by Joan Ellis
‘Who?’ I hear myself asking.
Why do I need to know? It shouldn’t matter but it does. My mind rewinds and replays our film, the one of our time together. Even the moments I remembered as special are now sullied, like he’s scratched the negative with a pin.
‘No-one you know.’
I hunt for answers, snatching at threads of information like a fish darting for food.
‘Cara! It was Cara, wasn’t it?’
‘No, not Cara. She wanted me but she’s not my type. No, the girl I’ve been seeing is amazing,’ he laughs. ‘So is her dad, he’s a record producer.’
This has obviously been going on while he was living here with me. I don’t want to hear it but it will strengthen my resolve. Whenever I get weepy I will remember this.
Women are just notches on the bedpost and rungs on the ladder to him. I lean against the wall, defeated. Although Tom has only gone a few steps, he’s already a million miles away from me. The front door slams behind him.
Some days, when it was good with Tom, it felt like the two of us, shoulder to shoulder against the world and with his arms around me, I felt special. Even his smile said, ‘I love you’. Now I know it meant no more than a line from one of his songs, just words to manipulate me.
I jump up and rifle through the box of cassettes to find the one he made for me. Here it is. I pull out the thin brown magnetic tape. It spools onto the floor like a tapeworm. Then, I run into the bathroom. Where is his aftershave, that ludicrously expensive stuff he slapped on before every gig? He kept it right here on the shelf. I open the cupboard. His toothbrush and razor are gone too. I hate the thought he has been here while I was away. The flat feels dirty, violated. I run into the bedroom, my stomach lurching and fling open the wardrobe. It’s half empty. My clothes hang like shrouds. His shoes have disappeared from under the bed and the diary he used for his bookings is no longer beside the phone. He’s even taken his jar of 2p coins. At last, the penny drops. He planned all this, all along. He wasn’t in love with me, just my flat and when I wouldn’t let him move in, he moved on.
The phone rings. I hope it’s not Tom, ringing with another revelation.
‘Hello,’ I say hesitantly into the mouthpiece.
‘Before I forget, can you bring one of those fancy chocolate cheesecakes from Pat Val’s to the dinner tomorrow night? Jan can’t cook. She thinks she can but no-one likes it when she does.’
‘Adam!’
I am overjoyed to hear his voice.
‘Adam, d’you know what time it is?’ I ask.
‘Sorry, I didn’t think. Jan’s still on nights and has just left for work. She was talking me through the menu and …’
‘Don’t apologise, I…’
He hears my tears before I know they’re there.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Wally died.’
The words still don’t sound real to me.
‘Not Wally. He was good a bloke. He used to let me leave my BMW in the client car-park. I paid him in cake. His wife wouldn’t let him eat stuff like that.’
‘She was right. He died of a heart attack.’
‘Sorry. That’s terrible. I can’t believe it. His wife must be devastated. I met her once. He had forgotten his flask and she had come all the way in from Leyton by train to give it to him.’
‘Yeah, he really loved her.’
‘Promise you’ll still come to the house-warming? I’ll make sure we have something nice to eat.’
‘Thanks,’ I say and burst into tears again.
‘Come on, Wally wouldn’t want you getting upset. Is Tom there with you?’
The tears race down my cheeks. When I open my mouth to speak, they drop in for me to swallow.
‘No, it’s over. He’s been sleeping with someone else,’ I sob.
‘But you’re lovely,’ he tells me and his kindness makes me cry harder. ‘I’m coming over.’
I hug the pieces of the blouse Wally wore last night to my face. It smells of his soap.
As I go into the bathroom to blow my nose, I look up and catch sight of my reflection, swollen eyes and face smeared with mascara. No wonder Tom left me. I wander back into the bedroom and sit down. I can see something small underneath the dressing table. I bend down and feel underneath with my hand. I pull out a cassette. The words ‘Tom’s songs’ are written in ballpoint pen in his handwriting.
I know I shouldn’t play it but I do.
‘Stella, you mean more to me than you’ll ever know, I want to make angels with you in the snow. Stella, you mean more to me than you’ll ever know. I’m never gonna let you go.’
Even the song he claimed to have written especially for me, wasn’t mine. It was Stella’s, whoever she is. If my name hadn’t rhymed with hers, I wouldn’t even have got that.
I am expecting Adam but the knock on the door still startles me. As I walk down the corridor, I can see his outline through the etched glass.
‘There you go,’ he says holding out two carrier bags of shopping. ‘I got a couple of packets of those really thick chocolate wafers, the ones you like.’
I follow him into the kitchen where he unpacks cake, biscuits and olives. Things he knows I like and hopes will tempt me.
‘Sorry not much of a selection but it was all Mr Patel had left. I was surprised he was still open. Does that man ever sleep?’
‘Thanks, how much...?’
‘My treat,’ he insists. ‘Let me make you a cup of tea and we’ll have a nice slice of cake to go with it.’
