Seductive Viennese Whirl (19 page)

"Excuse me. I need these for a meeting."

"Ah, Briony," I say, swallowing rapidly. Her magnified

eyes swim before me. "Sorry, I thought they were for everyone." "Well they're not." "Look, while you're here, I wanted to apologize, for my comments about your clothes. I was out of line."

She gives a wan little smile. "Well, you did upset me, but you were right. I can't represent the agency looking like this," she says, gesturing at her baggy black trousers and Peter Pan collar blouse. "It's just that I don't have a clue where to start."

"Well, what about swapping those glasses for contacts?" "You think?" she says, setting down the plate of pastries. "And maybe you could try wearing your hair up off your face?" "I guess I could. What kind of clothes do you think would suit me?" "Oh, don't ask me, I can't even dress myself." "What do you mean? You always look so well put together." "Me?" I feel all squirmy and embarrassed. "Yes, unlike Eva, you're not a slave to fashion. You have a really unique look." "Well, actually my look is dictated by what I find on the sale rack and what I can squeeze into," I say. "Seriously. I'd appreciate your advice. About clothes." "I'm a bit busy right now. But I'll think about it." I feel kind of flattered to be asked. Maybe this is the start of a whole new career as a fashion consultant. As I turn to go she says, "And I'm sorry I laughed at you when you fell asleep during my talk. It was a bit boring, wasn't it?" That's the understatement of the year. "Maybe a tad." I walk back wondering if I might have misjudged Briony.

Maybe there is a human side to the nerd after all.

Love,

Gherkin

The Canter Agency

28 - 32 Greek Street

London W1 5UJ

England

23 August 2011

Dear Egg

This morning, as I shoehorn myself into the Tube at Camden Town, I'm whacked in the ribs by a man's briefcase. At Kentish Town, a woman forces herself into the overstuffed carriage, snagging my tights with her umbrella spike. Usually, all this would set my blood pressure rocketing sky high, but today, it's as if nothing they can do can touch me. I'm floating about in a bubble, cut off from the filthy platforms, as I hop up the broken escalators and come out the Tube at Leicester Square. I toss 50p to a tramp and give him a grin.

I even saunter past Pret à Manger, not popping in for my customary cappuccino and croissant. I don't need that caffeine buzz today. My creative juices are flowing and I'm ready to get started.

I'm so early today that the only person in the office is Sparky, who is busy pouring her mints into a bowl. She looks as if she's longing to drag me into a conversation, but I just give her a cheery wave and go over to my desk.

I open my briefcase and pull out the chocolate Slim-Fast which I glug down. Who says I don't have the willpower to go on a diet? Today I'm infallible. I pull out some pale blue bonded paper from my briefcase and uncap my pen. I shove piles of papers and junk to one side and settle myself. Sparky crunches into her first mint of the day as I write,

Ms Eva Black

96B Trumble Road

Camden

London NW1 3BX

England

23 August 2011

Alex,

Wow! Your letter was intense, and moving and, yes, of course I understand that even though you're getting Anya professional help you need to be there for her too. I guess it was just a bit of a surprise, finding out you have this caring, serious side. Believe it or not, I have my serious moments too. [That's true insofar as Eva gets a serious expression on her face when she's trying to pick between two shades of red lipstick at Harvey Nicks. But then, Egg, I'm beginning to feel that I'm not writing about Eva any more, I'm writing about me.] I'm not denying that most of my life has been spent hopping from one fling to another, but you know what, I think I'm finally over all that. Due to some recent events that I'll get to, I've realized I'm just a little bit tired of being thought of simply an airhead with great legs. And since I get the impression you think there's a brain in there somewhere, I can't tell you how great that makes me feel. It makes me want to open up, to show you who I really am.

