What’s she doing giggling with Charles? I stare at her suspiciously, but Lily simply puts her head upside down and starts to brush her roots.
‘Hello, darling,’ he says. ‘Having a nice day?’
‘Not really,’ I say. ‘I just got fired.’
The brush stops dead in Lily’s hand. She’s listening, agog.
‘No!’ says Charles, outraged. ‘What are they, morons?’
He’s so supportive, I think. I should be grateful. No, I am grateful.
‘That’s very nice,’ I say. ‘We’ve got dinner with my parents tonight, if you’re free.’
‘Free? Absolutely,’ he says, gleefully. ‘What time?’
‘Eight.’
‘I’ll pick you up at six. Five thirty, as you’re not working, and it’s rush hour.’
‘I don’t want to go to dinner with my parents,’ I cry. ‘I want to stay home and get drunk.’
‘That’s not good for you, darling.’
‘Who sodding cares?’ I say, then feel bad. It’s not his fault, is it? ‘I mean, you’re right,’ I say, dully.
‘Does this mean that you won’t be working with that Mark Swan chappie any more?’ says Charles.
Oh.
‘Hello, are you still there?’
‘Yes. Yes, I’m here,’ I say faintly. Of course, it does mean that, doesn’t it? I should ring him. Right now. But he’s not in the office, he’s holed up in an editing suite.
It doesn’t mean I’ll never see him again. I try to calm myself from the sick, panicky feeling coursing through me. He said I was his friend. Of course we’ll see each other in the future.
‘You should keep up your links with him,’ says Charles, judiciously. ‘Why don’t you invite him to the engagement party, darling?’
‘Um…’
‘I’d love to meet him.’
I swallow. Of course he would. And why not? I’m going to wind up meeting all of Charles’s friends, sooner or later.
‘Sure,’ I hear myself say. ‘I’ll ask him.’
‘I wouldn’t worry,’ Charles says. ‘You’ll have a new job in no time. And if you don’t, well, you don’t bloody need one, to be quite honest,’ he adds, with a touch of pride.
‘Thanks … darling.’
‘Pick you up at five thirty, then,’ Charles says, merrily.
We hang up.
‘Got fired?’ asks Lily brightly, knotting her slender plucked eyebrows together in fake concern.
‘Yes,’ I mutter.
‘What for? Embezzlement? Sleeping with the boss? Drugs?’ asks Lily, excitedly. ‘Oh well, hardly matters now, does it?’
‘Of course it matters,’ I say, wanting to cry. ‘I want to be able to pay my own bills.’
‘Don’t you understand, Anna?’ she says, exasperated. ‘You don’t need that. You’ve won. He’s nuts about you,’ she says, in a voice that says she finds his attitude inexplicable. ‘Your trouble is you want to work as well. You want everything,’ she says, resentfully. ‘And you’ve already got the only thing that matters.’
Somehow I don’t think she means love.
‘Once Henry and I are together I’ll probably retire from modelling,’ Lily says airily. ‘Not that I’ll have to or anything. I just won’t want to do it any more. I’ll be concentrating on my marriage.’
‘I have to jump in the shower,’ I say. ‘Family dinner tonight.’
‘I heard. You don’t think your parents will put him off, do you?’
‘No.’
‘Because, let’s face it, they’re not exactly top drawer. But you’re probably right,’ she adds with a sigh. ‘He probably doesn’t care. It’s as though he’s made up his mind what he wants. And you’re it.’ She looks at me accusingly, but I can’t help her. I can’t explain it either.
Charles arrives in the Rolls bang on time and we head off to Surrey. He doesn’t ask me about being fired, which is great, because I don’t want to talk about it. All he wants to do is discuss wedding plans.
‘… and I know a marvellous chappie who can get orange blossom, even out of season. You must have orange blossom, darling, all the Victorians did. It smells heavenly …
‘The cake … I hope you don’t want anything exotic … I was thinking of traditional, maybe six tiers, white icing with lots of decorations. They can put motifs from the family crest in. And two flavours, tiers of white chocolate with fresh raspberry sauce and then lemon with pureed strawberries. And what do you think about an ice cream? I love lemon. You can get it so rarely, it’s always sorbet, but it makes a fabulous ice cream …
‘The church is St Mark’s in the Fields in Greenhampton, it’s sixteenth century, very pretty, and you’ll love our vicar. He’s so nice and gives such short sermons…’
He goes on and on. I give him the occasional ‘Right’ and ‘Uh-huh’. I mean, I want to care. I know I will do, later. It’s just that weddings are apparently really complicated when you get down to it. You don’t think about it, but there’s a hell of a lot of stuff to organize.
