by Joan Ellis
The clerk peers inside the envelope I gave her and turns it upside down before handing it back to me.
‘Where’s your P45?’
I start to panic, shake the envelope and feel inside. It’s empty. The clerk takes great joy in telling me she can’t progress my claim and orders me to return with the correct documentation. She warns me again that any work I do must be declared or I risk a fine or imprisonment. Although I’m sure she will make an exception and ensure I get both. But I can’t see it being an issue. Given the recession, me finding work is as likely as Peter finding God.
The devil has surpassed himself. This is the most creative thing he has ever done. Either that or his secretary simply forgot to include my P45 and pay cheque. Yes, that’s probably it. Uncertain as to whether I still have a job at CBA, I consider explaining this to the clerk but think better of it. Given she couldn’t understand what work I do, there’s no way she could conceive the workings of Peter Richard’s mangled mind. My P45 will probably be on the doormat waiting for me when I get home. My world starts to shrink back to what it was when I was a kid with no money, no power and no choices.
I sit in my car, the only place where I am still in the driving seat. The soft, cream leather seat moulds itself comfortingly around me. I glance up at the dole office and feel a failure. I can’t get away fast enough. I turn the key in the ignition, ram my foot down on the accelerator, shoot out into the flow of traffic and slam into the first car I meet. The driver leaps out of what’s left of his vehicle and yells at me. Waving his arms like a spider directing traffic, his words hit me like flint.
‘What the f***? ‘You f******you just f****** pulled out! You f******! You didn’t even f****** look! ‘You f****** silly cow! ‘Look what you’ve f******done to my f****** car!’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, lowering the window a fraction.
Evidently, an apology from inside my car is not enough. He wants me to get out. He’s not doing much to entice me. His moves his mouth like a monkey, his lips curling back over clenched teeth. I hastily retrieve my Filofax and rip out a page. My hand shaking, I write down my name and number. I get out of the car, waving the piece of paper at him like a white flag. But he’s not ready to surrender. He means war. He fires off another round of expletives.
‘F****** Filofax, *******yuppie! Think you f****** own the f****** roads!’
‘Calm down, mate,’ says a young guy. ‘It was an accident. Leave her alone. Don’t speak to her like that.’
‘What about my car?’ he shouts.
‘The insurance will pay,’ the young bloke tells him.
‘Silly f******!’ the driver tells him.
‘Enough!’
Definitely the last word on the subject, delivered with the gravitas of a General handing down an order. Mr F-ing, his tiny tail between his tiny legs, gets back in his car, the two-seater now just a one-seater. Miraculously, it starts first time only to be halted almost immediately by an elderly woman crossing the road in front of him. I force a smile. He sticks two fingers in my face. I turn to my knight in shining armour. Well T-shirt and tight-fitting jeans.
‘Thanks.’
‘No worries. Can I call anyone for you?’
He points to the phone box on the corner of the street.
‘No, it’s fine.’
‘Sure? Boyfriend? Husband? Anyone?’
I shake my head. We turn to look at my car slumped uselessly across the tarmac. A line of traffic curls round it like a giant metallic centipede.
‘Are you in the AA?’ he asks. ‘I’ll ring them.’ I hand him my membership card.
‘I can’t read your signature. What’s your name; they’ll need to know.’
‘Ella, Ella David.’
‘Nice to meet you, Ella,’ he smiles as he heads up the road towards the telephone box.
Everyone wants to know who I am today but not in a good way. A stray dog cocks its leg against my car and then dives off to do the same to nearby lamp-posts as he marks his territory. That’s quite a property portfolio he’s got himself, no wonder the little cur doesn’t have a care in the world.
My new friend jogs back.
‘They’ll be here in about forty minutes,’ he says breathlessly.
He takes a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and offers me one. I shake my head. He lights up as he talks to me through a haze of smoke, his eyes creasing attractively at the edges.
‘I’m trying to give up. I’ve gone from ten to twenty a day.’
He laughs and encourages me to join in. My face, still bruised from the fall, doesn’t want to move.
‘Another smash up?’ he asks awkwardly looking at my cheek.
‘I fell down the stairs at Oxford Circus tube.’
Then I tell him about the ambulance-man, the Queen and the Prime- Minister.
‘Sounds like the start of a bad joke. But it’s not funny. You should be more careful.’
I’ve been looking after myself since I was ten-years-old. Mum was so heart-broken when her Decree Absolute was granted, she spent her life mourning the loss of her husband. Although she left him for the way he treated us, she always hoped he would have a change of heart and come after her. He never did. Just set up home with another woman and her daughter.
‘I noticed you earlier in the dole office. You’re not the sort they usually get in there,’ says the young guy.
I didn’t notice him. How did he slip under my radar? Handsome and charming, not a combination often found at the Hornsey Unemployment Office. He smiles. I smile back, get all embarrassed and pretend to look for the AA man. Remembering my face, I turn away so he can’t see the battered side.
