What She Wants (72 page)

‘Is this lunchtime or is my watch wrong?’ snapped Sam, glaring pointedly at Lydia’s muffin. ‘And the office is not the place for personal calls,’ she added, stalking into her office and slamming the door so hard that the framed platinum discs hanging on the walls rattled.

Oh shit, sighed Lydia gloomily, the bitch is back. It wasn’t just the clothes. The whole persona had returned.

She had to admit, though, that Sam in a black mood made for staggering efficiency. By one, they’d got through masses of correspondence, huge numbers of phone calls and Sam had had three meetings. She’d also had seven cups of strong, black coffee and had sent a junior out for cigarettes.

‘I didn’t know you smoked,’ Lydia blurted out before she realized that the career bitch boss didn’t like personal comments, unlike the recent touchy-feely version.

Sam, deeply ashamed of herself for giving in to the desire to smoke, ripped the cellophane off the cigarettes with unnecessary force. ‘Nobody knows anyone really,’ she said enigmatically. ‘Can you get me an ashtray.’ It wasn’t a request.

Lydia rushed off to get one from somewhere, deciding that she wasn’t going to be the one to point out to Sam that the entire Titus building was, officially, a no-smoking zone. Of course, Steve Parris smoked anywhere he liked, but he was the Big Boss. Mind you, the office gossip of the morning was the fact that Stevie had been draped all over Ms Smith at the Lemon Awards the previous Friday, so perhaps that was the reason for her bad temper. Having anything even vaguely sexual to do with Steve would certainly put Lydia in a bad mood.

The first cigarette made Sam nauseous but the second was better and by the third, she felt like a smoker again. She certainly wasn’t hungry but unfortunately she had a lunch to go to. Even worse, it was with Density’s manager, the hated Glenn Howard. The only good point was that the LGBK marketing director, Sophie, and Nadia, the product manager in charge of Density, were going too, so Sam wouldn’t be forced to make conversation all on her own.

‘I’ll be back by half two at the latest,’ Sam told Lydia, who was astonished because lunches with managers invariably lasted two hours and it was already five past one.

In the car taking the three LGBK staff to the restaurant, conversation was limited. Sophie, as befitting a marketing manager, was permanently on her mobile phone, so the other two were silent.

‘Sorry,’ apologized Sophie as the car pulled up outside Half A Cow, the latest hip and trendy restaurant which specialized in giant steaks, tripe, steak-and-kidney pie and sausage and mash.

‘A man’s restaurant,’ Sam muttered as they entered.

‘You can say that again,’ sighed Sophie, who was vegetarian. Glenn was already at the table, had ordered a bottle of red (without asking us if we want red or white, Sam growled to herself) and was full of bonhomie.

‘Great to see you, Sam,’ he roared, jumping to his feet and giving her a bear hug. ‘How’s the record industry doing? Have my boys made you another million today?’ he added loudly.

Loudly enough for everyone nearby to look around and realize they were in the presence of a top manager, Sam knew.

‘Sophie babe, how are you?’ Glenn said to Sophie, this time without the hug. Hugs were for MDs in Glenn’s book.

Ever professional, Sophie was ultra-polite in return, not betraying for a moment the fact that this man bawled her out on the phone on a regular basis.

‘Hi,’ Glenn said brusquely to Nadia, who was not even on the scale as far as he was concerned. That irritated the hell out of Sam. People like Nadia had the hardest jobs in the industry and worked their bums off for the likes of Density. Nadia was responsible for the band’s endless posters and sales presenters, she set up radio campaigns, worked hard on every nitty-gritty detail of the band’s marketing, making sure that every i was dotted and every t crossed. It was a huge job that encompassed a huge area of responsibility. On those rare occasions when Density gave interviews, it was hardworking Nadia who got landed with coordinating the actual logistics of it all, sorting out venues for the band and supplying their increasingly bizarre demands, not to mention making arrangements for foreign press to turn up. Sam still remembered the days she’d worked with TulaFaye in her previous job. She’d been a marketing director and had borne the brunt of TulaFaye’s rudeness on many occasions despite the fact that it was Sam and her team who’d worked endless hours breaking TulaFaye in the UK market. Sweetness and light when she’d met Sam’s boss, the singer had been a cast-iron bitch to everybody lower down on the scale. Sometimes, the job could be so thankless. Sam was determined to change that. ‘Still working twenty-four seven?’ Glenn asked Sam. ‘Yes,’ she said grimly. She signalled to a waiter. ‘A glass of white wine, please,’ she said pointedly. They studied the menus and Glenn chattered on and on about how well the band were doing on their tour and how they couldn’t wait to get back to London to work on the new album. ‘They’re keen to work with Bruce Kaminska,’ said Glenn. Sam looked up from her menu and gave him a searing look. Kaminska was one of the world’s top record producers. He was also one of the most expensive. His involvement in any album could mean the difference between a top twenty album and a number one album. However it added millions

