Chapter 6
8:50 a.m. Monday morning, and I strode as confidently as I could into Fluck, Young Glover, taking two at a time the stone steps up to the imposing building in the centre of Leeds.
I was dressed in my favourite cream trouser suit, my blonde hair in a stylish chignon, hoping that if I looked good it might be an omen for the rest of the day. Maybe by now Mr Fluck would have thought things over and be able to see the funny side. It was funny after all, it really was. I had already recounted the fashion show debacle to several girlfriends, and they all found it hilarious, so perhaps he would too. It was always good to dream.
I could see that the thick oak door to his office was slightly ajar. I crept past it, stealth-like on my stilettos like a cat burglar. I thought I had made it safely past when I heard him clear his throat noisily: an unsettling sound like he was digging to China.
“Lila, would you please be good enough to come in here?”
Oh hell. Now I was for it.
Thirty minutes later I was leaving his room after a right old telling off. He was not a happy man, that was for sure. His face had been even more crypt-keeper-like than usual, as the morning winter sun filtered in through the Victorian sash windows and settled in his multitude of wrinkles. Fair to say that none of them were laughter lines. He really did have a face like a blind cobbler’s thumb.
Also fair to say that I’d kept my composure well, albeit with a fair amount of grovelling thrown in for good measure. I apologised for the unfortunate incident at the show. It really wasn’t anyone’s fault though. Just good old-fashioned bad luck.
At least it was over now. I had taken my reprimand firmly on the chin. Promised my boss I would speak to the reporter at Leeds Leads and hope to mitigate the situation. I didn’t know what he really expected me to do, as no doubt the story was already online and had been since first thing that morning.
Clearly the codger was so “old school” that he thought I could sweet talk my way into stopping the printing presses in their tracks. Perhaps shut it all down with a yank on an oily old lever or some such. But at least the confrontation was over and I could get on with the rest of my day.
Maybe even treat myself to something nice for breakfast from the artisan bakery down the street. Perhaps a warm flaky croissant or a pain au chocolat? Nothing that would drip on my cream cashmere, of course. I was lost in thoughts of Parisian pastries and strolls along the Seine when I walked slap bang into Jocasta sauntering down the corridor, carrying two mugs of coffee: one for her and no doubt one for our boss, old fart Fluck.
The look of shock on her face I’m sure was mirrored on my own as we barged unceremoniously into each other. Our eyes simultaneously darted to the hot beverages as they sloshed around in their mugs, perilously close to my cashmere and threatening to drench me in a wave of cappuccino; but fortuitously the liquid remained safely in the mugs.
“Fuck...that was close.”
The relief was evident in my voice as I patted the lapel of my jacket to reassure myself that everything was still pristine. Coffee would be an absolute nightmare to get out of the fabric.
At that moment Jocasta appeared to stumble slightly on her khaki kitten heels, and before I knew it the coffee was on the move again. This time it was headed straight for me. Both mugs hit me full on in the chest, drenching me as the caffeinated liquid mushroomed out all over my navy silk blouse and cream jacket.
I was rooted to the spot in shock and turned speechless towards the younger woman. Was that the tiniest of smirks on Jocasta’s face?
My eyes travelled down my ruined clothes and then returned to glare at the woman who was still holding the empty coffee mugs. Was I right? Had she actually just thrown the drinks straight at me?
She was, unlike me now, looking well turned out and spick-and-span in a rather obvious way. Far too good for this early on a Monday morning, that was for sure. I liked to dress to impress and have my make-up on before I braved the day, but the woman looked as if she had been primping with the warpaint for hours.
And she most certainly seemed to favour a certain style for the office. I’m normally not one for shaming a woman’s appearance. I like to be in complete favour of body autonomy. Always standing up for our right to wear whatever makes us feel our best in our own bodies. But then again, there is the need to remain professional; and her skirt was, in my opinion, way too short for the office. She should be carrying the briefs, not flashing hers at all and sundry.
Jocasta’s eyes were now saucer-wide, her expression one of complete concern for her colleague.
“Li…Lila… I’m so sorry, I just lost my footing for a second there. Your beautiful jacket…here, let me help you with the stain.”
