Love on the Rocks (2 page)

Milo looked pleadingly at Lisa.

‘Lisa . . .’

‘No way.’

Milo took her by the elbow and led her out of earshot, speaking sotto voce.

‘I’ll make it up to you. I can’t afford to lose this sale.’

‘I’m sorry, Milo.’

‘Please, Lisa. I can make the best part of fifteen grand. Just apologize.’

‘You can’t be serious.’

‘Oh yes I can.’

‘You’re expecting me to grovel to that patronizing, lecherous lowlife?’

Milo swallowed. ‘Yes.’

Lisa took a deep breath in. The situation encapsulated everything she hated about her job. The bullshit, the posturing, the egos. The fact that money was the driving force, that all morals were jeopardized in its pursuit. That Milo, who she’d done shows for on and off for nearly ten years, cared more about his profit margins than her feelings. Yes, she could have swallowed her pride and apologized. But she would have felt degraded and belittled and worthless – even though Milo would have bunged her a couple of hundred quid as a sop.

Lisa decided that she was worth more than that. She shook her head defiantly, her curls springing loose from their ponytail.

‘I’m off.’

‘You can’t just leave.’

‘I can.’

‘You won’t work for me again.’

Lisa looked him in the eye.

‘Milo,’ she said gently, ‘I don’t want to.’

Milo blinked once as he debated how to retrieve the situation. Bribing Lisa wasn’t going to work, so he tried a threat.

‘I’ll do you for breach of contract. And loss of business, if I don’t get this sale.’

‘I’ll do you for sexual harassment.’

‘I’ve never laid a finger on you!’

‘Expecting me to wear this uniform is degrading and humiliating. I’m sure a good solicitor would find a case.’

Milo looked shocked.

‘Lisa – I didn’t mean to offend you. I never knew you felt so strongly—’

‘Well, I do. I’m a human being, you know. Not just an impressive cleavage.’

She took off her jacket and threw it at him, well aware that now she was in full view of the entire hall in just her best Rigby & Peller bra and a tiny skirt.

‘There you go. Is that what you want?’

Milo’s mouth was hanging open. Lisa put out her arms and did a twirl for the audience that was gathering round his stand.

‘Happy? Now you’ve got everyone’s attention?’

A flash went off, followed by another, and Lisa struck a Page Three pose to tumultuous applause, then turned on her heel and stalked through the screens at the back of the stand to the tiny cubicle which acted as both changing room and office. With shaking hands she pulled off the red skirt and tugged her jeans and T-shirt back on as quickly as she could.

‘Well, Lisa Jones. I think that’s called making an exhibition of yourself,’ she said to her reflection, before putting on her coat and dashing for the exit.

Twenty minutes later, she flung her parking money at the startled attendant and was out of the car park before the barrier was fully raised. As she drove back down the motorway, her mobile chirruped into life. She pushed the handsfree.

‘Hi.’

‘Lisa. What the hell do you think you’re playing at?’

As she’d expected, it was her agent.

‘I’m sorry, Tony. But I’ve had enough.’

‘You can’t just walk off a job. You’ll never work again. You know what this business is like. I want you to turn your car straight round and get back on that stand.’

‘Not if you paid me a million pounds.’

‘What happened?’

Lisa knew that being ogled by the entire exhibition centre wouldn’t be a good enough reason. She sighed.

‘Nothing. I’ve decided to jack it in, that’s all.’

‘You could have picked a better moment. You could have picked a less important client to do over. Milo Sweet’s one of my best customers. And he’s got the biggest mouth in the West Midlands.’

Lisa felt a momentary pang of guilt. But then she recalled how Tony had strong-armed her into the job against her will in the first place. She wasn’t going to be manipulated any longer.

‘Get one of your other girls to help him forget,’ she said tartly.

‘You won’t get paid.’

‘Of course I won’t. I’m not that stupid.’

‘And you’re off my books. You’re fired.’

Never mind that it was the first time she’d let him down since she started working for him when she was seventeen. Never mind that she had stood in for his less reliable girls time and again, when they hadn’t been able to make it in because they had drunk too much the night before or needed to rush to the chemist for the morning-after pill. She knew that when he’d calmed down he would remember this, that he would be back on the phone pleading with her.

