Authors: Jane Costello
That doesn’t, of course, stop my mother from telling me every time we speak that things would be much easier if I’d just move back to Liverpool. Which I’ll never do – and
not only because she lives there.
The fact is, I love Liverpool and I’m proud to call it home – it’s the city that made me. But it’s London that will forever be the mad, glorious place I can’t ever
imagine leaving, not when so many memories live here with me.
I push open the door to Florence’s room with trepidation.
It is in every way an offence to feminist sensibilities. A haven of pink, it has a glittery dressing table (a present from Grandma), a fairytale bed (also Grandma’s work) and more
Disney Princesses
paraphernalia than you’d find in all the store cupboards of the Magic Kingdom.
But she adores it. And, given that I’ve brought my daughter up to know her own mind, I can hardly complain when she asserts it – even if I wish she’d find something to replace
the subject of her current obsession: a pink vacuum cleaner. I refuse to buy it, despite her tearing out a picture of it from an Argos catalogue and sticking it on her wall, like some sort of
shrine to domestic servitude.
It’s her big eyes I see first. You can’t miss them, even when part-hidden behind her wild, dark ringlets. Then I’m diverted.
‘I’ve done my nails. But I smudged a bit,’ she declares, holding out her hands.
Courtesy of a bottle of cherry-red polish (again, my mother’s work), her fingers look like she’s fed them into an office shredder. And, yes, she
has
smudged them. All over her
duvet.
‘Florence!’ I gasp, diving across the room.
It’s only when I’m halfway there that I realise my movement has prompted Spud to stir from one of his lengthy snoozes. He bounds towards me to give me a kiss, knocks over the nail
polish and proceeds to leap around until there are bright red doggy footprints all over the carpet.
Barely pausing for breath, I grab the bottle and race to my room to locate some nail polish remover, which I proceed to sprinkle about the place in a futile bid to clean up.
‘If only I had that pink Hoover to help,’ Florence sighs.
Then my phone rings. I press ‘Answer’ and wedge it under my ear. It’s my boss, David.
‘Imogen, you asked me to call. Don’t you know it’s Saturday?’
David is a dream boss on many levels, and I owe him for reasons that go beyond my recent, scarily stratospheric, promotion. He’s the chief executive of one of the UK’s foremost
food-manufacturing companies, Peebles Ltd. You might not recognise the name, but we are an omnipresent force, producing some of the world’s best-known brands of biscuits, crackers, breakfast
cereals and confectionary. Basically, if there’s wheat and sugar in whatever you’re eating, it’s very likely that we’ve made it, something we do in no less than twenty-one
other countries.
Unfeasible as it might seem for a 29-year-old single mother, I am its UK marketing director. Or, at least,
acting
UK marketing director, which effectively means I’ve got the job but
not the salary, for the moment at least. It’s a position for which David plucked me from relative obscurity after my two predecessors went off with stress.
The position is everything I’ve ever wanted in a job and has come earlier in my career than expected. But that’s not the only reason why I love it. It’s made me feel as though
I’m really going places; it’s proved to me that hard work does pay dividends. It’s not just the new office, or the fact that I now sit in team meetings important enough for
crustless miniature sandwiches (although they are marvellous). I’ve suddenly become – or at least am on the way to becoming – a woman who can make things happen, who people listen
to and respect. Which is a very good feeling, I can’t deny it.
On top of that, Peebles is quite simply a nice place to work; an office where camaraderie comes easily. In my pre-Florence days, this manifested itself in impromptu sessions in the Punch &
Judy after work. Although these days I have to settle for grabbing a sandwich once in a blue moon with Stacey, Elsa or Roy, my friends on our floor, I still know I’m lucky to work with people
I – largely – enjoy being around.
The only downside is that being a high-flyer or, at least, pretending to be one, isn’t exactly family-friendly. Although nobody explicitly says so, it’s not the done thing to slope
off from work to get back in time to eat dinner with your daughter. I constantly feel like I’m slacking, whether or not I’m stuck in front of my computer every night until past
midnight. Which I am. Every. Single. Night.
