by Joan Ellis
The lads bursts into tears.
‘You nearly had me over. Look where you’re going,’ Tom shouts.
The boy cries even louder causing his mother to stop laughing with her friend and turn around and confront Tom. Immediately, he grins at her. The mega-watt smile is brighter than anything lighting up the pier right now.
‘Sorry, about that. Didn’t see the little lad; he just flew out of nowhere. No harm done. Here, get him another one,’ he says handing her a five pound note. ‘And one for yourself. And your friend.’
Tom touches her lightly on the arm. She giggles and takes the money. He ruffles the child’s hair.
‘When you see me on telly, you can tell all your friends, Tom Tyler bought you an ice-cream on Brighton Pier.’
‘Tom Tyler,’ says the woman flirtatiously. ‘I’ll remember the name.’ Something about the encounter leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I lick my
lips and taste blood.
‘Tom! Wait!’ I shout but he’s run off and is too far ahead to hear me.
I panic, running back down the pier, darting in and out of the holiday- makers, unable to see him.
‘Here I am,’ he says jumping out at me when I reach the exit.
‘You disappeared.’
‘No, I didn’t. I was over there all the time, watching you.’
He puts his arm around me. I shove him away, playfully trying to mask my embarrassment. I feel a fool getting so upset about nothing.
We walk towards The Lanes, looking in the shop windows, picking out outfits for each other.
‘That’s you,’ I say pointing to a pair of tapering pink trousers and an Argyle sweater.
‘You think so?’ he asks with a grin. ‘Well, I think that one would suit you down to the ground.’
After all the food I’ve eaten today, I turn expecting to see a kaftan or a workman’s tent by the side of the road. But Tom is looking at a black silk sheath dress.
‘I can just see you in that,’ he tells me. ‘Go in and try it on.’
The price tag is heftier than I am at a hundred and twenty pounds.
‘Don’t worry about how much it costs; I’ll buy it for you,’ he says when he sees me blanch.
I’m tempted but I can’t let him. It’s too much.
‘No it’s not me. It’s too tight but thanks for the offer.’
‘Okay, I’ll have a word with Santa, perhaps I can ask him to put it in your stocking this Christmas.’
Christmas? He’s obviously planning on sticking around.
In a haze as pink and fluffy as the candyfloss I just ate, I linger outside one of the many antique jewellery shops. Admiring a rose gold ring set with a diamond the size of a pigeon’s egg, I spot the matching price tag. Tom has already disappeared inside the nearest pub. This is the longest I’ve known him go without a drink. I’m not about to spoil our day by nagging him. Let’s face it - I’m no stranger to a liquid lunch, with an almond croissant chaser.
‘Stick another one in there, mate,’ he says handing over his empty glass to the barman. ‘A large white wine for my girlfriend and whatever you’re having.’
Girlfriend? That’s the first time he’s used the word to describe me. Never mind a haze, I am now floating on a pink candyfloss cloud. Delighted to be publicly elevated to girlfriend status, I puff out my chest. Obviously, no one notices.
Aware I am following in his former girlfriend’s footprints, I know to tread lightly. Apparently, she fleeced him then left him for a pilot causing Tom to refer to her as a ‘flight slag’.
Tom smiles at me.
‘Sorry love, I’ve spent all my money,’ he tells me.
I hand the barman a fiver and he sets down our drinks. I take a sip. It is typical pub wine, warm and acidic. But I don’t care. I’m with Tom. I’m in heaven.
‘Cheers love, here’s to a great day,’ he says.
‘Thanks, it’s been perfect,’ I tell him.
Now, I think to myself, do it now. I take the small square box out of my handbag and hand it to him.
‘What’s this?’ he asks suspiciously.
‘Open it,’ I urge, feeling like I did on Mum’s birthday all those years ago, giving her the gift I’d saved up for weeks to buy. As presents go, the selection of expensive-looking perfumes I had bought from my school fete, stunk. Bewitched by the satin-lined gift-box and French-sounding name, I hadn’t noticed the bottles were only half full and the scent had gone off.
‘Oh love, thanks. Is it platinum?’ Tom asks taking the ring out of the box and examining it closely.
‘No, silver,’ I reply suddenly feeling like a cheapskate. ‘Try it on. Is it the right size? If not, I can get it altered.’
The only finger it fits is the third finger on his left hand. So much for my chipolata sizing guide.
‘Congratulations, mate. When’s the big day?’ the barman laughs. ‘I didn’t realise it was a Leap Year. Never seen a bird propose to a bloke before.’
Tom laughs but seeing my face, puts his arm round me and kisses the side of my head. My cheeks flush.
‘With this ring, I thee bed, eh mate?’ leers the barman. ‘Your lucky night, eh?’
‘Enough,’ says Tom in the same furious tone he had used to the guy in the car outside the unemployment office.
Immediately, the barman backs off.
