Authors: Charlotte Oliver
But I shook that thought from my mind. I was being presumptuous. Jack was a lovely, warm, friendly person, who seemed to enjoy spending time with me to some extent, but that did not in any way mean that he would be alright with having me as a houseguest.
As I had done the previous few mornings, I resolved to keep my mind on the tasks at hand, rather than on fantasies involving Jack, Alpine ski lodges, bearskin rugs, glowing fireplaces, and the removal of pants. As it happened, I found I was able to keep my resolution that day—albeit through no virtue of my own.
It was my first Friday working for Jack, and it was an education. Fridays, I learnt, were the busiest days of all, with releases to prepare, proposals to draw up, cheques to cut, contracts to tweak—all before close of business, or in time to be taken to dinner meetings where alcohol would make signatures that much easier to glean.
“Have you made that booking at Nobu?” he barked at regular intervals, a look of panic on his face.
“Yes!” I learnt to say, triumphantly, while checking his diary with one eye and skimming the phone book for a direct number for the maitre d’ with the other.
“Have you done a search and replace on that contract?” he’d ask three times between teatime and lunch.
“Of course!” I would bluster, while scrabbling through a pile of papers trying to find the ones that constituted ‘that contract’. “But you’ve not initialled it yet.”
Then would come the Great Hunt for the Heirloom Fountain Pen. “I
know
I put it here somewhere,” he would splutter, exasperated, while Mary Hazel and I crawled around on our hands and knees behind his desk, trying to find it in the shag-pile carpet.
Then, when he’d finally given up and left it to us while he went for a pee, he’d return, crowing: “I
knew
I put it there! I knew I hadn’t lost it.” (He’d found it on the windowsill in the guest loo.)
By the end of the day, I was exhausted and starving. We’d barely stopped for lunch, and when we had, all I’d had was two Laughing Cow wedges and a mini-carton of cranberry juice because I didn’t have time for anything else. But there wasn’t a moment to spare: we had to get ready for dinner, and the exhibition that followed.
“We’ll have a bite at Nobu,” Jack panted.
I got ready in one of the guest bathrooms. There was no time for a shower, but by then I didn’t care—as long as I could get a bit of makeup on and pull a brush through my hair, I’d be alright. All thoughts of glitz and glamour were now far from my mind. I just had to get through this evening without having a nervous breakdown, or falling asleep facedown in my dessert.
~
We met with Jack’s Singaporean business contact just after seven o’clock. I’d been so excited about going to one of those restaurants I always saw in paparazzi photographs: I expected to see Kelly Brook ensconced in a booth, at least. In fact, it turned out that, early on a Friday evening, Nobu was jammed with second-tier media execs who wanted to be seen, and all the celebs were off doing pay gigs at nightclubs. Except for a few C-listers—the ones who wanted to make deals.
The execs were easy to spot. Sharp suits, but without sharp haircuts; sweating more than they should have been. Smiling, but only with their mouths. The C-listers were the same, except with better haircuts and cooler clothes. I was surprised how uninterested I was in both groups.
As I munched on an extremely elegant and restrained selection of sushi, I found I was far more interested in the background movement. It was something I’d only very recently become aware of.
All over London, I’d realised, girls like me were following men like Jack around.
I counted nine in Nobu, and those where just the ones in my line of vision. A few wore spectacles. Some wore dresses that didn’t fit quite right (mine did, I thought; chinois collar with silk-covered buttons, a princess-line bodice and a demure mini-skirt length—chic and understated, but still saying EXPENSIVE in a very loud stage whisper, which was exactly the look I was going for. I was also wearing Mia’s shoes. I know—I was a kamikaze shoe-stealer if there ever was one. But I really needed to not look like a day-tripper). Others had mastered the art of borrowing their sisters’ dresses too, it seemed.
All were visibly tired. Some looked exhausted. All had notebooks in their laps. Most didn’t have wine in their glass (I did); most were seated next to or near their charges.
The one who caught my eye was a redhead.
