Chapter Nine #2
Sensibly, she made a speedy getaway before any of the team could utter a word. Sweeping everything on the top of her desk into her capacious handbag, she thrust a purple folder at me with a hasty, ‘You’ll need this’ and scuttled out of the office.
Dazed, I sank into her chair and opened the folder to find ten pages of colour-coded notes.
They made scary reading. Big Sister had been watching them.
Helene always took five minutes extra at lunchtime, Camilla was not to be trusted with the petty cash, Cara was too generous with the samples and as for Emily, two pages were devoted to her.
My heart sank. It didn’t sound like the happiest of working environments.
I cast a regretful glance at Max. His feet were propped up on the desk, surrounded by piles of paper as he chatted distractedly into the phone, the handset tucked into his shoulder while he polished his glasses.
He wouldn’t know what day of the week it was, let alone whether I’d taken a lunch hour.
Reluctantly I put down the purple folder, wondering whether I should take Emily to one side for a private chat. From the scowl on her face and her hunched position at the computer, cooperation was going to be in short supply.
My first meeting with the team later that morning went relatively well, compared to a train wreck.
The ‘I’m on your side; I don’t want to tread on your toes’ speech which I’d rehearsed in the ladies, went down like contraception at the Vatican.
The coven, as I’d renamed them, weren’t having any of it.
Only Cara showed signs of breaking ranks, which wasn’t wholly surprising.
She had an Arsenal screensaver on her computer and team stickers all around her desk.
Not a typical PR girly. She wanted advice on handling a difficult journalist. This particular beauty assistant who worked for one of the most important magazines was insisting she receive a second sample of a new age-defying moisturiser.
At ￡250 a throw, this miracle cream was like gold dust and samples had been strictly rationed.
I suggested a call was put into the Beauty Editor to ask if she minded the assistant getting her sample. Cara grinned gratefully.
The other three were stony faced. It wasn’t hard to picture them revving up their broomsticks as they left the meeting room.
* * *
‘What’s this?’ I asked sharply.
Emily feigned innocence. ‘It’s a purchase order.’
‘I know that. What’s it for?’ It was now my job to sign off the triplicate form, which had to be filled out for every piece of expenditure.
‘For the Luscious Lips launch.’
It was for ￡200 and made out to an Otto Omar.
‘I realise that but what exactly is it for?’
She looked down at her hand, defiantly admiring her polished nails. If she wound me up any more, I’d take the nail clippers to them.
‘He’s the Reiki man for Miranda,’ she muttered.
I looked at her in exasperation. ‘Emily, Fiona specifically said, “No Reiki”. No massage, faith healers or whatever else Miranda’s after. I’ve been through the contract. She can have a make-up artist and a stylist — that’s it. There’s no budget for anything else.’
‘Miranda went on and on about it . . .’ she trailed off weakly.
‘Miranda can go on and on about it. She knows full well what she can and can’t have.
Talk about trying it on! Don’t forget we’re also paying her a wheelbarrow full of gold bullion.
’ God only knew what Luscious Lips put in their lipstick to make it so profitable.
‘Ring Otto and tell him his services aren’t required. ’
Emily stared at me reproachfully. ‘I can’t do that,’ she said horrified. ‘I’ve only just booked him.’
‘Well, you’ll just have to unbook him, won’t you?’ This was scary, I was turning into Fiona.
‘What, now?’ she queried, still looking all wide-eyed.
I took a deep breath. Don’t shout at her. Instead, I calmly said, ‘Yes please,’ and went back to my keyboard.
Muttering to myself, I typed, ‘I will not kill Emily. I will not kill Emily’ and forced my shoulder blades back into place. God, I’d only been doing Fiona’s job for two days and the stress was killing me.
Emily walked off sullenly. Only after she’d got herself a coffee, phoned Daniel and tidied out her handbag, did I hear her saying on the phone, ‘I’m really, really sorry, Otto. Not my fault. It’s my boss. She won’t let me book you.’
I couldn’t care less what she said to Otto, I kept my eye line below the computer monitor.
It was the call to Daniel that bugged me.
‘Hi, Dan,’ she’d tinkled. Dan! I’d never called him that in all the years I’d known him.
And did she have to phone him and text him so often?
Until I’d sat this side of the room, I’d had no idea they were so devoted.
Recently they’d been out a lot, with a trip to see Phantom of the Opera, sushi dinners and frequent visits to posh cocktail bars.
