Perfect on Paper

by Gillian Harvey

  ‘Claudia, find me the latest news,’ she said, as she turned out of the drive onto the main road.

  ‘Headlines: Two injured in motorway pile-up on the A34; Amendment 45 returns to Parliament for the seventh time; Parliament braced for another reshuffle; social media hails the sudden rise of a middle-aged rapper known only as Martha B.’

  ‘Claudia please play … Take That,’ she said, hastily. And with that, she disappeared into her teenage years, at least mentally, for a while.

  Ten minutes later, she drew into the office car park – still early. As she entered through the heavy door, she switched her mind into solicitor mode and let the documents and deadlines push all other worries from her brain.

  Later she had a meeting with Camberwaddle to give him some pre-auction advice, and otherwise her day was filled with last-minute jobs and paperwork. The pace of her work was what kept her going in every day. ‘It’s like a rollercoaster ride,’ she’d told a friend once, ‘just the cars are folders and the rails are legal procedure.’

  You probably have to be of a particular personality type to understand.

  She’d just settled down in front of a clean legal pad, relishing the moment when she’d raise a pen and make the first mark on the fresh paper, when the phone rang.

  ‘Hello?’ a man’s voice said. ‘The other day, I caught my toe in the hoover pipe. Caused quite a nasty bruise. Have I got a claim, do you think?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘You know, compensation. That Dyson fella’s loaded, right?’

  ‘Um? Who is this, please?’

  ‘Ah, right, me name’s Philip, but you can call me Pip. Pip Trotter.’

  ‘OK,’ she scribbled the name down – sometimes these cold calls led to real bona fide clients, even when they sounded a bit odd. ‘And, do you have a house to sell or purchase?’

  ‘D’ye think I might be able to buy a house?’ he asked, incredulous. ‘I thought it’d be a couple o’ grand at best. Mind you, it didn’t half smart.’

  ‘Smart?’

  ‘Yes, the toe. Look is this the Mann Company?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Great. I saw an ad – any injury deserves a reward. So how do I go about it?’

  Clare jotted down the man’s details and promised to pass them on.

  She groaned when, as she finally set herself up to work once again, her mobile phone rang. But at least this time she could see who was calling.

  Dan said the screen.

  ‘Hi Dan,’ she said. ‘Everything OK?’ Despite the interruption, she found herself smiling.

  ‘Yeah, great. Look sorry to call you at work. I know you’ll be over later or whatever.’

  ‘Right?’

  ‘But … Anyway, I just wanted to let you know … Clare, we’ve had a call from the BBC!’

  ‘We’ve what?’

  ‘Yeah, the producer saw us on the news and they want us to do a performance on the One Show. They’re doing an “online star of the week” segment and we’ve come to the producer’s attention.’

  ‘Oh god.’

  ‘Yeah, I mean, it’s great news! Right?’

  ‘When …? Where …?’

  ‘Monday, they said. Get there for four, London. You know?’

  ‘But Monday … I mean, I work. Do you not think you can …’ she began. Then stopped herself. She’d made a commitment to the boys and she couldn’t just let them down without good reason. Besides, she was owed about four weeks’ holiday and hadn’t yet taken a day. ‘OK, I’ll sort it,’ she said. ‘Can Nadia help?’

  ‘She’s got some pink spray for your hair,’ he said, ‘and some glasses ’n’ that.’

  ‘Right, thank you.’

  Oh god. But at least it wasn’t yet ITV. She wasn’t going to bump into Toby strolling through the corridors.

  Ann stepped in and placed a pile of post on her desk. ‘Nothing urgent,’ she smiled. ‘I’m off to grab a coffee, fancy one?’

  ‘Think I’m going to need one.’

  ‘Don’t forget there’s a lunchtime training session!’

  ‘How could I?’

  ‘Do you want sprinkles?’

  ‘Um, no. Actually I’ll just have black coffee I think.’

  ‘No problem.’

  The last thing Clare needed was any more complication in her life.