You could tell she’d been in this game for longer than the others. She had the look of an old hand; someone who knew what was coming next and was almost bored by it. Her boss was a man with wide-set eyes and a hungry look. (The combination of the two gave him more than a passing resemblance to a hammerhead shark, actually.) In his early forties, handsome in a scary way, he was listening dispassionately to one of the C-listers, who appeared to be pitching something to him.
The three of them sat in the darkened booth, each in their own world. The redhead twisted a strand of hair around her forefinger while taking discreet notes in her lap.
The C-lister smiled, its face ashen, strained despite its smile. Its shoes were plasticky and cheap-looking, much like the ones that lined the bottom of my cupboard at home. My heart gave a throb of pity. Poor thing was getting nowhere.
I glanced over at the other two’s shoes. His looked expensive and sleek—an unidentifiable dark leather. Hers were nondescript, low-key ballet flats that would have looked dashingly casual on a more innocent-looking, fresh-faced sort of girl.
I must get myself a pair of those,
I thought;
I don’t want to have another day like this while I’m running around in stilettos.
I saw a flash of movement. I thought she was moving her notebook to one side and felt another twinge of sympathy. Looked like the pitch was well and truly over. S
he knows her boss won’t go for it. She’s not even paying attention anymore.
Then I realised what was actually happening: Hammerhead had his hand up her dress.
My eyes darted upwards and I noticed the wedding ring on his left hand. Surprised by how appalled I was, I jerked my gaze back to the table.
“Are you alright?” asked Jack.
Mr. Kim, the Singaporean, looked on with great curiosity.
I wonder if Mr. Kim assumes I’m like her
, I thought, stunned.
He probably does—a single girl accompanying a man out on a Friday night.
“Fine, fine,” I smiled, not allowing my voice to quaver. “Would you excuse me?”
I made my way, on wobbly legs, to the ladies’, not daring to look back.
Maybe that’s what all these girls are like. Maybe Tam had some insider knowledge to go by when he made his assumptions.
While I was in the stall, I gave myself a bit of a pep talk. Standing by the private mirror, I redrew my liquid eyeliner with shaking hands, and put on some more mascara.
You are not like these people,
I pointed out to myself. Then I carefully outlined my lips in cerise, and added some gloss.
You have nothing to worry about.
I’d pulled my hair back into a severe ponytail, since it was too dirty to leave loose. Pity. I’d straightened it so nicely and for once it hadn’t gone frizzy. I started to feel much calmer as I combed it out and retied it.
And anyway, if anything were to happen between you and Jack, he’s single anyway. So it would be perfectly normal.
A frisson of excited nausea rippled through me.
You have nothing to worry about.
When I got back to the table, the redhead and her boss were gone, Jack had refilled my glass, and Mr. Kim had signed whatever it is he was supposed to have signed. Everyone was smiling. This was the last time I was going to let any puritanical silliness get the better of me. So a married man, someone I didn’t even know, was having sex with his secretary, who I also didn’t know; what else was new? I wasn’t her: Jack wasn’t him.
My mind turned briefly to Jack’s brother. What would he think of my justifications? Surely he’d laugh at how his initial impressions of me were correct. I pushed the thought away.
By the time we left Nobu, after a few rounds of sake-tasting and two cigars, it was after eleven. I’d crossed the tired and tipsy threshold, and was definitely exhausted and sloshed. Nevertheless, I vowed to hold it together. I was starting to understand why Jack had a chauffeur on his staff; if we had tried to hail cabs, or find parking before each appointment, it would be impossible to get anything done.
The gallery was in Soho. As I trailed into the street, behind Jack, I regretted not bringing a suitable coat: the night was frigid and I didn’t even have tights on. When we slid into the back seat of the Jag, the leather was ice-cold, and I gave a small yelp.
“Oh dear—are you absolutely freezing? Sit back. Matthew, put on the seat warmer, will you?” He looked at me intently. “Why don’t you lean against me?” He motioned at the crook of his arm. “I’ll help you thaw.”
