Chapter 13
The whole of the following week is spent trying to magically squeeze my preparation for the meeting with Krishna – who is in LA until Monday – into an already crammed diary. It’s unclear how I’m supposed to fit this in between half a dozen pitches from independent production companies, writing script notes for a new reality show, watching cuts of another and generally undertaking the small daily miracle of making sure everything is delivered on time and on budget.
Matters aren’t helped by the fact that I’m premenstrual which, despite my new HRT routine, left me feeling woolly-headed and flu-like for four days, even if – promisingly – I haven’t had a full-blown migraine in as long as I can remember. Thankfully, the clouds are parting, my brain feels sharp again and I’m raring to go. Which would be great except that it’s now the end of the week.
I’m desperate to stay late on Friday to get the Krishna presentation done, but I can’t as I have to leave at 5pm prompt for the PTA Wine Quiz, hence I’m totally focusing on finishing it when a shadow appears at my desk. I look up and the first thing in my eyeline is Zach Russo’s crotch. I feel my chest redden.
‘Got a few minutes?’ he says, pulling up a chair to sit at the side of my desk before I can say no.
This should feel like an invasion of my personal space, yet something weirdly pleasant stirs in my belly. It’s the way he smells, I think. It’s part citrus, part cedar, part undiluted pheromones oozing from his every pore. I don’t know how much of this is to do with my filthy dream the other day, but I can’t deny it: he is almost offensively hot.
‘Did you get my email?’ he smiles.
‘I’m afraid I haven’t had time to read it,’ I say curtly, eyes fixed on my screen. ‘Not now that I’m having to do another presentation.’
The bit about not reading it isn’t true. Obviously I read it. It said something about how he’s sorry we got off on the wrong foot and he wondered if we could discuss a way forward. He has some ‘thoughts’, apparently. Frankly, I’ve had enough of those.
‘Well, it was about Our Girl In Milan ,’ he continues breezily, not taking the hint. ‘I felt like I ought to explain a few things. Also, I’d like to clear the air. We got off to a bad start.’
‘ Did we? ’ I say, with a vinegary smile. ‘Are you referring to the fact that in our first meeting you clearly had far better things to do than talk to the likes of me? Or that you’re intent on trashing a project I’ve worked on for months?’
I sound like a bitter bitch but from the raised eyebrow he seems to think this is banter. ‘I think you gave as good as you got in that meeting . ’
‘Not good enough, apparently. Though this isn’t over yet,’ I warn.
He crosses his arms, with a challenging glint in his eye. ‘Well, I apologise for wanting to move that first meeting along. Nothing personal. My ex got a flat tyre and we were trying to arrange someone else to pick up my daughter from kindergarten but couldn’t make it happen. I was a little distracted.’
I push aside my first instinct, to feel sympathetic. ‘If you expect me to applaud you for darting out of work for a family matter, you’re talking to the wrong person. If I did that, my commitment to the business would be questioned.’
‘No applause necessary,’ he says, entirely missing my point. ‘And regarding my comments about your modelling show—’
‘Can I stop you there? I really do have to get on with this.’
He leans forward, elbows on the edge of my desk. It takes all my will not to look at those forearms. ‘I know you do. But I also need to talk to you about it before you meet Krishna.’ He’s serious now. The banter, it would seem, is over. At least I thought so.
He leans back in the seat again. ‘How about I buy you a drink after work tonight?’
I think my jaw might actually drop.
‘Come on! ’ he grins, as if he’s trying to persuade me to jump into a swimming pool. ‘Let’s get to know each other. We gotta work together, after all.’
He looks at me expectantly, almost daring me to say yes. In the split second that follows, I have a vivid flashback of my dream. His hands on my breasts. That full mouth on mine. The insistent throb between my legs. My eyes drop automatically to his lips and he clearly registers something odd in my expression.
‘Sorry,’ he sits back, holding up his hands. ‘I didn’t mean to unsettle you. I wasn’t suggesting a . . . date , just to be clear. It was strictly work.’