  As she turned her attention back to her mobile, a text message flashed on the screen. Great news! Toby had written. Call me!

  She turned the phone over to face the desk and finally made her first mark on the legal pad. Everything else could just wait for a bit.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  ‘Sure, that’s fine.’ Nigel nodded, making an indecipherable scribble in his diary.

  ‘Thank you,’ Clare said. Why was it that she had to clear any holiday with Nigel, when in reality she was the one who managed her workload? Was it a power thing with him, she wondered?

  ‘So,’ he added, sitting back slightly, the back of his chair leaning dangerously as he did so. ‘Doing anything nice?’ The chair slipped slightly too far and he shot out a hand and grabbed the desk to stop himself from falling. ‘Bloody chair,’ he muttered.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Doing anything nice on your afternoon off? I assume it might be some sort of celebration?’ He looked at her over his glasses and, although it was hard to tell, he might have even winked.

  ‘Celebration?’ she replied, feeling a familiar gurgle in her stomach. Was Nigel telling her that he knew she was Martha B.? That she was off to perform on national TV?

  Or maybe it was good news. Maybe he was finally acknowledging how her career was going from strength to strength, how impressed Camberwaddle was; how he intended to introduce more clients to the firm.

  ‘Yes, you know. Your husband’s success?’ Nigel tapped his finger against his nose. ‘I heard a rumour that he might be in line for a bigger role at ITV – Will saw it on Twitter.’

  ‘Oh yes! That,’ she said.

  ‘Wish him luck from me, won’t you!’

  ‘Will do.’

  ‘Oh, and Clare?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You must be very proud of him. What a success!’

  ‘Yes.’ Clare smiled thinly, then turned to go.

  ‘And you, of course.’

  She stopped. Was this the recognition of her recent achievement she’d been waiting for?

  ‘Me?’ she replied, modestly. ‘Success?’

  ‘Yes, you’re there in the background supporting him – the wind beneath his wings, as they say. You, too, on some level, bask in his glory.’

  It took a great deal of self-restraint to stop herself saying that the report sitting unread on his desk detailing the amount of billing her department had done for the month, together with the retainer from Camberwaddle that she’d fought for, made her pretty successful herself. Before she went back to sit in the cupboard she’d been relegated to.

  But success, it seemed, was only in the eyes of the beholder. And if it was played out on the grand stage, it was more meaningful than her endeavours to keep the money rolling in for their little firm.

  ‘Anyway, I’m around today so if you want to discuss the report …’ she said, eyeing it again on his desk.

  ‘Oh, yes. Yes, of course … I …’

  But at that moment, Will entered. Clare expected her junior colleague to be told to wait, just as she had been, when interrupting a meeting between him and Nigel.

  Instead, Nigel’s cheeks flushed and a beam spread across his face. ‘Here he is!’ he said. ‘The man of the moment!’

  ‘Hello, sir,’ Will said, and strode past Clare, shaking his boss’s hand like a royal greeting a peasant in the crowd. ‘You wanted to see me?’

  ‘Yes, I wanted to congratulate you for your latest adverti
sing push. We’ve already had two client enquiries.’

  ‘That’s marvellous!’

  ‘Yes.’ Nigel paused and looked over his glasses at Clare. ‘Sorry, was there anything else?’

  ‘No, that’s it.’

  ‘Good, good. Well tell that husband of yours to keep up the good work!’

  Walking back to her office, Clare realised that suddenly for the first time in a long while she didn’t actually feel like working. Her office was dark, even with the lamp she’d brought in from home. Sitting there reminded her of how little recognition she’d had. How little she seemed to matter. And at home, too, she was feeling sidelined. Ludicrously, it was only when she was dancing in front of a group of teenage boys that she really felt alive.

  But once she’d settled into her uncomfortable chair, she smiled. Next to her keyboard was a muffin with a Post-it note on which Ann had scribbled a smiley face and thumbs up. That woman definitely didn’t get paid enough.

