Crazygirl Falls in Love (12 page)

He Who Shall Not Be Named hasn’t taken his eyes off me. I can
see him from the corner of my eye, but I refuse to return his gaze.
My attention, and that of everyone else in the room besides my
ex’s, is locked firmly on Sarah, who has always had such a
commanding stage presence,

“Gentlemen, thank you for meeting with us today. For those of
you who don’t know me, I’m Sarah Daye and I will be the signing
partner for the transaction. We have printed copies of the agenda
for your convenience and as you can see it is tight. I’m conscious
that you all have day jobs to go back to, so we will keep this to
under an hour. This is Sam Grabowski and to my left is Penelope
Jones, your senior associates and go-to guys. Before we discuss the
nitty gritty of the deal, let’s go over the overarching objectives.
You intend on selling your offices in Central Grand, is that
correct?”

The old dude, who I read from the agenda is
the Development Manager, responds, but I’m not listening. I’m using
every ounce of energy I can sap from this morning’s breakfast (four
slices of Marmite toast and six coffees) to avoid
his
glance. I can feel
his beady little eyes on me. Under the table, my knuckles are going
white from squeezing the edge of my seat.

Half an hour in and I’m thinking things might work out after
all. Sarah is captaining the ship and I’m keeping as low a profile
as possible. I’m also slightly arching my neck to the left, because
to my right is the Development Manager had begun to reek of gin and
Marlboroughs. I guess he’s started to sweat through his shirt,
seeing as the room is rather warm. He’s a curious looking fellow,
this smelly old man. With only a few grey hairs left around his
temples and a sharp, small, pointed beard, he looks like a chubster
Lenin.

Just as I begin to relax, He Who Shall Not
Be Named pulls a bag out from under the table and I see it’s his
laptop case.
The
laptop. The blood drains from my face.
How does he still have that thing? How did it not
break?

His laptop starts making loud pinging noises as it loads, all
of its lights flashing flamboyantly. Sarah stops mid-sentence and
stares at my ex disapprovingly. No one is allowed to interrupt her
when she is on a roll, not even a client. Her glare could burn a
hole right through that poor little Apple logo.

“Sorry, my laptop has been playing up for a few months, it’ll
settle down in a moment,” he apologises.

“Quite alright,” Angrypants replies, with as much conviction
as a washed up actress endorsing the youth restoring powers of
home-brand moisturiser.

I watch He Who Shall Not Be Named start
typing on
that
keyboard and my body starts giving off small, involuntary
shudders. I should never have done it.

OId Man Smelly addresses myself and Stalker,

“When do you anticipate signing?”

Stalker replies that it’s not an election year, government
approval is a shoe-in and Lloyds and the potential buyers are in
reasonably strong financial positions. Barring unforeseen
circumstances few delays are anticipated, ergo (he’s taken a leaf
out of Sarah’s ergo-and-other-wanker-buzzword dictionary), the deal
will be complete in twelve weeks. He sounds confident and
knowledgeable. If only they knew about the head slamming
incident.

The Lloyds men nod their heads in approval and Sarah looks
pleased. But just as she is about to close, He Who Shall Not Be
Named turns to me,

“Miss Jones, have you had much experience in transactional
work?”

You know I do you moron, we lived together
for two years
.

“Yes, I’ve been in Real Estate law for five years, seven if
you include my years as a clerk in Melbourne.”

“And you understand the confidential nature of this
sale?”

“Of course.”

Where is he going with this?

“You will not be able to discuss this sale to anyone, not even
your partner.”

That won’t be a problem, my last partner
turned out to be an asshole parasite nimrod, so I’m very much
single
. Actually wait, I take that back.
Calling him a parasite would be injurious and offensive to the
millions of honest parasitic species out there.

“I understand,” I assert, more forcefully this
time.

