Then I wonder if it just looks odd – so I ‘unlike’ it. However, by the time I reach my destination, I’ve changed my mind again several times – liked and unliked it
so often that I’m starting to feel the need to take some strong pills and lie down in a dark room.
The train pulls into the city centre and I head towards the Albert Dock, or, more specifically, the Colonnades, the trendy offices and apartments that are housed above the shops and restaurants
below. It’s quieter than I’m used to seeing it: by mid-morning this massive, Grade I-listed complex of renovated nineteenth-century warehouses will be heaving with tourists and locals
alike.
Once inside, I find the office’s reception on the second floor – a bright, smart and achingly upmarket space with the sort of thick, luxurious carpet that makes your shoes disappear
into it. I introduce myself before being shown to a waiting area, where I sit and flick through a company brochure and catch a glance at the open-plan office behind the glass window next to me.
There are twenty or so people – lots in their twenties and thirties, but one or two older, all of whom seem to be engaging in the sort of banter you’d expect in the pub at 5.30 p.m.
on a Friday. I’ve done a decent amount of research before today, but it’s only as I leaf through the more in-depth articles that I realise exactly what this place has got going for
it.
Ideas burst to the front of my mind and I dig out my notepad and start jotting them down. Then I stop, reminding myself that this really isn’t where I want to be. It isn’t where I
want to be at all.
‘Ms Rogers is ready for you now,’ says the receptionist. She’s young and pretty, with bright blue eyes and teeth that look slightly too big for her mouth. ‘I’ll
show you in if you’re ready.’
‘Yes, definitely,’ I reply, gathering my belongings as she leads me down a corridor, my heels sinking into the carpet en route. At the end, she knocks on a door and waits to be
invited to enter. Then the door opens and I come face to face with the boss – who, it turns out, is the Antichrist in cashmere.
I wish I could say that the sobriquet seems misplaced. But, while Caroline Rogers is polite enough, there is no other way to put this: she couldn’t be scarier if she came with an 18
certificate and a complimentary Valium.
I remind myself that, in my previous job, there were plenty of occasions when I had to deal with the ‘great and the good’ (and concluded that many turned out to be neither). So
I’m not sure why she’s so intimidating. But everything about her seems so single-minded, driven – and so entirely focused on her vision for the company that she doesn’t even
mention the fact that we both stand outside the gates of the same school every morning.
‘I see from your CV that you’ve spent most of your career in the motor industry. What makes you think you can make the transition to a wine company? Do you know a lot about
wine?’
I resist the temptation to tell her that not so long ago I could have put away an entire bottle of Blossom Hill on a Friday night while I was logged on to Wacky Bingo.
‘I’m no sommelier and there’s no point in trying to pretend I am,’ I begin, ‘but I have exactly what you want: the skills and contacts to market a luxury product to
the relevant audience. I knew nothing about cars before I went to work for Panther. A good marketer doesn’t need to be an expert in everything, at least not at the beginning. They just need
to know enough about the product and
lots
about marketing.’
The questions get harder. A lot harder. It’s obvious she’s not going to let me off without quizzing me about her competitors’ strategies and my understanding of Grape’s
challenges, and asking me to outline – on the spot – an impromptu events calendar (something I know I should’ve put more work into in advance).
The interview lasts for an hour, at the end of which I feel like a wrung-out dishcloth.
‘Would you like to conclude with a few words about why I should make this job yours?’ she says finally.
And, before I really can stop myself, I launch into a speech that is so passionate, so convincing, it’s as if I’d been searching for this job all my life.
‘It’s such an exciting company and I absolutely know I could help you grow. Tangibly. I’m not just talking about increasing your profile, I’m talking about increasing it
among real, potential customers and growing your consumer base massively.’
She allows herself a twitch of a smile and for a second I wonder if she kind of likes me. I realise that I want her to.
‘Thanks for your time Ms MacFarlane. We’ll be in touch,’ she says, standing to shake my hand. I pick up my bag and go to stand. ‘Oh, one more thing . . .’ I look
up. ‘Do I know you from somewhere?’
I clasp my bag tighter. ‘My nephews Leo and Noah are in your daughter’s class at St Luke’s.’
Her eyebrows lift. ‘Oh . . . really? Gosh, I feel embarrassed now. I knew I recognised you but couldn’t work out where from.’
