by Joan Ellis
She bursts into tears.
‘Sorry, I was only joking,’ I tell her.
She ignores me and grabs her used tissue out of the bin, blowing her nose like a tiny trumpet, heralding the end of CBA as we know it. If Peter had a shred of integrity this would never have happened and we would all be laughing. Instead, his secretary is sobbing, Josh is hanging in rags and we are all going to be looking for work. At least one good thing has come out of this mess. If I don’t have a job, I don’t have to sleep with Peter to keep it.
Josh walks by and laughs, ‘Reckon I’m safe. Just bumped into the MD. Think I’ve managed to convince him it was all Peter’s fault.’
‘I thought you two were friends.’
‘Friends?’ he asks as if I am speaking a foreign language – one of the few he hasn’t got a degree in. ‘Wake-up, Ella. This is business.’
Well, it certainly isn’t pleasure. But I could learn to like it. This is my chance. I should grab it with both hands but I always like to keep one free to eat cake.
I stride into Peter’s office, take my coat off and hang it on the back of his door. I’ve got work to do. Josh watches me as I sit in Peter’s chair and lower the seat until my feet touch the ground.
‘You don’t believe in letting the grass grow, do you?’
‘Just keeping Peter’s seat warm for him.’
I sink down in his black leather ergonomically-designed throne, hold onto the arms and rotate 360 degrees. Twice.
‘Don’t panic Josh, play-time is over. Let’s go to work. Get me a status update on all our accounts – I need to know what you know.’
He looks so relieved I think he might kiss me. Thankfully, his buttoned-up upbringing won’t allow it.
‘I knew I was right to get you back,’ he tells me heading off to collect his files.
I’m in way above my head. I must get hold of Adam, with his experience as Deputy Creative Director he can help me avoid the pitfalls. In the meantime, I start as I mean to go on and follow Josh out to talk to Peter’s secretary.
‘Hi. I’ve been pretty rude to you. I’m sorry,’ I tell her laying my hand gently on her arm.
She looks shocked and says nothing.
‘It looks like we’ll be working together for the time being. I should’ve asked a long time ago, what’s your name? I can’t keep calling you
‘Peter’s secretary’.’
‘Apology accepted, Ella. I’m Jill,’ she replies extending her hand for me to shake.
I smile with relief.
‘Thanks, Jill. Please may I have a freshly squeezed orange juice and two croissants from Patisserie Valerie and whatever you’d like. Oh and a large double espresso for Josh.’
He’ll need it. We’re looking at a long day and an even longer night. And this is just the beginning.
Chapter eighteen
Make your client No 1
‘I’m drowning,’ I tell Adam as we walk through Soho towards Covent Garden, heading for our favourite fish and chip shop.
‘Not surprised the amount of bilge that comes out of Josh’s mouth,’ he says diving into a Bar Italia and ordering two cappuccinos to take-away. He helps himself to a handful of Amaretto biscuits from a bowl on the side and offers them to me.
‘I sit in meetings and haven’t got a clue what they’re talking about,’ I tell him.
‘And you think they do? It’s all crap, Ella. Just do what Peter does. Make friends with the clients.’
He takes the coffees and hands over the money, offering me one of the polystyrene cups.
‘Thanks, I’ll get them next time,’ I say taking my drink from him. ‘Listen, I don’t have anything in common with the clients. They’re all middle-aged men who barely acknowledge me in meetings.’
‘Get to know them as people, not clients. Find out what makes them tick. Find something you like about them. You’re lovely. They’ll soon see that.’
‘You make it sound so easy, Adam,’ I tell him as we cross Shaftesbury Avenue, darting behind a bus when the lights turn red.
‘You’re always going to get the odd awkward so and so but you can handle them. Just be twice as nice, it always works for me,’ he says surging ahead.
‘I’ll give it a whirl,’ I tell him, unconvinced.
‘So, are you happy there? They say you should never go back,’ he asks weaving through the tourists clogging the pavement consulting guide- books and maps.
‘It feels like a different place without Peter. But I’m hopeless at office politics. I just want to do my job not keeping checking over my shoulder for stab marks.’
‘Don’t worry. Like I said, just befriend the clients. It’s a tip someone gave me when I took this job. Trust me, it works. Even Jan is happy to socialise with some of them.’
Jan is Adam’s girlfriend. They’ve known each other for years but I don’t know much more about her now than I did when I first met him. He drops her name into conversation and I’ve never met her but have built up a picture of her as beautiful but unhappy.
We walk across Seven Dials and continue up past the cheese shop. We both hold our noses and laugh.
‘I never touch the cheese board at dinner parties,’ I tell him.
‘Me neither. Why would you when you can have pudding?’ he says hurrying by.
‘Oh, that reminds me; we discovered a fantastic little tea-room in Brighton. Jill knows it. Delicious cakes. Tom wasn’t keen. Preferred his fry-up.’
