Conditional Love (12 page)

‘Jeffery Archer,’ called the Financial Director. ‘Damn fine story teller, went to school with a cousin of mine.’

Please be on Facebook, Lord Archer, I pleaded silently, typing his name into the search box. I let out a breath of relief as his profile page appeared on screen.

I pointed out the various sections of the page: his likes, his info, his photos and demonstrated how to post a comment on his wall.

‘Another suggestion?’

That had gone reasonably well. I smiled confidently. I was clearly cut out for this executive lark. I mentally chastised myself for taking so long to grasp the nettle of my career. I could have been doing a much more senior job by now, if only I’d pulled my finger out.

‘
The Times
!’ called out one of the men I didn’t know. That got a mumble of approval. The board members sat up taller and leaned forward to watch as I located the right Facebook page.

It was a piece of cake. I explained how the national newspaper drop-fed snippets of news to its readers and used its Facebook page to sell online subscriptions. Murmurs and nods ran round the table like a corporate Mexican wave.

‘What about our local competitors?’ asked the Chairman. ‘Are they on it?’

Gordon Bennett, the Chairman had asked me a question! I was on his radar. This is it! The start of my journey to the top. Knock his socks off, Sophie. Blow him away with your superior intelligence!

Bumbags. I don’t know the answer. The old, unmotivated Sophie couldn’t be bothered to check up on competitors. The new Sophie could kick her. Hard. Think, think, he’s waiting!

I could feel my face heating up as I typed in the name of a newspaper from a small town about half an hour away. Oh, thank goodness! It was there. Bit embarrassing though. They were much smaller than us and by the look of it had been on Facebook for a while. I’d have to try and say something negative about their efforts.

‘This one is not quite in our league,” I said, conspiratorially, receiving one or two nods of approval, ‘but it is fairly local.’

The last post by the newspaper was ten days old and there were comments from readers – some of them not particularly nice – which had not been answered. Bingo! Prime example of how not to do it.

‘Once a business enters into the fray of social media, it’s vital to maintain that commitment or customers will lose interest.’ I punched the table to hammer home my passion for the topic.

Totally confident in my pitch now, I began to walk from one side of the projector screen to the other, smiling and making eye contact with each member of the audience.

‘Here is a classic example of how not to do it. They started well, posting new information and pictures every couple of days, responding to readers’ comments, etc. But now it looks like the novelty’s worn off. They’ve made a complete dog’s…’

The Managing Director inserted his little finger up his nose. He began to root about, head on one side, oblivious to my stare.

‘A complete dog’s…’ I repeated, transfixed and thrown off my train of thought.

He pulled his finger out of his nose and examined his quarry with the look of a man who had hit the jackpot and, thankfully, wiped his finger on his handkerchief.

What was I trying to say? My mind had gone completely blank.

‘Dog’s…’ I tried again, racking my brains for the end of the phrase. Something beginning with
b
. Come on! What was happening to me? It was as if my brain had left the building.

Donna gave a huff of exasperation behind me.

‘Bollocks!’ I yelled.

All the eyes in the room stared at me. Several jaws dropped. Donna gasped.

I just swore. I never swear. My first big swear and I’ve done it in the boardroom. Shitbuggerbollocksandfuck. I think I’m going to cry.

Mortified didn’t begin to cover it. My legs had turned to mush and my face was on fire.

The tense silence was broken by the Chairman, who looked at me over the top of his half-moon reading glasses.

‘I think the word you are looking for, young lady,’ he said imperiously, ‘is breakfast.’

‘How could you?’ snapped Donna two minutes later as we made our way back down to our own floor in the lift.

I looked sadly at the button for the top floor. I would never need to press it again.

‘You’ve let me and the entire department down.’

As soon as the lift doors opened, Donna was off. I skulked behind her.

‘You were so busy showing off, wiggling your backside about and grinning like the village idiot, that you lost concentration.’

It was the bogey man’s fault, not mine. The dirty pig. Now my chances of promotion were non-existent. Ironic really, I’d made a right dog’s breakfast of it.

