Talk to Me (12 page)

Barney’s City friends weren’t my cup of tea but Ned’s chippy attitude made me cringe.

‘This guy wasn’t in a suit. He was ordinary. Small, dark, a little bit like Tom Cruise, although without the glow-in-the-dark teeth.’

‘Really? He looked like that and he was on a speed-date?’

‘I said a little – we’re talking fractions.’ I held up a thumb and finger. ‘He took a shine to my friend Emily. Emailed her a couple of times but she wasn’t interested.’

‘I thought the deal was that you only got paired up if you both ticked boxes.’

Not if you’re related to Barney, I thought, taking great interest in a chip on the base of my glass.

‘Administrative error,’ I said tightly. ‘Emily kept getting emails from this guy. Then he turned nasty.’ I explained about the day of the screen saver and the coincidental timing of the brick through my window.

‘Sorry.’ Ned frowned and shook his head. ‘I don’t buy that coincidence stuff. It doesn’t sound right to me. Let’s face it. He’s a nutter.’

‘Nooo,’ I said, pulling a face. This wasn’t the response I wanted. He was supposed to be on the side of reason and scepticism. Allay my fears, not make them worse. I stared at him, the wine in my stomach rolling uncomfortably.

‘Yeah! No matter how pissed off you are – a normal bloke does not blag his way into an office. Let alone start leaving messages on computers. That’s psycho territory. You need to tell someone.’

‘Do you think so?’ I asked in a small voice.

‘See that,’ he pointed to the bandages on my arm. ‘Don’t take any more chances. I’d punch the bastard just for the screen saver. If he chucked that brick, you want to make frigging sure he’s not going to do anything else.’

‘But what if wasn’t him?’

He gave an exasperated tut and rolled his eyes. ‘And what if it was him? He knows where you live.’

Fear iced down my spine, the hairs on my arm rising. Ned’s cold, clear male logic made my stomach contract.

‘Do you think I should go to the police?’ I asked.

‘Yes. You want another drink?’

Obviously we’d covered that topic, it was time to move on.

Halfway into my second glass of wine I asked him what had made him go on a speed-date.

He looked sheepish. ‘It was sort of … a challenge. We were down the Nag’s Head. Me and my mates, Graham and Midge.’

I got the impression he spent a lot of time there.

‘We were moaning that none of us had had a sh … girlfriend for ages. My mate, Gram, decided we needed to do something about it. We each had to choose a different method.’

‘Choose?’

He smiled weakly. ‘We wrote on beer mats different ways of finding a bird – I mean girlfriend – then had to pick one out of the hat. Gram got online-dating. I got speed-dating and Midge had to go to a bar to try to pull someone.’

‘Right – and who’s winning?’ I asked, and immediately wished I hadn’t. ‘Sorry, that’s a bit of a leading question, ignore that.’

He looked at me and shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’m the only one who’s managed to get a date so far. Why d’you go? You seem well … quite good-looking …’ He blushed toying with his empty pint glass, ‘and pretty normal.’

‘What and you’re not normal?’ I asked laughing, trying to keep things light, pleased at the ‘good-looking’ bit. He was still fiddling with the empty glass so I asked, ‘Would you like another drink?’

He looked at his watch and almost squirmed in his seat. ‘Erm, wouldn’t mind but not here. Thing is. There’s a match on. Big one. Starts soon and the screen here’s broken. Do you fancy going somewhere else?’

I paused for a second, football was not my thing.

‘To be honest, I might head off. My arm’s not feeling too good; I’m between painkillers at the moment.’

His jacket was on before I drained my glass. I caught him checking his watch again.

‘Big match is it?’

He rubbed at a bald patch on his cords, a faint flush colouring his cheeks.

‘Tottenham v Arsenal – local derby and grudge match. We hate the Spurs.’ He might as well have been talking Swahili. I had no idea what he was on about. I good-naturedly rolled my eyes at him as he surreptitiously tried and failed to look at the time again.

‘Sorry.’ He grinned mischievously and led the way to the door, oblivious to my struggles to get my jacket on.

‘Well, it was nice seeing you,’ he said, as we stood outside the pub, me still trying to wriggle my arm into place. His foot was tapping.

‘And you,’ I responded politely, as he did another quick time check. I gave an Oscar winning ‘boys-will-be-boys’ laugh. ‘You’d better go. You don’t want to miss kick-off.’

‘I’ll be in touch.’ He half-raised his hand, put it down, raised it again, thought better and lunged in quickly. I felt a brush of stubble on my cheek and then he was gone with the words, ‘I’ll email … Maybe we could go for a drink on Friday … See you,’ floating over his shoulder as he scurried off.