‘Oh, yeah, Tom,’ he asks vaguely. ‘You’re still seeing him then?’
I nod enthusiastically, trotting to keep up with Adam who has quickened his pace.
‘Yeah, he’s amazing. We had a great day. It was such a laugh and we …’
I look at him. He must have heard every word but he’s not listening. Not really.
‘Adam, you okay?’
‘Sorry,’ he says looking at his watch. ‘I’ve just remembered, I’ve got a meeting at two thirty.’
‘Oh, okay, we can get a take-away and I can walk back with you.’
‘No’ he replies hastily. ‘I can’t turn up stinking of cod and chips. The client’s a vegan.’
He laughs but he doesn’t smile.
‘I’ll shoot off now and bell you later. We’ll do this some other time, yeah?’
he says as he turns to retrace his steps.
‘Okay,’ I say puzzled. ‘I look forward to it.’
Chapter nineteen
Ensure the client’s name is clear
I recognise the tune as soon as I walk in the door. It’s the one Tom was humming on the train to Brighton. He is sitting on the sofa strumming his guitar. When he sees me, he starts to sing and motions for me to sit next to him. A bottle of wine and two glasses are ready and waiting on the table, alongside a vase of fresh flowers, tulips, my favourite. I pour us both a glass and settle myself on the chair.
I watch in awe as his fingers move effortlessly over the strings. Playing an instrument is like magic to me. I am not musical as the woman who tried to teach me piano a few years ago discovered. My ex-boyfriend had insisted I learn, even paying for the lessons. A few months later, I found out why. While I was doing up and down the scales, he was going up and down on another girl. I assume they were making sweeter music than I was.
‘Welcome to your private audience with Tom Tyler. Unplugged,’ he announces. ‘Just, close your eyes and relax.’
I do as he says and after a brief pause, he begins to sing. His voice is beautiful, clear and pure.
As usual, in these situations, I get the urge to laugh. The more I try to suppress it, the worse it gets. I chew the sides of my mouth and think of something serious, like Patisserie Valerie running out of croissants before I get there tomorrow morning. It works a treat but Tom has stopped playing. Cautiously, I open my eyes as I mouth, ‘sorry’ to him. He presses against his lips.
‘Ssch!’ he tells me with a wink.
I loosen my collar. In an attempt to look creative and wacky, I am wearing a shirt and bow t
ie. What am I thinking? I could only look more ridiculous if the thing lit up and spun.
Leaning back in my seat, Toms starts again, from the top. I close my eyes again and let the words wash over me, my foot tapping to the beat. The tune is catchy. But it’s the innocent, sweet-sounding lyrics I really love. A line leaps out at me. When I open my eyes, Tom is staring at me, grinning.
‘Ella, you mean more to me than you’ll ever know. I want to make angels with you in the snow.’
He leans forward and sings the final lines to me.
‘Ella, you mean more to me than you’ll ever know. I’m never gonna let you go.’
I reach out to him but he ends with a flourish, bringing his right arm up and over his head, rock star style. He even throws his plectrum in the air before taking a bow.
‘That was fantastic. I love it, thank you,’ I say clapping excitedly.
‘My pleasure.’
‘It’s brilliant. When did you write it?’
‘This morning. I’ve had the tune in my head for a while but the lyrics are thanks to you.’
He looks at me and I melt.
‘Ah, that’s so lovely, Tom.’
‘Well, you bought me the ring, I just wanted to give you something special too.’
‘No-one has ever written me a love letter, let alone a song. I was dumped by Post-it note once but that doesn’t count.’
He laughs and I throw my arms around his neck and kiss him.
‘Play it again, Tom.’
Shame he’s not called Sam.
He takes centre stage and sings the song again. When he’s finished, I get to my feet and applaud. In my ridiculous get-up, I’m less rock chick, more rock chicken. Plucked and trussed.
‘How long did it take you to write?’ I ask him.
‘Not long. I got the hook and the rest just followed.’
‘That was such a lovely thing to do. Can you tape it for me?’
‘Sure, no problem.’
‘What’s it called?’
He takes a mouthful of wine and gulps it down.
‘Love Ella.’
‘Oh! Tom! I really do love you.’
‘I know.’
Chapter twenty
Build your brand
Tom and I are having a Quiet Night In or QNI as he likes to call an evening in front of the telly with a bottle of wine and a bowl of pasta. It’s not very rock and roll. But it’s our favourite way of spending an evening, just the two of us, on the sofa, a decent bottle of wine and a video. Bliss.
These days, he’s usually the headline act, which means he closes the gig and invariably misses the last train. I would rather he stayed put, rather than spending a fortune on a cab or getting into a car with someone who has had a skinful.
Tonight, he’s made us chilli con carne. He hasn’t got a sweet tooth so that means no pudding but it doesn’t stop me from stopping off at Maison Bertaux on my way home and indulging in a slice of meringue.
