Lizzy Harrison Loses Control (30 page)

‘What about Jemima?’ I burst out furiously. It’s not like I’m the only one at Carter Morgan who’s fallen for the Randy Jones charm offensive.

‘Jemima,’ Camilla huffs, casting her eyes to the ceiling. ‘Jemima Morgan is even more of a fool than you are. She thought sleeping with Randy would make him want to be her client instead of mine.’

‘So that’s why—’ I say. ‘But he wouldn’t—’

Camilla lets out a harsh burst of laughter.

‘You should know as well as I do that Randy has a fierce Madonna/whore complex. Now that he’s slept with Jemima, there’s no way he’ll consider her as someone who might represent him. And the same goes for you.’

‘Are you – are you calling me a whore?’ I ask, hardly able to believe my ears. For a moment I think Camilla is about to burst out laughing – her eyes have a peculiar glint to them. But her face remains serious.

‘Well, you’re certainly not a Madonna, are you?’ she asks tartly. First Dan, now Camilla. Is everyone going to turn on me?

I don’t reply. I can’t.

‘Lizzy,’ she says, snapping shut her notebook. ‘You can consider this a formal warning.’

‘Just a minute,’ I say, suddenly enraged. I no longer care about the consequences. ‘None of this would have happened if you and Jemima hadn’t put me in this situation in the first place. You told me to act like Randy’s girlfriend. I did. And I would have thought, after everything I’ve done for you, that you could cut me a bit of slack for getting – well, carried away.’

‘Everything you’ve done for me?’ says Camilla in a dangerously calm tone. ‘Would that include making out that I am some kind of incompetent who can’t be trusted to make a decision without being saved by the sainted Lizzy Harrison?’

‘I haven’t—’ I splutter.

‘Yes you have,’ says Camilla. ‘I’m not saying I’m not grateful to you, but you should have demonstrated a little faith in me as your boss. Have I ever let you down before?’

‘No,’ I mumble, ‘but—’

‘But nothing.
You
have let
me
down, Lizzy, and you need to seriously consider your position at Carter Morgan.’ She glances at her watch. ‘I’ve got a conference call at eleven. We need to get back to the office.’

‘But I—’

‘Now,’ says Camilla, standing up.

We don’t speak a word on the way back to the office; in fact Camilla strides ahead while I trail five paces behind her like a dutiful Muslim wife. I am seething. I can’t believe she would turn on me like this. She isn’t who I thought she was. This job isn’t what I thought it was. First I’m forced to be the fake girlfriend of a celebrity, and then I get a formal warning for taking my role a little too seriously.

When we get to the office it’s nearly eleven and there’s a distinct scent of cigarette smoke in the corridor. The door to Jemima’s office is closed, as if we won’t know it’s her, back on the tabs again. Whenever Jemima falls off the cigarette wagon, it’s like a smoke signal to the rest of us: keep your head down, avoid eye contact, be prepared to fling yourself under your desk in a commando roll rather than face her wrath. There is even a rumour that, on one such smoking day, she threw a stapler at a work-experience girl, but no one’s ever been able to prove it. (Though that sixteen-year-old who’d been doing the photocopying did leave very abruptly, come to think of it.) There’s a tangibly hysterical atmosphere, and even the usually sanguine Winston is anxious.

‘It’s a Health and Safety violation, Mrs Carter,’ he calls as we pass reception.

‘It certainly is, Winston – I’ll sort this out,’ says Camilla.

She strides through the cubicles towards Jemima’s office. Every head turns to watch her pass. She flings open the door and a cloud of smoke emerges, as if she’s entering the lair of a monster. And then she slams the door behind her. It feels like the whole office is holding its breath.

And suddenly everyone is overcome with the urge to make a cup of tea or coffee in the small kitchen opposite Jemima’s office. It’s like one of those how-many-people-can-you-fit-in-a-phone-box competitions as secretaries jostle with account execs and the surprisingly aggressive work-experience boy to get a spot near enough the door for the best view of Jemima’s office, but close enough to the kettle to be able to pretend to be busy in the kitchen should either she or Camilla emerge. I pretend to be reading the laminated “What to do in Case of Fire” leaflet that’s stuck on a pinboard just outside the kitchen. Everyone is hissing at everyone else to shush.