‘Apart from that, though, I thought it went quite well, don’t you?’ I ventured, trying to salvage something from the wreckage that was my career. Donna glared and slammed her office door.

Half an hour later, I was easing a sandwich out of its wrapper when Donna’s door opened briefly.

‘Sophie! In here!’

I sighed. She’d already torn me to shreds over the whole fiasco, couldn’t we all forget about it now?

I stuck my head reluctantly into the lion’s cage.

‘The board was very impressed with our presentation.’

Our
presentation?

‘Apart from the dog’s breakfast element of course. And they would like us to handle a special project to set up social media for the newspaper. Run by you.’

‘You’re taking the Pringle?’ I gasped. My relief that my foray into hardcore swearing appeared to be over was hijacked by the euphoria of Donna’s news.

Donna frowned.

She thinks I’m an imbecile.

‘The MD wants to see a six-month action plan, an idea of any extra budget, and,’ she paused, ‘it goes without saying that
nothing
goes live without my approval.’

‘Understood. Absolutely. Thanks, Donna.’

I hovered at the door. ‘Um.’

She stared back, icily.

‘Do I get a pay rise?’

‘No.’

‘Can we change my job title to Social Media Strategist?’

‘No.’

I skipped back to my desk, with a celebratory air punch.

Step one complete. A promotion! Well, as good as.

I couldn’t wait to get home. My mates would be happy for me, we’d all laugh about the silly nonsense over the inheritance and I’d forgive them for not supporting me. An email to my mum would get me back into her good books. She would be ecstatic and tell all her ex-pat friends about her successful daughter, especially show-off Barbara whose son was one of the top managers at Sainsbury’s.

Tomorrow, I would call Mr Whelan and officially accept the terms of the will. And after that my future awaits!

Back at my desk, I returned to my sandwich and checked my mobile. Missed call from Nick Cromwell. I was popular today. He would have to wait until after work; senior people like me didn’t make personal calls in office hours.

fourteen

I rifled through the post on the shelf and ran up the stairs to the flat.

Stay positive and brazen it out.

Butterflies were performing the cancan in my stomach. I wasn’t sure what sort of reception I was going to get: Emma had stormed off the bus throwing murderous glances my way and Jess wouldn’t be able to resist casting aspersions.

It was a horrible feeling, not having them on my side.

Of course! I could invoke the house rule to get myself off the hook. The rule was that we had to celebrate everything, every triumph, every bit of good news, no matter how small. We kept a supply of cheap Cava in stock for any such occasion.

Promotion to Social Media Strategist called for at least one bottle, if not two. Once we were all a bit merry they would both hug me and say they understood and we would all be friends again.

Feeling braver, I stuck my key in the lock and opened the door. My ears picked up signals like two little satellite dishes: movement in the kitchen; giggling women; the chink of glasses. The celebration was already in progress!

They must have already seen my Facebook update! I darted in to the kitchen and joined them round the table. Emma was easing the plastic stopper out of a second bottle. Second?

‘Hi!’ I beamed.

The smile on both their faces wavered a bit and my heart lurched. Maybe I hadn’t been forgiven. Maybe the bottle hadn’t even been opened on my account.

‘Here,’ said Emma, ‘have a drink. We’re celebrating.’ She thrust a full glass in my hand.

‘Thanks,’ I muttered, forcing a smile.

‘Go on,’ she said to Jess. ‘You first.’

Jess’s cheeks were flushed, and her eyes were shining. ‘We had a school inspection today and I got judged as outstanding! I can’t believe it, babes. You can’t get better than that. Mind you, I thought I’d blown it when I dissected a bull’s eye and two of the kids were sick.’

‘Congratulations!’ I held my glass to the side and hugged her awkwardly with one arm. She was a brilliant teacher, everyone loved her. An asset to any school, our Jess. Little tears of pride pricked at my eyes.

‘But even more exciting than that,’ Jess continued, pulling away, ‘I’ve got a date with a policeman!’ She squealed and bounced on her tiptoes and told me how a drop-dead gorgeous copper had come to school that afternoon to arrest a mother who wouldn’t release a teacher from a half-nelson. Fortunately, the school inspectors had already left by then. The policeman had called back later for her number.

