Swan (9 page)

The waiter came back with a chilled bottle of
Truffle Chardonnay, which I assumed was on the house. Then for starters we had
Beignets de Crabe (crab cakes in chilli and coriander jam) and Champignons de
Paris (baked mushrooms in garlic sauce). For mains, David had Sole-Limande
(lemon sole with potatoes), and I had Boeuf Bourguignon (beef braised in red
wine). The food was absolutely scrumptious and, never one to shy away from a
good meal, I launched a savage assault on my plate.

Every now and then, I’d catch David scrutinising me,
like he was enjoying the spectacle of watching me eat.

‘What?’ I asked through a mouthful of beef. ‘Why do
you keep looking at me?’

‘I just like watching you. I like a woman with a
healthy appetite. All the women I’ve dated in the past ... well, let’s just say
they haven’t had a very good relationship with food.’

Ah, his other women. This was a conversation I
didn’t really want to have. I felt a sudden twinge of jealously. But why? I
barely knew the man. It was far too early for me to be forming this sort of
attachment. I shook my head clear. Get a grip, I told myself. Taking another
sip of wine, I picked moodily at my salad.

David sensed my irritation. ‘So, what was your
favourite part of the film?’ he asked, changing the subject.

I brightened up immediately. ‘The bit when Chet got
to Versailles and found that his suitcase was missing.’

‘Yeah, that was pretty funny, wasn’t it?’

‘It was such a great film,’ I enthused, ‘I could
definitely see it again.’

‘Really?’

‘Absolutely.’ I chose my next words carefully. ‘I’m
a massive fan of Chet Vincent. Always have been. I don’t know if you noticed
that all my DVDs at home were his.’

‘Actually I hadn’t,’ David grinned.

I looked at him wryly. ‘Ever since I was a kid, I’ve
loved his movies. It’s not going to be the same without him.’ My voice broke a
little. I focused back on my plate. That was enough for now. I didn’t want to
scare David off with too many gushing appraisals of Chet.

He stared at me for a long time. I could feel his
eyes on me, watching me. I wondered what he was thinking.

Then he returned to eating his food. I glanced shyly
up at him, studied his features. David certainly wasn’t conventionally
good-looking, but he had
something
.
Magnetism, a charisma that I found irresistible.

‘So Madeline, you say you’re a scriptwriter. Are you
working on anything at the moment?’

‘No, I haven’t really had the time. Been so busy
with work and stuff.’

‘Okay, so what about your last script? What was it
about? Give me a brief summary.’

I suddenly went all coy. ‘Er, it’s called
Jane Bloggs
.’

‘Intriguing title. Tell me more.’

‘Well, basically it’s about a woman called Jane
who’s sick of her life – she’s horribly obese and stuck in a boring job.
Then she meets the guy of her dreams. Things go well for a while, then the man
dumps her for a slimmer, prettier girl. Jane has a nervous breakdown and goes
on a rampage in West End. She holds up a bank, confronts a mugger ...’

‘Okay, so this is kind of like a female version of
Michael Douglas’s
Falling Down
?’

‘Exactly! I’m so glad you picked up on that.’

‘What happens at the end?’

‘She kills everybody and throws herself under a
train.’

‘Oh.’

There was a long silence, during which David
appeared to be weighing up if I was joking or not. Then he burst out laughing
– that dirty Kenneth Williams laugh I loved so much. ‘Well, it’s
certainly a very brave ending, I’ll give you that. Not very Hollywood.’

‘Oh no, this would never be a Hollywood film. More
of an Indie picture. I’m into realism, not all that studio fluff.’

‘Meaning that happy endings don’t happen?’

I shrugged. ‘Not necessarily. I just find that life
rarely ever imitates art.’

‘I suppose not,’ he said quietly.

I scraped the last remnants of gravy off my plate.
David called for the bill. When it arrived, he snatched it away before I got a
look at it. He gave it a disinterested glance, smiled, and then took out his
wallet. For a second, he went really quiet. Then he wiped the corners of his
mouth and looked up at me with a sickly grin.