‘Sorry, David. I actually left the message last night while I was tying up a few loose ends from home, but thanks for getting back to me. I just wanted to let you know that I’ve now
sent you an email detailing everything you need to know while I’m away.’
‘Yes, I got that. And the two earlier ones.’
‘Yes. Sorry. I wanted to cover all bases, particularly for anything to do with the merger.’
Eight weeks from now, Peebles will be announcing to its staff, the stock market and the world’s media that it is joining forces with Uber-Getreide, which is basically the German equivalent
of us. It’s all entirely hush-hush at the moment, but the result – the imaginatively entitled Peebles-Getreide Ltd – will create Europe’s biggest-ever food-manufacturing
giant.
David and his opposite number in Germany will be making the announcement at a press conference on 2 September, but it’s my job to get everything ready for him behind the scenes: from
liaising with the marketing department at Getreide and appointing a PR specialist here, to determining what colour tie will imbue David with an aura of gravitas on the day.
‘That email includes details of everything, from the key contacts at Getreide to the market research results, the PR company we’ve just appointed, and every contact name and number
you might need. Although I’m confident you won’t need any of them. They’re just in case.’
He sighs extravagantly. ‘You know what I think, Imogen?’ He pauses. ‘I think you need to
relax
.’
I breathe out, only now realising I hadn’t done so for several seconds. ‘I am. I mean, I
will
. And, anyway, Laura knows absolutely everything and I’ve told her not to
hesitate to call me if anyone needs me. You’ve got my mobile, but I’ve also included a number for the hotel, and my friend Nicola’s number too, just in case. As I say, none of it
should be necessary but—’
‘Imogen!’
‘Um . . . yes?’
‘What do I always say at times like this?’
‘Oh. Er . . .’ I am hesitating because there are any number of multiple-choice options to answer this. David is fond of philosophising, although the truth is he’s no
Aristotle.
‘Think long. Think deep. But
think
.’ His voice drops an octave, in the same manner employed by Churchill when delivering his war speeches. Then he pauses, reflecting on his
thoughts. As do I. Though I haven’t the faintest clue what it means.
‘I’ll do that, David.’
‘That’s what holidays are for, Imogen. And you must be overdue one. When was the last time you had more than a week off?’
‘Hmm . . . 2007. After I gave birth.’
‘Since then?’
‘There hasn’t really been a full week, more the odd day here and there. I’ve had long weekends. I went to Center Parcs in—’
‘Then it seems to me you’re overdue some time out. We will cope, Imogen! It’s not like this place falls to pieces without you.’ He laughs. ‘And, anyway, it’s
only three days.’
‘A week. Well, a week and a day as far as work is concerned – I’m back at my desk next Tuesday.’
‘A week and a day? Holy baloney . . .’ My heart skips a beat. ‘I JEST! Oh, Imogen, a week’s
fine
.’
‘A week and a day.’
‘Just get some sun on your skin!’
‘I will,’ I assure him.
‘Let your hair down!’
‘Will do.’
‘Get plastered a few times!’
‘Hmm.’
‘Sleep with one of the waiters!’
‘Oh.’
‘Take some drugs! Go skinny dipping! Have a threesome!’
‘David, I don’t think—’
‘I mean it, Imogen. You work too hard. And I promise you this – if that phone of yours rings, it will not be anyone from this company. I’ll make sure of it.’
‘Well, it’s fine if it is.’
‘Imogen. Switch it off. I mean it. Switch the damn thing off.’
My palms dampen. ‘Really?’
‘Really. Now, you run along and have a fabulous time. I don’t want to hear from you until Thursday.’
‘Tuesday.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Well, that’s really kind of you, David—and, thank you.’
‘Not a problem. Oh, before you go, did you send me what you’ve done so far on the presentation I need to deliver to the board next week?’
‘Yes.’ Twice.
‘Okay, good. And the new images I’d requested?’
‘Yep.’
‘And the additional data?’
‘All there.’
‘Okay. Hmm.’ He hesitates.
‘What is it?’
‘That phone of yours . . . ’
‘I’ll leave it on, shall I?’
He hesitates again. ‘Probably for the best.’
