What She Wants (77 page)

demanding to go to a strip club, or how the computer technician had said in shocked tones that he’d never seen anything so filthy as the pornographic pictures the graphics department had been sent via e-mail, and had then spent ages trying to print them off on the department colour printer.

Hope would have laughed at that, Matt thought. But he wasn’t telling her, she wouldn’t care. So he told his imaginary someone, his diary.

Diaries were for teenage girls, he knew, but it was cathartic to spill the beans about the day, so he got into the habit of doing this every evening. Until one evening he’d gone a bit mad and made some stuff up. The sedate receptionist at Judds hadn’t enticed a motorbike courier into the ladies, desperate for a bonk because it was her thirtieth birthday and she hadn’t had sex in a year, but it made a funny story and before long, Matt was giving his imagination full rein with the stories of life in Bath Ad Attack, his fictional advertising company. In Bath Ad Attack, it was a miracle that anyone got any work done at all, what with all the intercompany affairs and the fact that the CEO was trying to take as much time off work as possible to deal with his gender reassignment counselling.

At Bath Ad Attack, entire campaigns were lost on dodgy computer systems because people had been making love across desks and pressed important buttons on keyboards at the moment of orgasm; hardworking people were fired with great regularity for silly mistakes, while others (usually ones with great boobs) were promoted despite botching up even the photocopying; and the whole office rocked with bitchery, indiscretion and genuine mayhem. If only proper novels were as much fun to write, Matt thought one evening, as he reread the words he’d written in an adrenaline-fuelled two hours and found himself laughing like a drain at them. His much-vaunted literary novel was buried in a folder named TOXIC just in case he forgot what was in it and had to look at all those tortured words. Rereading that novel had never elicited much emotion, apart from the usual grim

ace as he realized that writing miserably about misery in long, convoluted sentences did not a novel make. He was never going to be published, never mind be up for the Booker or the Pulitzer or anything else. It was time to face facts. But he might win more awards as the hottest adman on the planet and if ever there was a market for scandalous, libellous farcical novels about life in an ad agency, he was the man for the job. Matt switched off the laptop and switched on Sky Sport. Mind you, the chances of his becoming the hottest adman ever were going to be hindered when Adam Judd came back to work and took over the helm again. And where would Matt be then? The following morning, Matt ran up the steps to the front door of Judds, feeling fit, healthy and ready to take on the world. He had two important meetings that morning and lunch in one of the city’s top restaurants with a prospective client who’d keep the entire company in Mercedes sports cars for the rest of their lives if only the client signed on the dotted line. ‘Morning Matt,’ breathed Celeste, one of the work experience students they’d taken on, arriving at the door at the same time as him. ‘She fancies you rotten,’ Dan had teased Matt the day before. ‘Every time she opens her mouth it’s “Matt says this” or “Matt says that” like she was talking about the Almighty.’ ‘Get out of it,’ Matt had retorted, giving his old friend a slap on the arm with a copy of Campaign. ‘You’re just jealous because I won the squash last night.’ ‘The truth hurts,’ Dan continued. ‘Mr Advertising Guru, tell me how you make all the women wet their knickers? Is it your dark good looks or the size of your bonus?’ Matt had grinned to himself. Dan could never resist smiling at a pretty girl and didn’t understand that Matt had no interest in girls like Celeste or even Betsey’s sweet au pair. Dan obviously felt that Matt deserved a fling to cheer him up but Mart’s heart wasn’t in it. He and Dan had blazed

a pub and nightclub trail in Bristol the previous month but no matter how many lean-thighed babes had danced in front of him in the nightclub, shaking their booty in cowgirl fringed skirts, he’d only been able to think of Hope. At the London awards ceremony, the only thing he’d undressed was a bottle of mineral water which sat in front of him at the table and which he’d painstakingly de-labelled while all around him flirted and drank uproariously. Matt didn’t need anyone to tell him he was turning into a bore.

‘Morning Celeste,’ Matt said, trying to sound professional. He didn’t want to be rude or anything but he wanted her to get the message that she was a junior colleague and that was it.

He pushed the button for the lift, with Celeste eagerly beside him, having rushed to keep up with his long-legged stride. She was keen to explain to the handsome Mr Parker exactly what she’d been doing.

‘I’ve been working with Ricky on the health club adverts and we’re going to be finished today,’ she said, batting her long eyelashes for all she was worth. He really was so dishy and somehow tortured with that lean dark jaw with a five o’clock shadow even though it was still first thing in the morning. There was something hideously hot about men who needed to shave twice a day.

‘Great. Show it to Dan, will you?’ Matt said absently as he pushed the third floor button, ‘I’ve got a lot on this morning.’

