Chapter 53
Polly walked into her old department on Monday morning with a sped-up heart rhythm and strides powered by anxiety. She could
recall that the last time she’d seen Jeremy they’d had some sort of altercation, presumably the “misunderstanding” that he’d
referred to in his letter. The jigsaw puzzle of her mind was mostly completed, but there remained plenty of missing patches
where the detail wouldn’t materialize, and this was one of them.
Familiar faces in the department turned to say hello or give a smile as she headed for her desk. The drawers were empty, as
was the top apart from a PC and a keyboard, as if she were coming to it for the first time. There was no desk next to it as
she remembered there used to be, where Sheridan sat and they’d throw things to each other over the divide: sweets, tissues,
biscuits. She’d sent a teddy bear to her for the baby and a note to say she was sorry she hadn’t been in touch but she hoped
to see her soon, which was true, because Sheridan’s friendly face would be like medicine to her.
“Hello, Polly.” She turned, hearing the voice behind her, to find the tall, lean, mean figure of Jeremy Watson. “Before you
get yourself reestablished in the department, could I have a quick word in private?”
“Certainly.”
She followed him to his office, and as he sat down in his huge swivelly chair, she remembered the large portrait of Alan that used to hang on the wall before this strange, pointy one of Jeremy.
“Please sit.” Jeremy smiled and gestured toward the chair at the other side of the desk. “How are you?” he asked, tilting
his head at a concerned angle.
“I’m fine, thank you.”
“Good, good. I didn’t want there to be any awkwardness between us. I think now that we’ve both had a little time to reflect,
setting out on a new footing is what should happen. I’m”—a huge deep breath needed for the next words, which were forced out
of him under obvious duress—“very sorry if you ever felt you were being sidelined or overlooked. I think with the new BS name
above the door, what remains of the old Northern Eagles history should be buried with it. Onward and upward, don’t you agree?”
“I do,” replied Polly.
“Good, good.” His obligatory apology was expended and it had been easy enough, though meek and mild Polly wouldn’t exactly
have had the front to make it difficult; now they could get down to business as usual. “Not sure what Marjorie told you. We
lost Auntie Marian’s Bread. We never could have made them into the next Warburtons; Peach just wasn’t prepared to listen and
we do need some pliancy to work with. But we do have other companies ready for you to cast your spell on.” He nudged forward
a stack of files that sat on his desk.
“Mandy’s Handbags, not a huge concern. They haven’t got a lot of money to play with, but I think we... you can give them
some of your valuable insight. Mr. Waggy, dog food. Wants to be the bargain-basement version of Pedigree Chum. Good luck with
that one because their ingredients are floor-sweepings and even the basement is aiming a bit high. And you might remember
this one. I gave it to you in error, but I think in retrospect maybe it was meant to be yours all along. It’s... tricky,
and to say they haven’t been happy with our recommendations so far is an understatement, so we do need you to get to grips
with it and come up with the goods.”
“Thank you,” said Polly, picking them up and standing to go.
“If you’re putting the kettle on, Polly, I’d appreciate...” Jeremy started to say, but something in the way she looked
down at him made the words wither on his lips. For a second there, she looked like someone else, not Polly Potter at all.
How very odd.
“I’ll ring Brock for that, shall I?” he said, a strained smile on his face.
“Good idea,” she said, and continued on her way. Because it was the old Polly who put the kettles on for everyone; this shiny
new version of herself definitely didn’t.
She found the place in the canteen where she presumed she always sat. Muscle memory was an odd thing, bypassing the conscious
mind, taking the reins. So much information must be stored in my neurons , she thought. That’s why her ability to perform her job wasn’t affected, why she instinctively knew that George’s pizza oven
should be moved into the main kitchen, that the hatch should be made wider, that Ciaoissimo had way too many offerings on
their menu.
But her heart was a muscle too, and yet there was no memory for the man she had supposedly loved for eight years lingering
there, no reflex to open her arms to Chris, no longing to feel his lips upon hers.
She leaned forward, suddenly weary and steps away from tears. She was trying hard to be Polly Potter again, but it wasn’t
working. It felt as if she was trying to be a stranger, not herself, even though it was herself. It weighed down her brain
like the worst sort of puzzle.
She breathed in deeply, dragged over the first folder and opened it.
Mandy’s Handbags. The vibe she got was that they were a small firm but energetic, and they’d be on board with whatever they were advised to do.
They weren’t expecting to be the new Lulu Guinness, but a bigger share of the market would be a great start.
They’d be good to work with; they should aim at primarily young people, she thought.
Mr. Waggy would need a complete overhaul. Their fat-to-protein ratios were all wrong, too many cheap fillers. They were a
two-star that could be a four-star bargain brand and still make a good profit.
She put them to one side and picked up the third file, the biggest one. She opened it and had a flash of déjà vu when she
saw the name at the top of the page.
Ciaoissimo.