The kitchen falls silent as everyone strains to hear any suggestion of a raised voice from Jemima’s office, but there’s nothing.

‘Lizzy,’ hisses Mel from within the kitchen scrum.

‘Yes,’ I answer mildly, still pretending to be engrossed in Human Resources literature.

‘You were out with Camilla this morning – what’s going on? Is this about Randy Jones and that Jazmeen slapper?’

‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ I say, thankful that self-obsessed Mel’s first thought is for office politics rather than how I might feel about it as Randy’s nominal girlfriend.

There’s a muffled thud from behind the closed door. Everyone gasps.

‘Do you think that was the stapler?’ whispers Lucy, eyes wide.

‘Definitely not,’ says Mel. ‘I removed all heavy objects from Jemima’s desk when she went to the loo earlier. It was obvious how this day was going to go.’

‘So what do
you
know?’ Francoise asks Mel from underneath the armpit of Josh, the work-experience boy, who has claimed pole position in the doorway.

‘Nothing,’ says Mel, rolling her eyes, ‘but
something’s
going on with her and Camilla.’

There’s another thud from Jemima’s office, and this time Josh, who’s a good foot taller than the rest of us, swears he can see, over the top of the frosted glass, Jemima slamming her hand down on her desk for emphasis.

‘What’s Camilla doing?’ asks Francoise eagerly.

‘I can’t . . . quite . . . see . . .’ says Josh, eyes goggling as he strains higher.

The handle to Jemima’s office door turns sharply and the stack of people in the kitchen doorway collapses into its component parts: Francoise and Lucy busy themselves by the kettle, Mel picks up a mug and intently examines its cleanliness, Josh flees to his desk. Two terrified assistants actually duck behind a partition as if a stapler might be hurled at any moment. But Camilla emerges with a serene, ‘Morning,’ to everyone as she passes the kitchen. Jemima is glimpsed for a brief moment, and closes her door again, shutting herself back into the gloom. Tendrils of smoke curl in her wake.

‘I don’t think it’s fags, I reckon it’s the steam from her cauldron,’ hisses Lucy as she makes her way back to her desk. ‘Eye of newt . . .’

As the morning progresses, it brings further revelations about Randy. Rochelle, it seems, got spectacularly drunk at Randy’s party on Saturday and let slip to a journalist that she has sunk her leopardskin claws into Randy on several occasions. She didn’t hesitate to confess that one of those occasions was as I waited downstairs before Lulu and Dan’s party. I remember her flushed face and messy hair as we waved goodbye. God, I even offered to help her with her stupid bags. But more embarrassing still is the fact, revealed in stark black and white on the
Hot Slebs
website, that Randy told her I was just a fake girlfriend, purely PR, and that I didn’t really mean anything to him. My humiliation is complete.

But at the same time, it’s all over. There are no more secrets to hide. I’ve no doubt that there will be other revelations – that bitchy girl from the underwear shop is surely saving her story for a rainy day – but for me it’s finished. I know, once and for all, that I never meant anything to Randy. Surely nothing further can hurt me.

As I sit at my desk, email upon email piling up in my inbox, I’m overcome by a peculiar feeling. I don’t care about any of it. I really don’t care. Sorry, Caspian Latimer, but I can’t be arsed to reply to your email about picture credits. Nope, Isobel Valentine, I am not going to find someone to look after your dogs while you have a pedicure. As for Declan Costelloe’s request for a written apology for the kiwi fruits: denied. Why am I spending my life pandering to the whims of spoiled celebrities? I could be doing something that actually matters, something that makes a difference. Why should I sit here and get a formal warning for doing what I was told to do in the first place? It’s clear that Camilla has changed over the last few weeks. She’s back in charge. She doesn’t need me any more. And I don’t need her. It’s like a fog has lifted and I can at last see the horizon ahead. Afterwards. For me, it will have nothing to do with Carter Morgan.

Full of resolve and confidence, I push open the door to Camilla’s office. She looks up in surprise, her expression cold.

