Venus Envy (8 page)

‘Fine,’ I muttered, a prickly flush of anticipation spreading halfway up my back before I could stop myself. I hoped they would rustle up some sixteen year-old gum-popping kid with a punk haircut, so I could yell at her about her appearance and send her to the. filing room for a change, but no, I got Rhoda Black, a fat frumpy matron with a boxy green suit and a typing speed that took my breath away.

‘Could you possibly do these for me, and get this line?’ I asked nervously. My command authority was sorely lacking, when it came down to it.

‘Is that all?’ Rhoda asked contemptuously, examining my pile of letters as though she needed a microscope to see them.

‘Well, maybe these,’ I suggested daringly, offering up some reports and a couple of spreadsheets that would have taken me days to get through.

Rhoda sniffed. ‘They don’t work you up here, do they?’

I ignored her. What did I care, when I could dash off to the ladies’ for a slick of nude lipstick and a reapplication of my concealer? I was getting promoted,

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if only for the day. That meant Jenny’s immaculately neat desk and only taking calls from important people. And, more importantly, it meant Seamus. Estimated Time of Arrival: five to nine. Just enough time to settle myself in, spritz myself - well, douse myself from head to foot - in CK Be, and make a fresh cup of espresso, just the way he liked it.

He was bang on time. Amazingly enough. And he looked brilliant, wearing some off-burgundy suit with dark brown shoes and smelling of spiced oranges, his dark hair neatly combed back and sprayed, as though it might tumble out into wild curls at any minute if not subdued. He strode into the office clutching his briefcase, with a sort of corporate warrior swagger that made me go all weak at the knees.

Oh how I longed to wind the clock back just a couple of.hours. Just long enough for me to steal some of Bronwen’s make-up and beg Keisha to lend me a TDO. Even an MDO would do. Rather than the neat, sexless suit from Next in pebble-grey wool mix I was sporting drably.

Seamus’s first glance at me out of those deep green eyes was one of-annoyance?

‘Where’s Jenny?’ he almost barked.

‘Er, got the flu,’ I said.

‘Bugger. That bloody woman’s never around when I need her,’ Seamus said .sharply.

It was my impression that Jenny practically camped in this office, but …

‘Is that my coffee?’ He took it from me, downed it in a single gulp, then grimaced wildly. ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph! That’s not how I like it! Don’t you know I take the bloody stuff decaffeinated?’

What’s the point of decaffeinated espresso, I wanted to say, but bit it back. I was afraid my voice might wobble into tears if I said anything. And who’d want to cheek him in this mood? He might fire me!

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Poor Seamus must have had a really atrocious morning!

‘I’m sorry—’

‘Get me another one and bring it into my office,’ he

said without looking at me, picking up a sheaf of faxes

from Jenny’s desk.

Then he went into his office and slammed the door. I got up and went to the coffee machine, pretty automatically. Tears were prickling in the back of my throat but I swallowed them down determinedly. I wasn’t going to let fat Rhoda over there see me blubbing. I’d never hear the end of it from that minx on Reception if I did.

I made sure to knock on his office door before going

‘Come in, sure you’d think I’d got all day to hang about,’ shouted Seamus, as I hastily fumbled with the knob and ushered myself inside.

‘Sorry about that,’ I said falteringly, setting the proper version of the coffee down in front of him.

‘Who’s doing your stuff, if that lazy cow’s away?’ snpped Seamus.

‘Rhoda. Personnel sent her up,’ I told him, ‘she’s

very good.’

He unstiffened a fraction. ‘At least it’s not some

temp bimbo. They always screw everything up. And

leave early.’

I wondered wildly if Keisha had worked for him in

her previous incarnation.

‘To get their hair done,’ he added. It sounded like Keisha. I made a note to ask her some time.

‘Do you think you can handle Jenny’s stuff? My appointments and everything?’

‘I think so, Seamus,’ I said boldly.

He looked up at me sharply. ‘Hey, it’s Mr Mahon in

the office, you never know when someone might walk

in.’

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‘Ummm. Yes. Sorry,’ I said. I felt like a complete fool. I was as red as a radish. It was such a slap round the face. For a moment I almost got angry. There was no need to be such a—

‘Hey.’ Seamus was looking at me more carefully. His eyes looked at the hem skimming my knees, the calves balanced neatly on their low heels. He gave himself a little shake and a sort of thought.ful expression crossed his brow. ‘That’s a nice suit you’re wearing, Alex.’