‘I didn’t for a moment think you were.’
‘All I’m saying is, we got off to a bad start. And that’s not going to work long-term.’
‘There isn’t going to be a long term,’ I remind him. ‘Rose will be back in a matter of months.’
‘Six. That’s a long time to be enemies.’
‘We’re not enemies. I don’t give you enough . . . thought for you to be my enemy.’
He laughs. Anyone would think he was enjoying this. ‘You really are good at the put-downs.’ He leans in. ‘What’s this all about? I know you’re pissed off about Our Girl In Milan , but is there something else too?’
I look at my screen, ignoring him momentarily as I bite the inside of my lip. Then I turn to him and decide to come straight out with it. There’s no other way. ‘Are you hoping to keep hold of Rose’s job permanently?’
He sits back, as if surprised by the question. ‘No,’ he says flatly.
‘Because you know she has breast cancer, right? But she’s going to get better, then she’s coming back. So, if you have any ideas about keeping this position for good, then you need to just put them straight out of your mind. Like, now.’
He crosses his arms, as if something all makes sense. ‘Okay, listen to me. I do not want this job permanently. End of story.’
I feel my back slump. ‘You’re sure? Because—’
‘I’m sure.’ His gaze is so intent that it silences me. ‘There are many reasons why I will not be even attempting to keep hold of it. I won’t bore you with them, but you have my word. When Rose’s six months are up . . . that’s assuming she—’
‘She’s definitely coming back,’ I tell him firmly.
‘Of course.’
‘Because she’ll be better and you’ll be gone.’
‘Precisely.’
I don’t know why exactly, but I believe him. He really doesn’t seem to want to stay around here for good.
‘Now we’ve got that out of the way, can we please put aside any lingering hostility, for the sake of both of us?’
I’ll give him this: he’s persistent. I hate to say it, but he’s also right. I haven’t got the energy to continue like this for five months.
‘All right. Yes, then. Let’s do it. But it’ll have to be next week. I’ve got to leave soon. I’m organising an event.’
As if her ears are burning, another message from Commandant Denise Dandy pings on WhatsApp.
SUCH a shame you didn’t manage to sell out ?. Only one ticket left too! So near and yet so far @lisadarling!!! Was there really nobody else you could work your charms on? If it helps, I could authorise 50p off the price of the last ticket and make it ￡19.50. Could be an incentive?
I blow out my cheeks, slam the phone on my desk and realise Zach is still here.
‘I’m sorry, you’re really going to have to leave me to this. I’m unavailable this evening, unless you’re prepared to buy a ticket for the Roebury School PTA cheese and wine,’ I mutter, turning back to my presentation.
‘Sure. Why not?’
I look up at him as if he’s lost his senses. ‘ What? ’
He shrugs. ‘I drink wine. And who doesn’t like cheese? Come on, Darling .’
I purse my lips. ‘It’s Lisa . Like you said. First-name terms.’
‘I know, but Darling really is a great name. Surely people call you only by that all the time?’
‘Not if they want to keep their solar plexus intact,’ I say, saving my document. ‘It was a throwaway comment, Russo . I was not being serious. The event is in a sports hall. In my children’s school. It’s to raise money for a new sensory garden, though God knows why anyone needs one of those . . .’
‘Sounds like a hell of a night. How much is a ticket?’
I’m about to send him on his way when I hesitate. I cross my arms. ‘Eighty-five pounds.’
His eyebrows rise. ‘ Per person? ’
‘Yep.’
‘And what would I get for that?’
‘Three pieces of cheese from Aldi, eight half measures of wine and the company of a load of strangers you have nothing in common with and are never likely to meet again.’
He flashes me a smile. ‘I’m sold.’
Then he takes out his wallet and begins counting out nine 10-pound notes and stands up as he plants them on my desk. ‘Keep the change. Sounds like a good cause. Text me the details and I’ll meet you there.’