You know the weirdest thing? I can hardly relate to the person I was before I met you, a person who was dating a rich guy called McManus. I had thought it was serious. We were to take that trip to Vienna together, and I was certain he was planning to spring a proposal on me. Except that, as it happens, he wasn't planning to do any springing. Instead, he dumped me before we even left the runway. Kate took his place at the last minute. She was really wonderful. In fact, I don't know what I would have done without her. [Well, there's no harm in a bit of positive PR, is there?] The trip turned out to be just what I needed. Especially after meeting you! I mention McManus only because I was in a meeting with him yesterday (he's a client), when the ugly truth of our relationship suddenly hit me. That I'd been dazzled by his money and status, while he'd just wanted me as arm candy to show off around town. When I made it clear I wanted a serious commitment he promptly dropped me like a red hot poker. [To tell you the truth, I'm not sure exactly why they fell out. Eva's keeping tight lipped about the whole business. She doesn't even slag him off. It's as if he never existed. Is she heartless or just very good at playing her cards close to her chest?] Now I'm left wondering why I let him treat me like that when I'm worth so much more. So, while I was having a bad old time of it when I arrived in Vienna, by the time I hooked up with you I was already on the mend. And I know it's kind of odd, because you're probably loaded, to say that your money doesn't mean a thing to me, but please believe me when I say I'd swap a thousand Tiffany trinkets for the chance to spend another night with you.

Do tell me more about your life at the Schloss. Do you do any partying at all? I can't imagine you not occasionally letting your hair down. You can't imagine how much I'd love to be there with you right now. I've so often wanted to jump on a plane and just jet off to see you. But I tell myself not to be so impetuous. I know we'll see each other again, when the time is right.

All my love,

Eva

I'm just signing off with a flourish when I notice the air's stiff with static electricity. Looking up I find myself temporarily blinded by some pink and orange flowered material. I rub my eyes until I've regained my sight.

"How long have you been standing there?"

It's Sparky, waving a swimsuit.

"What do you think?"

My mind gropes frantically for adjectives. Revolting. Hideous. Disgusting.

"It's lovely."

"I've decided to go to Mykanos after all."

"When?"

"I'm jetting of on the first of September. You know, I've got such a good feeling about this trip. That I'm going to meet someone." Just who does she think she's kidding? She'll spend her evenings alone at the bar, eyes turned longingly toward every man that passes. She's living in cloud cuckoo land, and the sooner she comes back down to earth the better.

While Sparky's gushing on about how she's arranged for her mother to stay at Auntie Ivy's while she's away and how she blew a hundred pounds on clothes, I slip easily into a fantasy, in which Alex chews on a piece of toast, his sister, listless and dead-eyed, beside him. As his butler hands him my letter, his face beams with joy as he hastily rips it open.

"This is the girl," he says, excitedly, "the one I was telling you about." His sister looks at him blankly. "Kate Pickles, the most beautiful girl in the world. The girl I'm going to marry."

And then I see Eva dawdling into the office, dishevelled, her face devoid of makeup. A painful reminder that it's her, not me, that Alex is mad about. And then, as I look at Sparky, who's practically drooling at the prospect of a week's holiday without her mother, I realize something. Sparky and I are in exactly the same boat.

Eva's comes over unsteadily, like a sleepwalker, and slips in the seat beside me.

"Ooh Eva," says Sparky, rushing over. "I've been dying to ask you. You given McManus the brush off or what? Only I was wondering why I haven't taken any calls from him recently. "

Evidently interpreting Eva's silence as a yes Sparky goes on. "Ah well, you young girls can pick and choose. But, what a shame. And him such a gentleman too, such lovely shoulders. If I were twenty years younger." Her lips part and she gives a wistful smile. "What happened?"

For the first time ever I'm pleased to see the Haddock, who's popped her head out of her office and is bellowing, "Sandra!"

"Damn, I think I'm wanted," says Sparky, hurrying off.

Eva slurps at her cappuccino. "Nosy old bag."

"Never mind her. I've just finished a letter to Alex."

While the office cranks into life, with monitors being switched on and voicemails played back, Eva sinks her head onto her arms, which are nestled in the trash on her desk. She closes her eyes.

Reluctantly pulling herself up, she pulls her emergency make up bag out from her drawer and begins to fix her face. "I don't know what's wrong with me. I can't seem to get to sleep until four in the morning. Then I end up oversleeping."

"The letter. Do you want to read it?"

