Five years of long hours, personal sacrifices, building up to her own column from nothing. Nothing. And now this. Out. Not because she wasn’t any good, not because she couldn’t do her job, not because she had fiddled her expenses, but simply because... because what?
She needed to blame someone. Management, the recession, Jerome’s obvious dislike of her. Anything would do because she knew for certain that it wouldn’t be long before she began to blame herself. It was like waiting for an injection to wear off and the real pain to begin. Anger was sustaining her beyond a point she knew to be reasonable, but just then no-one could have reasoned with her.
She sat until her limbs ached for movement, but she didn’t notice. She remained motionless, her face frozen into immobility and she didn’t care.
The bag lady had probably saved her from delaying the awful moment any longer, she thought wryly as she headed down Piccadilly and made her way through the maze of back streets to the office. Well, I’m not about to lie down and die. That poor scrap of humanity arranging and patting her parcels... She stopped. That’s who it was. Ellie almost laughed. It had reminded her of Jerome aimlessly pushing files together, not knowing what else to do.
Opposite ends of the human scale, but with so much in common. Both losers.
She stopped in front of the white building and found it hard to believe it was the last time she would be going in as an employee. Redundant. That’s what you are, she told herself. Out on your neck. But if it killed her she vowed no-one would know how badly hurt she was.
Today I’ll take it as it comes. Tomorrow I’ll start again. In a week or two when I’m working somewhere else, this will all seem like the best thing that ever happened to me.
What was it Jerome had said? We will honour your contract, of course. She almost laughed; honour was the last word she could apply to what had just happened. Three months’ money. If he had only been straight with her yesterday she wouldn’t have blown a fortune on a new jacket. Ellie knew she should be thinking of practical details like the mortgage and how she was going to survive, but she wouldn’t allow herself to consider it, not yet. And anyway, she consoled herself, it probably won’t even be necessary to worry.
First thing in the morning I will call Polly and Liz and, good grief, by the time those two had finished it would be a mere matter of hours before the phone started ringing with offers.
Comforted by the knowledge that she had friends to rely on, Ellie began to mount the wide marble steps. Office workers spilled past her en route to lunch, dashing to the shops, the wine bar. A little stab of fear went through her. I’m not one of them now, she told herself. Not ever again.
Oh God, what will I do, what will I do?
‘’Lo, Ellie,’ said one of the advertising reps, rushing past her. ‘Got another scoop?’
He didn’t wait for an answer, just grinned. He hadn’t heard, but he soon would. Ellie forced a smile at his retreating back.
‘Not today,’ she called. ‘Maybe tomorrow.’
C’mon, c’mon. Pull yourself together, the stern lecture reasserted itself inside her head.
I’m not going to be beaten by this, not now, not ever. It was good to know the fighting spirit was still there. No-one could wipe out ten years of hard grind, five of those producing the kind of work she had done. She wouldn’t go under, not when she had come so far. She simply wouldn’t.
At the top of the steps the black reflecting doors allowed her to watch her progress as she swung jauntily towards them. She saw a woman of thirty, confident, businesslike. And that’s how you’re going to stay, she whispered to herself as she smiled a greeting to the doorman and walked briskly into the lift.
Squaring her shoulders, she took a deep breath and waited for the doors of the lift to open.
The corridor was deserted, but as she reached the open plan newsroom the shelter provided by the corridor walls fell away. A gentle hush descended as she skirted the desks and computers and headed for her own office at the far side.
‘Ellie... I’m so sorry.’ It was Barney, the art director, matching his step with hers, flinging an arm around her shoulders.
‘Rotten, Ellie,’ came the voice of the production manager, as he took her arm.
‘Hands off, you guys, me and this lady have some celebrating to do.’ Ellie looked up. There were Jed and Rosie and Lucy and Dixie, and then she was in the middle of them, caught up in a babble of voices, willing herself to smile, a stern look from Jed warning her not to cry.
‘Oh, you lovely, lovely lot,’ she whispered in a broken voice. ‘No, no, I’m okay, I’m not going to cry. Promise. Truly. I’ve already arranged to see so many people, you wouldn’t believe.’