‘Yes?’ she snaps, covering the papers on her desk with her hand.

‘Camilla, I’ve been thinking about what you said,’ I say, hovering in the doorway. ‘And I’ve decided I have no choice but to resign.’

Her face softens a fraction, but there is a peculiarly triumphant smile on her lips.

‘Lizzy,’ she says calmly. ‘That is positively the best news I’ve had in weeks.’

It’s not that I was expecting tears and rending of clothes, nor that Camilla would fall on to her knees and beg me to stay, especially after this morning’s discussion in Sloane Square, but I did think that at the very least she would be a little sad to see me go. After all, it’s been more than four years. I’ve booked her holidays, bought her pregnancy tests, wiped baby sick off her clothes with tedious regularity. I thought we were more than just colleagues. I thought we were friends. It seems that about this, as about so many things, I have been wrong.

‘Pack up your personal belongings,’ says Camilla, standing up and collecting the papers in front of her with purpose. ‘I’d like you to put your resignation in writing and be ready to leave immediately following the twelve-thirty meeting.’

‘What twelve-thirty meeting?’ I ask, confused.

‘The one I’m about to announce just as soon as I’ve spoken to Jemima,’ she snaps.

As she passes me in the doorway of her office, she stops for a moment and squeezes my arm with baffling chumminess.

‘You did the right thing, Lizzy,’ she says, smiling as if we are the best of friends again, and then heads down the corridor to Jemima’s lair. Heads turn to watch her pass like a mini-Mexican wave.

And then I’m on my own, rooted to the spot with my mouth hanging open. So Camilla has finally completely and utterly lost it. Or – my stomach clenches at the thought – is this what she wanted all along? To get rid of me? I guess I’ve saved her the trouble of firing me. Fine! Fine, if that’s how she wants it. Let her see how she copes without me. I allow myself a brief fantasy of torching the office with a can of paraffin, burning all evidence behind me and destroying forever my peerless filing system before I pull open the drawers to my desk and begin the much more mundane task of packing up.

By the time we are all called into the boardroom for the twelve-thirty meeting, my handbag is bulging incriminatingly, stuffed with a Rolodex, my personal stash of Muji office equipment (so much more attractive than that stuff from the Viking catalogue), and a selection of emergency snacks, painkillers and nail files that were floating around in my desk drawer. I prepare for my last meeting at Carter Morgan.

We crowd into the boardroom, jostling for chairs around the table. You can tell this meeting is a hastily arranged one because there’s not a biscuit to be seen. Usually no one at Carter Morgan would think of turning up without first checking that sufficient Marks & Spencer’s Extremely Chocolatey Mini Bites had been purchased. I place myself as far from Jemima as possible, but it’s impossible to escape her cold stare. It’s as if she’s one of those Dementors from Harry Potter, sucking all warmth and happiness and joy out of the room until everyone loses the will to live.

At last everyone is settled. Jemima sits at one end of the table, Camilla at the other. They stare at each other coldly. Jemima waits for the room to fall silent before she stands to speak.

‘I’m sorry to have to announce,’ says Jemima, ‘a series of departures from Carter Morgan.’

There is an audible intake of breath, and everyone glances at each other with silent questions. Jemima waits again, like a professional actress, for the room to be still.

‘Randy Jones has left Carter Morgan. With immediate effect he will be represented by the McCormack Agency in New York and Los Angeles.’

This time people don’t bother keeping silent. The McCormack Agency is one of the biggest in the world, a behemoth with offices in every major city. No wonder Camilla was in such a terrible mood this morning. Randy has betrayed her – all of us – for his shot at world domination.

Jemima clears her throat to speak again. ‘All media queries regarding Randy’s departure are to be directed to me, and me alone.’

All heads swivel to the end of the table where Camilla sits. Why would Jemima take it upon herself to handle the fallout from Camilla’s former client? Camilla smiles implacably, but a small muscle pulses vigorously at the base of her throat. As Jemima begins to speak again, the heads swivel back in her direction as if we’re all watching an extremely slow game of tennis.

‘Camilla Carter will also be leaving the company today,’ Jemima says stiffly.