Celeste’s shoulders slumped. Honestly, what was the point? She’d worn her best leather jeans and had got in really early in the hopes of bumping into Matt Parker, who was always first in, and where had it got her? Nowhere.

He was obsessed with work, like all bloody men.

Jasmine Judd arrived just as Matt was leaving his second meeting. He was loosening his tie and popping the top button of his grey shirt when he saw her.

‘Hello Matt,’ she said, tearfully, looking for all the world like Jessica Rabbit in skin tight leather with zips everywhere.

‘Jasmine, what a surprise,’ Matt said, mentally saying ‘shit’. Every time Jasmine arrived, she was there on a mission from Adam to see how things were going. Even though Adam had promised his cardiologist that he wouldn’t set foot inside Judds or phone in for two months, he’d been cheating slightly by getting updates from Jasmine. Now she stood on the threshold of her husband’s old office, currently taken over by Matt, and looked as if she was about to flood the entire building with tears. ‘Oh Matt,’ she sobbed, heaving herself into his arms. Over her shoulder, Matt could see Dan giving him an enthusiastic thumbs up sign as if to say ‘Result!’ Matt scowled back. Five foot ten of blonde, beautiful boss’s wife in tears was not his idea of a result. ‘Sit down, Jasmine, you poor thing,’ Matt said, thinking that Hope was always so much better at comforting people than he was. She was so good when there was any sort of emotional crisis: she’d have known exactly how to comfort Jasmine, he thought sadly. She was so kind and affectionate to everyone, hugging the kids all the time and telling them that she loved them. A longing for Hope and the children swept over him. ‘Matt, I can’t stop Adam. He wants to come back to work!’ Jasmine’s anguished tones broke into his reverie and she leaned against him tearfully. Matt knew it had to happen. From the first day he’d taken over from Adam and had realized that he enjoyed being the big boss, Matt had told himself that Adam was ill, not dead. He’d be back and then the fun would stop and Matt would be demoted back to being an employee. A trusted, valuable employee, yes. But still an employee. One of the people who said ‘how high?’ when Adam said ‘jump’. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ Matt heard himself asking in a perfectly normal voice. He waved at his assistant and made a drinking motion, then turned his attention back to Jasmine, who was sobbing and heaving all at the same time, her zips rattling and her leather outfit creaking. She smelt

of some heavy perfume he didn’t recognize and didn’t like. Hope was more of a floral perfume person. Roses and lilies and stuff like that. Nice, girlie stuff. ‘What has the doctor said?’ he asked Jasmine, half-hoping that the doctor would have acted like one in a Victorian melodrama and said something along the lines of ‘if Adam ever picks up a biro again, the strain will kill him!’ ‘He says it’s about time Adam went back to work,’ Jasmine sobbed, ‘but I know it’s too early. He could die and where would I be then?’ Cue another bout of heaving sobs on his shoulder. Matt hoped she wasn’t ruining his charcoal Italian suit. ‘Well, the doctor probably knows best,’ Matt said, thinking to himself that the doctor should be struck off. ‘Is Adam eager to get back to work?’ Stupid question. Adam believed holidays were for people who’d been either fired or made redundant. ‘Yes, and I don’t understand why because I thought he’d been so happy at home with me,’ she wailed. The door opened tentatively and his assistant arrived with a tray of coffee and biscuits, which Matt knew were a waste of time. As if Jasmine was going to eat biscuits. You didn’t fit into that sort of leather outfit by losing the run of yourself with the chocolate digestives. It took ten minutes, two cups of coffee and a certain amount of patting Jasmine’s knee for her to be satisfactorily cheered up. Matt knew it was in his interests to tell Jasmine that Adam should buy a yacht and sail off into the sunset with her, only stopping at sun-drenched islands with relaxed tax laws to stash away his regular income from Judd’s, which would become wildly successful with Matt Parker at the helm. But he couldn’t say that. Instead, he told Jasmine the truth: that her husband was the sort of man who’d die if he wasn’t allowed to come in and run his empire and that after another month of enforced recuperation time, she’d be begging Adam to go back to work because he’d be driving her mad.