‘And it’s a double celebration. Tell her, Emma.’

‘Well.’ Emma flicked her plait back over her shoulders. ‘I had a call from the Lord Mayor’s office today.’ She paused for effect and I obliged with a gasp.

‘I’ve been commissioned to make a commemorative silver platter to go in the Council House!’

I flung my arms round her and we rocked from side to side as I hugged her tight. Emma’s business had been struggling for a while. I knew the jewellery side had suffered in the recession and there had been less bespoke commissions in the last year too. This was just what she needed and I was so happy for her. I was also in need of a hug myself, so kept it going as long as I could.

Jess topped up her glass and moved towards the door. The party was nearly over.

Here goes. Please be my friends again. I hate these awkward moments.

‘Actually, it’s a hat trick on the celebration front.’ I laughed self-consciously. My news didn’t seem so exciting by comparison, but it was all I had.

My two closest friends exchanged loaded glances.

I hurriedly told them about my promotion and then had to explain what Social Media Strategist meant.

‘You’re going to go on Facebook and Twitter?’

‘For a job?’

They looked at each other and burst out laughing.

‘Yes!’ I nodded, trying to laugh along with them.

Crushed wasn’t the word.

I excused myself from the kitchen and escaped to my room.

An hour later, I was still there, sitting on my bed, hoping for a reply from Mum. Finally, a ping alerted me to an email in my inbox.

I had laboured over my message to her, wanting to express the honour of being called to the boardroom, the pressure of the deadline, how impressed the directors had been and the subsequent bestowing of honours. I didn’t dwell on the will situation; in fact I hadn’t mentioned it at all. I was a wimp. Guilty as charged.

But at least she had emailed me back. I clicked on the message eagerly.

I read her response. Three words, not
the
three words, these three words: ‘
Good for you
.’

Not even a
‘love Mum’
, no kisses, nothing.

I read it out loud. Adding an exclamation mark at the end made it sound like a cheer. An upbeat message of praise. Lowering my voice on the
you
had a much more sarcastic ring to it.
Ooh big deal, whoopy-doo, good for you.

The day had come full circle; I was as miserable now as I was when I’d arrived at my desk this morning. I was an outcast in my own home and practically an orphan. The Cava had given me a dull ache in my right temple and I was hungry. A pick-me-up was called for.

I turned my mobile over and over in my hands, feeling its weight, the cool glass and the silicone cover.

One text to Marc. For old times sake. Nice and low key, no ulterior motive. I could tell him about my promotion (by now I’d said it so many times, I believed it myself); that might give him something to think about.

My thumbs flew over the touchscreen keypad.

Hey, hope all is well with you? Big promotion at work today! So all in all, things are going well. Take care Sophie x

The
all in all
was a tactical move. I was ashamed to admit it, but I wanted him to speculate as to whether I had chosen to accept the inheritance or not. I pressed send.

The phone vibrated less than a minute later. It was him! He’d replied!

Good for you!
I could have wept at that exclamation mark
. I’m at a loose end, I’ll drop by. Got any food?

I would have preferred:
I’m tied up, but I’ll drop everything for a chance to spend some time with you
.

Who cares! He’s on his way over and I’m not bothered what Emma has to say about it.

On second thoughts, the atmosphere in the flat was a little tense. Maybe it would be better if we went out? I tugged a comb through my curls, changed from work dress into a pair of jeans and re-applied my mascara. In fact, it would be less complicated if I waited downstairs. I grabbed my coat and sneaked out.

An electric blue Subaru shimmered into view, complete with a rumbling exhaust pipe or two. Marc pulled up to the kerb, his window wound down and his powerful forearm resting casually on the frame.

‘And there was me, hoping to catch you in your towel again,’ he smirked.

Boom, boom, boom! Is that my heart? I sent him a text and he answered!

My mouth was actually watering and I knew my face was wearing a ridiculous grin. In his tight jeans and t-shirt, he was a feast for my eyes.