False Advertising (30 page)

It was all arranged for Helen to drive on in as soon as she'd dropped Noah at preschool. The guard would direct her to where she could park from now on, and this time the man at reception would give her her own security pass. They might as well get all that out of the way, Myles had suggested.

‘I'm not ready to leave work yet, you know,' said Gemma, a little curtly, when she had delivered what seemed like the umpteenth message to Helen from the MD that week.

‘I know,' said Helen. ‘Actually, we should probably talk about
that so we can make some plans. When did you want to start cutting your days down?'

‘Well, to be perfectly frank, before all this, I was prepared to keep going as long as I possibly could.'

‘Okay, if that's what you want,' said Helen. ‘It's all the same to me.'

But it wasn't all the same to Gemma. Her feet were swelling up more lately, and sometimes it felt almost impossible to get out of bed on a Friday morning. An extra day off would be ideal right now. It would give her time to start work on the baby's room, as well as get some rest over the weekend. She could start from next week if she wanted. So what was stopping her?

Gemma was well aware she was cutting off her nose to spite her face, but she couldn't help it. She was annoyed that the MD was fussing over Helen like she was something special. She hadn't even done anything yet, except trip over her own feet. Was that it? Did he like helpless women he could step in and look after? Seemed an odd requirement in an assistant.

‘Maybe they just click,' said Charlie when she had complained to him over lunch. ‘Some people just click better than others, you ought to know that, Gem.'

‘I didn't think the MD was capable of clicking with anyone,' she grumbled.

‘Well, looks like Helen's shot a hole in that theory,' said Charlie. ‘And it doesn't surprise me – she's such a sweet person.'

‘And I'm not?'

Charlie paused, considering what he was about to say. ‘Gemma, there are a lot of words I would use to describe you, a lot of good words, but “sweet” wouldn't be one of them.'

Gemma was scowling at him.

‘The words “green-eyed” and “monster” do come to mind, however.'

‘What?' she shrilled. ‘You think I'm jealous? Jealous of Helen? I'm not jealous of Helen, I love Helen, Helen is adorable. This is not about Helen. Oh you're not suggesting . . . ? Oh God, Charlie, I thought you knew me. Nothing could be further from the truth. I don't find him the slightest bit attractive –'

‘That's not what I meant,' he said with a sly grin. ‘Though I'll
resist the temptation to suggest you're protesting too much.' She opened her mouth to speak, but Charlie got in first. ‘You're jealous because you've been bending over backwards to make an impression and Helen walked in –'

‘Stumbled in, more like it.'

Charlie ignored her. ‘– and now she's made a huge impression without even trying. I can understand how that would make you feel.'

‘You can?'

‘Of course, but you have to look on the bright side.'

‘There's a bright side?'

‘Yes, you're not going to lose your job,' he said, slowly and deliberately.

Gemma was suitably chastened.

‘Jeez, Gem, you ought to feel lucky. Or at least relieved. This has worked out far better than you could have hoped, and a lot better than you planned.'

He was right of course. So Gemma tried not to feel too annoyed when she had to move heaven and earth to postpone, reschedule or otherwise juggle the MD's appointments for Thursday. Eddie was cued to call up when Helen arrived at reception, and Gemma was to buzz the MD as soon as she heard. He strode out of his office not a minute later, slipping on his jacket.

‘Okay, you can get me on my mobile if you need me,' he said as he sailed past Gemma, barely looking at her. She sighed, pushing her chair back and lifting her feet up onto the desk as soon as he was out of sight.

When Helen stepped out of the lift on the fifteenth floor, Myles was waiting for her this time. ‘Oh, hello,' she said, her cheeks turning pink. ‘I didn't expect –'

‘Well, I figured you've already seen my office, and your workstation, so I thought we'd get on with the rest of the tour.'

‘Sure,' she nodded.

‘How's the ankle?' he asked, glancing down at her foot.

‘Still a little sore,' she admitted.

‘I bet it is,' said Myles. ‘So you tell me if you need to rest today, okay, any time?'

