by Joan Ellis
‘Remember Peter’s broken table? That was me,’ she confesses.
I nod in wonder. Not only because I can’t believe she would be so stupid as to have sex with Peter but also because I can’t imagine how a woman who weighs so little could do so much damage to plate glass.
‘Was he married at the time?’
‘Yes, but there was a rumour going round the agency that they’d split up.’
‘Peter probably started it.’ She looks embarrassed.
‘It can’t have been much fun when he was never around at weekends or Christmas.’
‘I was in love, I put up with anything just for a few moments alone with him.’
I stare incredulously at this girl who has caste her pearls before a swine like Peter.
‘Jill, I can’t believe you fell for that pig.’
‘At first, he treated me like a princess.’
‘He treated you like a bit on the side.’
‘You had a fling with a bloke you met outside the dole office, hardly the romance of the century.’
Her words eat into the part of me that’s still raw.
‘Sorry, I wasn’t judging you,’ I tell her. ‘But you could have any man you want. Why him?’
‘You know how it is. One minute it’s a laugh, the next you’re in bed and in love with them.’
I understand only too well.
‘To be honest, I may have loved his Porsche more than him,’ explained Jill. ‘When he opened it up on the M4 it was such a thrill.’ I am repulsed at the thought of a turbo-charged Peter.
‘He promised he’d leave his wife when she recovered.’
‘I didn’t know she was ill.’
‘She wasn’t.’
‘I didn’t think even Peter would stoop that low. I can’t believe you fell for him and his corny lines,’ I say.
‘Don’t so hard-faced, Ella,’ she says as she leaves my office. I follow her back to her desk.
‘I didn’t mean ...’
‘Yes, you did,’ she says. ‘But it’s okay. You’re right.’
She has ended the confrontation and started me thinking. This business has changed me. For the worse. I can’t remember when I last saw Mum, or even spoke to her. I have no time for my friends, unless I count Adam but even he is an ex-colleague. I seem incapable of holding down a relationship, let alone a job. Jill sees my face. She reaches down into the cupboard underneath her desk and takes out a bottle of red wine and two glasses. I raise my eyebrows as she pours us both a drink.
‘It’s Peter’s secret stash. He won’t even notice it’s missing. It’s the least he owes us.’
‘Bit early, isn’t it?’
‘Well, I can’t imagine you were planning on doing any work today. I’m not. Here,’ she says handing me a glass as she sips from hers. ‘Want to hear something funny?’
I nod and sit on the edge of her desk as I down half my wine in anticipation.
‘Peter used to tell me I was more stupid than I looked. So one day, I decided to prove him wrong.’
‘What did you do?’ I ask desperate to hear about Peter’s demise.
‘I hid my knickers in his bed, in his car and in ...’
‘His desk? So they were your pants? Small, clean and ironed, they had to be yours,’ I say. ‘That was a brave move. There was no going back after that.’
‘I had nothing to lose. He had already accused me of trying to cause trouble after his wife had found another pair tangled in their sheets. The thing was they weren’t mine; they were enormous. The bastard was sleeping with someone who had an arse the size of Soho,’ she says.
‘So he had three of you on the go?’
Turns out I needn’t have worried about our Little Arrangement. With his busy schedule, he’d never have had the time to squeeze me in. Oh, that’s a conjured up a horrible mental image. No sooner have I erased one picture of Peter in flagrante from my mind, another pops up. Then, I remember.
‘Of course, it was Mrs Kitty Rescue, wasn’t it?’ I exclaim. ‘Peter was sleeping with you, his wife and Mrs Kitty Rescue at the same time. Well, not together, obviously.’
‘Please don’t mention that woman’s name,’ she hisses. Now I get it. Peter was the dirty dog and Jill the wily fox.
‘You swopped the High-Pro tape we were meant to watch in the briefing for the X-rated video of Peter and Mrs Kitty Rescue, didn’t you?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Jill says with mock innocence.
‘It had to be you. Mrs Kitty Rescue didn’t want her dirty laundry aired in public. And Peter’s wife rarely came near the agency.’
‘He asked for it. He was insatiable. He’s got a thing for posh girls with blonde hair.
‘Who else d’you think he slept with?’ I ask.
‘Lady Diana!’ she squeals.
‘But she’s just got married,’ I reply.
‘Not the Lady Di. I mean the work placement girl with the blonde hair. Peter was always taking her to lunch.’
Of course, her Sloane Square pad was ideally placed for shopping at
Peter Jones and sleeping with Peter Richards.
‘Well, Jill, at least you didn’t take it lying down,’ I smirk.
Even if the joke is in poor taste, I think we both deserve a little levity.
‘Very funny, Ella,’ she says as we chink glasses.
Her face etched with pain. She’s clearly reliving some of her more unsavoury moments with Peter.