‘Er, I’m sorry, but I don’t appear to have enough
cash on me to pay for this.’

‘Oh,’ I said despondently.

‘And I’m afraid I’ve left my card at home too.
Sorry, I feel like such an arse.’

‘No problem. Don’t worry; it’s happened to me loads
of times.’ I took the bill (forty-seven pounds), and settled it with my
MasterCard.

Then we got up to leave.

David was extremely apologetic as we walked home. He
took my arm, gripped me close to him, like I was some kind of precious jewel.
The city lights twinkled in the darkness, making beautiful coloured ripples in
the water as we passed. Everything looked so romantic, so serene, like those
postcards they sell in Leicester Square.

‘I feel so bad about this,’ he mumbled, ‘will you
ever forgive me?’

I told him that there was nothing to forgive
reassured him that everything was fine, and refused point-blank for him to
reimburse me. Secretly, however, I was hoping my graciousness would secure me
at least a goodnight kiss or even better, a heated fumble on my sofa. I was in
an amorous mood and up for anything carnal David might suggest.

When we got home, I invited him in for a coffee.

‘I’d love to, but I can’t. I’ve got to be up early
tomorrow for a shoot. But thanks all the same, and thanks for a lovely evening.
We should do it again sometime.’

And then he disappeared into his flat. No hug, no
kiss, no nothing.

I was gutted.

I switched on the kitchen light, dropped my bag
wearily on the table. My mood had blackened considerably. Had David genuinely
left his money at home or had he planned this ruse from the start? Perhaps he
didn’t like me all that much. Perhaps he’d only come to the cinema out of a
sense of duty. Had I been too forward and scared him off? Had he read hidden
meaning in my terrible
Jane Bloggs
synopsis and decided that it was a thinly veiled account of my own life story?
Why hadn’t he accepted my invitation for coffee? Suddenly, all of my old
insecurities came flooding back, and I went to bed miserable.

Chapter Seven

I opened the microwave and took out my Weetabix. It
was sweet and slushy, just the way I liked it. I closed the microwave door and
walked across the staffroom to my usual corner. At the adjacent table, Margery
and Caroline were huddled together like the witches from
Macbeth
. As I ate, I overheard snippets of their conversation:
‘Can you believe it? She’s a real dark horse. She kept that very quiet, didn’t
she?’

‘Yes,’ Caroline replied in a scandalised voice, ‘but
it’s always the quiet ones that surprise you, isn’t it?’

I wondered who they were talking about.

Sabina entered the room with a face like thunder and
made a beeline for Margery to complete their ghastly trio. ‘I can’t believe it,
I just can’t believe it. I’m so pissed off. This doesn’t make any sense. How
the hell could she have got it?’

‘I know, pet, I know,’ Margery tutted. ‘But that’s
why I didn’t bother applying. They never give jobs to the people who deserve
it. It’s not what you know – it’s who you know. Let them stuff their
job.’

My ears pricked up at this. Now I gathered that they
were talking about the person who had been appointed to the new management
post.

My body tensed. They couldn’t be talking about me,
could they? Angela had promised to let everyone know by today, but as I hadn’t
checked my emails, I wasn’t yet in the know.

For a second, I dared to hope.

Then Alice came in carrying a plastic bowl of
instant porridge oats. Without looking at anyone, she made for the fridge, took
out a pint of milk and stirred it with the cereal. Then she put her smoothly
blended mixture into the microwave. Never looked at us once, like a woman with
a shadowy secret.

Margery traded frosty glances with the others. Then,
as soon as Alice was gone, Sabina said in a loud whisper, ‘How the heck did she
get the management post? I mean, she a temp for Christ’s sake, only been here
five minutes. What experience has she got?’

‘Well,’ Caroline replied, ‘I heard she was an
assistant manager at Topshop so maybe that helped.’

‘Yes, but it’s not the same as managing an office of
forty people, is it?’ Margery said darkly. ‘I’m telling you; she probably
shagged William or something. There were much stronger candidates than her.
There’s no way that kid got the job legit.’