‘It’s just a bit bruised,’ he says moving closer to examine it. ‘The other side is very pretty.’
‘Pretty’? It’s not how people usually refer to me. Someone used the word ‘attractive’ once but I think they were referring to my wallpaper.
‘By the way, I’m not actually signing-on. Well, I don’t think I am, not yet,’ I tell him changing the subject.
‘Well, I am. No shame in it. We’ve paid our dues; we’re entitled to that money,’ he tell me forcibly.
‘Oh, I know. But, I think my boss may have just pretended to fire me.’ He laughs so hard he starts coughing.
‘That’s genius. Why would he do that?’
‘Teach me a lesson? Who knows?’
‘What a weirdo.’
‘Yerp. He is.’
There is a silence.
‘I’m Tom, Tom Gould. But I changed my name to Tom Tyler.’
‘Are you famous?’ I ask sounding like a star-struck teenager.
‘I will be. I’m a singer. Just started getting gigs. Unpaid, of course,’ he says with an exaggerated wink.
If he sounds half as good as he looks, he’ll go far.
The AA man arrives and after some rudimentary tinkering announces the car is beyond a roadside repair. We wait another half hour for a tow truck. The time passes surprisingly quickly with Tom telling me about his dream of becoming a pop star. Just as the story gets interesting, the recovery van pulls up. From Hollywood to Hornsey in the turn of a wheel. Sadly, the driver is no movie idol, more of an idle mover, taking forever to attach my car to his truck. Eventually, he secures it and offers to drive me home before dropping my car at the garage. As tempted as I am by the opportunity to ride upfront in his jalopy, I hand him the keys and sign my car over. Right now, I am more interested in going places with Tom.
‘Drink?’ he asks.
‘How did you guess?’
‘I can read minds.’
He had better be kidding because right now mine is in the gutter.
‘Cheeky!’ he says with a smile.
‘I didn’t say anything.’
‘You didn’t have to,’ he smiles.
This is the most fun I’ve had since the patisserie brought out a new hazelnut and chocolate éclair. We walk to the nearest pub, a Victorian monstrosity with a smoky atmosphere, music blaring fr
om the juke-box and a flashing fruit machine.
‘What do you fancy?’ he shouts over the noise.
‘You,’ I want to say but I’ve only known him two hours.
‘A Kir ...’ I say then remember I’m not in Soho now.
‘Brandy, for the shock?’ he suggests. Smart boy. Clearly, a trained first-aider.
I nod and walk over to an empty table, the soles of my shoes sticking to the carpet. I sit facing the bar where I have a great view of Tom’s rear as he leans across the bar. The barmaid recognises him and whispers something in his ear. He laughs. She says something else and he laughs again this time much louder. He reaches into her breast pocket and takes out a packet of cigarettes. She takes one and lights it before putting it in his mouth.
‘Cheers, love, keep the change,’ he says, the cigarette stuck to his lip.
Slowly, he unfurls a tenner from a thick roll of notes. Even by Adland’s standards, that’s an eye-watering tip.
He carries the drinks over and hands me my glass. The single shot of brandy barely covers the bottom of the tumbler.
‘Nice car, shame about the prang,’ he says draining his glass.
‘It’s a company car. They’ll sort it.’
‘Company car, eh? I had you down as a secretary or a teacher.’
‘I’m a copywriter. I write ads.’
‘Advertising? Good money, eh?’
I look away, resenting the question. People like to judge me on what I do for a living, rating me alongside estate agents. They don’t understand, we are all selling something provided the price is right.
‘Think of a number and double it, eh?’ he asks, his smile widening. The only number I am interested in right now is his.
‘Yeah, the money’s great but the industry is very cut throat.’
‘Yeah, I guess. But you won’t be out of work for long. Something will come up; it always does.’
‘Yes,’ I murmur. ‘Something will definitely come up.’
He grins and blows a smoke ring. Then another. I’ve never seen anyone do that before. I’m impressed. What’s wrong with me? I must be mad. Mad about the boy.
Chapter eleven
Sell yourself
‘How are the interviews going?’ Adam asks, perusing the pudding menu at Soho’s latest faux French brasserie.
‘I had one this morning. Turned out he was great mates with Peter.’
‘You didn’t want to work for him then.’
‘No,’ I say looking at the other diners, well-paid and well-fed, their only worry what wine to drink. ‘But I can’t bear the thought of having to sign-on every week. That dole office is such a hell-hole I half expected Peter to be in charge. I crashed my car on the way out.’
‘What?’ asks Adam genuinely alarmed. ‘You okay?’
‘Fine. A really lovely guy came to my rescue.’
Adam looks at me. Usually I can tell what he’s thinking but not this time. He catches the eye of a passing waiter and orders two desserts,
‘Chocolate mousse and white chocolate gateau, please. What are you having, Ella?’