I must have looked shocked beyond words, because he laughed and said, “Ava, you don’t have to if you don’t want to. I just thought you looked frozen.”
I felt stupid then. What was I, Amish? Since when did a man putting his arm around you when you were cold constitute a shocking compromise of virtue? And who cared about virtue anyway? I wasn’t in a Jane Austen novel. In fact, I scolded myself, Jane Austen herself wouldn’t have thought twice about taking a gentleman up on such a kind offer.
Gingerly, but feeling a distinct buzz, I scooted up to lean against him. This was OK; it’s not as if I’d never
touched
him before. But I found myself dizzied by the intensity of his cologne, and then—horror of horrors, joy of joys!—he draped his arm languidly around my shoulder.
He’s being nice to you,
I repeated over and over to myself, still dizzy.
He’s a nice man. You know he’s a nice man. He’s being nice to you.
We drove on.
If only Sharon were here!
Then, he squeezed my shoulder, and said in a low voice, “Better?”
“Yes,” I whispered, realising I was giddy with delight. It didn’t help that I’d had the better part of a bottle of wine on a near-empty stomach.
“Relax,” he said softly. I was so cold, so tired, and so drunk. And he was so warm
.
So I decided I would get used to this daring new situation. I relaxed my legs. Then my tummy muscles (not too much though). Then my back, then my shoulders. Reclining thus, I tried to take deep breaths. The fine cashmere of his coat caressed my cheek and reminded me of my father.
Then Matthew pulled up outside the gallery, and who opened the car door, but Tam himself. If his silhouette didn’t identify him, that scent of warmth and plenty—apparently so at odds with his personality—surely did.
“OH,” I said suddenly, loudly, blinking into the sudden bright light and jumping away from Jack’s body as if it were a hot poker. Guilt suffused me. Here I was, entertaining fantasies about my employer, only to be discovered by his disapproving brother.
“Oh,” Tam replied, his face stony with disapproval. My stomach somersaulted.
Why does he have to be so damn handsome?
I thought, distractedly.
“Tam,” answered Jack, jovially, apparently happy to see him. “Thought you were only coming later.”
Tam scowled. “Jemima’s waiting for you. Will you get inside?”
“Patience, Tommy boy,” Jack laughed, and he started to shuffle out of the seat. I followed, mortified. Jack was out of the car and almost in the gallery while I was still trying to manoeuvre myself onto the pavement without flashing my knickers: I was embarrassed to find that Tam was holding out his hand to steady me.
I had little choice but to take it. His touch was cool. I could feel him staring at me, judging me, and it felt as if I were standing naked on that city street.
Tam was all the things I hated in a man. Priggish, paternalistic, and probably a man of violence. And I hated how my body responded to him: I felt as if I were made of churning lava, hot and unpredictable.
I didn’t want to meet his eye, but did. I mumbled thanks, and forced my attention towards fretting about Jack instead.
Had I fallen asleep during the trip without knowing it? Did falling asleep on a car trip mean I had morning breath now? Was it weird that I had been so relaxed in front of him? Had I dribbled on him?! Then I stepped on the back of his coat as I caught up with him (please don’t ask me how). By the time we were inside, I was a complete wreck. He, of course, showed no outward signs of stress.
“Jackie!” drawled a husky voice behind us. “I thought you’d decided to stay away.”
I turned to see Jack embracing a woman created in the style of Helen of Troy. “Hello, Jemima,” he was saying, “so sorry I’m late.”
Jemima was, I am sure, the kind of girl who’d had several polo ponies to choose from for as long as she could remember. Whose family breaks must surely have been taken via Lear jet. Whose elegant chiffon kaftans were not from Camden Market but from the atelier of Diane von Furstenburg, via her mother, who’d bought it straight off the runway in 1971. She had the coiled ebony hair of an Egyptian priestess, the burnished gold skin of a classical heroine, and the understated manicure of one for whom honest work was something charming that other people did.