Chapter 4
4
As New York fades into the darkness behind me and the cabin crew begin circulating with our pre-dinner drinks, I stretch my legs and allow myself a sigh of satisfaction. There’s a long way to go, but the initial discussions have been promising and I’m happy with the way I’ve acquitted myself. The deal itself is on the smaller side for Morton Lansdowne; I worked on much bigger ones as a senior associate, but the difference this time is that I’m leading the negotiations on behalf of our client, rather than playing a supportive role as I have in the past. The client in this instance is a small but well-known British publishing house, who have been approached by a leading, and much larger, US publisher in a takeover bid. Our initial discussions have focused on analysing the financial position of each company, their assets and liabilities and, so far, we haven’t uncovered any red flags. I’ve got a week back in London now before we reconvene to start looking at the potential timelines for the merger.
Janice, unsurprisingly, has been a model of no-nonsense efficiency; although I haven’t needed to call on her for any of the disaster scenarios she outlined, various forms have popped up in my inbox during my trip. My initial horror that the finance forms she sent me for the car had the Porsche logo all over them was dismissed in typical Janice style.
A Porsche is pretty much standard uniform for an unmarried partner and I had to pull some fairly big levers to bypass the waiting list. Don’t worry about the cost; your car allowance will do most of the heavy lifting, so it won’t actually cost you much more than something humdrum would have when you were an associate.
Completed forms also magically appeared for the insurance, and a parking permit application from Walthamstow borough council. When I queried how she knew which council to approach, her response bordered on the terse. ‘I know where you live. It’s not exactly rocket science. You can thank me later.’
Any lingering views about the sanctity of my private life were comprehensively exploded by the arrival of two further forms. The first wanted details of all my immediate family members, along with addresses and dates of birth. My inevitable query about why she needed this information was met with a one-line response.
When was the last time you remembered to send anyone in your family a birthday card?
I tend to text them on the day, if I remember.
I think we can do better. I’ll send you some cards to sign, and I’ll make sure they go out at the appropriate times.
Things went from bad to worse when I had to confess that, not only did I not know my nephew’s birthday, but I wasn’t entirely sure how old he was. I’d laughed when I read her reply the next day.
Louis will be six on 15 September. I’ll send him a card, shall I?
How on earth did you find that out?
Register of Births, Marriages and Deaths. Again, hardly rocket science.
The final form concerned my relationship status, and was labelled optional. Although I’ve read through it, I haven’t filled it in as I’m not entirely sure what to say. Janice did explain in her accompanying email that I didn’t have to disclose any details to her, but it would be helpful to know if I had a significant other in case they became needy and demanding, requiring intervention from her to bring them back into line. The idea of Janice ‘intervening’ in a relationship is too terrifying even for me to contemplate.
As I sip my champagne and start to read through the most recent pack of documents the associates have prepared, I think back to my initial meeting with Janice and my doubts about whether I actually needed a PA at all. Three weeks into the job and, apart from the relationship questionnaire, I’m now starting to wonder how I ever managed without one.
Although it’s Saturday morning when my flight lands, I’ve got a debrief meeting with one of the senior partners followed by a next steps meeting with the associates working on the merger, so the taxi takes me straight to the office, which is humming with life as usual. On the way, I get a text from Janice.
Sorry I won’t be in the office today, but I’ve left a pack with documents, your car keys and birthday/Christmas cards for your family at reception. Tailor booked for Tuesday at 3p.m. I’ve put it in your calendar as a smear test to scare off anyone else thinking of booking that slot. Any issues let me know, otherwise I’ll see you on Monday. J.
I smile as I read it. Although I’m not completely comfortable using gynaecology as a cover, I can see the wisdom behind Janice’s logic. If she’d put something as banal as an appointment with a tailor in my calendar, it would have been bumped almost immediately. However, Morton Lansdowne makes a big song and dance about its equal opportunity policies, so nobody’s going to dare to interfere with a medical appointment, especially one relating to female biology. We just have to hope that nobody is tracking the frequency of my smear test appointments, otherwise alarm bells might start to ring if they think I’m having them more often than I should. To be honest, I’m not convinced that I need tailor-made suits, but I can see it matters to Janice, so I figure letting her tailor measure me is a small price to pay for the work she’s doing for me. If I buy one suit, hopefully that will make her feel I’ve taken her advice and get me off the hook.