‘He lives and breathes this place,’ Matt pointed out. Jasmine stifled a sob. ‘Yes, but so did you and you gave it up. And now you have a lovely life in Ireland writing and you’re not going to get a heart attack, are you? Hope’s very lucky. She’s got everything! She’s got a lovely place to live and no stress and no work and everything! Not like me. I’m under so much pressure with all of this.’ Jasmine sobbed again and Matt, fearing for the state of his suit which was now sodden, sighed and put his arms around her again. The only person in the agency who knew about his separation was Dan, and Matt was grateful for small mercies. If Jasmine knew that Matt was separated, she’d doubtless be setting him up on blind dates with her bimboish friends. ‘Adam would never move anywhere nice to be with me,’ Jasmine said shakily. ‘He won’t even take me to the Bahamas for our wedding anniversary.’ ‘He probably can’t imagine needing a holiday because he’s been away from the office for so long, but he will,’ Matt said gently. ‘Give him a month back here and he’ll be thrilled at the sight of a holiday brochure, I promise you. And don’t think Adam doesn’t love you, you know he does. Remember,’ he added ruefully, ‘other people’s marriages aren’t always what they seem.’ ‘What do you mean?’ she asked, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. ‘Well, Hope and I have had a falling out,’ he said slowly. ‘We’re not talking and I haven’t seen her for a while.’ ‘But you love each other, this is terrible,’ wailed Jasmine. ‘You’ve got to make it up, now! As soon as Adam is back, fly to see Hope and tell her you love her. Take flowers,’ Jasmine added. ‘And perfume. Women love perfume.’ It was like getting marriage guidance counselling from Barbie, Matt thought. When Jasmine had finally been borne off by Sadie from the art department to a cheering-up girlie lunch, Matt sat at his, correction Adam’s, desk and looked around miserably.

It was all over: his delusion of power. Adam Judd would come back and after his brush with death, would undoubtedly be tougher and narkier than ever. Adam had never made it any secret as to who was the boss at Judd’s, the company he’d built up by sweating blood and guts, as he liked to tell anyone who’d listen. He would probably see Matt as a threat now; the man who’d taken over when he was sick and the man who could take over at any time. It wouldn’t matter that Matt wasn’t the sort of man to start a mutiny. Adam would want him out because every day he looked at Matt, he’d be reminded of his heart attack and his very mortality. Getting rid of Matt would become his mission. What was worse was that Matt had given him the ammunition to do it. Matt’s sabbatical had another few months to run, time enough for Adam to find another adman who’d undermine Matt and make it impossible for him to come back. And it wasn’t as if he even had anything thrilling to go back to. One hopeless novel and a wife who didn’t want him. Yahbleedin’hoo. ‘Fancy a drink?’ said Dan at six, when most of Judds had sloped off quietly to the bar next door which was having a tequila promotion. The office was silent except for the faint sound of the cleaning lady’s vacuum. ‘Betsey is on a girls’ night out in London with her mates from the magazine and as she’s due to arrive home at half one, pissed and screaming that all men are bastards, I reckon I’m due a night out in lieu.’ Matt, miserable though he was, had to laugh. ‘You mean she’s on a night out which will include the radical lesbian feminist columnist who writes those incisive interviews on the contents of celebrities’ fridges?’ ‘Yeah, that’s the one. Ms I’m-a-serious-journalist-but-justlet-me-nle-this-copy-about-The-Spice-Girls-and-Fll-tell-you my-views-on-Marxism-and-the-male. After an hour in her company, even the mildest mannered woman starts to think about Bobbiting her husband. You wouldn’t mind, but

Betsey’s hardly the oppressed little woman. I do more ironing than she does, she controls the cheque book and if one of us had to give up work to mind the kids, it’d definitely be me.’ ‘My heart bleeds for you. Tell me, how many radical lesbian feminists does it take to change a light bulb?’ asked Matt. ‘Man, the old jokes sure are the best,’ laughed Dan. ‘Ten, one to change the light bulb and the other nine to hold a workshop about the oppressed role of the socket. You need to download some new jokes, my lad. Let’s go and get plastered.’ On their third pint, Matt told Dan about his novel: both of them. ‘The literary one was crap, that’s the only word for it,’ Matt said dolefully. He was mildly offended that Dan didn’t bother to console him and say ‘no, mate, I’m sure it’s great,’ or anything like that. ‘I tried that once,’ Dan confessed, ‘the big novel. Mine was crap too.’ ‘Oh,’ said Matt, slightly mollified. ‘It’s not that easy, is it? But, you know, the second one is easier to write and it’s more fun.’ ‘What second one?’ Dan asked, waving at the barman for another pint and simultaneously eyeing up a spectacular female customer who was wearing a T-shirt that must have been originally made for a ten-year-old. On a grown woman, it stretched in all sorts of interesting places. ‘I’ve been messing around at night and I’ve written about twenty thousand words of a …’ Matt struggled to find the right word, ‘sort of farce of a novel. It’s about advertising.’ ‘That’d account for the farcical bit, then,’ Dan said. ‘It’s not an autobiographical farce, is it?’ ‘The hero is stunningly handsome in a dark way and women are always throwing themselves at him, if that’s what you mean,’ Matt joked.