She grinned, revelling in the sweetness of the realization that he needed her more than she needed him.

‘Actually, no, Tony.
You’re
fired.’

She cut him off, turned on the CD player and flipped through the changer until she found her favourite Fleetwood Mac album. The music was of another age, soothing and reassuring. She put her foot down, eager to put as many miles between her and the exhibition centre as possible. On the other side of the motorway she saw an Aston Martin zip effortlessly past all the other vehicles. The driver was obviously on his way to the show, perhaps to choose a replacement for his status symbol. Well, good luck to him. She’d be home by four. Just time to nip into Marks & Sparks for something to eat. Not to mention a bottle of wine to drown her sorrows.

Before she sat down and decided what she was going to do with the rest of her life.

In his office, George Chandler had his head in his hands. He was on speaker phone. The tone in his boss’s voice was not to be argued with.

‘You’re not to make any contact at all. Don’t phone the hospital. Or his wife. We don’t want to make any move that will incur liability.’

‘For heaven’s sake, Richard, that’s totally callous,’ George protested. ‘He’s worked for us for over ten years, and we’re not supposed to show concern?’

‘You’ve got it in one.’

‘You mean the guy might die and I can’t even call his wife? Give her my condolences?’

‘George. You know the score. Lawsuit. Litigation. Liability. It’s the world we live in, I’m afraid. Anyway, you’re going to have enough to deal with. We’ll have the insurance guys swarming all over us before we know it. And Health and Safety. Questions will be asked and it’s your head on the chopping block.’

‘But he wasn’t wearing his safety harness.’

‘That’s not the point. The balcony gave way. Our fault. Or to be more specific, your fault. I’m sorry.’

Richard hung up. George put his head on his desk in despair. He felt sick. What a perfectly hideous situation.

It was George who was responsible for the maintenance of all the commercial buildings his company managed. Colin, currently lying in hospital with severe head injuries, held the contract to clean all their windows. Flouting all the safety guidelines and regulations, he had failed to wear a safety harness while cleaning the windows of a fourth-floor office. He had slipped, fallen and grabbed on to the balcony which, being merely ornamental, had given way. Colin had plunged four storeys on to the concrete below. And George, it seemed, was liable. He should, it turned out, have ensured that every ornamental balcony they owned could take the weight of a falling man.

When he thought about Colin, he wanted to retch. He had three kids, George knew. The stupid man. Why hadn’t he worn his harness? He’d be here now, instead of a bloody mound of broken bones and teeth waiting for a brain scan. Meanwhile, George couldn’t even go down and comfort Colin’s wife in the hospital corridor while she waited for the results, in case he inadvertently admitted liability. It was a mad world.

George rubbed his hands wearily over his face. Then he picked up his jacket from the back of his chair, scooped up his car keys and walked out of the office. It was only half past two, and he had an important meeting scheduled for three, but he didn’t care.

‘Cancel my three o’clock,’ he said to his secretary, with an uncharacteristic lack of warmth. ‘I’m going home.’

‘Don’t you feel well?’ she asked, concerned.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I feel sick. Sick to bloody death of it all.’

Traffic in Bath on a Friday afternoon was notoriously horrendous. Whether people were trying to get in or out of the city, George couldn’t be sure. He only needed to cross from one side to the other, but he had sat in a jam for fifteen minutes now, rather detracting from his dramatic exit as it gave him too much time to reflect on whether he had been wise to flee the office like that. He realized that it was the first time in his life that he had skived. Well, adult life. At university skiving had practically been part of the curriculum. Now, he wasn’t sure how he felt, knowing he’d left chaos in his wake. His absence at this afternoon’s meeting would be a major irritant. Richard would be livid.

But did he care?

On balance, he thought probably not. Over the past few months he had become increasingly overwhelmed by boredom. Disillusionment. Stagnation. After four years in the job, a pattern had set in. He was doing the same things over and over again, following the same old routine. The names and the places might change, but the motivation never differed. The only alteration was the rules and regulations, which became more and more complicated, petty and impossible to work to. Which was why a situation like today had evolved. To George, Colin’s accident and its repercussions summed up his frustration with where he was in life.