Tom snatches up his glass and the ring clinks against the side, making an imperceptible noise, one I hope only I can hear. It resounds in my head like the peel of wedding bells ringing out all over Sussex.
I knew I should have waited until we were alone. I feel such a clown. And thanks to the wine, I’ve even got the red nose.
It’s almost dark by the time we leave the pub and head back up the hill to the station.
‘Don’t worry about work tomorrow. You’ll be fine love,’ he says as we board the train.
‘What?’ I ask. ‘How did you know I was fretting about that?’
‘I told you, I can read your mind.’
No, he can’t. For once, I wasn’t thinking about work. I was thinking about him. My confidence has taken a knock thanks to Peter and now it’s wonderful to have Tom by my side, fighting my corner. I lock my fingers through his and feel the silver band.
‘I love you, Ella.’
My heart leaps. Perhaps he really can read minds. I turn to look at him. But I must have misheard. He’s just staring out of the window, looking as vacant as the seat opposite us. I close my eyes so he can’t see how disappointed I am.
‘Well?’ he prompts.
He smiles. Those blue eyes again. This gorgeous guy is mine. Lucky me.
‘I love you, Ella.’
There’s no mistaking those words. This is what I’ve always wanted but never believed I’d find, someone to love me and to love right back. I’ve experienced both, but never with the same person. Adoring Alan from afar was like driving the wrong way down a one-way street.
‘I love you, Tom.’
‘We’ll have to go back to Brighton and buy you that ring you were eyeing up,’ he says.
‘Didn’t think you noticed.’
‘I notice a lot of things, always remember that, Ella.’
He is smiling but his tone has changed to something completely at odds with the moment.
‘I love you, Tom,’ I repeat desperate to get us back to where we were.
I go to kiss him on the lips but he turns away and I’m left nuzzling his cheek.
On the way home, we seem to have lost our way. Tom and I are both saying the same thing. The difference is I know I mean it.
Chapter seventeen
Show before and after pictures
The CBA receptionist is one of the least receptive people I know making her spectacularly under-qualified for the job. She usually manages a fleeting smile but today she is engrossed in inspecting her hair for split ends. She doesn’t even look up when I approach her desk.
‘Morning. This is Tom, my boyfriend. He’s just going to give me a hand taking my stuff
back upstairs. Do you need him to sign in?’ I ask indicating the visitors’ book.
She shakes her head, giving the box Tom is now balancing precariously on one knee, a cursory glance. He could have anything in there, so much for security.
The latest edition of ‘Hello’ lies unopened on her desk yet I know she regards getting her hands on that magazine as one of the few perks of her job. Today’s papers are still bundled together inside the door where the courier has left them. The lift is also on a go-slow. I run up the stairs, two at a time, in an attempt to inject some vitality into the place. Tom plods up behind me. When we reach the third floor, even the three ceramic ducks on the wall, Peter’s homage to his mantra, ‘Get your ducks in a row’, look desperate to migrate to the South Pole or wherever kitsch birds go when the going gets tough. There’s no aroma of freshly- made coffee. Peter’s not nice without his early morning shot of caffeine.
Chop! Chop!
‘Where’s Peter?’ I ask his secretary as she tidies the inside of her designer handbag.
‘He’s not coming in,’ she says examining a used tissue as if checking for deposits of gold.
‘Ella! Ella!’
I turn to see Wally beckoning me into Peter’s office.
‘Hi Wally,’ I say walking over and beaming at him. ‘This is my boyfriend, Tom.’
‘Hello, Wally. I’m Tom, Tom Tyler, pleased to meet you,’ he says, putting the box down and shaking Wally warmly by the hand. ‘Ella’s told me all about you. It’s nice to know she’s got a friend here. This place sounds very cut-throat.’
‘She’s a good girl,’ Wally says winking at me. ‘They’re lucky to ‘ave her after what they done. Disgusting behaviour.’
‘Ah, I’ve missed you, Wal.’
I hand him a large paper bag. He peers inside and takes out the chocolate croissant.
‘Lovely,’ he says biting into it and letting the shiny flakes drop onto his pullover. ‘Listen, dunno what’s going on, but it ain’t good. Apparently, the board keep having meetings and come out with faces as long as tripe. Thank God I’m retiring soon. This used to be a great agency, not anymore. Watch your back, young ‘un.’
For someone who only works nights, Wally is very clued up. If they gave him a day job, he’d be running the place within a week.
Tom steps forward.
‘Don’t worry, mate. I’m here now. I’m a singer, I’m about to sign a deal. I’ve got a few producers interested in me. I know…’
I listen in awe. Wally cuts across him.
‘Right, young ‘un, I’m off home. Thanks for the cake. See you tomorrow and remember what I said. Don’t take no nonsense from no-one.’
He taps the side of his bulbous nose.
‘A wee dram before you go, Wal? Toast Ella’s first day back?’