‘Oh, it’s fine. I’ve only started going to pick him up recently, so you might not have spotted me. I’m friends with Gill, Laura and Natalie.’
Her face drops the second the words are out of my mouth, as if I’d just declared my allegiances to a dangerous and untrustworthy faction, one whose feuding daughters she clearly wants
nothing to do with.
‘I see.’ The temperature seems to drop a few degrees as she shuffles her papers. ‘Well, goodbye, then.’
As I close the door behind me, it strikes me that I could’ve just given the world’s greatest interview – it wouldn’t matter. The politics of the school gate win
again.
I am thinking about the job – and how amazing and out of reach it now sounds – when I get home and to find a text from James asking me to Skype him. He looks
dazzlingly handsome when his face appears on the screen.
‘Well, I might just have the answer to all our prayers,’ he announces, sitting back with a grin.
‘Oh?’
‘I don’t want you to get too excited but . . . I think I’ve got you a job.’
My heart rises. ‘Really?’
He nods. ‘I’ll know more by tonight but I’ve pulled a few strings and, basically, you’re in. You can finally fly out here so we can be together.’
‘Oh, James, that’s just brilliant,’ I reply, feeling a rush of hope that the position might be on a par with the Grape wines job. ‘So what is it? And how soon will they
have me?’
He laughs. ‘Steady on, it’s not set in stone yet. And you might decide it’s not for you.’
‘James, if it’s an even half-decent marketing job that’s in Dubai, then believe me – it’s for me.’
‘It’s working for a contact I’ve made out here, Harry Bonis,’ he explains. ‘You’d like him – he’s an ex-journalist, great fun. Anyway, he runs a
PR agency out here and they need someone.’
I hesitate, a little surprised. ‘Okay, brilliant. I mean, PR isn’t my speciality obviously, but I can expand my skills of course. What’s the job – would it be a similar
level to my job at Panther?’
‘Ha!’ he laughs, a little disconcertingly. ‘No . . . he’s already got all his main positions filled.’
‘Oh. Well, would I at least be some kind of account manager? Or . . . what?’
‘It’s an administrator, Hannah – kind of, helping out in the operations department.’
I frown. ‘Administrator?’
‘They’re desperate for someone to do some photocopying and a bit of typing and things. I told him how organised you were. You’d be perfect for it.’
I take this in silently.
‘He wouldn’t be able to pay you at first,’ he continues. ‘They’ve got quite a few girls in, desperate for the work experience. But, maybe after a few months,
Harry’s said he’d consider it. It’d be a foot in the door for you.’
I feel as if the breath had been sucked from me. ‘James, I’ve got an MBA. This time last year I was running a department in a multimillion-pound profit-making company. You want me to
be a work-experience girl again?’
He clamps down on his jaw. ‘Everyone’s got to do a bit of hard graft if they want to get somewhere, Hannah.’
I sit back as my mind whirrs. ‘Yes . . . I suppose you’re right. It’s just . . . it wasn’t what I was expecting, that’s all. I mean, I have no ambitions in PR. And
certainly none as an administrator. I can’t even type.’
‘I’m sure you could if you put your mind to it. We’ve all got to start somewhere, Hannah. You can’t be precious.’
There’s something about the way he says this that annoys me more than I can say. I try to be diplomatic, but I don’t think it works. ‘James, I don’t think I
am
being precious. I’ve spent the last seven years busting a gut for my career – and it wasn’t for the privilege of organising someone’s paperclips.’
At this, James explodes. I’ve learned over the years that he’s prone to this and, I’ll be honest, I hate it when it happens.
‘I cannot
believe
you’re being so bloody-minded about this, Hannah,’ he shouts through the screen, a vein in his neck throbbing. ‘I mean, honestly. I go out of
my way to set this up for you and you just throw it back in my face. I know what this is all about. Don’t think I don’t know. You just can’t stand the thought of me doing well,
can you? You’re jealous – of
me
.’
‘Where’s that come from, James? That’s so unfair,’ I protest.
‘It’s the truth,’ he growls. ‘You just think you’re so much better than me at all this. You couldn’t
possibly
accept the idea that it’s the
other way around.’
I swallow and take this in.