He potters about filling the kettle, finding mugs and getting plates. The kinder he is, the more I cry.
‘Sorry,’ I sniff. ‘It was just such a shock when I saw him here tonight.’
‘Thought you said he’d left?’ says Adam his mouth full of millionaire’s shortbread.
‘He has. He came back because he’d forgotten some stuff.’
‘What was so important?’ he asks offering me a caramel wafer.
I can’t imagine. Then, I remember and run to the bedroom. I lift the lid on my jewellery box, look inside and let it slam shut. I go back to Adam.
‘The gold heart necklace, the one he gave me has gone. We fished it out from under the floorboards. I don’t think I even got to wear it. He must have taken it. Probably going to give it to his new girl.’
‘Don’t get upset. You don’t want his heart. Anyone who prefers lager to cake, can’t be right,’ he declares. ‘Here, try this.’
He slides a chocolate slice out of its box and feeds it to me.
I finish it in two bites. Instantly, its sweetness fills me with pleasure. And, just for a moment, I feel my heart beat a little faster. It must be the sugar rush.
Chapter thirty-two
Be different
‘Ella, please don’t go in there,’ says Jill looking concerned and jumping up from her seat.
It’s the first day back after the away weekend. It was heart-breaking knowing Wally wouldn’t be here. I even paused outside Patisserie Valerie’s window and picked out the cake I would usually have bought him. A chocolate croissant. My mind floods with wonderful memories of him and I am happy to let them blot out the toxic residue left by Tom. Too much has gone wrong recently, I just need to get back to normal. I need to work.
I open the door to my office to be greeted by Chloe sitting at my desk with her back to me. She doesn’t even bother to look up when I walk in. My eyes sweep around the room. Immediately, I am disorientated. What’s happened? The walls are stripped of my awards. The framed stills of my commercials, signed by the directors, have been removed and my collection of vintage press advertisements has gone. But this is my office. I recognise the view across to the private drinking club. My chair has disappeared and has been replaced with an ergonomically-designed number, all sleek black leather and polished wood. Chloe is sitting comfortably in it, typing. But I can’t hear the familiar clack-clacking of the keys, just the faint whirr of her new, improved electric model.
I feel
like I’ve been burgled and the thief has not only taken all my belongings but has moved in. I see my shocked expression staring back at me from the vast gilt mirror now covering one wall. Details for a Primrose Hill property, secured by a single red drawing pin, hang beneath it. I lean forward and tilt my head to read the asking price, £200,000. Chloe’s only just left college. Where can she get that sort of money?
I turn to Jill hoping she can help make sense of all this. She meets my gaze and bites her lip, her hands knotted in front of her.
‘What’s going on?’ I ask, although the answer is obvious.
‘Oh, hello Ella. I didn’t see you there. You’re next door,’ says Chloe, spinning round in her chair.
Her dark eyes are hard and her glossy black bob, immaculate. She is wearing a hand-tailored dress in white linen. It is a perfect fit even if it does make her look like an Egyptian mummy. She smiles faintly at me before turning away.
‘Sorry, Ella,’ says Jill. ‘Peter wanted Chloe to have the bigger room.’
‘Oh he did, did he? So much for team-building. What was the point of all that? May as well have not gone. Poor old Wally might still be here. All that exertion and excitement can’t have been good for him.’
‘Ella, please don’t upset yourself,’ says Jill taking my arm.
Not only have I lost Tom but I can’t even keep hold of my office. It’s like being on a cakewalk at a funfair but without the cake or the fun.
‘And where’s my stuff? My awards, my ...’
‘Calm down,’ sneers Chloe appearing in the doorway. ‘Those certificates are so out-of-date now. Not worth the paper they’re printed on.’
I want to mess up her sleek, smug hair-do. The two-faced madam. I gave her a chance, paid her good money and this is how she repays me?
‘You haven’t won anything,’ I tell her.
Slyly, she slides a piece of paper across the desk towards me. It’s an all- staff memo from Peter announcing that Chloe has been shortlisted for Best Television Commercial for Honeydrop Cough Syrup. My head swims. This was never meant to happen and certainly not this fast. One minute I’m giving her a leg up, the next Peter’s got his leg over.
‘Peter reckons I’ll clean up in Cannes this year. He’s so confident he’s booked a table near the front for us so I don’t have far to walk to the podium.’
Now she’s pushed me over the edge and I’m clinging on by my fingertips. She steps forward and I feel like she’s crushing my hands under her six- inch heel.
‘Jill, can you get me an espresso, a large one. And a pain au chocolat? Thanks,’ says Chloe.
The pain is sickening. She’s not only stolen my office. She’s raided my patisserie and purloined my secretary. Bile rises in my throat. My world is in freefall. Jill gently steers me back into the corridor.
‘I’m so sorry, Ella. Peter said he’d told you about all this.’ I shake my head.
‘Your things are safe. I put them in Wally’s old office. You’re in here now,’ she says, flinging open the door to what used to be the photocopying room.