‘I'll be fine. I wore sensible shoes today. I hope I'm dressed appropriately.'

‘Of course,' he said, gazing down at her. ‘You look quite, um . . . you look, well, you look very . . . appropriate.'

Helen had spent a large part of the past week sorting through all of her mother's clothes. The wardrobe was the last thing left in the old darkroom, mostly because of Helen's ambivalence. Gemma would not let her even consider putting its contents in the charity bin, and in truth Helen didn't really want to. But neither did she want to sell the lot on eBay, as Gemma had suggested. Now she was glad she'd dithered; she had salvaged some excellent day dresses and fully lined skirts that were perfect for the office. The blouses were mostly not worth keeping, their more delicate fabrics having deteriorated with age; and Helen would not have been able to wear the number of evening frocks and formal outfits if she went to a ball every week for a year, and that was obviously not on the cards. Still, she couldn't resist keeping a couple of dresses that she remembered fondly, including the green sheath. Helen insisted Gemma and Phoebe both have whatever took their fancy as well, before she packed up what was remaining and presented the lot at an upmarket vintage shop, where she received the gushing gratitude of the proprietor and a surprisingly generous cheque for her trouble. Helen figured it was appropriate to use the proceeds to buy whatever else she needed for work, and so a couple of neutral business shirts later, along with a pair of near-flat court shoes and a classic leather handbag to replace her saggy Oxfam shoulder bag, Helen felt ready for the office. And oddly excited.

‘So if you'll just come this way,' said Myles, taking her elbow and leading her out of the lift bay, ‘this is the area where we hold most of our client meetings, certainly when it comes to the pitch.'

They went around a corner into a vast open space dominated by the biggest flat-screen television Helen had ever seen in her life. Three long leather sofas, similar to the one in Myles's office, only white, formed a U facing the screen. There was another oversized steel and glass coffee table in the centre of the U, but
apart from that, the room was sparse, save for a glass shelf unit displaying what looked like various trophies and plaques.

Helen was dumbfounded. ‘It's very . . .'

‘It has to be,' said Myles. ‘This is where the teams pitch their ideas to clients, where they make their presentations.' He walked over to a brushed steel panel on the wall. ‘The controls for the blinds, lighting and so on are all located here,' he said as the lights flickered on and off and sleek white blinds shimmied halfway down the window and back up again. Myles pressed another button and part of what Helen had thought was merely a wall slid away silently to reveal a thoroughly stocked bar. ‘It's all to impress the clients, to put them in the right frame of mind to accept the pitch.'

‘Does it work?' Helen asked.

‘Hard to say,' he shrugged, ‘but it's come to be expected.'

Myles continued the tour, floor by floor, through all the various sections. Helen was glad to have a guide. Every floor looked the same to her: lots of white and lots of glass. Myles took her around to meet the account teams, while he gave her an overview of the structure of the company. He had a couple of the teams show her what they were currently working on, before taking her up to the creative section, where Helen was pleased and relieved to see a familiar face.

‘Hi Charlie!' she said, smiling widely.

‘Hey Helen, how's it going?'

‘You two know each other?' asked Myles.

Helen nodded. ‘Charlie's a friend of Gemma's.'

‘Oh, I didn't realise that,' said Myles.

‘So, Helen, what do you think of the place so far?' Charlie asked her.

‘It's a little overwhelming,' she admitted.

‘Is it?' said Myles, frowning. ‘Have I been going too fast? Do you want to take a break? How's your ankle?'

Charlie was giving him an odd look.

‘My ankle's fine,' Helen assured him.

‘Maybe we should stop for lunch?'

‘It's only eleven o'clock, Myles,' Helen said. ‘You know, I think I'd be overwhelmed no matter what. It's okay, let's push on.'

As the morning ticked over into the middle of the day, Helen grew increasingly apprehensive. Myles had consistently introduced her as his new personal assistant, which prompted more than a few surprised looks. Helen would have liked to explain that it was only part-time, and temporary, but Myles didn't really give her the chance. He barrelled along, showing her what seemed to be every minute aspect of the business, inside and out. Why did she need to know all of this to keep his schedule up to date and answer mail?

