible with him, someone who'd not be expecting too much money and perhaps not yet fully qualified.

Jenni really liked Garth simply because he'd been around her a long time and never was a real paid in the arse and actually appeared to need her friendship. He was one of a handful of males who were her true friends. Actually there were only four – Garth, Ron Wiggins, Snowy and Shayla Martin who was roaming the world on a two-year odyssey with a professional female wildlife photographer; currently they were wintering in Alaska.

For not the first time she thought that although she had a number of female friends, none would rate as really true friends, which probably was her fault and she was damn unlucky in that respect.

With Garth apparently committed to engaging an assistant, this was her opportunity to place him between two unattached females and hope that would set free those primeval male instincts. However with Garth's luck two women in his office probably they would have more interest in one another, though Jenni chastised herself for thinking that. It wasn't nice to think like that.

"Sorry Garth, what were you saying?"

"I said I really would appreciate your help."

The waitress arrived with Jenni's tuna salad and Garth's steak sandwich. Both looked delicious.

They were required to eat reasonably quickly without too much more chat because Garth had told Mrs Hughes he'd only be away for thirty minutes. He really did need a woman to redefine his concepts of life and to modify his behaviour patterns, Jenni thought.

It was agreed that Jenni would compose a draft advertisement and email it to him. After applications were in he would courier all of them (Jenni insisted on that) to her, with his brief comments attached to each application.

Garth had difficulty in understanding why Jenni would want his rejects as well as the 'possibles' and she avoided enlightening him. It was likely that he would reject 'probables' because of some little comment or association described in the application that he disagreed with. Or because they had a foreign sounding name or appeared to be too young/too old or he actually knew their applicant's parents whom he'd never liked.

They stood at the counter. Garth reached for his wallet and recoiled in horror, realising it was in his jacket, hanging in his office. The look on his face stripped away thirty-something years – to the time Jenni had thumped him in the school playground. Astonishment and perhaps a touch of fear spread over his face, the colour drained.

"Jenni," he croaked.

Already she was handing her credit card to the amused restaurateur standing behind his till.

Jenni arrived home at 5:30 elated but that changed to disappointment when she noticed Rhonda's car was not in the parking beside her garage; she had so much news to share. As she was about to close the garage door saw a flash of blue as Rhonda's car turned into the drive.

Rhonda saw Jenni and tooted.

"You look as if you've had some success," called Rhona, standing up as she dragged two big supermarket bags across from the passenger seat.

"I've had a wonderful day," Jenni enthused. "But why the shopping? I usually eat out most nights."

"I learned that by looking in your pantry – it is virtually bare. It's time you had some real food instead of facing something thrown on a plate by a kitchen dork dressed in white and calling himself 'chef'."

"Well you'll have to cook – tinned soup, an omelette or grilled chops and veggies out of the freezer are usually my limit. If I'm having a dinner party I employ the Mason sisters. They live two apartments along from here and do everything including bringing in the food and at the end of the evening wash the dishes and put things away."

"I don't believe it – Madam Editor Giles, a literary guru on style, fine dining and everything women who want everything need to know can barely poach an egg. Do you not feel at least a tiny bit of a fraudster?

"Not at all, executive chefs rarely cook except for their friends. They provide the vision and inspiration and orchestrate their minions to produce their own little areas of specialisation that come together to provide the edible finale. As so it is with me, as a managing editor my expertise is to direct and ensure we find experts to produce uplifting material that will inspire our readers and encapsulate their minds and nay, even their souls into the carefully choreographed pages of our magazine.

Rhonda boggled at the wordage, but did not interrupt.

"A fraudster? I don't think so. I really didn't learn to cook because I was always too busy. I quickly found that in eating meals offered by cooks in my boarding houses and flats were usually inferior to the meals I had when eating out in establishments that took pride in what they serve to their clientele. When I come home dragging my feet wearily at seven o'clock or even later, one does not feel like putting on an apron and rattling pots and pans trying to produce a memorable meal for one."

"Woops, I wasn't being critical – just being a bit playful."

"I know Rhonda. I sometimes have a habit of jumping on to my bike at little fast, even in a social setting."

"Well you are in charge of drinks and I'll try to rattle and pots and pans enough to make you admit that you're glad to have dinner at home tonight. I've been trained by one of the best cooks in the land and my flatmates often say that I am gastronomically endowed which sounds rather a queer term, but I know they mean well."

"I'd like to meet your mother one day Rhonda. She sounds to be one impressive lady."

"She is and you will. Now, please lug a bag of these goodies inside."

Almost three hours later – both of them a little intoxicated – Jenni declared that she was never going to eat out again as long as Rhonda was staying with her.

"That dinner was truly wonderful," she declared.

While it was being prepared Jenni brought Rhonda up to date with her day's events, and Rhonda said Niko Bra-whatever sounded very much a likeable rogue, and it would be good to have him around.

Rhonda also thought Garth Oliver sounded like somebody who'd grown old before his time. She agreed that the right kind of woman might manage a useful conversion but didn't think it ought to be someone working for him.