She gives her hair a few quick brushes. "I'm sure it's wonderful. You know I don't have a clue about these things. I mean, I don't think I'd even be able to tell if it was good or bad."

"But he's your boyfriend," I cry indignantly. "You do want me to write to him, don't you?" I realize I'm getting very worked up and that the Haddock is standing by Eva's desk.

"Oh, for goodness sake, just send it off," Eva says, thrusting a folder into her briefcase.

"Anything wrong?" says the Haddock to Eva. "You've prepared the figures for the pitch?"

Eva nods and follows the Haddock out of the office. They're chatting amiably, as if they were the best of friends. Suddenly I wonder if I know Eva at all.

For a moment I'm tempted, tempted to tear up the letter. Forget about the whole stupid thing. I mean, if Eva doesn't appreciate what I'm doing for her, then why go on? But then I see his face from my fantasy again, pleasure spreading over his face as he reads my letter, and I know that I have to take it up to the mailroom.

When I get there Ricky's got his back to me and is sorting mail. I stand in the doorway, watching him shake his booty to some techno music blaring from a CD player. I want to hate him, I really do, but seeing his butt twitch from side to side in perfect time to the beat gets me unexpectedly worked up. I'm wondering whether it's true, that if a guy is a good dancer he's also good in the sack. Since Ricky and I never got beyond the fumbling stage, I never got to find out.

"Don't you know it's wrong to spy on people?" he says, turning round and pulling up his baggy jeans.

"If this doesn't get to its correct destination I'll report you to Miss Craddock," I say, handing him the letter.

"If I could personally deliver it, believe me madam, I would," he sneers.

I'm about to ask for the letter back, but he's already shoved it in his franking machine and thrown it into one of the sacks. I'll just have to pray it gets to its destination.

"Is there anything else?" he says, cocking an eyebrow and looking so sexy I really want to grab him. Frustrated that I can't act on the impulse I cross my arms across my chest and go up to him.

"Yes there is, as a matter of fact. I'm getting pretty sick of you acting like a jerk the whole time. We're going to have to work together so …"

Ricky's dancing over to the CD player. He turns up the volume, drowning out what I'm saying and shouts, "Sorry, can't hear a thing over this music."

What a wanker. I go off in a huff and am about to get a Twix bar from the machine when I remember I'm on a diet. It's times like this I wished I smoked, I think, walking past the smoking room where everyone's blissfully puffing on their cancer sticks. The chocolate craving is still there but I suppress it as best I can and go make myself some herb tea. There must be a halo over my head as I carry it back to my desk, proclaiming the new Kate, healthful and virtuous. I feel great, until I take a sip of the tea, which tastes like squashed bugs, and yes, as you may recall, I do know what they taste like. When I was eight all the kids on our street bet I couldn't eat a squashed bug sandwich. The thought of doing it grossed me out, but I thought it would make me more popular, so I wolfed it down. It did make me more popular. For about a day.

Here comes Briony, swamped in a charcoal grey suit, several sizes too big. It looks like something you might dress your grandfather up in. Before you laid him out in his coffin. I'm about to ask her which consignment store she bought it from when I remember I'm being a saint today.

"Your hair looks good like that," I say. She's got it up in a ponytail. "And I've been thinking about what kind of look you should go for. I reckon you should try wearing clothes that are contoured to your body. I mean, you're tall and thin, I'm sure you could carry it off."

"Contoured?"

She's standing behind me peering at my monitor, on which I've just started typing some copy. I wonder what she can see, because she's not got her glasses on. But when I look closer I realize she's wearing contacts.

"Tight tops and skirts. Not skin tight of course, just fitted."

"Mmm," she says, still fascinated by my monitor. "Maybe. Working on anything interesting?"

"Not really, I have to finish this ad for Easyglide Razors."

"Need any help?"

"No, thanks," I say and start typing at my keyboard. Unexpectedly, the words come easily. I've finished by one, and decide to go out for a spot of lunch. Although I'm starving I go to Boots, and instead of raiding the chocolate bar shelf I content myself with a prawn salad. I get back feeling insanely virtuous, and dizzy with hunger. Eva's sitting at her desk staring ahead at nothing when the Haddock marches up to me.