‘Trouble is, Jill, I think Peter saw the tape of him and Mrs Kitty Rescue more as a promo for his sexual prowess than as something to be ashamed of. He was completely mesmerised; couldn’t take his eyes off the screen. Josh was about to implode.’
I’d go so far as to say it was a career highlight.
‘I didn’t plan it,’ she tells me. ‘I went into his office one day and caught him watching that video. He was so engrossed; he didn’t notice me. But I saw him and that cow at it like a pair of fat rabbits. She’s got tons of cellulite. You’d never guess she used to be a model. Anyway, I slipped out of the room, waited for him to go to lunch and then nipped back and took the tape. Then, all I had to do was bide my time and find the perfect moment to replay it.’
‘Well, you certainly played a blinder,’ I say raising my glass. ‘Here’s to you, Jill and all who sail in you.’
‘Unfortunate turn of phrase, Ella. But thank-you,’ she replies. She picks up the bottle and swigs from it.
‘He’s got such a big ...’
She stops and waggles her little finger in the air.
‘Ego!’ she laughs. ‘He was forever videoing himself. I just ensured the film reached a wider audience.’
We are both laughing hard now. Suddenly she looks aghast.
‘My God, I wonder what he did with all those tapes of the two of us? They could be anywhere now.’
‘I shouldn’t worry, Jill. If I know Peter, he’d have been hogging the camera and you wouldn’t have got a look-in.’
Reassured, she opens her desk drawer, pulls out a long white envelope and hands it to me.
‘I don’t care anymore. Peter can do what he likes. I’ve typed up my resignation. What do you think?’
I read the letter. It’s word perfect - sharp but not cutting. She’s been smart enough to ensure Peter gives her an excellent reference.
‘It’s good but like you told me, it’s tough out there. Why should you lose out because Peter can’t keep it in his pants?’
‘I’m going to work for Mummy. I love that holiday camp. And I really get what she’s trying to do with it.’
Prefabs that look like prisons. Not my idea of fun, I think. She reads my mind.
‘I know it’s not exactly Tuscany but I think there’s a market for it. The whole retro thing could really catch on. People will love reliving their childhood memories with their kids.’
Relive my childhood? No thanks.
‘Go for it but it won’t be easy,’ I say.
I can’t help wonderi
ng how wise it for her to re-launch a clapped-out holiday camp during a recession when she doesn’t know the first thing about marketing.
She grabs a couple of packets of crisps from her magic cupboard and rips one open. She offers them to me. I shake my head not fully understanding the concept of a savoury tooth. Why bother when you can just eat cake? She stuffs fistfuls of crisps into her mouth in the vain hope they will soak up the alcohol. She’s swaying now. But at least, she’s happy.
‘Sitting in on meetings with you has taught me so much. And I’ve been studying marketing at the college. Just heard I’ve passed my exams,’ she squeals raising her glass.
‘Wow! Congratulations! You have been busy,’ I say. ‘No wonder you handled the weekend away so well.’
‘When Peter did the dirty on me, I needed something to take my mind off it so I signed up for a marketing course.’
‘Good for you.’
We hear Peter and Chloe laughing in his office. A match made in hell. At least with Chloe tending to his every need, it will take the heat off the rest of the girls.
‘I give it six months, max,’ says Jill reading my thoughts. ‘She’ll use him and move on.’
‘Let’s hope she breaks his heart,’ I tell her draining my glass.
‘Peter? Heart? You’ve lost me,’ Jill laughs. ‘Peter had me pegged as a dumb blonde.’
‘He underestimated you; we all did,’ I tell her.
I shudder as I remember how callow I had been when I first met her. I couldn’t even be bothered to find out her name. She was just Peter’s secretary. She senses my discomfort.
‘At least you gave me a chance, Ella. At first I was terrified I’d blow it but I
took to it like a duck to water.’
‘No more f-ing ducks, Jill,’ I say and we both laugh.
‘D’you know he even used to tell me to ‘get my ducks in a row’ even when we were in bed together?’
‘No way!’ I exclaim.
‘His favourite was ‘Run it up the flagpole and see who salutes’ when he took his pants off,’ she declares through joyous howls. ‘Seriously, we’re going to need some advertising for the holiday camp. Fancy it? We’d pay you the going rate?’
‘Well, I’ve already done the site visit and tested the product so I don’t see why not!’ I say.
I look away.
‘You’re thinking about Wally, aren’t you?’ asks Jill.
‘How do you know?’
‘Because you’re smiling.’
Chapter thirty-three
Be prepared to make changes
‘Hi, you must be Jan, I’m Ella. Sorry for barging in but the front door was ajar and I couldn’t get your bell to work,’ I say feigning a happy-go-lucky attitude as I walk into Adam’s kitchen and introduce myself to the back of Adam’s girlfriend’s head. I used to be Tom’s girlfriend. Not sure who I am anymore.
‘Hi, nice to meet you. Any friend of Adam’s and all that,’ she says without turning round.
