‘Yes, but will you please just give her my message?’ I insist, determined not to be fobbed off again. ‘It really is vitally important that I talk to her. Just for a moment. I’m working on a project for her, you see . . . and I’m having a nightmare trying to reach her on the phone.’
Glossy New Intern thinks about it for a minute, wavering.
‘Come on inside,’ she eventually says, ‘and I’ll see what I can do.’
It’s a chink, and one I gratefully accept.
So I stand in that dark, gloomy hallway, still piled high with re-election posters, and I wait. Wonder what’s being said about me now, in that inner office of Katherine’s. I can almost imagine the conversation being played out.
What do you mean, Meg Monroe is here? That Dead Girl Walking?
What’s a Good Lady Senator to do? Give an ex-employee the benefit of the doubt and hear her out for ten seconds, or freeze her out, just like everyone else? Katherine Sisk is a well-known bleeding-heart liberal though, and more than anything else, that’s precisely what I’m counting on.
It works.
After an agonisingly long wait, Katherine herself appears out of the main office, stepping into the hallway all alone, and frowning worriedly, like this is the very last thing on earth she needs.
‘Good to see you,’ I say, pleased at least that I’ll get to have my say.
‘In here, please,’ Katherine says, sotto voce, guiding me into a tiny, poky room that’s more like a storage space, which overlooks the street outside. It’s stacked with cardboard boxes, almost up to ceiling height, and is clearly a room that’s never used.
Good, I think. Privacy. Makes this a bit easier.
‘Thanks for seeing me,’ I begin, launching into a little pre-prepared speech that I’d practised on the way here. ‘I know I’m the last person you need to see . . .’
‘You can say that again,’ Katherine says quietly.
‘Katherine . . . I messed up, I know that. I messed up royally. I want you to know that it was an honest mistake, made in genuine error.’
‘Oh Meg,’ says Katherine, rolling her eyes. ‘You’ve had all weekend to come up with a half-decent story, is that your best effort? Made in genuine error? Really? Please don’t treat me like an idiot. Remember, I’m a politician. I deal with professional liars every day of the week for a living. Billy told me everything, and said he strongly felt you couldn’t be trusted.’
‘Please, Katherine, if you’d just hear me out . . .’
‘No,’ Katherine says, folding her arms sternly. ‘And I’ll have no more of your bossiness, thank you very much. This time, you listen to me and you listen well, because it’s a crazy day for me and I have absolutely zero time for this. Now, I hired you in good faith, Meg. You came highly recommended and I think we both know from whom. I asked you to help me and that’s what you did. You found a way out of a potentially damaging, not to mention incredibly hurtful, personal situation for me, and for that, I am grateful.’
‘Thank you,’ I say, glad that she’s at least acknowledging the hard work I put in for her, not to mention the great result I delivered.
‘Jess has handed in her notice,’ Katherine goes on, ‘so you’ve done what I asked you to do and it’s my intention to pay you in full, as per our agreement.’
‘That’s good to hear,’ I say, hoping that this conversation might actually be starting to go my way. ‘Because now it’s my turn to ask you a favour. I work one hundred per cent on word of mouth and, as you can appreciate, that’s entirely dried up on me now. So if you could possibly recommend me to a few friends and contacts you might know who are in need of my services, it would be wonderful. That’s all I’m asking, just a quiet word of recommendation from you would get me back up and running again . . .’
Katherine sighs deeply, shaking her head. ‘You really are something else, Meg,’ she says. ‘You know when we first met? I admired you. I really did. You helped me no end, and if there’s one campaign platform I’ll die by, it’s that women should stop being each other’s worst enemies, because we can move mountains when we actually help each other for a change. I liked your toughness, your street savvy, your obvious intelligence. And then you go and steal classified information from my office, having expressly been told not to – and you expect me to recommend you? Seriously?’