She was lying as much for herself as them. Jed was moving her ahead of the crowd, urging anyone who encountered them to join them for champagne at the wine bar next door.
‘Does that include me?’ came Roland’s voice.
‘Roland!’ Ellie exclaimed. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Things to be settled,’ he said with a shrug. ‘So am I included?’
‘Of course.’ She smiled at the man who had disliked her and made life difficult for her, but had never tried to destroy her. ‘As long as it’s my company you want, not just the champagne.’
Deftly he moved Barney away and tucked his arm into Ellie’s.
‘Honestly, Miss Carter, don’t you ever give up?’
They were all crowding into the lift; those who couldn’t get in took the stairs. Somewhere in the recesses of her confused mind, swept along on an emotional tide of good will, loyalty and anger, Ellie knew this mood was dangerous, misleading. Not for the first time in her life, she felt on the edge of the crowd. She shivered and now it wasn’t from sitting on a hot park bench watching the witless wanderings of one of society’s forgotten women.
She had never been so afraid in her life.
Chapter Twelve
‘Ask her to call Ellie, will you,’ Ellie said into the phone. ‘That’s right, Ellie Carter, I’m at my home number. Yes, she has it. Great, thanks, bye.’
Replacing the receiver, she frowned down at the list in front of her. Okay, that was Polly. Liz and Anne, both calling back. Thus far she had restricted the list to people she knew who liked her work. Friends really.
She dialled Tony Travers at Metropole Publishing. He had always been wonderful when they met. This time he was truly shocked.
‘They must be mad,’ he told her. ‘You’ll be snapped up and then where will that leave them?’
Ellie waited for him to suggest meeting, but whether because he hadn’t thought of it, or because he had been unprepared for her call, he didn’t. Ellie chatted on for a while and finally, taking a deep breath, said as lightly as she could:
‘So there we are. I’m on the loose. An unrepeatable bargain.’
Tony’s laugh sounded just a tiny bit strained.
‘Ellie, this time next week I’ll be reading your by-line in Profile or the Guardian. Thanks for letting me know. Let’s lunch some time.’
Ellie’s spirits lifted. She had known Tony for years, and there hadn’t been a lunch yet when he hadn’t expressed his admiration for her work and asked her to let him know any time she wanted to jump ship. She was being oversensitive, that was all. Not surprising really, but old friends like Tony would stand by her. Of that she was sure.
She reached for her diary. ‘Great, Tony, I’m free on, let’s see... Tuesday and Thursday next week. How about you?’
There was just the briefest of pauses before an unmistakeably embarrassed voice said it wasn’t possible.
‘Just so much on, Ellie. I’d love to see you, so why don’t we take a rain check just for now and when you’re settled, give me a call and we’ll celebrate.’
Ellie screwed up her eyes and rocked her body to and fro, trying to maintain a cheerful voice.
‘Of course, great idea. Watch this space. Sure, great. Bye, Tony.’
How she regretted making that call. B
ad enough to have to say she was out of work, but the humiliation of having to railroad someone like Tony Travers into asking her — or rather not asking her — to lunch. Jesus.
Stop it, she told herself. He was just busy. Her own diary wouldn’t have allowed anyone to secure her for lunch for at least a month before all this happened. You’ve just got to be sensible.
But she couldn’t, didn’t want to, be sensible. She wanted to scream and howl and wreak revenge on Jerome Strachan. Overnight her feeling of shock had been replaced with fear and anger, and now it was resentment.
Lucy had agreed to cancel all the arranged interviews and to call up the lunch dates she had fixed. Ellie was a bit surprised that so many had said to rearrange a date when she was settled, but she shrugged, refusing to give in to an irrational feeling of hurt.
She had cleared her desk and the contents from five years of working, living, breathing, walking, talking Focus, were now contained in two large packing cases sitting in the corner of her tiny spare room. All morning she had passed the door to and from the kitchen making endless cups of coffee, but she couldn’t bring herself to unpack. Somewhere there were her cuttings books, the carefully recorded interviews she had done for Focus. Under all the books, dictionaries, and the bundle of pictures Lucy had removed from the pin board, there were the personal letters and files she had brought away with her.