To my horror, Tom has poured two fingers of Peter’s single malt into a crystal tumbler.
‘Not for me,’ says Wally. ‘Put that bottle down and drink up.’
Tom downs the whiskey and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘Good whiskey that,’ he says checking the label before replacing it on
Peter’s shelf.
‘Why did you do that?’ I hiss steering him past Wally and out of the room.
‘This place can afford it. Peter won’t miss it. The old boy was just being a dick.’
‘No, he wasn’t,’ I tell Tom. ‘He was just doing his job.’
‘I’m going downstairs. Let me show you out, mate,’ says Wally who is on the stairs, waiting for Tom to follow.
Bolstered by the whiskey, Tom swaggers towards him.
‘See you later, love,’ he tells me.
‘Depends what time I finish. First day back, it could be a late one. Maybe best if you stay with a mate tonight.’
It’s true but it’s not the real reason. I didn’t like him taking the whiskey, and I hated the way he spoke to Wally. Tom shouts something but I don’t hear it as I walk upstairs to the account-handling floor. These people take work very seriously. You wouldn’t catch them playing table football in the office or having casual sex on smoked glass tables. Nothing distracts them from climbing the greasy pole. They don’t hang out with flighty creative-types in case our laissez-faire attitude is contagious. They don’t want us breathing Chardonnay-breath in their faces, making it obvious we’ve been out to lunch since ten that morning and have no intention of doing any work that afternoon. Or any afternoon come to that.
Josh startles me by shooting out of his office, talking into his mobile very loudly but saying nothing worth listening to.
‘Can I have a word?’ I mouth.
He points to the phone as if I can’t see it. The thing is the size of a Buick. I nip into his office and wait.
‘Well?’ he asks tersely.
‘Thanks for putting out the welcome mat. What’s going on? The place is dead.’
‘You’re at the wake,’ he says, his chest moving up and down rapidly.
‘High-Pro just fired us. The ship is sinking and this rat wants to leave.’
‘I don’t understand. We’ve only just won High-Pro,’ I venture.
‘Peter failed to develop your idea and tried to push through one of his own. The client hated it.’
I can’t believe even Peter would be so selfish as to put the agency in jeopardy simply to satisfy his own ego.
‘Tell me it’s not the one with the gyrating girl with big hair and the line ‘High-Pro – a Hair-Raising new idea!’
Josh nods, ‘And the can that looks like a phallus.’
‘But he knew how my campaign was supposed to pan out. Why did he have to ruin everything?’
‘He wanted to do his idea. You know it’s all about Peter and to hell with everyone else. ’
‘Where is he now?’
‘Hanging by his balls from Big Ben, for all I care. His ex-wife showed up yesterday. Peter saw he was about to lose the one thing he truly loved and flipped. He wasn’t about to give up his Porsche. There was a struggle in reception and she wrestled the keys off him. So he ran outside and lay down in front of the car.’
‘Please tell me her foot slipped on the accelerator?’
‘Sadly, not. She revved the engine. He leapt up. She jumped out to wallop him and he got in and sped off. Haven’t seen him since.’
‘Where does that leave us?’ I ask.
‘Shit Street.’
I assume the address doesn’t have a Mayfair post-code.
‘And Steve Winter has landed High-Pro,’ says Josh, shaking his head in despair.
‘How did he manage that?’ I ask incredulously. ‘He didn’t have any creative work to present?’
‘How do you know?’ asks Josh rounding on me suspiciously.
‘Someone must’ve mentioned it. I can’t remember.’
‘Steve impressed the client with his credentials and screwed a bargain basement media plan out of the boys. He was appointed on the strength of that alone.’
I stare at Josh in disbelief. Steve Winter had pulled it off but pulled the plug on us.
‘This will be on the front page of ‘Campaign’ tomorrow and on the desk of every Creative Director in town. I’ll be a laughing stock,’ Josh wails.
No change there then, I think.
‘And Peter?’ I whisper, lest the mention of his name brings the walls tumbling down. ‘Where will he go?’
‘To hell,’ replies Josh bitterly.
‘Don’t worry, knowing Peter, he’s already there,’ I tell him.
‘The board suspended him while the dust settles. It’s damage limitation. Officially, he’s on gardening leave,’ Josh says giving me a sly glance. ‘I need to call my head-hunter and line up another job. I suggest you do the same. Kitty Rescue won’t keep this place afloat for long. And you’re back on the account.’
Somehow I make it downstairs to my office. Peter’s secretary looks close to tears. I feel sorry for her. She’s worked with him for years. She knows all his peculiarities, how he takes hi
s coffee, how to calm his mood with just a smile and how to never discuss his numerous indiscretions.
‘Don’t worry,’ I tell her. ‘You’ll be fine. You’ve got so much to offer. You’re very good at...’ I struggle to think what her particular skill might be. ‘You’re very good at washing your smalls.’