He What Shall Not Be Named has nothing to add, but the
Development Manager turns to Angrypants to continue the line of
questioning,

“Can we be frank Ms Daye? We are a tad concerned regarding the
manning of your team.”

He looks around the table. The young Lloyds kid and my ex nod
their approval.

“Why is that?” Sarah asks, worry lines etching themselves into
her forehead.

“One of the lawyers on your team is known for her habit of
sharing client secrets during, how should I put this, ‘pillow
talk’. You can see how this might raise some concerns for
us.”

The Development Manager is looking at Sarah,
Sarah is looking at him, but the rest of the room move their eyes
to me. I blush a deep crimson whilst clenching my fists ever more
tightly under the table. I am mortified, and furious. I’ve never
broken a client’s confidentiality in my life! He Who Shall Not Be
Named has an amused smile on his face, and it dawns on me.
It’s him. He’s been telling them I’m a pillow
talker
. I’m paralysed with anger. My eyes
see red, I’m so angry. My teeth grit, I’m so
angry.

How
dare
he? After all the information he used to ‘acquire’
from his old employer (without the employer’s knowledge, which I
call stealing) which could only be described as misappropriation,
he has the
gall
to
make up a story like this? I desperately want to stand up and point
a finger back at him, tell the room that
he
is the untrustworthy one, that if
someone is going to leak this, it’ll be
him
.

Stunned and furious by the nasty turn of events, I have no
idea of how best to defend myself, so I stay quiet. To the people
in the room, my silence is as good as an admission of guilt. Sarah
remains cool as a cucumber,

“I assure you our lawyers are of the best repute and uphold
the highest professional standards. There is no need for
concern.”

***

Back in the taxi Angrypants is not happy. And the feeling is
entirely mutual.

“What the hell happened in there Jonesy? You were about as
useful as a chocolate teapot.”

I’m so livid with her I can barely control my shaking voice.
Angrypants met He Who Shall Not Be Named before he called off the
engagement. And she knew he would be there today.

“You knew. You knew
he
would be at that meeting. Why
didn’t you warn me?”

Her eyes widen, then narrow again, then close tightly shut.
Her forehead screws up like overused chamois leather and she
starts rubbing her temples with her fingertips. She’s obviously
controlling an outburst. When she speaks her voice is frighteningly
controlled,

“Do you mean to tell me that you didn’t read the
agenda?”

Uh oh.

“I… You see, I was swamped with Tesco this morning,
and...”

I stop when I see my boss rubbing her temples more violently
than I’ve ever seen her do before. I say no more. My anger does a
swift U-turn to be firmly directed onto myself. Because Sarah is
right. She is one hundred per cent bloody right.

She continues in that eerily calm tone,

“Jonesy, when are you going to learn that working nights and
weekends is part of the deal in the Magic Circle? You think you can
have a great social life and still get to work at one of the most
prestigious law firms in the world?”

I want to remind her that I already work
from home on Saturdays but I stay silent. She wants us to be
working Saturdays
and
Sundays, like she does. It’s a miracle she’s found time to get
married this weekend.

“Sarah, I can’t stay on the Lloyds job, you’ll have to find
someone else. There is a clear conflict of interest.”

“The hell you can’t, there’s no one spare in the team to go
around.”

Maybe that’s because you’re the most
abusive, awful boss imaginable and most people don’t last two
months working in your lousy team
.

She takes my silence as a begrudging acceptance of my fate.
The rest of the taxi ride is weird, the three of us sit in an
awkward silence, staring out our respective windows. Stalker
probably doesn’t know what to make of all this drama. When we reach
the office Sarah orders us out of the taxi and heads off to another
meeting.

Sam and I walk into the building together, the silence heavy
between us. I’m shell shocked from the events of this afternoon and
feel like taking a long, hot bath, followed by a sleep that lasts a
hundred years. Alas, Schmermesco’s file is waiting for me on my
desk.

I want to cry.

“You okay, dog?” Sam asks gently, trying to place an arm
around my shoulders as we approach the lifts.