‘Thank you,’ I muttered, slinking off to the door. His phone was buzzing outside and I wanted to get to it as soon as possible.

‘And I’d say it’s a new lipstick, too. It’s very pretty.’ I hardly dared let that register as I dived on the phone, chirping, ‘Good morning, Mr Mahon’s office, may I help you?’ as sweetly as I could.

Why .do men always call women weathervanes? Seamus was changing tack as often as Madonna changed image. Anyway, his first meeting was due in ten minutes. I knew there would be no idle chitchat after that.

I was totally shattered by three p.m. It wasn’t so much the work -Jenny left everything so organised there was nothing for me. It was the tension. Seamus had morphed into a smiling, charming executive the moment the first visitors from Germany arrived. I, on the other hand, had to worry my guts out about getting it wrong - smudging my make-up, spilling the coffee, mixing up the teas and coffees and peppermint infusions. I took messages with my face aching from smily politeness. I even managed to cope with the hotshot Singapore trader who rang and screamed at me that I was a clap-ridden whore. ‘Fuck off, fuck face,’ though tempting, would not have been the correct reply.

It was a miracle, but I thought I’d made it through without any serious errors.

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At five p.m., I ventured to take Seamus in another

cup of decal and a selection of Charbonnel &: Walker chocolates from the executive fridge.

To my amazement, he was sitting - sprawling out on his cream leather couch, doodling cartoons on the

front of his Wall Street Journal.

‘Ah, she comes bearing coffee like an angel of mercy,’ Seamus said sweetly. ‘Or maybe a fairy. Are you a fairy, Alex Wilde?’

‘Not last time I looked,’ I saidl confused, handing

over the grub.

‘Perfect. And chocolates,’ he approved, ‘she knows

how to keep up a man’s blood sugar. And other things too, I’ll be bound. Although we’ll not talk about that now.’ And he gave a rich laugh.

I was amazed. I half expected him to apologise for before, but he said not a word about it. Instead, he was gazing up very intently at my face. I thought I might have lipstick on my teeth.

‘That’s a gorgeous foundation you’re wearing. What

is iF?’ Seamus asked.

I blushed with pleasure. ‘I’m not, actually.’ ‘That’s your skin?’ Seamus asked, lifting his dark eyebrows. ‘Like a peach, so it is. You must use awful expensive moisturisers.’

Did Boots No. 7 qualify? Probably not, but it was

nice to hear it, at any rate. I felt my tension melting away and my smile blossom like a lotus on a lily pond. ‘I hope everything was all right today?’

‘Ah, you did a grand job. Grand,’ Seamus said genially. I looked back nervously to where the red light was winking on my phone, but he waved away my worries. ‘Let the Other girl pick that up. It won’t be anyone important, now the market’s closed.’

‘OK.’ I shifted from foot to foot, wondering if that

was my cue to wish him a good night and grab my jacket.

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‘Alex. Will we go out and grab a bite of dinner?’ Seamus asked.

It was so unexpected I didn’t say anything for a second. Then I stammered my thanks just as fast as I could get it out. I’ve always been a cool customer that way.

‘How about the Ivy? Covent Garden? Yeah, that’s the one, be a good girl and go make the reservation,’ Seamus decided, not consulting me, but then why would he? Expensive London restaurants were a closed book to me. Hell, cheap London restaurants were a closed book. ‘We’ll eat at eight. Suit you?’

‘Sure.’ I grinned up at him happily, jumping to my feet to follow him out the door. First cocktails in one of the many post-market City bars, then a leisurely limo ride to the West End …

‘Where” do you think you’re going?’ Seamus asked, sounding slightly annoyed.

I stopped short. ‘Aren’t I following you?’

‘Ah… no, it’s best if we meet up there later. Don’t want to be seen hanging around together. It’s terrible for your career, darlin’.’

I nodded eagerly. ‘OK.’

‘You just book us in, we’ll have a great old time. I can’t wait,’ Seamus said softly. Then he handed me a

green slip of paper.

‘What’s this?’

‘My dry-cleaning,’ Seamus said amiably. ‘I’ve got to run off, but if you bring it along to the Ivy I’ll load it straight into my car. Don’t worry, he reassured me, ‘you won’t be sitting there with a bunch of suits draped over your lap.’

I laughed uncertainly.

‘See you, sweetheart. Looking forward to it,’ Seamus said. Then he exited his office and looked blandly at me as Rhoda waddled past with a pile of documents;

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‘Good night, Mr Mahon,’ I said loudly. He nodded and headed for the lifts.