She put the mugs down on the edge of her desk and started dabbing at my clothes with a napkin that had been wrapped around the handle of one of the mugs. I don’t know what good she thought that was going to do. Quite clearly, she was just ensuring the stain was well and truly ingrained in the material.
I felt my anger bubble up inside me, threatening to cause me to completely lose my cool. I took a deep breath before speaking.
“You did that on purpose.”
Jocasta shot me a startled look, like a wide-eyed Bambi caught in the headlights.
“No…honestly, Lila, I really didn’t. It’s just these new shoes…”
She gestured to the delicate footwear adorning her hooves.
“The straps are a little loose and I lost my footing for a second.”
I grabbed the soggy napkin out of her hand.
“Leave it!”
My voice was low and even and carried a warning.
“You’re only going to make it worse.”
My eyes darted anxiously to my watch.
“I have a meeting in twenty minutes, and look at the state of me.”
“I’m so sorry, Lila, but don’t worry, I’ll fix it…just give me five minutes.”
And with that she hurried off. Her steps sounded self-assured and now seemingly unencumbered by the looseness of her straps.
Twenty-five minutes later, I was seated awkwardly behind the heavy oak desk in my office. I was a few minutes deep into a meeting with a new client, Mrs Davina Jackson, who was sitting opposite me and looking nervously around the room. Her eyes kept darting about, as if she was on high alert for danger.
Dressed in oversized jogging bottoms and a beige sloppy cardigan, with her greying hair dragged back into a tight bun, she looked like a woman who had completely given up on herself.
It was her first appointment to see me, with the intention of procuring advice on what her best course of action might be. She had recently discovered her husband of over twenty years had been engaged in a bit of extra-curricular activity of the rumpy-pumpy variety with none other than her own sister. She was clearly still shell-shocked, but from the way she was talking it was evident that she had now most definitely crossed the Rubicon in respect of her marriage. Sexual shenanigans with sister dearest were unforgivable.
She had chosen the right person to come and see. Family law was my speciality, and assisting other women to rinse their philandering spouses on a hot wash was usually my favourite sport after badminton. Today, however, I was not feeling my professional best.
I was now wearing what I think is laughingly referred to as a “coatigan”: a long garment of either indoor knitwear, or else an appropriate outer garment for braving the Yorkshire winter chills. It was in a lurid shade of green with little open-beaked owls in various hues of brown dotted randomly upon it like hooting lumps of turd. It was by far the ugliest item of clothing I had ever seen outside of Helena Bonham Carter’s wardrobe disasters.
This was apparently Jocasta’s idea of “fixing it”.
The offending garment had been long abandoned in the staff cloakroom, probably once belonging to one of the cleaners or maybe some stylishly challenged weirdo who had just wandered in off the street. It had a faint whiff of mothballs and antiseptic cream about it, and honestly looked as if it had been knitted with the pubic hair from a herd of yaks. And if the ugliness factor wasn’t grim enough, to add insult to injury it was flaming itchy to boot.
I suppose it did at least cover the coffee stain. However, I think coffee-soaked cashmere would have still been more visually appealing than this monstrosity. For someone who prided themselves on always looking groomed and professional, I now resembled the sartorial equivalent of a mad bag lady who’d just had a good old rummage at the church jumble sale: the 20p sale item pile that nobody else wanted.
Jocasta had apologised profusely when she returned, scurrying over to me clutching the offending article.
“At least it will cover the coffee stain until home time. Honestly, Lila, I am so sorry for stumbling like that. I really am a silly sausage at times; I can barely put one foot in front of the other without tripping. You’d think by my age I would have learnt how to walk in designer heels.”
She had smiled coyly; a look guaranteed to make men swoon the world over but making me more pissed off than I already was. Without a word I had accepted the garment and donned it gingerly, trying my best to ignore the rather pungent aroma emanating from it.
I had managed to make it through the entirety of the meeting with Mrs Jackson, trying my very best not to scratch like a tabby cat with mange. She decided to forge ahead with the divorce, and by the end of our meeting it was encouraging to see a little determined glint in her eye. She no longer looked like the timid downtrodden woman whose sweaty hand I had shaken earlier. Her husband might be in for a bit of a shock. Davina Jackson might not be the little mouse she had first appeared to be.