To disguise the fact there are no windows, she quickly flicks on the light. At least that works. The walls are painted charcoal but there is a patch of magnolia where the photocopier once stood. A desk and two chairs are pushed against one wall. Someone has dumped a pile of layout pads and pens on the floor.
‘Really?’ I ask. ‘There’s not room to swing Marmalade in here.’
‘Morning, Ella. Like your new pad? It’s ‘bijoux’ in estate agent speak. And they say advertising must be more legal, decent, honest and truthful,’ Peter glides into view.
He can barely speak as his mouth is full of chewing gum. He throws the keys to his Porsche up in the air before catching them in the palm of one hand. He is wearing designer jeans teamed with a white shirt. Having hit forty, Peter is one of those men who look faintly ridiculous in denim.
‘I’m your writer so it would make more sense if I share your office,’ I tell him.
He walks away and calls over his shoulder, ‘My writer? Hasn’t Jill told you?’
I look at Jill hoping she’ll make everything right but I couldn’t be more wrong. She averts her eyes and stares at the floor. Oh Wally, I wish you were here. I turn to Peter. He looks even odder than usual. It’s his hair. Once greying at the temples, it has turned a mysterious shade of blue- black overnight. At least it matches his heart.
‘I’m working with Chloe now. We’re a team.’ The odd couple.
It’s cheered me up knowing he is having a crisis, mid-life crisis.
‘What are you so upset about?’ he asks as I start to cry again.
‘Wally.’
‘Wally?’ he ponders. ‘Oh yeah. Unfortunate business. At least he didn’t peg out in the agency. Not sure we’re be insured for that. That reminds me. Jill, here use my credit card. Send a wreath, white lilies, spelling out C-B-A, be great publicity for the agency when the hearse goes through London.’
Jill doesn’t move. Even Chloe seems stunned by his callousness.
‘You’re unbelievable,’ I tell him, too angry to cry. ‘He was wonderful.
Saved your life on more than one occasion. Now the poor man’s dead. Show some respect.’
‘I’ll ask the florist to make up a bouquet. I’ll call his wife. Find out if he had a favourite flower,’ insists Jill, her voice metallic. ‘And I’ll start a collection. Everyone loved Wally; they’ll all want to contribute.’
‘Suit yourself,’ he says swiftly replacing the card in his soft leather wallet. ‘By the way, Ella, I’ve teamed you up with David. Opposites attract.’ They also repel.
‘You’ve hired David? You are joking.’ I say. ‘Guilty conscience, was it? You’ve taken his girlfriend so you let him keep his job? You’re all heart, Peter.’
‘You are quite the curmudgeon these days, such a cynic. David is okay with the arrangement. He can learn a lot from you. And you can learn a lot from Chloe. I love her ‘can-do’ attitude.’
I bet you do.
Right on cue, she appears and feeds off the atmosphere like a bulimic vulture. When she sees how upset I am, her perfect porcelain-like face erupts into a smile. She sashays into Peter’s office.
‘I’ve got something to show you,’ she coos.
‘I can’t wait to see it,’ he sings.
He snakes the tip of his tongue across his top lip as the door clicks shut behind them.
I turn to Jill who is twirling her string of pearls nervously through her fingers.
‘Can you believe that? What a bitch!’ I say bitterly.
‘I’m really sorry, Ella,’ she tells me and I believe her.
‘It’s not your fault, Jill.’
‘I had no idea what he was up to until last night. He doesn’t tell me anything anymore.’
‘They’ve done me a favour. I’ll have to find another job now. I can’t stay here,’ I tell her.
I want to believe what I’m saying.
‘Can’t you just see how things go with David? He’s been shafted same as you,’ she says. ‘At least you’ll still get paid.’
‘No, it wouldn’t work. I’ve got to go.’
‘Think about it. Jobs are thin on the ground. I get creative teams ringing me everyday begging to show Peter their portfolios. He just tells me to get rid of them. Unless they’re girls, of course, and then he’s only too delighted to meet them. So to save a few lambs from the slaughter, I tell them we’ve got no vacancies.’
I never knew Jill was so wily.
‘Good thinking,’ I tell her.
‘Don’t do anything rash, Ella. You’ve had a big shock with Wally dying and everything else. Not the best time to make big decisions,’ Jill advises with genuine concern. ‘Why don’t you hang on here until you find something else? Use Peter like he used you?’
How the smoked-glass tables have turned. She was once a pathetic creature who pandered to Peter’s every whim and considered laundering her smalls in the company’s washer-drier a perk of the
job. Now she’s telling me what to do. She means well. And she has got a point. Try as Maggie may, she hasn’t got the country back to work. There are no jobs to go to.
‘Peter’s really screwed me this time,’ I tell her.
‘You’re not the only one Peter’s screwed,’ she says looking down.
I usher her into my cupboard. There’s just enough room if we both stand sideways.