My debrief meeting with John Curbishley, one of the senior partners, is scheduled for 11a.m. Being assigned to John is the one part of my partnership so far that has proved to be a struggle. Although he’s enormously experienced and I do respect him, his overly brusque manner and tendency to tear into you for missing the slightest detail makes him difficult to work with, to put it tactfully. Meetings with him are very much things to endure rather than look forward to. It’s very much not the done thing to be late for a meeting with a senior partner, but being too early is also frowned upon, as it suggests poor time management, so I make sure to arrive outside his office on the eighth floor exactly five minutes early. The courtesy is rarely repaid, of course, and it’s nearly quarter past eleven by the time the door opens and Andrew, another newly anointed partner, appears, looking harassed.
‘He definitely got out of bed the wrong side this morning,’ he murmurs to me after double-checking that the door is properly closed. ‘There was only one clause in the draft agreement that he didn’t like the look of, but he still chewed me a new one.’
Before I have a chance to answer, the door opens again.
‘Come in, Thea,’ John says curtly. No apology for keeping me waiting, but then I didn’t expect one. He’s known for not giving a damn about other people’s calendars, or anything else. Rumour has it that a junior partner asked to move a meeting once so he could visit his mother on her deathbed, and his response was so caustic that, not only did the junior partner not get to see his mother before she died, his visceral assessment of said partner’s commitment to the firm left the partner in tears. He’s an old-school bruiser, and I’m wary as I follow him into his office.
‘Have a seat,’ he tells me as he closes the door. His watery blue eyes are expressionless behind his wire-framed glasses as he unbuttons his suit jacket and eases his substantial frame into a chair on the other side of the small conference table.
‘So,’ he says, fixing his gaze unblinkingly on me. ‘What the bloody hell are a company the size of Bookisti doing buggering around with a tiny publisher like MacOsterley? Surely they have bigger fish to fry?’ This is a classic opener; he wants to see if I understand the business context.
‘On the surface, that would seem to be the case,’ I tell him smoothly. ‘But MacOsterley is a disruptor. Their business model is radically different from most publishers, and Bookisti wants to be on the crest of that wave if MacOsterley proves to be on to something.’
‘Buy the competition before they become a threat,’ he observes.
‘Exactly.’
‘And what do MacOsterley get out of it? Is Bookisti actually planning to invest in the business, or just steal the name and move everything to China like everyone else?’
‘They say they’re going to expand production in the UK. Publishing has a bit of an image problem with the eco lobby, so MacOsterley’s view that we need to be printing fewer books closer to the point of consumption is very topical at the moment.’
‘What the hell do they mean by “fewer books closer to the point of consumption”? They’re a fucking publishing house, not a sodding snack manufacturer.’ He’s trying to needle me now, I can tell. If he can pick away at my understanding to the point where I doubt myself, he’ll consider it a victory. He really is a toad.
‘Take your China model,’ I say, keeping my voice level. ‘Yes, you could print five thousand copies of a title pretty cheaply, but the environmental impact is problematic. You’ve got the trees that have to be chopped down to make the paper, the ink, fuel used in shipping and so on. Out of the five thousand originals, maybe only three thousand sell, so you end up pulping two thousand of them. MacOsterley has been investing heavily in PoD, and that’s what Bookisti wants a slice of.’
‘PoD?’
‘Print on Demand.’
‘What a waste of time. It’ll never pay.’
‘Amazon manages to make it pay, and where Amazon leads?—’
‘—the others always follow,’ he grudgingly agrees. I might actually be winning this conversation, I realise.
‘Exactly. I think Bookisti sees MacOsterley as a way to put a toe into the PoD market without contaminating their main brand if it doesn’t work.’
‘Is that what they’ve said?’
‘No, of course not. They’re spouting all the usual guff about wanting to partner with a well-respected British publishing house, but nobody’s fooled.’
He stares at me for what feels like an age before speaking again.
‘Good work, Thea,’ he growls eventually. ‘But don’t get complacent, understand? Little deals like this that seem simple on the surface have a nasty habit of turning round and fucking you in the arse when you least expect it. If we get fucked in the arse by this, be in no doubt that I will fuck you in the arse twice as hard. Metaphorically speaking, obviously, before you run off to HR squealing about sexual harassment. Am I making myself very clear?’