  Maybe she wasn’t being fair on Toby, she thought moments later, feeling more at one with the world after a mouthful of crumbs and chocolate. After all, they’d both been preoccupied with work. To make herself feel better, she picked up her mobile and flicked Toby’s number onto the screen. It rang just once before he answered it, breathless.

  ‘Clare!’ he gasped. ‘I’ve just come out of a meeting. They’ve given me the top job! Well, not the top job. But a good job! I’m not going to be on the morning programme. They’re … well, I can hardly believe it. They’re giving me a chance to host my own show!’

  ‘Wow, Toby, that’s amazing!’ she said. And she meant it, genuinely. ‘What programme?’

  ‘Well, you’ll never guess. Actually,’ he said, ‘it was down to Hatty – she’d had a word with the top dog. He’d noticed me, of course, but it was her who suggested me for this particular post. After our dinner party, you know?’

  ‘Hatty?’

  ‘Yes. She has the director’s ear, you know. They go back a long way.’

  ‘Uh huh.’

  ‘Anyway, he’d marked me out as having potential, obviously.’

  ‘Obviously.’

  ‘But it was Hatty’s idea that I should be thrust into the limelight now, so to speak.’

  ‘OK?’

  ‘Yeah, I mean I mentioned how I encouraged you to go back to work after the kids, you know?’

  ‘Yes?’ If she remembered rightly, they’d come to the decision together after a particularly horrendous electricity bill landed on their doormat. Less about empowering her, and more about powering their central heating.

  ‘Yeah, and how we’re always supporting each other with career stuff. You support me, I support you. We understand each other.’

  Funnily enough, half a year ago she’d have agreed with that statement, she realised.

  ‘Uh huh?’

  ‘Yes, you know. We often chat after work. You were telling me the other night about your … work problem. I gave you advice, that kind of thing. I suppose it helps me to understand what women go through in the workplace. Their insecurities, their struggles.’

  ‘Right. Anyway …’

  ‘Anyway, sorry. That’s why she recommended me for this show.’

  ‘Yes, Toby. What show?’

  ‘Woman’s World! Exploring the topics of the day, speaking to influential women. Gaining insight, you know?’

  ‘What?’ Clare had watched Woman’s World once or twice when she’d worked from home last year. The host, a tall, rather intimidating-looking blonde had recently chucked in the role to run for local government. There’d been a series of – female – hosts in the interim. But … Toby?

  ‘Woman’s World!’ he repeated. ‘Just picture it!’

  ‘Woman’s World?’ she said again.

  ‘Yes, yes. They said that it was a little unusual to give the position to a man, obviously. But someone like me, you know, proud husband, father to a girl, that sort of thing. Someone who puts the women in his life first … they thought I’d be in an ideal position to break down the barriers in society.’

  ‘Well … congratulations!’ Clare said, feeling almost as odd as she had when she’d watched herself on the news, dressed as Martha B.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Actually,’ she said after a pause. ‘I could do with your advice on something with Nigel.’

  ‘Right, well, I suppose I’d better get on …’ he said, seemingly oblivious to her second sentence.

  ‘It’s just, do you think I should talk to Nigel about Will and the fact that I feel overlooked? I’ve been wondering whether I ought to leave and start my own …’

  But Toby was talking to someone in the background. ‘Yes, thank you, Tom!’ he said. ‘Yes, looking forward to it.’

  ‘OK, love, better go!’ he said to her before the line went dead.

  Woman’s World, thought Clare. He has absolutely no idea.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  ‘This is the bit where we all do the splits,’ Dan explained when Clare finally made it to rehearsal that evening. He’d got the boys to show her the new routine so she could see how her performance fit the dance moves.

  Clare gave him a look.

  ‘No worries, no worries. I know you can’t do the splits, I just thought maybe you could like do the half-splits, or whatever.’

  ‘What like this?’ Clare said, pushing her legs as far as they were willing to go. Her hamstrings were roaring in protest, but admittedly her pose was less than impressive.

  ‘Oh, right.’ He looked a little alarmed at her lack of flexibility – which surely should be the least of their problems.