I almost spat out my Weetabix. Alice got the job?
Quiet, timid little Alice? Alice who came in late everyday and barely raised
her voice above a whisper. Alice who couldn’t handle rowdy customers, who burst
into tears at the slightest provocation.

That last spoonful of weetabix was particularly hard
for me to swallow. Yet somehow, as the initial shock subsided, I found that I
didn’t feel as resentful as the others. I had always had a little soft spot for
Alice. Perhaps it was because I had taken her under my wing when she first
started. It wasn’t fair of the others to be so bitchy, I decided. True, she was
inexperienced, but who were we to judge her suitability for the job? She might
have been just what Angela Towner was looking for – a yes person. And
Alice Graham had ‘yes Madame’ written all over her.

I picked up my bowl and took it to the sink, turned
on the hot tap and washed it slowly, methodically, thinking about what had just
happened. When I got to my desk, I checked my emails and found one from Angela.
It was very nice, very carefully worded, but the message was still the same
– I didn’t get the job. Despite putting on brave face, deep down I’ll
admit I was hurt. Rejection of any kind is never easy to take, and this in
conjunction with David’s rebuff, made me feel pretty low.

I clipped on my headset and logged into the system.
‘Good morning, Parking Services, how can I help?’

‘Hello, is that the council?’ The woman sounded
frail, agitated.

‘Yes, it is,’ I replied.

‘I tell you what love; you’ve got to get someone
down here right away. There’s a Triffid in my garden.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘There’s a Triffid in my garden. Two nights ago,
this enormous bush appeared and now, every morning when I wake up, it keeps
getting closer and closer to my window. I’m telling you, love, I’m at my wits’
end. What’s going to happen when it gets into my bedroom? It’s going to
strangle me. You’ve got to get someone down here right away!’

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. ‘Madame, are
you saying there’s a Triffid, as in an alien plant, in your garden?’

‘Yes! That’s right. A Triffid.’

I rolled my eyes, unclipped my headphones and sought
advice from Jaiman. He was buried as usual in his pile of Excel
[E5]
 
spreadsheets. Without looking up, he muttered, ‘Yes, what is it Maddy?’

‘This woman says there’s a Triffid in her garden.’

‘A what?’

‘A Triffid.’

‘What the heck’s that?’

‘An alien plant from a 1950s Science Fiction movie.’

Jaiman didn’t bat an eyelid. ‘Isn’t that an issue
for the trees department to deal with? It’s not even a parking enquiry. I’m so
sick of the public calling us for everything. Just send it through on a
complaints form to trees.’

I struggled to retain my composure. ‘But Jaiman, the
woman said it’s a Triffid. Isn’t that a bit crazy?’

‘If that’s what she says it is, then who are we to
judge? The customer is always right. Take the complaint and transfer it to
trees.’

And that was the end of it. As I slunk back to my
desk, I could still hear Jaiman muttering about the unfairness of it all. Never
mind that we were now taking complaints about extraterrestrials. If I weren’t
in such a foul mood, it would have been hilarious.

At lunch, Beth phoned me to talk about the
arrangements for Phil’s birthday party.

‘Darling, I don’t know what to cook. It’s a toss up
between monkfish and roast lamb. What do you think?’

‘Er, I’m not sure ...’

‘Phil says I should do my signature dish – the
lamb. But I’m dying to go all exotic and try the fish. There’s this wonderful
Gordon Ramsey recipe I found and - ’

As she continued to yap, my mind drifted back to
another of Beth’s kitchen ‘experiments’, when she had attempted to cook wild
mushroom risotto. The finer details of that particular nightmare escape me, but
suffice to say it was one of the most horrendous pieces of muck I’ve ever
tasted. The only saving grace was that after we’d all finished throwing up,
Beth admitted that she hadn’t used real wild mushrooms – she’d got them
from Waitrose. Thank God for that. If she’d gone for the real deal, we would,
in all probability, have been dead.