I stand behind her, not knowing what to say next. My mind is set on rewind. I think about Tom too much. All it takes is someone lighting up a cigarette and I feel like bursting into tears. There’s no logic to it, just loss. Like all things, it will pass. Just not right now. But I am impatient. I want to fast-forward to the happy ending.
Unfortunately, I seem to be stuck in the middle of someone else’s domestic bliss. Jan is moving effortlessly about the room, opening drawers and cupboards, gathering implements and ingredients while referring to a new cookery book open on the marble worktop. She lifts a willowy hand to her face and brushes back a strand of naturally blonde hair. No wonder she’s in a happy, steady relationship, with a happy, steady guy.
She reaches for an opened bottle of extra virgin olive oil and slowly pours a thin stream into a pan on the stove.
I stand beside her still holding the bottle of Chateau Neuf du Pape, my contribution to the evening. Adam told me not to get the cheesecake; Jan had insisted on making dessert. She turns to get the salt.
‘Thanks, just stick it on the side,’ she tells me, referring to the wine. ‘ Sorry, at a crucial stage with the cooking.’
She runs her index finger down the list of ingredients.
‘Courgettes, aubergines, fresh thyme,’ she tuts. ‘Thyme. Adam forgot the thyme. I ask him to get one thing and ...’
She flings open a cupboard hunting for a substitute and pulls out a small glass jar.
‘...oregano? No, it’s not the same,’ she says, answering her own question and replacing the container back on the shelf.
She turns it until the label faces front, just like all the other tins and bottles.
‘Adam never stops talking about you,’ I tell her, hoping she might turn round.
It is a slight exaggeration but I think it’s what you are supposed to say when you meet your best mate’s partner.
‘Have some wine,’ she tells me waving her hand in the direction of a wine box on the edge of the work surface.
I look longingly at the expensive bottle I brought. Perhaps we’ll drink it with dinner. Reluctantly, I hold a glass underneath the small plastic tap and press the button down. Nothing happens. I push harder. The box falls on the floor spraying red wine everywhere. Not content with being unable to operate her doorbell, I have ruined her state-of-the-art kitchen too.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I say.
I try to move but my feet seem to be nailed to the floor.
‘Adam! Can you come? Your friend has spilt wine all over the kitchen,’ she yells chopping shallots into regimented rings. ‘Hurry up. It’s gone everywhere.’
Adam rushes in wearing long baggy shorts and a tee-shirt. He is playing with a Rubik’s cube.
‘Sorry,’ I tell him as I eye the pool of wine.
He continues to twist the coloured squares into rows.
‘Look, I nearly did it,’ he says proudly showing me one of the faces covered in red squares.
‘What about the other five sides?’ asks Jan.
Adam puts it on the table and steps over the puddle of wine before yanking open the fridge door.
‘Ella, look, we’ve got chocolate roulade for pudding,’ he says excitedly.
‘Starter and mains first,’ orders Jan. ‘Hope you’re going to change for dinner, Adam. What are you doing? Get the mop!’
Adam rolls his eyes and picks up the wine I brought. He eyes the label approvingly.
‘Thanks. This looks good. Let’s get it open.’ He pours us both a glass.
‘I’ve already offered Ella wine, Adam.’ asks Jan ripping open a packet of smoked salmon and arranging it in the centre of an oval china plate.
She rapidly slices lemons into quarters and nestles them around the slices of fish.
‘Here, Adam stick this on the table,’ she orders, handing him the food. He salutes and marches into the dining room.
‘So many people are vegetarians these days. It’s hard to come up with interesting ideas for dinner party menus when people don’t eat meat, don’t you think?’ she asks with her head in a cupboard.
‘I wouldn’t know. I don’t cook,’ I mutter.
‘Don’t forget to put the brown bread out, Adam,’ she shouts.
I watch her as she layers sheets of pasta and sauce into a large oven- proof dish before grating Parmesan cheese over the top. Adam comes back into the kitchen and pretends to gag.
‘Hate that stuff, smells like someone’s been sick.’
‘Grow up, Adam,’ she says. ‘Get the door - I think I heard the bell. ’ Someone brighter than me has obviously arrived. Adam darts off down
the hall chewing on a chunk of granary bread.
‘Lovely house, Jan,’ I say, looking around at the shiny kitchen crammed with the latest gadgets.
‘That wallpaper’s going to have to go. Adam can start stripping next weekend.’
I smile at the thought of Adam, naked in the kitchen. Jan is oblivious to her unintentional double-entendre and points, with a large metal se
rving spoon, at the yellow candy-striped walls. For the first time since, I get a good look at her. She’s blonde and icy. She reminds me of someone but I can’t think who.
‘Adam chose the wine for this evening so blame him if it’s rubbish. If you don’t like it, just throw it down the sink,’ she says like someone who has never known what it is to go without.