The legacy or the debris — depending on how you regarded it — of a career that had taken over her life, and without it... Don’t be silly, you idiot. It’s not over. Just a chapter come to a close.
And somewhere in that pile there was the file on Theo Stirling, which suddenly didn’t seem that important. Not now. Not for today.
Everyone had been so optimistic last night at her farewell drinks, hurriedly convened when she had agreed to leave there and then. No-one stated the obvious: there was a recession on. When you are out, it’s hard to get back. Jed had said, ‘Don’t hang around, first thing tomorrow get going. Be positive, El. Don’t think you can’t make it. I’m there for you and so are a great many other people.’
But he wasn’t here now. No-one was. The independence, the space that had once seemed so precious to her, was suddenly very lonely. And she didn’t know where to begin. Lucy would have known, capable, dependable Lucy. Disconsolately, Ellie wandered into the kitchen and poured some more coffee, taking it back into the sunny living room to drink.
Now come on, she said sternly, think. Be positive. List what you’ve got.
Okay, so she had three months’ money, all her expenses up to date and... her coffee had gone cold and for some reason the flat felt very stuffy. She reached out and felt one of the radiators; it was stone cold. For a moment she was puzzled and then realized. Of course, the windows and the door to the patio were shut on a hot summer’s day. Usually she was at work and of course they would be closed.
Work. Mustn’t think about them anymore, she told herself, unlocking the narrow double doors to her tiny walled patio.
Lucy bringing in tea, her messages, organizing her life. Jed putting a head round the door with a delicious piece of gossip. Rosie sitting on the edge of her desk solemnly chewing her latest diet-aid tablet and the phone an unceasing conveyor belt of invitations, requests, information.
Eleven forty-five. Friday morning. The day she had meant to go down to Oliver’s with Paul for the weekend. The day... the familiar feeling of panic that she was beginning to dread rose into her mouth. Stop it, this is just a temporary hiccough. In a minute someone will ring, God knows she had left enough messages. Surely not everyone was in meetings, out, not available?
Almost on cue the phone shrilled out into the silent room. Wait, wait, don’t grab it. Take it easy. As it rang for the third time she picked it up.
‘Hi, fancy lunch?’
‘Jed!’ Ellie sank down by the phone, delighted to hear from him, disappointed that it wasn’t... well, anyone really. Any one of the dozen people that she had phoned.
‘No, I won’t have lunch, but I’d welcome a drink later.’
Ellie resisted the temptation to ask him what was happening and Jed didn’t volunteer any information. Of all the people she had spoken to, he was the only one she could be honest with and yet somehow it was too soon for that, even with him. Putting a brave face on it was already becoming second nature.
They talked for a while longer, arranged to meet for a drink at seven and then he rang off, leaving Ellie in her silent room.
Leggings and a baggy T-shirt after eleven o’clock on a weekday. No make-up and her hair scraped into a pony tail. She grimaced at herself in the mirror. The road outside seemed strangely silent and even when a circular was pushed through the letter box, Ellie went to the front door to see what it was.
By midday she had made another three phone calls, drunk five cups of coffee and still hadn’t had the courage to ring Oliver to tell him. She feared her own reaction more than his. But she badly wanted to talk to someone. Paul. She stabbed out the number and got his answer machine. She didn’t leave a message. His plane had probably been delayed. She stared at the place where normally a red light flashed incessantly. It was black.
Polly. Why hadn’t she phoned back? Maybe she had and couldn’t get through. Ellie rang her again to discover after a brief pause that she was still locked in meetings.
‘Did you tell her I called earlier?’ she asked Polly’s secretary.
‘I did, Miss Carter, and she will get back to you. She’s just very tied up.’
‘I see,’ said Ellie. But she didn’t. It took all her willpower to ring Liz Smedley at Movietone TV. Ellie and Anne Copley had taken over the WIN chair from Liz and Polly in the summer, and Ellie was sure that once word got around, she would have some offers pretty soon. Almost to her amazement, so used was she becoming to finding no-one available, Liz came on the line.