Friday, I thought ruefully was probably Nag’s Head night with Gram and Midge.

‘Do these belong to you?’ rasped a voice from behind a pair of bright blue, daisy-festooned wellies.

They were mine and were being held up by the big, big boss, David. The MD. Surely I hadn’t been summoned to his office on the top floor to discuss my taste in footwear?

‘Yes,’ I answered guardedly. What was he doing with them? They normally lived in the back of the company pool car. I’d bought them several months ago because there’s nothing worse than getting to a muddy construction site and having to borrow warm, sweaty boots.

David smiled his crooked gangster smile, his bright blue eyes piercing. As usual he was perfectly attired in a charcoal-grey suit with a tiny pinstripe running through the beautifully cut fabric. It was worth every penny, hiding his barrel-chested, dumpy shape to perfection.

‘No wonder those bastards at Collingwood Construction love you so much. A dolly bird turning up in girly wellies must brighten the lads’ day up no end.’ He guffawed with laughter. ‘They’re gonna have to do without you for a coupla weeks though. That lazy sod Max will have to get off his arse for a change.’

He shot me a shrewd look. ‘Didn’t think I’d noticed who did all the work on that account, did you?’

Poor Max, my immediate boss, a brilliant thinker but rubbish doer.

I didn’t answer, not that David expected me to.

Why had I been summoned? David wasn’t great on welfare; he didn’t do touchy feely stuff, so it was nothing to do with the bandage on my arm. I would bet my entire annual salary that dealings with HR brought him out in hives.

It was only when a very red-eyed Fiona knocked at the door of David’s palatial office that all became clear. She was head of the beauty team and Emily’s boss. As always she was dressed in a tight-fitting designer suit, the skirt skimming her knee to make the most of her ten-denier clad legs. Only her puffy lids spoilt the look.

‘You’re taking over Fiona’s team. She’s got a domestic crisis.’ In David speak this had to be a death in the family at the very least.

Without thinking I blurted out, ‘The beauty side! I don’t know anything about beauty stuff.’

‘What’s to know?’ dismissed David blithely, receiving a weary glare from Fiona. The poor girl looked completely done in.

‘Bright girl like you can manage that bunch of airheads. As of now you’re hanging up your wellies for a couple of weeks. You’re acting Account Director. Fiona’ll brief you. And if you wondering about your flower power boots, I’ve had to pinch the pool car – you won’t need it for a while. Some arsehole ran into the Porsche.’

With that he tossed the boots at my feet leaving me with Fiona.

‘Arrogant so and so,’ she said with feeling. ‘Unfortunately he’s right. I can’t trust them to get on with anything. Luckily, there’s nothing major on. Apart from the Luscious Lips launch.’

She sat down heavily in David’s chair, smoothing the tight skirt down her thighs. ‘I realise Emily’s your friend, but unfortunately you’re going to have to find a way to manage her.’ Fiona shook her head, her lips curling. ‘Her attention to detail is truly appalling. We’re launching this season’s new colours …’

I interrupted her holding up my hand. ‘I know all about it. Miranda has been the sole topic of conversation for the last week.’

‘Then you know the background.’ She looked at me. ‘How Emily came up with the idea, I don’t know. She actually managed to come up with a winner. But I need you to keep on top of things. Miranda’s agent is a complete shark. I don’t want to come back to hear that the entire budget has been blown on room service in Miranda’s bloody hotel suite or on an entourage of thousands.’

So far, a stylist and a make-up artist had been sanctioned but Fiona had vetoed the nutritionist, Reiki practitioner and personal Pilates instructor.

‘I’ve heard the problems,’ I murmured.

‘The main thing you have to worry about is Miranda’s partner.’

This was news to me. ‘Who?’

‘Rowan Majors, recently ex-boy-band hero and supposedly heading northward up the charts. Except it’s not happening.’

‘So?’ There was no point even trying to hide my ignorance. Fiona needed to know that I was out of my depth.

Fiona gave me another scornful look. ‘If,’ she paused with a heavy sigh, ‘his solo career doesn’t deliver a number one hit in the next week, he’s toast … and we’re stuffed.’

Apparently Miranda’s ten page contract stipulated we had to find an escort if she needed one. There was even a sub-clause specifying required inside-leg measurements. Fiona wasn’t joking!