Finally, the meal was ready. They switched from a dry white to chardonnay to go with the mixed hors d'oevre comprising a rice and pepper salad, prawn eggs, tomato slices, sardines, onions and cream and cucumber each in their own dish. That was followed by a roasted loin of pork with apricot stuffing presented on a large plate and surrounded by roasted potatoes, broccoli and peas, with a bowl of freshly made apple sauce. Desert was sliced dried figs, prunes, tinned mangoes with a blackberry liquor poured over the fruit and then freshly shelled chopped walnuts mixed in, topped with whipped cream.

"God," said Jenni, patting her belly. "I'm off to the gym in the morning. I usually only go three times a week, but I better try to sweat this lot off."

"I run every morning except Sundays," said Rhonda. "Would you like to join me?"

"No thanks," said Jenni firmly. "A draught horse running with a thoroughbred would not look nice together gambolling."

Both women fell about laughing.

* * *

Garth Oliver went home where his 72-year-old widowed mother waiting for him, with his dinner on the table.

"I hope you had a proper lunch today, instead of munching a sandwich while you worked?"

Stirring his thick homemade vegetable soup he replied, "Yeah, I had lunch with Jenni Giles, you'd remember her?"

"Oh yes, oh yes indeed. That lovely girl back in New Zealand who doted on you but you were too shy to ask her to marry you."

"Don't be silly mum – Jenni could have any boy she wished. Everyone loved her but to most of them I was Meathead the Well."

"Who asked you to go with her to the dance that Standard Five pupils and their parents hosted for the Standard Six leavers which included you and Jenni eh?

"Who did she invite to escort her to her coming out at the debutant ball eh?

"My poor little muggings accepted those roles as if she had asked everyone else, and they refused, making you her last hope. I told you she thought of you as being more than a friend but oh no, you had to go all coy and say it was because there was nobody else about at the time. With petty attitudes like that, little wonder you are high and dry on the shelf at an age where no woman will ever look at you."

"Have you soup, mum. It's getting cold and I've getting ear-ache."

She was right. Garth had to concede that. But by the time he had accepted that Jenni might actually like him, she'd departed for university and got into a crowd that consumed her socially. She'd only find time to come home for Christmas.

He'd promised himself that when she returned home he'd asked her out on a date. However, she arrived with this fellow student whose father was mayor or something big in Napier. The next time she arrived home with a university lecturer and then she only came home for fleeting visits. The next thing she had graduated and was working as a trainee journalist on the provincial newspaper south of Auckland in the Waikato.

After that, he really didn't seem to have anything more than a fleeting interest in any other female other than his mother. None seemed to measure up to Jenni.

Not that Garth was a mummy's boy. He'd dated a mixture ranging from limpid wallflowers to really hot numbers, such as his cousin Matilda. He'd long known the rudimentary procedures of sexual union but cousin Matilda who'd introduced him at the age of seventeen to the real thing for which he was unbelievably grateful.

They'd gone to a dance with their partners and it was decided by someone in the gang to swap partners for the supper dance. He ended up with Matilda who was four years his senior.

As the four-piece band of bored amateurs began to play their version of a waltz, Matilda startled him by asking, "Have you been getting any lately?"

Garth and his mates were sometimes involved in discussions like that but he had no idea that girls used such an approach to open conversation.

"Er what do you mean?" he asked, turning scarlet.

"You know – nookie."

Garth was bordering on a panic attack. Females were not supposed to talk like that, surely not!

"Nice band."

Matilda ignored the comment and pressing close to him ran her hand down between their bodies and cupped his ... his ... gear.

"Oooh nice," she whispered.

Garth could recall looking wildly around the hall expecting to see people looking at them incredulously with perhaps somebody rushing off to phone his mother or the police.

But he could not see a single person looking at Matilda and him. He felt out of his depth and wished he were home in bed. What's more, to his embarrassment his 'thing' started to harden in Matilda's hand.

"Oooh I think I'm going to faint," she said, mischievously. But Garth misunderstood.

"Quick," he said, placing his arm around her and pushing her forward. "Let's get you out into the fresh air."

"My, I like a man being in charge," simpered his dancing partner.

Once outside with Garth holding on the two 'check out' tickets that had been thrust at him, he asked anxiously, "Are you feeling better?"

That comment seemed to confuse Matilda, who shrugged. She snatched the tickets from his hand and threw them away into the darkness.

"Why did you do that?" he asked. "Now we'll have to pay to get back inside."

"You'll be inside soon enough," purred the panting female.

Remembering that momentous night, Garth had compartmentalised Matilda as the hottest female he'd ever know. Even six years later at a family reunion he'd passed her in the hallway and the mother-of-two paused to chat with him. She didn't ask him any intimate questions but as he said he better push off to the bathroom she calmly grabbed his penis and testicles saying, "Just checking to see if your gear's in running order."

Garth was a member of the squash club and at gym and was occasionally was led into a union by wayward and usually older women. But the overture was always something like, "Care to join me for a cup of coffee?" Never again did he met anyone else like Matilda who'd he remembered looking at him straight in the eye as they danced, asking, "Been getting any lately?"

After tea Garth sat with his mother – as she liked him to do – watching that awful programme 'Coronation Street'. He could understand ex-Brits living overseas and viewing it with a touch of nostalgia, but his mother was a fourth generation Australian! So his mind wandered and he thought of Mrs Hughes and Jenni's suggestion that perhaps he should take more than an employer's interest in her.