The future had once been exciting; the world his oyster. At eighteen, he was brimming with promise, and getting into the school of architecture was widely regarded as a ticket to success. He’d be able to do whatever he wanted. Visions of glittering skylines peppered with the curves of his masterpieces filled his dreams. He imagined iconic museums, headquarters that were the jewels in the crowns of international conglomerates, developments that represented the status of the entrepreneurs whose businesses they housed. He foresaw awards and accolades; respect and awe; waiting lists . . .

Reality was somewhat different. He graduated with an underwhelming second-class degree. The world he had moved into was tough, competitive, and he hadn’t lived up to his original promise. Too much partying, maybe. Together with a lack of ruthlessness. An inability to think laterally and provide the spark of originality needed to make him stand out from the rest.

And so now here he was, not someone whose name was bandied about in hushed, reverent tones, but a salaried hack worrying about disabled access; wrangling with the local council over green-field and brown-field and change of use; bartering with them over low-cost housing and mixed development, which he knew meant pleasing no one. Colin’s accident epitomized how he had found himself repeatedly compromised and unable to follow his heart, penned in by policies and red tape and EEC directives. It was the last straw.

George knew that, on closer analysis, he was being rather a spoilt brat. In most people’s eyes, he would be perceived as successful. His job allowed for quite a few nice lunches, and being dragged round a golf course occasionally. His salary was generous. He found the job easy, if tedious. What was there to moan about?

As he finally made his way past the roadworks that had amplified the Friday traffic jam, and sped up Lansdown Hill, he came to the conclusion that what he wanted was freedom. Freedom to make his own decisions. Creative freedom that wasn’t held in check by the whims of bureaucracy. Where he was going to find that, God only knew. George knew he’d be tempting fate by jumping ship – especially when he didn’t have another ship to jump to. But today’s events highlighted the fact that he owed it to himself to make a decision. Put up and shut up. Or take a risk. And one thing he did know. This was his last chance. He was soon going to be nearer to forty than thirty. Only just, but that made him no spring chicken. If he didn’t make a bid for freedom now, he would be trapped for ever.

By three thirty he had reached his house. Amazingly, there was a parking space not far down the road – one of the benefits of coming home earlier than usual. By the time he got back the spaces were usually taken up and he often had to park two or three streets away. He reversed neatly into the space, knowing that it had probably been vacated by a mother on the school run who would spit tacks when she got back and found it gone.

The house was in a terrace of Georgian houses that were typical of Bath. The street was by no means as grand as the gracious proportions of the Royal Crescent only a few hundred yards away – the most prestigious address in Bath and one George had long aspired to, but that was definitely out of reach. He consoled himself that the houses there were far too large for a single man, and he wouldn’t have wanted a mere flat. He’d bought the house in Northampton Street when he’d moved from Bristol five years ago, and it had been badly in need of some tender loving care. Over the years he had given it just that, restoring it to its former glory, obsessively replacing the period detail but at the same time incorporating mod cons. The project had taken up most of his spare time and a large proportion of his wallet, but now he was safe in the knowledge that he had an immaculately restored home that purchasers would be falling over themselves to buy.

He opened the pale grey-green front door, deactivated the essential CCTV and burglar alarm that was sadly all too necessary, even in supposedly genteel Bath, and made his way through into the kitchen. Sparkling stainless-steel appliances were softened by the lustrous cherrywood of the units, built square and no-nonsense and chunky with outsize bun handles and topped with a high-gloss work surface. He pulled open the refrigerator, took out a bottle of Tiger beer and sat down on a chrome bar-stool at the island, swinging his legs casually as if to convince himself that he was relaxed and off duty. In fact, he was as tense as a piano wire.

He wondered about picking up the phone to Lisa, then remembered she was working at some motor show. It was a pity. He felt like taking off somewhere for the weekend, somewhere he might be able to forget the day’s dreadful events. If he stayed at home he would be waiting for the phone to ring with news. Or he might be tempted to call the hospital, or even sneak in there to see how Colin was. He’d have to be inhuman not to care about the outcome. And what on earth would his wife think? He couldn’t even call her to explain that he couldn’t call her.