‘Yes, John.’
‘Good. Get out.’
As I gather my things and open the door, he fires his final shot. ‘Don’t make the mistake of thinking you’re beyond my reach in New York. I expect regular reports, and I can easily fuck you in the arse from here if you screw up. Got it?’
I smile sweetly as I close the door, before very carefully flicking a series of highly unprofessional V-signs at it.
By the time I’ve finished the next steps meeting and followed up on a few crucial emails, it’s nearly four in the afternoon, but the jetlag means I still have plenty of energy as I ride the elevator down to the underground car park where my new car is allegedly waiting for me. It takes a little while to locate the bay, but the reassuring flash of the indicators when I press the unlock button on the key fob confirms that I’m in the right place. It’s a while since I last drove, so I take time to familiarise myself with all the controls before easing my way up the ramp into the traffic for my journey home. Janice, naturally, has already fixed the parking permit to the windscreen, and I’m surprised to see the space outside my house is empty when I drive up. Taking great care not to scrape the expensive-looking alloy wheels on the kerb, I manoeuvre my way into the spot before grabbing my luggage out of the passenger seat and opening the front door of my house. There’s no sign of the SUV, but then I remember that Saturday afternoons are Rollo’s extra tuition times. Sure enough, I’ve barely started annotating the updated documents that came out of the next steps meeting when the SUV appears. I watch as it stops dead, completely blocking the road next to my car, and Rollo’s mum hops out, looking furious. She peers closely at the parking permit on the Porsche and then, to my surprise, marches up my front path and rings the doorbell.
‘Hi,’ I say as I open the door to her.
‘Yes, hello,’ she replies distractedly. ‘Sorry to bother you, but I wonder whether you saw which house the owner of that car went into?’
‘That’s my car,’ I reply neutrally.
‘Ah, right,’ she says, adopting a faux-jovial tone that completely doesn’t correspond with the fury in her eyes. ‘You must be new because this house has been empty for as long as I can remember. The thing is, that’s my space. You’ll have to move.’
For a moment, I’m silenced by the bare-faced entitlement of the woman. I may not have owned a car since I’ve lived here, but I’m perfectly aware that none of the spaces are pre-allocated. It’s strictly first come, first served.
‘Oh, goodness. I’m so sorry,’ I tell her. ‘Let me just grab the keys.’ I half shut the door and steal a look at her out of the study window as I retrieve my car keys. She’s actually tapping her foot impatiently. Sorry, Sarah-or-whatever-your-name-is, but you’re about to get a lesson in manners.
‘Here they are,’ I say as I join her outside, locking the door behind me. ‘Now, would you mind just showing me how I tell which space is allocated to which house before I get out of your way? I’d hate to inconvenience anyone else.’
‘It’s, ah, more of an informal thing,’ she replies, looking less full of herself all of a sudden. ‘I always park here.’
I fix a puzzled expression on my face. ‘Sorry, I must be missing something. I thought you said this space belonged to you officially.’
‘Look,’ she says, changing tack again, this time to naked aggression. ‘I don’t have time to stand here arguing the ins and outs of street parking etiquette with you. The fact is that this is where I always park, I’m on a tight schedule, and I’d appreciate you moving your car so I can get on with my day.’
‘No.’
‘What? What do you mean, no? Have you not listened to a word I’ve said?’
I have, Sarah-or-whoever-you-are, and your attitude frankly stinks. ‘The fact is that I’ve lived here for several years,’ I tell her. ‘And, although the car is new, I’m well aware of the parking regulations on this street. This space is occupied. I suggest you do what everyone else would do in your circumstances and look for another, rather than trying to bully me out of a space I’ve parked in quite legitimately.’
For a moment, she stares at me, as if unable to comprehend what I’ve said. An insistent beeping from a delivery van that’s pulled up behind her brings her back down to earth.
‘This is unbe-fucking-lievable,’ she yells as she storms back to her car and climbs in, slamming the door behind her. As she screeches off up the road, my eyes meet Rollo’s for a fraction of a second, and I could swear I see him mouth the word ‘sorry’ at me.