‘My God, Ellie, I’ve heard. My darling girl. Lunch. That’s what you need. Now get your diary.’
For the first time, Ellie almost cried with relief. Liz was running through her diary. ‘Now, what about next Friday... no, make that Monday. How about Monday?’
Ellie scribbled it in her diary. ‘Liz, you’re a pal. Just what I need right now. Actually,’ she said with a bravado she was far from feeling, but boosted by Liz’s support, ‘I needed a break so maybe this is a good time, you know, go at my own pace, look around a little.’
‘That’s exactly what you must do,’ came Liz’s voice. ‘Look, I must dash but see you Monday — one-ish. I’ll book. Take care, enjoy the next few days, you’re going to be so busy after that, you won’t know what’s hit you.’
Ellie replaced the receiver, feeling her spirits soar. Liz was right. It was early days — well, hours actually. Just give everyone time.
Chapter Thirteen
And then it hit her. Cold grey light seeped through the shutters into Ellie’s bedroom, with no sound from the street outside to disturb the silence, no voices to intrude into her thoughts. Shivering, she pulled the quilt up to her chin, hugging her knees, and waited for the familiar noises of the quiet side street starting to come to life to drift into her basement flat.
It was nearly six thirty. Five hours’ sleep. That was better than last night. A great deal better than last week, when she’d felt adrift, unmoored from a daily structured life, when nights seemed to go on for ever and days seemed unending.
The sound of a milk float making its way down the street drew her eyes to the window. There it was. The comforting clash of bottles as the milkman swung open the basement gate, his feet clattering on the stone steps. The familiar clink as the milk was deposited on the doorstep and then the sound of his feet, retreating up the stone steps, the gate clanging behind him.
The start of another day.
A car revved up, purred into life and moved down the street. Ellie sat quite still, just listening. Soon she would have to move, get up. The flat was cold. Coffee needed to be made, the first of the endless cups that she would drink. The fl
at needed cleaning.
Her eyes wandered around the room. She could make a start in here. Yes, that’s what she should do. Really give it a good clean, turn out her wardrobe. Oxfam would take most of it. Perhaps... perhaps Nearly New, the second-hand clothes shop, would be interested in the designer jackets she had bought last year. Hardly worn, they would be more useful turned back into cash.
I’ll think about it later, she decided. No point in getting too depressed. No point at all. Her gaze travelled back to the shutters; she closed her eyes and let her head rest on the wall behind her bed. Tears began to prick the backs of her eyelids, then the well of misery that she didn’t even bother to fight any more took over. Silent tears rolled down her face, salty tears that ran into her mouth, sliding damply on to her neck.
Turning, she pressed her face into the pillow and gave way to the hurt that a month of empty days had produced. Days of phone calls that went unreturned. Letters unanswered. Meetings that proved fruitless, some born out of curiosity from hearing that, of all people, Eleanor Carter was job hunting, some because people were genuinely investing for the future when the economy improved and some because they wanted her to get her comeuppance.
Oliver and Jill had been furious on Ellie’s behalf and urged her to come home at once. Oliver even wanted to drive up to collect her. She had refused, assuring him that she wouldn’t hesitate to turn up the minute it all got too unbearable.
Half-heartedly, she asked him about Linton’s Field and, with a cheerfulness that did not deceive her but she was too dulled by shock to challenge, Oliver told her that no decision was going to be made for some months. She could tell by his tone that while he tried to make light of it for her sake, the worry of it was getting him down.
Amanda rang from her home in Wiltshire, also urging Ellie to come down and stay. Although she kept insisting with little hope or conviction that things would get better, even she ended by saying hopelessly:
‘Oh, for God’s sake, El, come and starve in the country, at least it would be better for you than London. Anyway the men are better looking down here. All those green wellies and Barbour’s. I keep telling David he should be grateful he met me in London, the competition for my hand wasn’t nearly so severe.’
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