On the numerous occasions when I helped James out with his work after he got to Dubai, I found myself privately surprised by what I saw. I concluded quietly that, as lovely as my fiancé
is, professionally he didn’t seem to know his arse from his elbow.
But now I’m forced to contemplate the idea that this rather superior opinion – which, fortunately, I’ve never expressed – might have been unfair to him. Keith Blanchard
obviously thought he was better than I. So perhaps he
is
; perhaps my pride refused to let me recognise it. Problem is, every time I think back to our work discussions, it’s virtually
impossible to avoid the conclusion that he was talking bollocks.
‘That’s very unfair, James,’ I say diplomatically. ‘I’ve never said anything like that.’
‘No, but you’ve thought it. I
know
you’ve thought it.’
‘James, this isn’t supposed to be about you. It’s supposed to be about me – and finding a suitable job for me out there. You must understand how . . . upsetting it is
to’ve worked as hard as I have for so many years and for the best I can manage is doing someone’s photocopying. For free.’
‘Actually, Hannah. No. I fucking don’t. You’re supposed to be desperate to get out here. Yet, from where I’m sitting, you don’t look at all desperate.’
‘I am dying to be with you, you know that.’
But he just contorts his face into a haughty expression and looks away. ‘I’m going to have to go, Hannah,’ he says, furiously. ‘But I want you to know this: You fucking
appal
me sometimes.’
‘James, please, I’m sorry I—’
‘Just save your apologies, Hannah,’ he spits. ‘I don’t want to hear them. In fact, I can’t even look at you right now.’
And, at that, he clicks off his Skype connection, making it absolutely clear that the conversation is now over.
Julia was right about our night out being overdue. This fact dawns on me as she giggles at me through a haze of dry ice while we sit by the bar in Camp and Furnace. The venue
is the size of an aircraft hangar, and, courtesy of the DJ, neon lights and street food, has a kind of festival vibe – except it’s indoors.
‘What is it?’ I ask, bemused.
‘You’re a bit tipsy.’ She smiles.
‘Whatever makes you say—’ I hiccup.
‘When did you last have a night out, Hannah?’
‘It must’ve been two months ago, just before James left. I hardly ever have a drink at Suzy’s,’ I continue. ‘I can’t bring myself to do anything
post-nine-p.m. except collapse in bed. I don’t even want to think about what’s in store tomorrow, given that I’ve got to do the school run.’
‘Oh, don’t worry about that now,’ she says, waving her hands about dismissively. ‘Thursday’s the new Friday. Besides, I’m at a wedding in Glasgow this weekend
so this was what we were stuck with.’
I take a sip of my Martini, which is merrily blotting out all thoughts of James the faster it goes down. He is still not speaking to me, several days after our fated Skype call. He’s done
this before a few times – blanked me for days on end – and, excruciating as it is, I know it’ll blow over eventually. In the meantime, I’ve simply texted to say sorry again,
and now just have to sit it out.
I must admit, though, that, if I think too hard about the prospect of this happening for the rest of my married life, it doesn’t fill me with much of a rosy romantic glow.
Still, nobody’s perfect. Everyone has arguments. Surely, he’s allowed to be pissed off with me sometimes, and I him. Not that that makes this any more enjoyable.
‘So how’s your love life?’ I ask Julia, aware that I’m woefully behind on gossip of any form since I left Panther.
‘Oh, you know . . .’ She shrugs mysteriously.
I narrow my eyes. ‘Are you seeing someone?’
‘No,’ she replies, sipping her drink. ‘Not really.’
‘I don’t know why you’re being so coy. You know I’ll get it out of you eventually.’
She lowers her eyelashes. ‘Put it this way. There’s this guy I’ve known for a while. And, well, although he should be out of bounds, I just can’t help how I feel around
him. You know when someone makes your knees go weak?’
‘Actually, physically weak?’
She looks up. ‘A man has never made your knees go weak?’
‘Well, I’ve had my pulse racing, heart thumping, been generally . . . excited.’
‘I’m not talking about
horny
.’ She smirks. ‘That’s not the same at all.’
‘So come on, tell me who this mystery man is. Someone at work?’
She swallows and looks away. ‘You’d have to get me a lot drunker to spill the beans about that. Come on, finish your drink – I think we need to hit some more bars.’