In fact, I hadn’t seen him since the night at the hospital.
His sudden devotion to Emily was impressive, he loathed musicals and his idea of good food was Italian.
Emily would have been better suited to someone like that awful guy at the speed-date, Crossword Man.
In comparison, my social life was looking blank. I’d heard nothing more from Ned and Friday was looming.
* * *
Ned emailed me the very next day and while I wasn’t sure that the vital spark was there, he did have a way with emails. In my book, anyone that calls me Supergirl deserves a second chance.
To: ORMiddleton@
From: N.Hillard@
Subject: Supergirl
Hi Ollie
(Euew! Only my brother got away with calling me Ollie.)
Date great, footie crap — we won but rubbish match. I should have stuck with you. Sorry it probably wasn’t the best day to suggest getting together but didn’t want to wait any longer. I was afraid I’d miss the boat — there’s probably a queue (although I hope not).
How about I show you a really good time, mud wrestling in Morden, trainspotting in Tooting or birdwatching in Enfield?
You can choose.
Ned
We ended up in the Nags Head, which defied my expectation by being one of those lovely North London Victorian pubs with original tiles and an ornate wooden bar, polished to a rich chestnut. I was expecting a spit-and-sawdust job with lots of smelly old men superglued to the stools at the bar.
Ned was obviously watching out for me because the minute I walked into the pub, he jumped up and escorted me straight to the bar. This had more to do with self-preservation than innate good manners. Over his shoulder two very blokish blokes were straining to get a good look.
Despite it being eight in the evening, he still had that rumpled just-got-up-look which was quite cute. His hair kept flopping over his eyes, which he brushed away in a quick, impatient movement with the back of his hand.
‘Gram and Midge I presume,’ I said, nodding towards the pair who immediately beamed and waved.
‘Yeah,’ said Ned, smiling sheepishly at their antics. ‘Sorry about them. Bit keen to meet you.’
That was a good sign. I’d obviously got a good write-up, so far. I studied him as he ordered the drinks, exchanging banter with the barman. The jury was still out on whether I fancied him.
‘We always meet here on a Friday. What you having?’
Armed with a large glass of wine, I took a deep breath as we went over to sit with them.
Ned made the introductions. There was an awkward silence as Midge’s eyes zeroed in on my chest, before moving swiftly up to my face. Gram had a bit more subtlety, he checked my face first.
‘Sowhaddyado?’ asked Midge, taking a swallow from a pint glass dwarfed by his hand.
I looked blank.
‘Work,’ prompted Gram. ‘Don’t mind him, he’s a teacher. He’s spent too much time with the kids.’
A teacher? He looked more like a builder.
‘Ah,’ I smiled gratefully at Gram, whose boyish face wrinkled at Midge. His patchy adolescent stubble, still bald in places, was at odds with the prematurely grey tuft of hair sticking up on his head.
‘Repeat after me. The rain in Spain—’
‘Piss off,’ responded Midge calmly, flicking a beer mat at him.
I glanced at Ned. With his elbow perched on the table he was watching the pair of them with an indulgent smile. He gave me a wink.
‘Teacher, eh? Gosh that must be tough in London,’ I said. ‘Real front-line stuff.’ Compared with that, I really didn’t want to have to explain my job.
‘You get used to it,’ grinned Midge, ‘although my first day was a bit of a shock.’
‘Really? Was it rough?’ He looked as if he could handle a couple of scrapping sixteen-year-olds. Ned and Gram were sniggering.
‘Yeah, I had to tie thirty pairs of laces, open fourteen Dairylea Triangles and one kid weed on me. It’s murder teaching Reception.’
‘Little ones?’ I’d assumed he’d teach older ones. ‘Do you like kids, then?’
‘Only on toast.’ He roared with laughter.
It was an old joke. Ned, the leader of the pack, shot him a look.
The three of them had obviously known each other for a very long time.
They had a habit of finishing each other’s sentences and had too many in-jokes.
When Ned disappeared to the loo, giving the other two a definite ‘behave’ look, they both leaned over the table and gave me the thumbs up.
Midge looked over at Gram winked and said, ‘A babe’. I blushed.
There was a silence, as if without Ned the two had lost the necessary prompt to make small talk. This was broken eventually by Gram politely asking, ‘So what do you do?’ just as Ned came back.
‘She’s one of those glamorous PR types,’ he said, sinking back onto his stool, moving it as he did so that his leg now touched mine.