to the cost and, because he invariably wrote songs for the bands too, he demanded a cut of the profits. He was certainly a hit-maker but deciding to use him was an enormous decision to make. Sam didn’t know if she wanted to blow such a huge chunk of her budget on a band who’d failed to make any waves so far. Not to mention the fact that they were well on their way to becoming the TulaFaye of Titus: hated. ‘We’ll have to think about that one,’ she said shortly. ‘Hey,’ Glenn said in a menacing tone, ‘Steve Parris wouldn’t want you to just think about it.’ Sam put down her glass and stared coldly at Glenn, thinking that his band hadn’t a hope in hell with such a manager. Perhaps it was time to tell him that the tables had turned. She was sure that Steve was no longer in love with his precious new find. The Americans were definitely not in love with them, and the press, though writing that Density were very talented, were fed up with rock star tantrums. ‘Glenn, I’m a busy woman. I’m here to eat lunch. If you want to put me off my lunch, then I’ll leave. Your choice.’ Glenn gulped and made his choice. ‘Hey, what the heck!’ he said in a false jovial voice. ‘Let’s eat.’

Back in the office, Sam worked on till half eight, ignoring her headache from the two glasses of wine at lunch and the dull ache in her stomach from eating beef. She finished the entire packet of cigarettes and vowed that she wouldn’t buy any more. Lydia went at seven and Sam was conscious of a twinge of guilt because she’d been very sharp with the poor girl all day. It wasn’t Lydia’s fault that Sam’s life was a disaster. It wasn’t fair to make her suffer. Sighing, Sam put out her last cigarette and promised herself she’d be nicer to Lydia the next day. It was still light when she left the office, carrying her briefcase so she could look over some papers at home. As she walked through Covent Garden, Sam watched the crowds of people enjoying the lovely evening and having an

out of doors drink. Happy groups clustered round outdoor pub tables, drinking Pimms and beers, laughing and chatting, making plans to go for dinner and flirting. Light music drifted out from inside the pubs as she passed, along with laughter and the hum of voices. Girls in skinny little tops and low-slung jeans revealed slender limbs tanned by the last few weeks of blistering sun. Sam remembered sitting on her tiny back balcony in her bikini top a couple of weekends ago, letting the sun warm her body, turning her olive skin an even caramel colour. At the time, she’d indulged in a fantasy of being on holiday with Morgan, letting him rub sun lotion into her skin, imagining his breath quickening as his fingers stroked the cream over her body. Stupid cow. Fourteen-year-old girls were allowed to indulge in fantasy land, not forty-year-old women. Next thing she knew, she’d be buying frothy romantic novels and dreaming of dashing dukes on white horses rescuing damsels from danger. There were no dashing dukes in real life. Only lying, cheating scum.

Ignoring the voice in her head that said ‘No’, Sam ducked into a shop and bought another packet of cigarettes.

At home, she couldn’t be bothered with cooking. Instead, she sat on her balcony with a glass of wine, her packet of’ cigarettes and the Financial Times and watched the daylight fade into twilight. Spike and Tabitha, finally allowed out, weaved around, investigating her glass, the wine bottle and the ashtray, screwing up their eyes in disgust at the unaccustomed smoke. Tabitha refused to sit on Sam’s lap because of it.

‘Suit yourself,’ Sam said.

Her glance occasionally flicked into Morgan’s silent garden but she did her best not to think about what he was doing. There was no light streaming from the kitchen window. When she went round for dinner, they usually sat in the kitchen for hours, eating off the iron table Morgan had finally bought when she’d nagged him about having nothing to eat dinner off. If the light in the kitchen wasn’t on, Morgan wasn’t home. Sam fiercely rubbed her eyes to

get rid of the stinging sensation. She didn’t care what he did or who he did it with.

