Under My Skin (16 page)

So then I write it on a note and pass it to Jonathan who looks completely horrified and I can feel the colour rise to my cheeks. He glances at it and says nothing and then asks a question about ‘competitor market share’.

The note says, ‘
Fancy a dip in the Med
?’ – and I am beginning to think of going in under the table for the rest of my natural
life. On the tour of the agency, we meet the IT guy who is wearing a one-piece cycling suit. Then we find a Finished Artist who is arguing with an Account Director and it ends with ‘Fuck off and do it yourself.’ And then someone’s toast sets the fire alarm off.

In the car park the Marketing Director asks about my car.

‘Who owns the Messerschmitt?’ he asks, and we are both glad to be off the ship.

‘It’s mine,’ I tell him, and when we walk towards it Jonathan watches, with his hands in his pockets, from the door.

‘It’s a beauty,’ he says, and I blush and smile up at him.

I open the doors. Even now I love that faint leather smell.

‘Do you look after your clients this well?’ he asks and we both laugh. I keep my eyes on him and tell him that ‘yes, yes’, and ‘please, please, yes, I do’.

He walks to his car, smiling, and he gives me a little wave.

One by one the other workers leave. Desk lamps are switched off and it’s just me sitting inside my window under the single lamp’s glow. There are invoices piled up around me. Emails that are not cleared – and silence now as everyone else leaves to go home. The men in suits swing their briefcases and run through the door. They have wives, and casseroles to eat, and laughing babies sitting in high chairs.

There are footsteps on the wooden stairs and Jonathan appears. His hands are in his pockets. He gives me a small, tight smile. He is not very tall. Just a little bit taller than me. His hair is blond and it is brushed back over his ears. His tan says golf and sailing and money and a second home in the South of France.

‘I’m sorry, Hope,’ he says simply and I can feel myself blush
warm red. He is so sudden and clear and honest about it. My boss wanting to say ‘Sorry’ before he says ‘Goodnight’.

‘Things were a bit tense this morning.’ He is awkward now and more embarrassed than me. I swallow and say, ‘That’s all right.’

Until now he has terrified me. He wears a black suit and a grey silk shirt. He is thirty-four. He has already told me. He folds his arms and watches me carefully.

‘By the way… are you anything to Edmund Swann… the artist?’

‘Actually… I’m his daughter,’ and my voice is very quiet.

‘Really?… My God… I love his work… I’m a collector anyway… but his work is… beautiful… so you’re his daughter,’ and he is shaking his head and smiling.

‘
Indian Slippers
,’ he says and our eyes suddenly meet.

‘I’m having a few people over next Friday, how about yourself and Larry come along?’ he asks. It does not sound like a question. I have already arranged to meet with Frankie so we can talk about our boss.

‘Just a few drinks and some easy food,’ he says.

‘That would be great,’ I tell him, and before he walks away he says, ‘By the way, you did well today.’

Outside the stars are brighter. The moon bigger. The wind louder. When I drive along the coast I see the lights dotted around the bay and know that somewhere there is a busy little diner with a tired-out chef.

When the wind blows I open up the windows. I want to drive the Messerschmitt up high now and into the clouds. Because today I did something new and it feels like the very first time ‘I did well today’.

Matilda writes about another New Yorker. She says her favourite of all time is Marilyn Monroe. She tells me that she lived at Sutton Place Apartments in 1956 and had her own suite at the Waldorf Astoria in 1955 – and on her birthday and on the day she died, Matilda goes to the front desk at the Waldorf and leaves twenty red roses there.

Email to Brendan Finch 10.05 a.m.
From Sylvia Johnson
cc Hope Swann
Hi Brendan,
Would you mind not wearing your Lycra cycling suit in the office – it caused a slight problem during yesterday’s agency tour.
Many thanks,
Sylvia.

Email to everyone 11.12 a.m.
From Hope Swann
Will the people who are eating the M&Ms please stop. These were brought in for a product shoot and I’ve just checked and they’re nearly all gone.
Please. Leave red and yellow alone.
(Thank you very much)
Hope.

Email to Hope Swann 11.13 a.m.
From Frankie Preston
Subject: If it’sofany help…
I think one of the Finished Artists has gone up a dress size.

Email to Jonathan Kirk 11.15 a.m.
From Hope Swann
Re: Country Fresh Soup
Jonathan, thick country vegetable is in reception.

Temptation n. – 1. A craving or desire for something especially something thought to be wrong. 2. The enticing of desire or craving in somebody. 3. Something or somebody who tempts.

Jonathan lives in a tall red-brick house overlooking the river. The front door is painted black and there is a green and yellow creeper growing up the wall. His garden stretches down to the water and there are three swans standing on his lawn.

Larry is wearing the black tailcoat he had on at our wedding.

‘It’s the only jacket I have,’ he says.

‘It’s a strange sort of jacket,’ I tell him and my voice is low as one hand reaches for the bell.

‘You didn’t think it was strange a few weeks ago.’

