When in the late 90s I was made editor-in-chief of Marie Claire – at the time I was deputy editor of The Sunday Times Style – I at first turned down the job. I was terrified. The publisher persuaded me to meet her in a bar at the top of the OXO Tower for a drink and a chat, hoping she could change my mind. I sat there, all of London laid out below me, and as she outlined the package (expense account, dress allowance, a car, a pension, sick pay!) and told me that, ‘It’s a great big, exciting world out there’, I finally said yes. But I still had to shore myself up by reading Feel The Fear And Do It Anyway, swallowing copious amounts of St John’s Wort along the way.
I was more than capable, as the deputy editor I inherited pointed out after the first ideas meeting (the staff dreaded Mondays, when I’d turn up with a whole weekend’s worth of cracking projects). But the fear led to me not sticking up for myself, fighting, say, for a gold embossed logo on the Christmas issue when I had shot Natalie Portman’s face, close up, in black and white, only to be told the gold colour was too expensive. Of course, the issue sank without trace. Or not speaking up about occasions of negligence and obfuscation and ineptitude I faced on a daily basis as some people insisted on travelling business class to interview a Hollywood star, turned up late or not at all.
I was assured I would get a bonus if the magazine made money (I made £8 million profit in the first year) only to learn, ‘Oh no, we meant the whole publishing division going into the black’, including Fishing Rod Weekly et al.
Now I have had to face up to yet another fear: of my horses. With Nic having dislocated her shoulder (she has been told it’s cracked, and there is nerve damage; she can’t type or drive for six weeks, let alone look after horses, and will have to undergo physiotherapy and attend a fracture clinic) I’m having to cope on my own.
I don’t want to be that person, always trembling, stomach churning: I want to be Linda McCartney, bareback and hatless aboard an Appaloosa. To retrieve the horses – my two mares and Nic’s 30-year-old – from the paddocks for their feed, supplements, medication, not to mention regular farrier and worming, all performed during the persistent stormy weather (which is why Nic got knocked down by Pocket), I’ve been donning my old hard hat and wearing gloves. It’s like going into battle. I sing, as well, mostly the Beach Boys, as
I’ve been told this calms my breathing; horses are expert at picking up stress, can tell even if your heart rate is slightly heightened. I am coping but after leaving Mini for four hours yesterday morning (the poo picking takes hours; if you don’t do it the grass becomes soured, and encourages infestation)
I returned to find her stuck upside down and soaked in urine, desperate for a drink of water. I am trying to take it day by day, but I cannot allow her to suffer. There are so many drawbacks to working from home – no office gossip, no camaraderie, no after-work drinks, no IT department – but the main plus is that my dogs aren’t left. Until now.
I’ve never asked for help from someone unless I’m paying them. But I have nowhere else to turn. And so, heart in my mouth, cap in hand, I text Him. ‘Hi, I know you are still smarting. But can I ask you a favour? Can you come and stay for a few weeks to help look after Mini? Nic has dislocated her shoulder so I’m out six hours a day doing her job.’
Him: ‘Of course I will. I can drive up late tonight, be there first thing?’
Me: ‘There will be no me making my signature cauliflower and chickpea balti, no lunches at Middleton Lodge.’
Him: ‘Understood. I will do a big shop on the way…’
JONES NO MOANS… WHAT LIZ LOVES THIS WEEK
- Not everyone who comments below the line on this newspaper’s website is mean. A very kind couple, who wrote they have been readers for many years, messaged to say they would love to act as my accountant, for a much more reasonable fee, having read my column about being broke. So many readers emailed to say they want to stay in my Airbnb; some even said they’d book it then just not turn up, to save on the ironing…