The contract, legal and binding, was astonishing. According to the densely written paperwork she fished out of her file, the escort couldn’t have blonder hair than her (unless there were obvious roots) and his shoulders had to be broad enough to show off Miranda’s miniscule size six frame. Last but not least, Miranda had to have final approval.

‘God, I hope Rowan stays the course!’

Fiona gave a ‘God-give-me-strength’ groan. ‘He won’t. It’s my worst nightmare. Or rather, it’s yours now,’ she said sounding bitter. ‘Look I need to go. My mother is desperate.’ She looked at her watch grimacing. ‘I’ll come down with you to break the news to the team.’

‘I’m so sorry about your mother …’ I said tentatively, wondering what was wrong with her.

‘Thanks.’ She smiled weakly at me. ‘It’s not totally unexpected but Mummy’s really cut up. She can’t believe the surgeon won’t operate again. And on top of Daddy, it’s too much.’

‘Oh, no. Is it cancer?’ I asked sympathetically.

Fiona looked at me sharply. ‘No, liposuction. She’s devastated. She swore she’d never go to Weight Watchers again.’

What could I say to that? If I’d been a cartoon my eyes would have done that bugging out thing where they bounce up and down on springs. All I could do was manage a strangled, ‘Don’t worry about a thing. I’m sure we’ll cope.’

‘Of course, Daddy’s is a little more serious with his prostate trouble. Mummy doesn’t drive so she needs me while he’s in hospital having his op.’

Then to my surprise, she stood, smoothed her perfect skirt again and came towards me. Squeezing my good arm with an earnest expression on her face she said, ‘You know, Olivia, I couldn’t leave my team with anyone else in charge. You’re the only other person here who knows what they’re doing.’

With that she wheeled out leaving me staring after her in amazement. Blimey! Compliments from Fiona and David? What a day it was turning out to be. Perhaps I should be off sick more often. Now all I had to do was break the news to Emily. Deep joy.

My visit to the top floor had been the subject of much conjecture, so when I came into the office all eyes swivelled my way. I cringed looking at all the curious faces.

Max might just break down and cry and as for the beauty team’s reaction, I didn’t even want to go there. It was going to be bad enough trying to do the job. Miranda’s demands sounded outrageous. She was one high-maintenance chick.

Old Jabba the Hutt had never demanded any more than a hanky to wipe his sweaty brow before a photo shoot. In fact, I’d maligned him. Today, I’d returned to find that he’d sent two dozen scented pink roses and a beautiful card wishing me well.

Predictably, Emily was livid. She couldn’t believe it wasn’t her stepping into Fiona’s shoes. The fact that it was me was a double whammy. Even I could see it was a very public slur.

It was going to be a difficult couple of weeks. Changing desks with one arm was my first challenge. Not one of the beauty team offered to help. Cara was about to but when she jumped up she got a quelling look from Emily and quickly sat down again.

Max roused himself from his perennial laziness to carry over my laptop. Being helpful didn’t come naturally to him; he just wanted to moan about how unfair it all was.

‘How am I going to manage? Who’s going to write the Winton Bypass release? What about the Broughton public enquiry?’ he griped, wiping his perpetually smeared glasses.

‘Max,’ I said with exasperation, handing him a pile of neatly labelled files. ‘I’m right here. It’s not as if I’ve been relocated to the Leeds office.’

‘God forbid.’ He really did look horrified at that. ‘But still …’

‘You know all about the bloody Broughton enquiry – and you can read. Everything’s in the file.’ And even you should be able to write a press release by now, I thought.

‘Yes, but Olivia, I’ve got so much to do for the Management Team Report.’

‘Max,’ I said raising my voice. ‘I write that report for you every month, all you need to do is update it – it’s not even my job to do it.’ Then lowering my voice I hissed, ‘Most of the stuff is confidential, I’m not supposed to know that Ian Riley is on his third warning or that David is considering restructuring again.’

‘Yes, but you’re so trustworthy.’ A wheedling tone crept into his voice. ‘I can always rely on you.’

‘Well, you can’t any more. Not until Fiona gets back.’

‘I get the message,’ he tutted. ‘The power’s gone to your head already. Just remember pride before a fall. Don’t you worry, Uncle Max will hold the fort for you.’

I rolled my eyes. You’d think I was crossing a crocodile-infested river rather than the short expanse of grey carpet to the other side of the office. Mind you, looking at the grim faces of Emily, Cara, Camilla and Helene, it might be as dangerous.

You could almost see the dark cloud hovering above them, for once united in disapproval. I hadn’t dared look at Emily when it was explained that I was taking over for the next few weeks. If looks could kill, Fiona would have spontaneously combusted.