At one o'clock Myles clapped his hands together and announced it was time for lunch.

‘Okay,' said Helen. ‘So we'll meet back here in half an hour, or an hour, what would you prefer?'

He frowned. ‘I would prefer to take you to lunch.'

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘I'm taking you to lunch.'

‘That's really not necessary, Myles,' said Helen, feeling flustered. ‘It's very kind, but you're a busy man and I've taken up half your day as it is.'

He looked at her directly. ‘I cleared the whole day, and I made reservations for lunch.'

Helen blinked. ‘Why?'

‘What do you mean?'

‘I just don't understand why you're doing all this,' she said carefully. She didn't want to seem churlish, but at the same time she couldn't help feeling uncomfortable. ‘I'm only relieving Gemma while she's on maternity leave.'

‘There's a good deal more to it than that,' he reminded her. ‘I was under the impression you'll be job-sharing for quite some time, Helen, indefinitely perhaps.'

‘Sure, but . . .' Helen didn't know what to say.

‘Listen, I'm getting hungry,' said Myles. ‘Can we continue this over a plate of food?'

As they were now running late for their reservation, they caught a taxi down towards the Quay, stopping outside a tower building. A doorman showed them into the foyer, from where they
caught a lift to the penthouse floor. Myles led her into the kind of restaurant Helen had only seen in magazines on her rare visits to the hairdressers. The big glossy expensive magazines. And this was a big, glossy expensive restaurant. Helen felt immediately self-conscious and totally out of place. She and David had rarely gone to restaurants. Even on special occasions David baulked at ‘lining the pockets of overpaid celebrity cooks, while their underpaid underlings did all the work'.

‘Everything okay?' Myles asked, noticing her apprehensive expression as she studied the menu.

She looked up at him, a little dazed.

‘The veal's good,' he suggested. ‘Or it was last time I was here.'

‘Oh, well, I'm sure it still is,' said Helen. ‘But I'm a vegetarian.'

‘Oh.' He hesitated. ‘Well, the seafood's also good.'

Helen tried not to smile. ‘Fish aren't vegetables.'

Myles looked across his menu at her. ‘So you're one of those vegans?'

She shook her head. ‘I eat dairy and eggs, just not the animals themselves.'

He seemed interested. ‘Is it a moral or a health choice, or something else? That's if you don't mind me asking,' he added.

‘No, I don't mind,' she said, but she wasn't sure how to answer. David had introduced her to vegetarianism. It hadn't been such a hardship: she'd never been a big meat-eater anyway, and after he moved in it was just easier to cook the one meal. However, she became more serious about it when she fell pregnant with Noah; if she was going to keep it up she had to do it properly, so she had to believe it was worth doing. What she discovered through her research about the way animals were raised for food was enough to make her hair stand on end, and more than enough to convince her. But Helen had never been one to force her views on anyone.

‘I do have some ethical concerns about the way animals are treated,' she said finally.

‘Such as?'

Helen gave him a faint smile. ‘I don't think we should have this conversation over lunch.'

They ordered and the waiter took away their menus. Myles
leaned forward on the table. ‘Okay, back at the office I interrupted you. What were you saying?'

Helen gathered her thoughts. ‘I guess it's just that I'm getting the impression that this job might be a bigger deal than I was led to believe.'

‘PA to the managing director is a big deal,' said Myles plainly. ‘It's an important role with a lot of responsibility. I don't know who led you to believe otherwise.'

‘Well, Gemma, of course,' said Helen. ‘She made out she was little more than a glorified receptionist. She must have been playing it down so she wouldn't freak me out. But seriously, I'm worried I might be in a bit over my head.'

Myles considered her for a moment before he spoke. ‘First of all, I wouldn't have offered you the job if I didn't think you could do it, Helen. That would be a waste of my time and yours. I'm confident you've got the skills, but not to put too fine a point on it, as I told you the other day, it's more important to me to have someone I can trust.'

‘But you don't know me.'