The door swings open and Jonathan appears. He smiles with white teeth and blue eyes like a Californian boy. His hair looks tossed and his shirt is open and hanging loose over his jeans. He looks like he is in the middle of telling a really good story and we have interrupted and still he seems glad, very glad that we are here.

He is carrying a glass of red wine and he uses this to show us inside. When he splashes the cream marble floor he pulls a face.

‘Four faults,’ he says and he keeps walking. Then he shouts, ‘It’s Hope and Larry.’ He asks Larry all sorts of questions about the diner and then he makes a big fuss about getting him an extra-cold beer from the fridge. Larry stops in the hall and stares up at the chandelier. In here, he seems to be growing
bigger and bigger. And then a pretty girl comes down and says, ‘Hello.’

Jonathan’s wife is called Nina and she comes down the stairs with light bouncing steps. She is wearing white denims and a white t-shirt and when she moves her dark ponytail swings from side to side. Her clothes are dazzling to me, her teeth are sparkling. She is the cleanest, whitest lady I have ever seen. She hugs me and when she moves to hug Larry, he steps back like a horse about to take fright.

The sitting room is at the top of the house and there are fairy lights to guide us up six flights of stairs. On each floor there are coloured snapshots of his home and other clues about Jonathan’s real life. The sliced mango on the kitchen counter. The framed photograph of Nina rollerblading in the park. The Knuttel eyes watching us from over a fireplace in his study. His wife’s silk robe tossed over a soft bedroom chair. There are light shades like giant cream drums in the centre of every room and somewhere in the distance a woman wearing a long white apron is checking that the asparagus is cooked.

Frankie is sitting next to his wife near a window. He looks up at me sadly and then stares down into his drink.

‘
Buenos noches
,’ he says and his eyes tell me that he is ready to jump. Behind him there are three tall windows that look out over the water and the swans.

Joe Fagin and his wife are sitting on a small couch between two windows and they have already found themselves a good position in the room. I take Larry’s hand and we walk into the room together. We sit on a long green couch, afraid to speak and trying not to spill our drinks. The conversation is about advertising and Larry is looking around as if the subtitles are about to appear.

‘The two new creatives are on fire…’

‘They played out of their skins yesterday.’

‘They have their asses in gear,’ someone murmurs.

‘… Absolutely – plugged in and switched on.’

‘They’ve got the smarts… I’ll give them that.’

‘At least there is no chance of being dropped in the proverbial brown stuff.’

‘Or up the creek – sans paddle.’

Larry looks out the window and he sends his thoughts in Morse code from his eyes.

‘What a bunch of tossers,’ he says.

The asparagus is arranged on white oval plates. The wine is poured into each round glass globe. There are candles in the centre and a crystal bowl filled with lemons and limes.

Each person has a place card and I notice that Jonathan’s name is next to mine. Larry is down at the other end and when Nina speaks she rests her hand on his arm. Frankie sits quietly and his wife begins to pick at her food. I am beginning to wonder why anyone would want to do this on a Friday night.

‘Ha ha ha,’ roars Joe Fagin. He is programmed to laugh at all of Jonathan’s jokes.

‘Ha ha ha,’ goes Mrs Fagin. She is programmed to laugh at all of her husband’s jokes.

Whenever Jack speaks he seems to repeat whatever Jonathan says but he uses slightly different words.

‘Hee hee hee,’ and this is my sudden contribution and now everyone is quiet and suddenly looking at me.

‘So, Hope,’ Nina says, ‘Jonathan tells me you’re related to Edmund Swann.’

The room is beginning to feel very warm. In my head the words are clear but they sound a bit weird as they come out. I answer very slowly and Larry is watching me from the end
of the table and trying not to laugh. Someone keeps filling my glass up and I am too nervous to eat.

‘We have two of his paintings,’ she says, and she is smiling sweetly and I can see there is only mineral water in her glass. The room is beginning to spin a little and I would like to ask where the bathroom is.

Jonathan starts talking about politics and now Larry joins in.
He
is able to tell them what is happening in the Far East and why oil prices are going up and what that means for all of us. They start to talk about a recession in America and Larry is telling them how long it will take to reach us.

‘You should come and work for me,’ Jonathan says.

I am wondering if I can walk properly and then I lean a little in my chair. The only part I really remember is the crash when the chair turns over and hits the floor – and there is also a very loud noise as my chin hits the table on the way down. It’s not bad under the table. Jonathan is wearing loafers. Nina is moving her bare foot towards Larry’s left leg – and there is a dog, a black Labrador, and she looks at me and wags her tail.

‘Greetings,’ I say, and then there are hands and faces and everyone seems to be involved in getting me back out.

Jonathan makes tea for me in the kitchen.

‘Now,’ he says, ‘sit up on this stool and drink your tea like a good girl.’ The dog has followed us down the hallway. She has seen me under the table and wants to bond with me now.

‘What’s it like to be the boss of a company?’ I ask him. He looks at me for a minute and he is trying to keep a straight face. There are two wedding invitations on the windowsill and behind us a long-case clock chimes one.

‘Honestly?’ he asks and he pulls his stool closer.