Wasn’t it thrilling?

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I stood in the dry-cleaner’s office clutching a heavy pile of suits. His bill was fifty pounds, but the attendant waved it away.

‘Mr Mahon is a very good customer. He can pay us when he comes in next. I don’y, suppose you have the money on you.’

It wasn’t a question. I wished I could pull out a fistful of fifties and tell her to keep the change, but the only fifties ever to be found on my person had ‘pence’ stamped across the bottom.

‘Are you one of Mrs Mahon’s new maids?’

‘No,’ I said furiously. What, did the woman keep a fleet of servants, like the Queen? And did I look like a skivvy?

‘I didn’t think so.’ The attendant gave me a wintry smile. ‘She’s such a stickler for grooming.’

I flounced out as best I could, with clingfilm wrappers crackling against my skirt. Great. Now I wasn’t even polished enough to be Dolores’s skivvy.

‘Work’s been good to me … but I’ll tell you the God’s honest truth, Alex, my marriage is terrible.’ Seamus’s words kept drifting back to me as I staggered back to my car. Poor Seamus, I thought sympathetically, having to slave away all day just to keep his wife in. maids and haute couture. It was flattering that he wanted to talk to me… talk, obviously, would be all he wanted to do …

He’d said he thought he could trust me. Just like that, at our first lunch. Seamus would be that kind of

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man, the type who leaps before he looks, that wild Celtic streak in him carrying him away. He could see behind the Tipp-Ex and the filing cabinet. He could see the depths of my artistic soul. No man could have a face that meltingly sexy and enjoy working in an office. But since he was forced to do it, he was naturally great at it.

I was looking forward to dinner. It had been a royal pain in the ass, begging the ma?tre d” for a reservation that wasn’t at either six p.m. or ten thirty. At first the guy was closed tighter than Keisha’s chequebook, but then, in desperation, I dropped Seamus’s name and a miraculous cancelled booking materialised out of thin

air.

‘ It gave me a thrill. A tiny squeeze between the legs. To think of eating with a man whose name worked better than ‘Open Sesame’ any day.

It took me forty minutes to find a parking space in Covent Garden. I was just beginning to fantasise about driving a Sherman tank with diplomatic plates, so I c6uld squash the BMWs that were clogging the kerbs, when a haughty-looking blonde in a low-slung Bentley pulled out of a prime slot right in front of me.

‘Cheers,’ I yelled, waving madly from the grimy windows of my clapped-out Mini.

The elegant blonde head whipped round and smiled graciously. My heart dropped. It was Snowy.

‘Darling,’ she said, pulling up beside me. ‘I was just on my way back with a few goodies for Bronwen and Keisha.’

I could see All-Access laminates swinging from her dashboard, and a small white bag with ‘Prada’ stamped across it. Her car was immaculate inside as well as out. I felt bitterly ashamed of my old banger and tiny paycheque.

‘Did you get me anything?’ I asked.

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‘Hmm.’ She nodded. ‘A pot of La Prairie moisturiser.’ That stuff cost about a hundred quid a jar. Women in the pages of Jackie Collins novels used it. I smiled as gratefully as I could - no need to be a bitch, if Snowy was making this much of an effort.

‘It’s got the world’s best anti-ageing system. So maybe it can help you,’ she added spitefully. ‘Oh no, is that his dry-cleaning? What kind of a jerk makes his secretary pick that up? He’ll be getting you to send

flowers to all his girlfriends next.’

‘I don’t mind picking it up.’

‘So I see … whatever floats your boat, Alex. Oh,’ she looked prettily down at her tank Cartier watch,

‘must dash. Meeting a pal in Knightsbridge.’ ‘Anyone I know?’ Olivia looked at me through narrowed lids swept with plum and gold and gave a little snort of laughter. ‘Shouldn’t think so, dear, unless you spend a lot of time in the Gulf of Oman …’ then she sat bolt upright, as if catching herself, purred, ‘Later,’ and pulled away smoothly.

Anti-ageing? God, I was only twenty-seven. I started peering at myself in the rear-view mirror for crows’ feet, but the glass was too dusty and spotty for an accurate reading. Anyway, I said to myself as I jumped out, suits in tow, there were plenty of stunning babes .far older than me. Cindy Crawford. Sharon Stone. Err, Helen Mirren. But where had the years gone? They seemed to have trickled under my feet while I was waiting for the lights to change to green. It seemed like yesterday that I was up at Oxford, full of fire and getting drunk on vintage port with Tom Drummond …