‘Oh come on,’ I plead, giving it one last throw of the dice before I’m asked to leave. ‘Yes. Guilty as charged, what I did was deceitful, you have me there. But surely you realise that what I do for a living is entirely based on deception? How else am I supposed to get results? One or two words of recommendation, that’s all I’m asking of you! Not a big ask, surely? New clients, political clients, constituents of yours even. Anyone. I’m really begging you here, Katherine, you’re my last hope. Because if you don’t . . . if you don’t . . .’
But I can’t even think of how to end that sentence. What will become of me, is what I’m trying to say. What’ll I do then? How will The Fixer earn a living if no one comes calling with problems to fix?
‘Quite honestly,’ Katherine sighs, turning to face me one last time, ‘I don’t know where you’ll go or what you’ll do. But if it’s any consolation, you’ll probably end up coming out on top. People like you always do.’
*
And when sorrows come, they come in battalions.
Hot on the heels of this, comes my final notice to quit the apartment. And another one, and another one after that again. Not to mention bills. Lots of them. All racking up.
Weeks pass, and my savings dwindle fast, largely eaten up with the legal battle I have to hold onto my home. It’s astonishing just how quickly my little nest egg evaporates, and trying to kick-start my career as The Fixer proves a dead end too. No one, quite literally no one, will touch me with a barge pole. I even offer to work for free, just to get back in the game again, just to feel the old thrill of manipulating people and relationships and all the vacuous crap that people who are in love fool themselves is so important in life.
Total waste of time.
Turns out there’s only one person, just one, in my whole orbit, who actually shows me a bit of kindness. Probably the very last person I ever would have thought of, as it happens.
*
It’s Christmas Day, and my Christmas present from the de Courcey family? I’m officially being evicted from the flat on the first of January, having well and truly lost my legal battle. I spend the day at my mother’s house, as I do every year, my mind in turmoil, worried sick over what I’m to do now and, more importantly, where the hell I will live?
Nan gets out of bed for the day and is sitting at the kitchen table, merrily singing along with an ad on TV for tins of Quality Street that are on a half-price sale.
‘It’s not Christmas without the row over who gets the nice pink sweets out of the tin!’ Nan is saying at the top of her voice, to no one in particular. ‘Now hurry up and show the Queen’s speech, will you? The poor woman just rang me from Sandringham to say she’s dying to get it over with because she’s bursting for a wee.’
Meanwhile, I’m over at the oven, helping Mum baste the turkey, peel spuds and chop up onions for the stuffing.
‘You’re very quiet,’ she says to me. ‘Almost like you’ve got something on your mind.’
‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ I say, downplaying the whole thing. ‘Just . . . work stuff. And a few money issues, that’s all.’
There’s a long pause, as Mum chops away at the onions. ‘Meg, love,’ she eventually says, ‘I know you better than anyone, don’t I? And I know you’re worried, and although I don’t know the ins and outs of it, I do know just how much your life seems to have changed in the past few months.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Oh now, come on,’ Mum says, abandoning the onions and turning to face me. ‘I’m your mother and I’m not stupid. Those big envelopes of cash you used to leave your nan and me every week seem to have completely dried
up, and I’m not complaining, far from it. But I do worry about what’s going on with you.’
‘I’m just in a bit of a rut, that’s all, Mum,’ I try to say, but it seems she’s on to me.
‘I know, love,’ she says feelingly. ‘Sure, I saw you all these past few years, waltzing around in your designer gear and living in a flat that must have cost millions, and I knew something was up. But I said nothing, just kept my mouth shut. None of my beeswax is what I told myself. So whatever is going on, just know this. Nan and me are your family and we’ll always love you and look out for you, come what may.’
For once in my life, I’m stunned into silence.
‘Come back home,’ she says, putting her hand on mine. ‘You supported me and your nan for so long, not to mention your poor old grandad when he got sick. You’ve worked hard ever since you left school and you never let any of your family want for a single thing. You’ve been a good daughter, love. And I’m proud of you, even though I don’t say it often. So now it’s our turn to look after you. Come home, Megan. You can share my room with me and you won’t have to pay a single penny in rent.’
‘Thanks, Mum,’ I say, genuinely touched.