‘Hungry, love?’ he asks expectantly as he dishes up the meal.
‘Starving,’ I tell him. ‘Haven’t eaten all day, just some raspberries.’
Omitting to mention the other ingredients in a raspberry Pavlova: eggs, sugar and cream.
‘How was last night’s gig? I’ve never been to Cardiff, is it nice?’
‘Didn’t see much of it. They’d shut off a section of the motorway so we were late getting there. Dave drove like the clappers. His acoustic set went down quite well but then I went on and blew the place apart. They love Tom Tyler.’
He tastes a mouthful of chilli from the pot and smiles approvingly. He ladles the sauce into two bowls, dribbling a trail of shiny brown droplets across the cooker. The gas hisses in protest. Tom doesn’t notice.
‘Good crowd though. Had a queue of people waiting for my autograph.’
‘Get you, that’s great. You must be tired. What time did you get back this morning?
‘Dunno but I’m knackered and my back’s killing me. We ended up sleeping in Dave’s car. I had the gear stick stuck up my …’
‘Tom, the rice!’
I grab the pan and haul it, at arm’s length, into the sink. Tentatively, I lift the lid on the acrid stench and the steam acts as a facial sauna. A circle, like white tarmac coats the bottom of the saucepan.
‘Doesn’t matter. We can eat it without. I need to lose some weight,’ I tell him with a grin.
‘You look alright to me. More than alright.’
He kisses me. In full view of next-door’s tabby who is peering at us through the kitchen window.
‘Look, a peeping Tom,’ he says chuckling at his own joke. ‘Does he remind you of Marmalade?’
‘No, he just showed me his bottom, I’d say he was more like Peter.’
‘You really don’t like that guy, do you?’
‘Nope,’ I say taking a mouthful of chilli.
It’s hot. I run to the tap and gulp some cold water.
I hand Tom a bowl and spoon and he eats, leaning against the worktop.
‘So you definitely think he’ll be back? Dunno why they don’t just get shot of the guy and put you in charge.’
‘They won’t do that. He’s in with all the clients. He’s probably got some dirt on some of them too. Besides if they fire him, half the clients will go with him. The board can’t risk losing that sort of money.’
‘Bet you’re dreading him coming back,’ he says, beads of sweat erupting on his forehead.
‘My plan is to make my mark and prove myself before he gets back and ruins everything. At least then the board will know what I can do.’
‘Must be horrible having to work with a dick like that.’
‘Needs must when the devil drives. And Peter’s definitely at the wheel.’
I shrug. Tom scrapes his bowl with his spoon and the noise makes me shiver.
‘Your Mum wouldn’t want you having to put up with all this crap. She’d really worry if she knew what they put you through.’
‘She doesn’t need to know. I’m a big girl. I can handle it.’
‘I’m doing a gig over her way soon, I’ll pop in and see her before the show, take her some shopping.’
‘Yeah, she’d like that. Thanks, I’ll let her know.’
Snuggled up on the sofa, we finish our food and I hide my bulging stomach under a cushion hoping he doesn’t notice.
‘Ah don’t worry love. I’ve already had to unbutton my jeans. Since we’ve been together, I haven’t stopped eating. Look!’ he lifts his T-shirt to reveal a protruding belly.
Less of a six-pack and more a result of drinking too many six packs. Like the way cream cheese turns to cottage cheese on my bottom.
‘I’m here most of the time these days. Why don’t you let me help out more? The mortgage repayments on this place must be crippling you. What’s the interest rate now, nine, ten percent? It’s crazy. I met a bloke the other night who had his house repossessed. I think he worked in advertising too, funnily enough.’
‘That’s not funny, that’s tragic,’ I tell him. ‘Anyway, I’m getting paid soon, so don’t worry.’
‘I just want to do my bit and give you some space to find another job.’
I would love to get out from under Peter but I need to have something better lined up. Besides, I am happy for him to pay his share but I don’t want him going over the top and paying towards the mortgage. I am not comfortable taking that sort of money. Mum has always told me to pay my own way and not rely on anyone else.
‘Buy me dinner sometime. It’s more romantic than paying bills,’ I suggest.
‘Sure, I’ll take you to dinner whenever you like but you know what I’m saying, don’t you? Or do I have to spell it out? I want to spend every moment I can with you. Go to bed with you. Wake up with you. Well, on the nights I’m not gigging obviously. But I want us to live together, forever, Ella.’
‘Really? We’re happy as we are, aren’t we?’
‘Yes, that’s why I want to be with you. You’re the one,
Ella.’
He takes my hand in his and kisses me. He is lovely and he wants to look after me. I’ve spent so long taking care of Mum, I find it hard to accept help. I look around, his guitar is propped against the wall in the corner of the room, his tapes are stacked in neat piles on the shelf and his feet are most definitely under my table. I can smell them. It’s a manly smell. I like it. It makes a change from overpowering pot pourri.