Chapter 3
3
Monday at last. The weekend felt like it was never going to end; I’ll confess to having spent quite a bit of it in my study watching the comings and goings of Rollo and the woman with the SUV. I’ve been trying to work out whether she’s his mother or a nanny. They don’t share similar physical characteristics; she’s blonde with a thin, slightly pinched face and he’s dark haired with rounder features. He could get those from his father though, I suppose. By Saturday evening, I’d decided that she probably is the unfortunately named Rollo’s mother, simply because of the way she speaks to him. If I were ever to have a child, which is highly unlikely, and a nanny spoke to it like she does, we’d be having a difficult conversation.
Being at home with nothing to do is obviously not good for me, because I did start to obsess a little bit about her, trying to imagine what her life is like. Poor Rollo, from what I’ve seen, is hot housed to within an inch of his life; she’s been in and out with him all weekend and, looking at the accessories for each trip, none of them seem to have been for pleasure. He had a swimming lesson on Saturday morning followed by some kind of martial art. They then came home for lunch before he was bundled back into the SUV with a pile of books, I’m guessing for some sort of extra tutoring. Sunday didn’t appear to be any more restful, as they were up and out early for football. Judging by the look on his face as he reluctantly clambered into the car in his strip, football is really not his thing. I think Sunday afternoon was some sort of social visit, as she finally swapped the gym gear for a summer dress, but Rollo didn’t look any more enthusiastic about it than he had his other activities.
Watching Sarah (my made-up name for her) and Rollo has made me reconsider whether I should have taken the opportunity of a rare weekend off to visit my family after all. Although I think I am justified in being pissed off by Mum’s lack of engagement on the phone, I’ve had time to reflect and I can see it’s not all her fault. She sees Saffy several times a week and even helped with childcare when her son Louis was a baby, looking after him while Saffy was at work until he was old enough to join the pre-school. The last time I saw them, on the other hand, was Christmas, a snatched visit for a few hours nearly six months ago. I can still remember Saffy’s puzzled face as Louis unwrapped the chemistry set I’d thought would be both fun and educational, but which I hadn’t noticed was labelled as not suitable for children under ten. ‘I’ll put it to one side for now,’ she’d said kindly as my cheeks burned with embarrassment. ‘He’ll love it when he’s old enough to understand it.’
Given all of that, is it surprising that Mum and Phil find it easier to connect with Saffy than me? Maybe, my critical inner voice told me sternly as I watched Rollo departing for one of his many activities, they would take more of an interest in me if I had taken more time to engage with them and explain my life to them. I came very close to calling them again on Sunday afternoon, even picking up my phone a couple of times and bringing up their number, before realising it would probably be counterproductive. We’re all creatures of habit to some extent, and breaking a pattern of monthly phone calls with two in the same weekend would probably make them worry that I was having some kind of secret breakdown. So I left it, and now the opportunity has passed.
I’m a creature of habit myself and, when I’m not travelling, my daily routine follows a set pattern. I wake with a jolt just before five, throw on the clothes that I’ve laid out the night before and leave the house just over ten minutes later, dragging my precisely packed cabin bag if I’m going away. It’s not much fun in the winter when it’s cold and dark, but I find the early mornings magical in the summer. The streets are quiet and the Tube on my half-hour ride to Farringdon, the closest station to the office, is empty apart from a few other early starters like me. On arriving at the office just before six, I greet the night security guard and make my way down to the gym in the basement for my workout. After showering and drying my hair, I’m usually at my desk by seven. If we’re in the early stages of a transaction, I’m generally away by eight in the evening, but it can be ten, midnight, or even not at all if a deal is close to the wire. Like I said, you don’t go into this line of work if you value your personal time. I love it, though; the constant problem solving, finding innovative ways around obstacles to deliver results for our clients. The adrenaline surge when you’re under intense pressure and spot a way to break through a seemingly impossible barrier is better than the high you could get from any drug, I reckon.
In among the usual raft of emails that I dealt with over the weekend, including information about a three-week trip to New York for my new assignment, was one from our HR department, congratulating me on my new role and summoning me to a meeting with someone called Janice at seven o’clock in one of the meeting rooms on the seventh floor before I leave for the airport. When I get there, my hair still a little damp from the shower, I find her waiting for me. She’s one of those people who looks vaguely familiar; I’ve probably seen her around but never had occasion to talk to her before. I’d estimate that she’s in her early forties, and her generous figure is flattered by her beautifully cut trouser suit.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ I tell her, checking my watch.
‘Oh, you’re not. Don’t worry,’ she assures me in a no-nonsense tone. ‘I had an issue to sort out for one of the other junior partners, so I came in a bit early. I’m Janice, by the way, your PA.’
‘Oh.’ I’m not sure what else to say. I know the partners have personal assistants, but it’s not a part of the role I’d really connected to and, if I’m honest, I’m not sure what they do.
‘It’s funny,’ she remarks. ‘Every new partner reacts the same way. You’re all so focused on the application process and whether you’ll get through that you never consider what happens afterwards. I liken it to getting married.’
I’m intrigued. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Partnership applicants are like brides to be. All your energy is poured into creating the perfect wedding day, ensuring absolutely nothing can go wrong, because the smallest mishap will ruin everything. That’s you during the application process, if you haven’t guessed. Then the wedding-slash-partnership interview happens, nothing goes wrong, and you glide through it on a wave of euphoria before going off on honeymoon. But what happens when you get back? You have to learn to be married, and nobody ever seems to think about that part. How was your weekend off, by the way?’
‘Honestly? I’ve never been so bored.’
She laughs. ‘I think they do that deliberately. Bore you to tears to make sure you’re champing at the bit when you come back in. Anyway, the wedding’s over and I’m your new wife. Pleased to meet you.’ She holds out her hand for me to shake.