‘Tarte tatin.’
‘Apples? You can’t just eat apples for lunch. Make that two mousses and two gateaux please. Thanks.’
The waiter makes a polite little bow as if everyone dining here has two puddings apiece for lunch.
‘That’s not your portfolio, is it?’ he asks looking at my small, plastic folder.
‘The only thing creative directors want to see are my ideas,’ I say concealing it under my napkin.
‘Not true. This business is ninety-nine percent presentation, one percent desperation,’ he tells me.
The waiter sets down four plates of exquisite-looking confections. I carefully lift off the spun sugar Eiffel Tower standing astride my gateau and put it on Adam’s plate.
‘Thanks,’ he says opening his mouth and devouring it. I watch as a triumph of engineering disappears in seconds.
‘Have my raspberry,’ he says spearing it on his fork and feeding it to me.
‘When we’ve finished I’m buying you a new portfolio. And don’t say ‘no’.’
He pays the bill, batting away my offer of half, and we head for Cowling and Wilcox. The shop is full of artist’s supplies and smells of paper and ink.
‘Most people I interview, have something like this,’ he tells me, holding up a large A2 black leather case.
I’m surprised he can lift it; the price tag is so hefty.
‘No, this will be fine,’ I say grabbing a small, plastic version.
‘If that landed on my desk, I wouldn’t even open it, let alone hire the owner,’ he tells me. ‘Just take this one and give yourself the best chance.’
He quickly unzips the portfolio and proudly presents the acetate sleeves, steel ring-binder and inside pockets. It’s so impressive it could get a job all on its own.
‘Okay, but only if I can pay you back.’
‘You can get the croissants next time we go to Pat Vals,’ he tells me handing the cash to the assistant and kissing my cheek. ‘Gotta go. Good luck but you won’t need it.’
I stride into my next interview, bursting with confidence and chocolate cake.
Chapter twelve
It’s not who you know, it’s who they know
It’s been a while since Peter fired me. I don’t like to count the days. That would mean this is actually happening and it can’t be. Too much relies on me bringing home the bacon. But thanks to Peter telling porkies, life is looking dicey.
There’s still no sign of my P45 or final pay cheque. I should call CBA and ask what’s happening but I can’t bear to hear the smug woman in personnel telling me that yes, of course, Peter fired me, the paperwork is in the post and no please don’t ask for a reference as a refusal often offends. I’ve had a couple of interviews but no-one seems to be hiring. But with this month’s mortgage due and mum’s rent to pay, I can’t afford to give up.
I ring round more top advertising agencies asking for work. As always, I am headed off at the pass by the Creative Directors’ PAs all of whom are far more efficient than Peter’s secretary. This doesn’t work in my favour.
‘Good morning, please may I speak to your Creative Director?’
‘Who’s speaking?’ asks the snippy PA.
‘Ella David.’
‘Who?’
‘Ella David.’
‘Ella David?’
She stops short of asking ‘Who the hell are you?’ and settles for, ‘Will he know what it’s regarding?’
Not unless he has a sixth sense, I think.
‘Sorry, he’s in a meeting,’ she replies without missing a beat.
Shame she didn’t tell me that in the first place and we could’ve saved all this palaver. But we both know he’s not in a meeting. He’s probably in his office and she’s in there with him, perched on his lap popping peeled grapes into his mouth.
‘When is a good time to call back and speak to him?’
‘Give me your number and I’ll make sure he gets it.’ Don’t call us; we won’t call you. By contrast my head-hunter is always delighted to speak to me. It’s her job to find me a job for a cool twenty percent of whatever salary she negotiates for me. Our relationship is symbiotic; we keep one another in the style to which we have become accustomed. Her name is Charlotte and she’s older than me but she’s so hip and happening, she answers to Charlie. She greets me like a long lost niece.
‘Ella, darling! How are you? Haven’t spoken in ages. How lovely to hear from you! Still over at CBA? With the fabulous Peter Richards? Do give him my love. How is he - still adorable? Such a lovely man! And so talented! I got him that job, you know. You’re very lucky to be under him.’
I will never be under Peter. But I know plenty of girls who are.
‘What’s happening, Charlie? Much work about?’ I ask as if it doesn’t really concern me, as if I’m just making polite conversation. My insides are yelling, ‘Get me a goddam job! Now!’
‘Darling, you’re not unhappy at CBA, are you?’ she asks trying to sound concerned, her voice plumy and rich. ‘I hear Peter’s just won the High- Pro business. Clever boy! Great news! Worth zillions, isn’t it? Wowza!’
I can hardly bear to listen to her ill-informed twaddle but I do because I need her. Even if I told her it was my work, not Peter’s she would never believe the truth. Peter has built a career on lies. The clients neither know nor care. They just love him and life his agency cheque-book buys them.