Sensibly, she made a speedy getaway before any of the team could utter a word. Sweeping everything on the top of her desk into her capacious handbag, she thrust a purple folder at me with a hasty, ‘You’ll need this’ and scuttled out of the office.

Dazed, I sank into her chair and opened the folder to find ten pages of colour-coded notes. They made scary reading. Big Sister had been watching them. Helene always took five minutes extra at lunchtime, Camilla was not to be trusted with the petty cash, Cara was too generous with the samples and as for Emily; two pages were devoted to her.

My heart sank. It didn’t sound like the happiest of working environments. I cast a regretful glance at Max. His feet were propped up on the desk, surrounded by piles of paper as he chatted distractedly into the phone, the handset tucked into his shoulder while he polished his glasses. He wouldn’t know what day of the week it was, let alone whether I’d taken a lunch hour.

Reluctantly I put down the purple folder, wondering whether I should take Emily to one side for a private chat. From the scowl on her face and her hunched position at the computer, co-operation was going to be in short supply.

My first meeting with the team later that morning went relatively well, compared to a train wreck. The ‘I’m on your side; I don’t want to tread on your toes’ speech which I’d rehearsed in the ladies, went down like contraception at the Vatican. The coven, as I’d renamed them, weren’t having any of it.

Only Cara showed signs of breaking ranks, which wasn’t wholly surprising. She had an Arsenal screen saver on her computer and team stickers all around her desk. Not a typical PR girly. She wanted advice on handling a difficult journalist. This particular beauty assistant who worked for one of the most important magazines was insisting she receive a second sample of a new age-defying moisturiser. At £250 a throw, this miracle cream was like gold dust and samples had been strictly rationed. I suggested a call was put into the Beauty Editor to ask if she minded the assistant getting her sample. Cara grinned gratefully.

The other three were stony faced. It wasn’t hard to picture them revving up their broomsticks as they left the meeting room.

‘What’s this?’ I asked sharply.

Emily feigned innocence. ‘It’s a purchase order.’

‘I know that. What’s it for?’ It was now my job to sign off the triplicate form, which had to be filled out for every piece of expenditure.

‘For the Luscious Lips launch.’

It was for £200 and made out to an Otto Omar.

‘I realise that but what exactly is it for?’

She looked down at her hand defiantly admiring her polished nails. If she wound me up any more I’d take the nail clippers to them.

‘He’s the Reiki man for Miranda,’ she muttered.

I looked at her in exasperation. ‘Emily, Fiona specifically said, “No Reiki”. No massage, faith healers or whatever else Miranda’s after. I’ve been through the contract. She can have a make-up artist and a stylist – that’s it. There’s no budget for anything else.’

‘Miranda went on and on about it …’ she trailed off weakly.

‘Miranda can go on and on about it. She knows full well what she can and can’t have. Talk about trying it on! Don’t forget we’re also paying her a wheelbarrow full of gold bullion.’ God only knew what Luscious Lips put in their lipstick to make it so profitable. ‘Ring Otto and tell him his services aren’t required.’

Emily stared at me reproachfully. ‘I can’t do that,’ she said horrified. ‘I’ve only just booked him.’

‘Well, you’ll just have to unbook him, won’t you?’ This was scary, I was turning into Fiona.

‘What now?’ she queried, still looking all wide-eyed.

I took a deep breath. Don’t shout at her. Instead I calmly said, ‘Yes please,’ and went back to my keyboard.

Muttering to myself, I typed, ‘I will not kill Emily. I will not kill Emily’ and forced my shoulder blades back into place. God, I’d only been doing Fiona’s job for two days and the stress was killing me.

Emily walked off sullenly. Only after she’d got herself a coffee, phoned Daniel and tidied out her handbag, did I hear her saying on the phone, ‘I’m really, really sorry, Otto. Not my fault. It’s my boss. She won’t let me book you.’

I couldn’t care less what she said to Otto, I kept my eye line below the computer monitor. It was the call to Daniel that bugged me. ‘Hi, Dan,’ she’d tinkled. Dan! I’d never called him that in all the years I’d known him. And did she have to phone him and text him so often? Until I’d sat this side of the room, I’d had no idea they were so devoted.

Recently they’d been out a lot; with a trip to see
Phantom of the Opera
; sushi dinners and frequent visits to posh cocktail bars. In fact, I hadn’t seen him since the night at the hospital. His sudden devotion to Emily was impressive, he loathed musicals and his idea of good food was Italian. Emily would have been better suited to someone like that awful guy at the speed-date, Crossword Man.