  She’d arrived late – as always – and already out of breath after having to wait for some purchase money to hit the client account. She’d forgotten her tracksuit bottoms so was trying her best to be flexible in trousers that refused to give and threatened to split if she went too far.

  Her mind wasn’t completely on the dance either, if she was honest. Work had ramped up and tomorrow she had three completions. It was hard to concentrate.

  The rest of the troupe bent themselves effortlessly out of their final pose and began chatting and stretching as Dan took Clare to one side.

  ‘You seem tense, Clare,’ he said, which was officially the understatement of the year. He put an arm across her shoulders and gave her a quick squeeze. His body smelled of soap and aftershave and was damp with fresh sweat.

  ‘I know. I guess I didn’t expect to have to get ready so soon,’ she said. ‘Why are they booking us on the back of a ropey YouTube rehearsal video? It’s … I mean, it wasn’t that good!’

  ‘Yeah, but you’ve kind of captured something,’ he said. ‘You know, the mood – lots of women, they feel like you do. I think it’s more important than you realise.’

  ‘I know, but …’

  ‘And isn’t your whole rap – poem – about wanting people to see that women like you are worth noticing and shouldn’t be ignored? This is kind of what you wanted,’ he said. ‘And maybe it’s what other women, you know, the ones you’re speaking to, maybe they need this too?’

  He was right, she realised. She had wanted to be noticed, appreciated. She hadn’t really thought that anyone else, any other women, might feel exactly the same. Perhaps she didn’t see them either.

  ‘I mean, I know you didn’t want to rap,’ he added, ‘but the poem thing, that was you, wasn’t it? That was how you feel? What you wanted to say?’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose.’

  He stepped back, hand still on her shoulder and focused his dark brown eyes on her face. ‘It didn’t come from nowhere, Clare,’ he said, more gently. ‘It was … I mean, like a cry for help, or whatever. Like you needed someone to hear you.’

  Had it been? ‘Maybe, I mean, I was just really fed up that day so …’

  ‘Yeah, and it was g
reat. I know you don’t think so, but your poem spoke to people. That’s why all those women like you. You’ve kind of told the world what they want to say. That they feel invisible, that no one really sees them for who they are.’

  ‘Is that … did you …?’ She was lost for words. How was it that Dan seemed to really see her when her own husband didn’t seem to have a clue about how she was feeling? Could he read between the lines of her rushed, half-written poem and understand how she felt?

  ‘So, it’d be nice, wouldn’t it, if something you did helped people to understand a bit more what it’s like?’

  ‘What it’s like?’

  ‘You know, to be a bit older. A bit more boring. To be in a boring job, with a boring life. Just a normal, boring, middle-aged woman. How you want to break free, that kind of thing.’

  ‘Lot of borings there, Dan.’

  ‘I don’t have the words, you’re the one with the words,’ he grinned. ‘That’s why we need you. Come on, Clare – if you’re in this, you’ve got to be really in it.’

  He was right. This wasn’t some little audition in a backroom in Hatfield. Eezee Troupe had the chance to be on national TV. And she ought to put everything she had into making it work. For them, and for herself too. And seemingly – and she gulped at the idea – for her fans.

  Moments later, the door opened again and a small woman with skinny jeans and a checked shirt walked in. Everyone seemed to know her – the boys bounced up to her like excited puppies.

  ‘Hey, guys!’ she said. ‘Hey, Dan, Clare.’

  ‘Hey?’ Clare said, uncertainly. ‘Nadia?’

  ‘That’s right,’ the woman said, with a grin.

  ‘Oh, thank god,’ Clare replied, dramatically wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. ‘Dan wasn’t sure if you’d make it tonight.’

  ‘Bit last minute,’ Nadia nodded. ‘But can’t have you going on The One Show without a bit of bling.’

  ‘And a disguise?’

  Nadia glanced at Dan briefly and a look passed between them. ‘Sure,’ she said. ‘I’ve got some pretty good ideas about wigs and make-up and that.’