I step aside and leave him hanging. I don’t want anyone
touching me, let alone him.

“I’m fine,” I say through gritted teeth.

I walk faster, trying to lose Stalker, but
he just speeds up. Blast his stalkery ways. We enter a waiting
elevator and I press the 12
^th
floor.

“So yo, the Commercial Manager, was he your ex or something?”
Sam ventures.

My shoulders slump. I feel broken, and about a second away
from bursting into tears, which I never do. Dad always told us
crying was for the weak. I tell Stalker that I’ll explain later,
then literally run out of the lift as soon as it reaches our floor.
I’m reminded that sprinting in heels is not a good idea as blisters
immediately form on my toes, but it’s worth it because I find
solitude in the toilets. I force back the tears and eventually
start feeling better in the quiet sanctuary of the loo. After
regaining a bit of composure I make a plan to leave the bathroom
and race to my desk, where I’ll remain for the rest of the
day.

But as I walk out from the bathrooms my mood turns from
depression to agitation. Stalker is prowling the hallway, looking
for me.

“There you are! I’ve been looking for you. Can I make you a
cup of tea? Lady Grey, right?”

He walks with me to the kitchen and we sit down at the
sterile, white tables.

I’m annoyed and reluctant at first, but over a steaming hot
mug of brew I end up telling him the story of The Really Awful
Breakup. When I finish he says that he can’t imagine a guy acting
that way. I shrug my shoulders and tell him it’s standard. Men have
treated me and some of the most beautiful women I know (Emma, Mags
and Chloe) worse than you’d treat a lump of dog shit stuck to the
bottom of your shoe.

When I mention Mags his eyes light up,

“Can I throw something on you dog, see if it feels
good?”

“Umm... no?”

He laughs,

“What I mean is, can I run an idea past you?”

Oh.

“Sure, shoot.”

“I can take the Lloyds job so you don’t have to see your ex
again. I’ll take the calls, respond to every email, go to the
meetings, you dig? You can help me with the lease reviews and
writing the report, but that’s it. Whadya reckon?”

“Really?” I’m suspicious.
What’s in it for him?

“Sure,” he replies, “a friend in need and all that, plus it’s
not like I have a huge amount on my plate. But there’s a
catch.”

“If you’re thinking sexual blackmail, talk to the hand,” I
joke, lifting my palm and smiling. It’s my first genuine smile of
the day. It feels good.

“C’mon, how desperate do you think I am?”

Pretty desperate
.

“It’s about your friend Mags. We hung out on Saturday and I
thought it we had fun, but she hasn’t returned my messages. Do you
know what’s up?”

Your teeth.

“I, uh, don’t remember her saying anything...”

“Help me with her and I’ll do the Lloyds job myself, no
questions asked.”

My immediate reaction is to say no. First, I’m almost certain
he’s a male slimeball, and why would I go double agent to help the
enemy? Second, I can’t very well force Mags to date someone who
repulses her whenever his toothy mouth approaches. Even if I did
manage to convince her to see him again, it would be entirely under
her duress, and Mags is too nice to be placed in such a
position.

Besides, the whole ‘set your friends up’
thing always turns into a train wreck catastrophe of epic
proportions. I’ve been there. You set two of your mates up. One
likes the other, but the other doesn’t feel the same way. One ends
up feeling rejected (
Why didn’t they want
to see me again? What, am I ugly or something?
), the other insulted
(“You really
thought he/she was good enough for me? What, am I ugly or
something?
). So the setter-upperer (me)
invariably gets a bollocking from both parties. Worst case scenario
both friends never want to speak to you again. Best case scenario
you’ve sabotaged what had been two perfectly happy, healthy
friendships, and are forced to undertake outrageously expensive
damage control (“I just bought two tickets to Euro Disney, want to
come? My treat!”) just to erase the shame and guilt you feel for
having set them up in the first place.