‘And if you ever want to tell me what’s wrong,’ she adds, ‘you know I’m here for you.’
‘Well . . . I sort of lost my job, you see . . .’ I start to say, which is probably the most honest I’ve been with her in years.
‘So get another one.’
‘I’ve been trying,’ I tell her, starting to get teary now, as all the horribleness and loneliness of the past months finally catch up with me. ‘I’ve been trying so hard to get work, any kind of work, but it’s so frustrating. The Sloan Curtis legal firm replaced me long ago, and it turns out I’m not qualified enough for any of the jobs that I’d actually like to do.’
‘So get qualified,’ Mum says gently.
‘It costs money, Mum,’ I tell her, as the tears really start to flow. ‘Money that I don’t have. Not now, not anymore.’
‘So let your mother pay. You looked after this family for long enough, didn’t you? Maybe now it’s our turn to look after you.’
She gives me a hug. A huge warm bear hug, and for the first time in months, I really feel like I’m not alone. And I honestly think it’s the best Christmas present I could possibly have asked for.
EPILOGUE
Meg
Six months later
The staffroom is heaving, packed full of mostly women on their breaks having chats, grabbing coffees or a quick bite to eat and talking, talking, talking – absolutely anything to pass the time away. Because that’s what gets you in a job like this, more than anything else. The long hours. Have I ever in my whole life felt the day drag on so much before? Doubtful.
I’m in Sally’s Wonderland of Value! – yes, the exclamation mark really is part of the name – wearing the shop floor uniform of a tidy nylon black top, along with a name badge and a matching pair of nylon black trousers. What a delightful sight I am. Not.
I’ve been working here for a couple of months now, management seeing fit to alternate me in between working the tills, stacking shelves and folding jumpers, and occasionally dealing with the public at the customer service desk up on the fourth floor.
‘You’re a good worker, Meg,’ my supervisor tells me, a skinny, pockmarked guy of about nineteen. He’s called Jake by the way, and he has a voice that I’d swear is still breaking. ‘You could have a bright future here. At Sally’s Wonderland of Value! we’re always on the lookout for fresh talent. Sure, would you look at me? I didn’t know the first thing about retail when I started here, and now I’m in charge of ladies’ knickers.’
What can I say? I needed to earn again, while taking a night course at college, and a friend of a friend of Mum’s managed to get me this job. The work is every bit as boring and tedious as you’d imagine, certainly compared with the pace I was used to working at. Nor is the money much to speak of, particularly when I think of the figures I used to pull in. But hey, a job is a job, any money is better than none at all and at least I’m unlikely to bump into any of my former clients here. Best part of the day? When I get to hang out in the staffroom with the rest of the Sally’s team, where, for some reason or another, I always seem to end up holding court.
Which is exactly what I’m doing now, as it happens. We’re all on staggered lunch breaks, but today the shop floor is quiet, so there’s at least a dozen of us crammed into the staffroom and pretty much all of them are clamouring for my attention. The vast majority are considerably younger than me and almost all of them are having ‘relationship problems’, shall we say.
‘My fella is driving me mental, Meg,’ one of the girls from the kids’ department is telling me. This one is called Diane. She has an impressive collection of body art, covering what looks like approximately fifty per cent of her skin, and she’s been badgering me for ages, trying to get advice.
‘It’s my turn to have a go of Meg!’ another co-worker snaps. Bex, this particular one is called; she’s worked here ever since she was sixteen and she’s thin, so scarily thin that I suspect there might be an eating disorder involved. ‘You’ve been hogging her for ages – Meg, listen to me, will you? My problem is urgent! Hers is only about bleeding fellas. Again.’
‘Don’t worry, ladies,’ I say placatingly. ‘If it’s one thing we all have in here, it’s time to kill. Diane, go on, you were saying. What’s that fuckface gone and done on you now?’
Giggles and catcalls from around the room as Diane picks up her tale.
‘I’m ninety-nine per cent certain he has another girlfriend on the go. Heard it from me sister and her mate, they seen him with this new one loads of times. Lying, cheating bastard. So I need her gone, Meg, and you have to help me. You’re brilliant at this kind of thing.’