The Friday after the Lemon Awards dawned gloriously sunny and as Sam walked briskly towards Holland Park tube station, she could hear the birds chattering madly to each other from the tree-lined road. It was a shame to be working on such a day, she thought, then reprimanded herself for being negative. At half six in the morning, the morning rush on the Underground hadn’t yet begun so Sam’s carriage was only half full. On a seat beside her lay a women’s magazine that someone had forgotten. Having nothing to read except a sheaf of papers in her briefcase, Sam began to leaf through it in a desultory manner. She flicked speedily through the fashion spread, which featured lots of flirty summer stuff that would look stupid on her and bypassed an interview with a self obsessed actress who was claiming that she didn’t need to diet to maintain her size six body. ‘I eat like a horse, honestly, and I love chips. Yeah right, laughed Sam. She stopped flicking pages when she came to an eight-page relationship special. Normally, Sam viewed women’s magazine articles on relationships with the same disdain with which she viewed women who thought that having a man was the be all and end all of their existence. But today, the headlines caught her eye. ‘Too Proud To Say Sorry’, ‘Is Your Career Damaging Your Life?’, ‘Seven Relationship Secrets Every Woman Should Know’. Sam settled down to read, expecting to scoff at it all. Career damaging your life - as if! But she found that she couldn’t scoff. The piece about careers could have been written with her in mind: it described women who’d taken on men at the executive coal face but who hadn’t understood that having a life outside work was as important as the life in work.

Men have always understood the need to have other interests, explained the psychologist consulted by the journalist who’d written the piece. They have sports and hobbies, and, luckily for them, usually a female partner to do the chores so they have time for sports and hobbies.

But women, who can do four things at once, don’t. They give their jobs their all and that’s ultimately a problem. Very few careers are worth everything in the world.

A man who’d got on the train at Notting Hill Gate and plonked himself beside Sam, leaned nearer as if reading the magazine and Sam abruptly pulled it closer to her chest. She’d hate anyone to realize that she was reading about herself: a sad and lonely career woman.

Even worse, the photo illustrating the career woman article could have been based on Sam that very day. Both were slim, grave-looking blondes in sleek dark suits with a simple white T-shirt underneath. Mr Armani’s expensive uniform for women executives, Sam thought, feeling strangely jumpy.

She shouldn’t be reading this junk. But she kept reading, holding onto the magazine when she changed trains at Holborn.

‘Too Proud To Say Sorry’ was painfully close to the bone and she had to stop reading when she got to a bit about how pride and a desire to have the blame for everything laid at somebody’s door meant that couples forgot basic communicating skills. Surely the most important thing is communicating so that the relationship starts working again. Does it really matter who apologizes first? Is that so important?

No, realized Sam mournfully. She’d never given Morgan a chance to explain why he’d been holding a cute young brunette so tightly, but perhaps if she had, he’d have had a proper explanation. Even if he hadn’t had an explanation, what business was it of hers? Instead, her pride and temper had made her lash out without giving him a chance. She’d tried to apply the principles that worked so well in the office: as a boss, Sam hated staff who couldn’t own up to their own

mistakes. That was ducking responsibility, in her opinion. If she made an error, she was the first to admit it. Then, they could move forward. But Morgan wasn’t her employee, he didn’t have to come up with a craven apology instantly so that she could deign to forgive him.

The lightness of step she’d had earlier had gone, now Sam trudged slowly to the office, picking up a caffe latte on the way. The office was empty apart from the security guard in reception.

‘Morning Miss Smith,’ he said to Sam.

‘Morning,’ she replied. ‘It’s quiet this morning.’

‘Nobody’s keen to be in by seven,’ he said, ‘except for yourself and Mr Parris.’

Sam might have guessed. Steve didn’t get where he was today by wandering into the office with the first edition of the evening paper.

She might drop up to his office and talk to him about Density. The figures on their album were not good and she wanted to discuss the marketing spend. Their manager had been phoning her daily, insisting on a souped-up marketing campaign which would eat into her budget. Sam was loath to spend the money because she had a bad gut feeling about the band, especially after their losing out on the important Best Newcomer award. However, they were Steve’s proteges so it would be wise to discuss it with him and gauge whether he was going off them too or whether they were still his golden boys.