‘Let me see if I can guess what you’re thinking now,’ she continues as we take our seats at the table and she opens the folder in front of her. ‘You’re wondering what it is I do and whether you need me. After all, you’ve never needed a PA before.’
I smile. ‘Guilty as charged.’
‘OK, let’s start with the basics. This is a polygamous marriage. Illegal in the real world but that’s how it is in here. What I mean by that is that I don’t work exclusively for you. I have another four junior partners that I look after, so please don’t fool yourself into thinking that I spend every waking hour looking for ways to make you happy. If this marriage is going to thrive, it requires give and take. It may sound rude, but I often liken junior partners to puppies. You need a firm hand and a bit of house training before we settle down into a rhythm. So please don’t be offended if I have to say “no” to you a few times while we’re getting to know each other. You’re busy; I’m busy; if we don’t have clear boundaries we’ll quickly end up in a mess. Does that make sense?’
There’s something about her direct approach that gels with me, and I’m starting to suspect that Janice and I will get on very well. ‘Yes, perfect,’ I tell her.
‘Good. Let’s move on to what I do and what I don’t do. Rule number one: I don’t do legal stuff. I know a bit about it because you can’t work in a place like this without some of it rubbing off on you, but I’m not legally trained and it’s not my role. You want documents finding or stuff copying, that’s what the trainees and associates are for. My job is to make sure everything else runs smoothly, so you have 100 per cent mental capacity for your work. I’m on call pretty much twenty-four seven every day except for Christmas Day. If your cat gets stuck up a tree while you’re in Kuala Lumpur, you call me and I sort it. Do you have a cat?’
‘No.’ I smile again. ‘But what if I did have a cat and it got stuck up a tree on Christmas Day?’
I’m pleased to see her mouth turn up at the corners. ‘Then you either rescue it yourself or it waits. Cats are resilient creatures. A day in a tree won’t kill it, and it’ll have the opportunity to learn a valuable life lesson. Do you live alone?’
‘I do.’
‘I’d like a key to your house, please.’
‘Why?’
‘You’re in New York and you suddenly wonder whether you’ve left the oven on.’
I laugh. ‘Unlikely. I’m not sure I’ve ever used the oven in my house, actually. On the rare occasions I’m there, I tend to order in.’
‘Fine. Your central heating explodes. I organise the plumber and let them in.’
‘That makes sense. I haven’t got a spare with me, though.’
‘Not a problem. Give me the one you have; I’ll get it copied and have the original back to you before you leave for the airport. You’re booked on the 10.45 BA flight out of Heathrow so I’ve ordered a car to collect you at 8.45. Plenty of time to get a key copied.’
‘Eight forty-five seems pretty tight,’ I observe as I detach my front door key from the keyring and hand it to her. ‘I wouldn’t want to get stuck in traffic and miss the flight.’
‘You won’t. In fact, I’ve allowed extra time as I don’t know you yet. Your boarding pass is printed and I assume you don’t have any hold baggage to check in, so you should be through fast-track security over an hour before the flight goes. Even if you did have hold baggage, I’ve factored in enough time for the business class check-in. You might even have time for a quick cup of coffee in the lounge if you’re lucky. Now, I need you to fill these in.’ She hands over a couple of sheets of paper which I scan quickly.
‘Janice. Why do you need to know what bra size I am and where I buy my underwear?’
‘Disaster recovery,’ she says simply. ‘You’re mid-negotiation in Singapore and your hotel burns down. By the time you finish your day, I have you a new hotel room and I’ve replaced all your clothes.’
‘Surely just knowing the right size is enough?’ I query again as I start to fill it in.
‘Nope. As I’m sure you know, a size ten in one store is not the same as a size ten in another. You are a size ten, I’m guessing?’
‘Is there anything you don’t know?’
‘By the time you’ve filled that lot in, I would sincerely hope not. Do you buy your suits off the shelf or do you have a tailor?’
‘Off the shelf.’
‘I thought so. I’ll get you an appointment with my tailor. You’ll thank me.’
‘That’s a lovely thought, Janice, but I hardly think I’m going to have time?—’
‘She comes to the office. I’ll book her in for you. Don’t worry about the cost; she’s surprisingly reasonable and your clothing allowance will pretty much cover it.’
Having completed the forms, which were forensic down to which type of tampon I preferred, I slide them back to her. She glances over them and pronounces herself satisfied.
‘Final thing,’ she says, pushing a card across the table to me. ‘That’s your keycard to access the underground car park. We don’t have allocated bays, so just park wherever’s free.’
‘I won’t need that,’ I tell her, pushing it back. ‘I don’t have a car.’
‘You have a driving licence, don’t you?’
‘Yes, but I’ve never felt the need for a car, living in London.’
‘Rookie error.’ She tuts. ‘Always have a backup. The representatives of the petrochemical company who have flown in from Doha to meet with you are unlikely to be impressed if you’re late because the trains are on strike.’
This is a step too far. ‘Janice,’ I begin. ‘I don’t have time or mental capacity to put into buying a car. Even if I had one, I have no idea how to go about getting a parking permit or any of the other things it would need, and I doubt your friends from the petrochemical company will be happy if I’m late because I was looking for insurance or whatever.’
‘Of course not!’ she exclaims as if I’m a particularly dim toddler. ‘That’s what I’m for. I assume you’re happy for me to source something suitable? What colour do you like – black, dark blue or silver?’
‘Are those the only choices?’
‘You could have grey, but the senior partners frown on what they call “party” colours.’
‘Umm. Dark blue, I guess.’
‘Leave it with me. Now, is there anything else before I go?’
‘No. Thank you, Janice,’ I tell her meekly. I’ve decided I like her, but this meeting has felt a little like being run over by one of the trains she no longer wants me to use.