I suck in my cheeks, and the whole room goes quiet, waiting for a response.
‘Diane,’ I tell her firmly, ‘you know perfectly well what I told you. This guy is a worthless arsehole and if he’s cheating on you, then he doesn’t deserve you. End of story.’
There’s a round of applause from around the room and I say no more. But the truth is that I don’t want to do personal relationships anymore. Too messy. Too liable to go wrong. Too easy to get in trouble.
‘My turn now!’ Bex says, loudly shouting down everyone else.
‘No, me!’ says Suzie, a tall, rangy, dark-haired woman exactly my own age, who, like me, is just putting in the hours here to make a few quid while she puts herself through a marketing course at night. Suzie is turning into a friend, though. A proper friend. One I seem to be growing closer and closer to by the day. To my amazement, actually, given that romance was the last thing on my mind when I started this job.
I had always thought, I don’t do relationships. That emotion only ended in tears and that you’d be an idiot to hand your heart over to another person. But you know what? Sometimes, it’s good for us to be proved wrong.
‘Fuck off, Suzie, you don’t get special treatment, just because Meg is your girlfriend.’
A quick, knowing smile passes between me and Suzie, both of us half mortified and half pretty pleased, actually. But just then, the skinny figure of Jake, our teenage supervisor, looms in the doorway, interrupting everything.
As ever, the sight of a gang of women intimidates the shite out of him and, as ever, he still has absolutely zero control over us.
‘Excuse me, ladies,’ he has to say about ten times, before we eventually shut up and listen to him. ‘There’s someone out on the shop floor asking for you, Meg. Says she needs to have a quick word with you.’
Puzzled, I get up to follow him, to a chorus of ‘Meg! My go when you get back! I’ve been waiting ages!’ as I’m led out of the room.
‘And just to remind you,’ Jake says to the rest of the room, ‘lunch break is actually over for most of you, so if you could get back to work . . .’
There’s not even a break in the chat as my colle
agues completely ignore him.
The customer service department is pretty empty when I get to the top floor, except for one lone person, standing beside a discount rail of three facecloths for the price of two.
Harriet Waters.
Mother of God, the very last person I expected to see. It’s an odd thing though; I should feel panicked here, I should be freaking out at the past coming back to haunt me like this, but strangely I don’t. In spite of everything that’s gone down between us, there’s a large part of me that’s actually weirdly pleased to see her.
I take a deep breath and walk towards her, quickly scanning her up and down, making rapid-fire assessments. Just like I always do.
Appearance: healthy. Robust. Well. Harriet is lightly tanned and dressed that bit more smartly than normal, in a long, khaki-green shirtdress, belted at the waist, and worn with slides, and her long, fair hair hanging loose. You’re just back from a holiday, I surmise, looking at her. Tan mark at her watchstrap a total giveaway. The handbag at the floor beside Harriet is a fairly sizeable clue too. It’s a Mulberry, €600–€700 at a guess, and there’s just no way in hell Harriet would ever fork out that much on herself. A gift, I assume. Which means one thing and one thing only. Lover boy Freddie de Courcey is very evidently still on the scene.
Harriet looks up, spots me stepping off the escalator and gives a self-conscious little wave.
‘Hi,’ she says, as soon as I come over to her. ‘It’s good to see you. You look well. Black suits you.’
I glance down at the standard-issue black tunic and trousers I’m wearing and grimace.
‘I’m hoping to start a trend,’ I say wryly. ‘Watch this space, in case it goes viral on Instagram.’
A pause, while both of us just look at one another, each sizing the other up.
‘You’re the last person I expected to see,’ I eventually admit.
‘I know,’ Harriet replies. ‘I was actually here last week doing a bit of shopping and I spotted you then. I nearly died, I couldn’t believe you were working here. You were run off your feet though, so I didn’t dare go near you. But you’ve been on my mind ever since, so that’s why I called in today.’
The Fixer Page 29