Chapter Seventeen
At the time I never made any connection between Peter ending his relationship with Verity as something that took her, literally, over the edge.
At some point or another, we all experience heartbreak, but it is a rare person who deals with it by taking a flight without wings. Most of us usually sob our hearts out, send shares in Kleenex soaring, mutter some robust oaths, then pick ourselves up and dust ourselves off.
In Verity’s case, the pressure of work was blamed. Of recently losing one too many cases. Of being burnt out. That she’d lost her cut-and-thrust and couldn’t face the professional humiliation.
The horrendous news circulated around the company like an earthquake’s seismic aftershocks. However, the fact remained that Verity Henley-Brown had been one of many partners. Therefore, her sudden death – whilst awful – only registered at around two on the firm’s Richter Scale.
On my part, it was business as usual as I settled down at my new desk. I was early to work, and the department had been virtually empty.
I’d peered over the cubicle screen dividers and spotted a sole secretary at the far end of the floor.
Her headset had been on, and she’d been engrossed in her work.
Through the glass-walled offices, I’d noticed a couple of solicitors were also in.
Peter had been one of them. At that point, the object of my desire had had a phone clamped to one ear.
Feeling more than a little nervous, I’d put my handbag under my desk, slung my jacket over the back of the typing chair, then logged on and waited for Peter to end his call and summon me.
Dickering about whether to make a coffee, instead I’d checked my desk’s drawers.
It was important that they contained the requisite number of writing pads, certain legal forms, A4 paper for the laser printer, and a decent stash of pencils and biros.
A PA could never have enough of the latter because someone nearly always borrowed one, only for it never to be seen again.
Other secretaries had started to drift in.
Some, on their own. Others walking companionably in a small group.
On the other side of my partition, the head and shoulders of a thirty-something female had appeared.
As she’d dumped her handbag and shrugged off her coat, she’d sighed like a sleep-deprived woman wondering how to find the energy to get through the day.
‘Hello,’ I’d said timidly.
For a moment, the woman had looked startled. Her head had bobbed as she’d tried to source the location of a discarnate voice. Then she’d spotted me.
‘Oh, sorry,’ she’d said indifferently. ‘I didn’t see you there.’
‘I’m Jen,’ I’d offered.
‘Sue.’
Her tone had been perfunctory and her vibe standoffish: if you think we’re going to bond over this cubicle partition, you’re very much mistaken.
‘So’ – she’d sniffed – ‘you must be the temp for Mister-Loves-Himself.’
Stung at her obvious dislike of my hero, for a moment I hadn’t known what to say. She’d made a tutting noise.
‘Rather you than me.’ Sue had pressed a button on the side of her monitor, then heaved another sigh. ‘I’m going to make myself a coffee. When you want one’ – she’d jabbed a finger in the air – ‘the kitchen is that way.’
The action had told me that I didn’t have to make her a drink if I fancied a brew.
‘Thanks,’ I’d said coolly.
At that moment, Peter’s door had opened.
He’d stood there, framed in the office entrance.
The sight of him had momentarily taken my breath away.
He’d looked like a superhero, albeit in a suit.
As he’d stood there, the department’s lights had seemingly dimmed.
Behind him and beyond his office window, St Paul’s Cathedral had provided a dramatic backdrop.
‘You must be Jen,’ he’d said.
‘Yes,’ I’d squeaked, jumping up from my typing stool.
‘Peter Armstrong,’ he’d said, holding out one hand. The handshake had been both firm and formal. Nonetheless, his warm palm had been more thrilling than discovering an unclaimed seat on the commute to London. ‘Delighted to meet you.’
‘And you,’ I’d said shyly, turning pink with pleasure.
He’d scrutinised me.
‘You look vaguely familiar,’ he’d said.
I hadn’t told him that we’d once ridden the elevator together, and that – afterwards – I’d had to swig Rescue Remedy.
‘I think we might have occasionally passed each other in the corridor,’ I’d volunteered.
‘That must be it,’ he’d smiled.
Just like a toothpaste commercial, I swear the overhead spotlights had caught his front teeth and given a starburst.
I’d felt dazed. Dazzled. And not just by that starburst. The young Peter Armstrong had been heavenly.
On the other side of the partition I’d heard a snorting noise. Sue had made her coffee, returned to her desk, and caught me staring at Peter with googly eyes.
I’d snapped to and mentally put on my professional hat.
‘Would you like a drink before we go over things?’ I’d asked.
‘Perfect,’ he’d replied, delivering another drop-dead-gorgeous smile. ‘Coffee, please. Black, no sugar.’
‘Coming right up,’ I’d trilled.
But I’d been talking to thin air. Peter had already turned on his heel, striding back to his desk to answer a ringing phone.
I’d turned, just in time to see Sue giving me a knowing look.
‘You want to watch yourself, Jen,’ she’d said ominously.
‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,’ I’d said, feigning surprise.
‘And I’m sure you do.’ She’d arched an eyebrow. ‘Don’t get mesmerised by the likes of him. He’s a user. He reels women in, then tosses them aside like unwanted fish with fin rot.’
‘Thanks for the advice,’ I’d retorted. ‘But I’ll have you know that I already have a boyfriend. We’re like that’ – I’d crossed my fingers and held them up to show her – ‘so much so that we’re practically engaged.’
‘Since when did a ring ever stop stupidity?’ she’d sniffed.
‘I’m going to the kitchen.’ I’d smoothed an imaginary crease from my skirt. ‘As you already have a drink, I won’t offer you one,’ I’d added pointedly.
Ignoring the smirk on her face, I’d taken myself off.
Flaming woman. I’d only known her for five minutes, yet she’d presumed to have me all figured out.
I’d kept my fingers crossed that she’d never suss there was no boyfriend.
Indeed, there hadn’t been one since I’d first started working at the firm.
How could there have been? Nobody had ever matched up to Peter Armstrong. Nobody.