There’s excited, there’s very excited, and then there’s Meredith. Nicola and I spot her in Departures in Terminal 5 at Heathrow when we arrive just before 8
a.m. She’s flying towards us with her silk Missoni batwings flapping like a designer phoenix poised for lift off.
‘This is going to be immense!’ Meredith is dressed like a flame-haired version of Paris Hilton – white hot pants, coordinating Alice band, and Balenciaga sunglasses perched
above her mischievous, cerulean-blue eyes. The other notable thing about Meredith’s appearance is that she’s pregnant – thirty-three weeks to be precise, which leaves just under
two months before she gives birth to Nathan’s baby. Meredith has been calling it her ‘final fling’, which belies the fact that she sees motherhood as the equivalent to a quick but
painful death for her social life.
She never did marry Nathan, although we notched up four hen nights before she woke one morning vomiting like a supermodel after twelve chocolate eclairs and, a hasty pregnancy test later,
discovered she was to become a mummy. Which isn’t something she’s entirely taken in yet.
The development has also added an interesting twist to the ebbs and flows of her relationship with Nathan. Once they gave up on the idea of getting married altogether – about three years
ago now – the on-off set-up they had had melded into a strange, twilight world in which nobody could work out whether or not they were actually together.
It wasn’t an open relationship exactly, not officially. But there is no doubt that a certain amount dabbling went on, albeit fleetingly, and on the unspoken assumption that they’d
always end up together again.
Then came the surprise pregnancy, something that changed things all over again – particularly for Nathan. Perhaps he’s grown up a little, or maybe it’s brought into focus what
he feels for Meredith. Either way, he’s no longer acting like a man who wants ambiguity between them. And – although all her dabbling has ceased – there’s no doubt that
these developments scare the living daylights out of my friend.
‘I couldn’t sleep,’ Meredith continues. ‘I’ve been up since two. I don’t know what the matter is with me lately – I can’t get through the night
without peeing at least three times.’
‘That’s pregnancy, Meredith.’ I shrug. ‘There’s more capacity in the bladder of an incontinent gerbil than yours at the moment.’
‘God, that again? Are there any benefits to being this size, apart from a better chance of a seat on the Tube?’
‘Well, there
is
the baby,’ Nicola teases.
‘Obviously,’ Meredith replies with mild indignation, as she pushes her overburdened trolley to the check-in desk.
I think back to when Meredith and I first met, properly, on the fourth day after I’d moved to London, into the significantly pokier flat below hers. I’d become intimately acquainted
with her musical tastes – largely in the early hours of the morning – from the start, but it was only when my eardrums were still jangling to the tune of various dance anthems several
hours after I’d left the house one day that I had decided to bite the bullet and to confront her that evening.
I had prepared myself for the worst, but she couldn’t have been more apologetic, erupting with remorse that she’d kept me awake. Then she had turned up on my doorstep that weekend
with a bottle of something expensive and bubbly, which we’d demolished with a KFC bargain bucket in front of the newly revamped
Doctor Who
, before heading to Clapham High Street and
pulling two short but enthusiastic engineering students from Belize. Our friendship had been sealed. And, soon afterwards, so was that between Meredith and Nicola. Because although they met through
me, a few years, copious nights out and a string of personal dramas (the lion’s share of which belonged to me), they were good friends with each other too.
The funny thing about Meredith is that, in every way apart from her money, she is the absolute antithesis of her family. Her sister, Gabriella, is a human rights lawyer, a relentlessly serious
type who disapproves of her sister’s every move and considers her job as a freelance beauty writer to be so frivolous as to be barely worth mentioning.
Meredith partly has herself to blame for this. Despite loving what she does, and earning a good living – which actually amounts to pocket money compared with the inheritance she received
after her father died a few years ago – she’s forever repeating the words that could have come straight from the mouth of her mother: ‘I’ll get a proper job one
day.’
My thoughts are interrupted by a little girl – about the same age as Florence – giggling uncontrollably as she heads to the check-in desk with her mum and dad. Since I completed the
round trip to Liverpool yesterday – to take Florence and Spud to stay at my mum’s, and pick up Nicola – I have been consumed by thoughts of my daughter.
‘Everything okay?’ Nicola asks me, pulling her dark blonde hair into a loose topknot.