I was now pretty convinced that Jocasta had “tumbled” off her heels on purpose. All designed to drench me in de-caff. But would she really stoop that low? Maybe I wasn’t being fair to her and it was a genuine accident, but I highly doubted it. I had seen that glint in her eye after all.
Why had we got off to such a bad start? It was true that I didn’t love the way she dressed, or her breathy girly giggle that always seemed to be a few octaves higher when any men were about.
I also wasn’t a fan of the way she hung around Mr Fluck like he was simply fascinating. Even complimenting him on his hair. That was a laugh in itself: his receding hairline went so far back the dinosaurs could probably see it. The only impressive thing about his hair was just how much of it was sprouting out of his ears.
Mrs Jackson was turning the handle on my office door, ready to leave. But thinking better of it, she turned to face me with a warm smile.
“Thank you so much, Ms Glover, for seeing me today. I feel so much better about things now. David won’t to be able to take me for a mug any more. He’s done it for far too long, and I’m not going to let him continue.”
I returned her smile, genuinely pleased.
“Good for you, Davina, it’s time you put yourself first for once.”
She nodded in agreement.
“And can I just say how much I love your knitwear? Such a fun fashion choice, especially for a solicitor. I was nervous coming here today, but it put me right at ease just looking at it.”
Fun fashion choice? Was she taking the proverbial? But no, obviously bile green knitwear adorned with birds of prey was a sure-fire way to put my client at ease. So my outfit had actually been a success; even though I clearly resembled a fluffy green hairball with winnets of shit dangling from it.
I escorted Mrs Jackson to the main door of the building and shook her hand again before suggesting we meet next in a week’s time.
Walking slowly back to my office, I glanced towards Seb’s office. The door was open a smidge and there he was. I felt a little wave of affection for him. His red striped tie was hanging loosely around his neck, clashing horribly with the pale green shade of his work shirt. His thick salt and pepper hair was ruffled, as if he had been absent-mindedly running his hand through it.
He was hunched over his desk, his posture terrible, deep in thought, reading some notes. Best leave him to it. I could always catch up with him later; and if I didn’t get a chance to, there was always tomorrow night, when we would be meeting Lottie and Leo for dinner.
I continued towards my office, which meant I would need to pass Jocasta again. Being relatively new and rather less senior in the firm, she did not boast an office of her own. Instead, her desk was positioned off from the reception area, with just a small degree of privacy afforded by a large dusty pot plant, and the thick wall of my resentment.
She was studying the screen on her desktop computer. Her shiny strawberry blonde hair cascaded onto her slim shoulders like spun silk. Looking at her, she appeared almost angelic; but then again, hadn’t the Devil been an angel before God had the good sense to boot him out of Heaven? Her halo was definitely slipping, as that little smirk was back on her face again.
What was she looking at? It seemed vaguely familiar. Something was ringing distant alarm bells in my head. With a sinking feeling, I realised what it was. She was studying the news page of Leeds Leads. I could now see clearly the press logo at the foot of the screen.
I squinted to read the headline in bold letters at the top of the page of text.
“Farcical fashion faux pas for Fluck Young Glover at charity show fiasco. Or is the well-established city centre firm sending a clear message to all about their professional conduct?”
Ouch! That sounded so much worse than the actual truth: a monumental fuck-up caused by a teenage hangover, amateur models and cheap signage that disintegrated with a couple of little tugs. It was all just rather unfortunate. But why let the truth get in the way of a good story? And why oh why did my boss have to have Fluck as a surname?
Jocasta suddenly glanced up from the screen and her eyes silently met mine. The sneer was now gone, replaced by something I’m sure she believed resembled concern. Her eyes flickered over me for longer than was necessary. I was still wearing the green acrylic abomination. How she managed not to laugh was beyond me.
“Oh dear, Lila, looks like Saturday was a bit of a disaster. You’re having quite a few fashion malfunctions lately, it would seem.”