‘Look, um, darling,’ I say eventually as we’re pulling in to my parents’ village. ‘Maybe we should go for something a bit simpler.’
He looks at me in horror. ‘What? Simpler? Why?’
Why indeed?
‘It’s just that I’ve been sacked so I’ll be looking for another job,’ I extemporize. ‘And that’s going to take absolutely ages, you know. And I have to finish off my script. I don’t know if I could do justice to this kind of really fancy wedding.’
‘Oh,’ he says, blowing out his breath in relief. ‘So you’ve no objection to a nice wedding in principle?’
I think those weddings on the beach with just your closest relatives are nice, but I know what he means, so I say brightly, ‘Absolutely not! It’s just that there’s no time to plan one.’
‘Don’t worry about that, sweetie,’ Charles says reassuringly. ‘Bunty and Crispin used a fabulous wedding consultant for their wedding. I’ll just hire her. Flora Maxton.’
Flora Maxton? I’ve read about her in Tatler. She’s the sine qua non of society wedding planners. She works on a percentage of the budget, which has to start at seventy-five grand.
‘But Charles!’ I protest, horrified. ‘How much are you thinking of spending?’
‘It takes a fair bit to put on a decent show,’ he says. ‘And I’m only going to get married once. I want it to be perfect. Starting our lives together in style,’ he says. ‘Is this your road?’
‘Yes. Third on the left.’
‘You don’t have to worry about anything,’ he says. ‘You can leave the whole thing up to me.’
‘I … OK.’
‘Your career’s important to you, so it’s important to me,’ he says supportively. ‘Is this your parents’?’
I look up at our house. It’s a three-bedroom semi with pebble-dash and concrete, a neat little garden lawn and an amusing gnome baring his bottom. I have always been fiercely ashamed of the gnome baring his bottom, but now I stare at Charles accusingly, just daring him to feel the same way.
‘Yep. Home sweet home,’ I say challengingly.
His jaw’s set firm; not even a sniffle of a sneer.
‘Lovely,’ he says, bravely.
Mum and Dad react just as I’d expected. Dad, who’s tall and strong, looks a bit askance at Charles’s height – he’s barely taller than Mum – but I glare at him and he backs off. And Mum is fawning even before she’s figured out what he’s worth. I can see the relief written all over her face – it’s true. Anna has finally got somebody! Very flattering.
My mother’s petite, elfin beauty is not reflected in her cooking. She serves roast lamb with traditional British overdone vegetables, boiled to green mush – Mum has missed out entirely on the UK’s culinary revolution, Jamie Oliver and she are complete strangers – and Charles makes polite conversation. He compliments the cooking. He compliments the lawn. He compliments the gnome baring his bottom. And then he asks for a second helping of mush
y broccoli. He’s being a complete star, no doubt about it.
‘We’re thinking of having the wedding at Chester House, if you give your permission, of course,’ he says, tactfully. ‘The bride is usually married from her parents’ house, and that would be wonderful, but we do have rather a lot of guests. It’s purely logistical…’
‘What’s Chester House?’ Dad asks.
‘That’s Charles’s house in the country,’ I say.
‘Our family seat,’ says Charles, modestly. ‘It’s quite pretty, for a wedding.’
My mother pauses, her eyes fairly glazing over with pleasure, the way my cat’s used to do when you scratched its head.
‘But I thought you lived in London, Charles?’ she asks, a bit too eagerly.
‘I’ve got a flat there. Comes in useful,’ Charles says.
‘It’s in Eaton Square, Mum,’ I say, as she’s about to ask herself.
‘Ooh,’ says my mother, going almost catatonic. Even Dad nods briskly, as though Charles’s finances have now been cleared as up to snuff.
After I nudge Mum warningly in the ribs she shuts up until Charles excuses himself to go to the loo (where he will be confronted with a loo-roll cover in the shape of a Spanish lady playing castanets). Then the dam breaks, and I am overwhelmed with teary-eyed hugs and loudly whispered congratulations, and Dad saying loyally that it’s Charles who is the lucky one. But secretly he’s obviously every bit as relieved as Mum. By the time we manage to get out, and Charles is driving me back in the darkness, I’m well aware exactly how happy I have just made my beloved parents. And Charles isn’t even being a dick about their middle-classness or anything, he’s saying how great they are, and can he send a limo to ferry them to the engagement party …
My mother said, ‘You’re the luckiest girl in the whole world!’
And I know I am. There’s no doubt about it. I’m really lucky.
Definitely.
11
I wake up late. I’d switched off my alarm clock last night, and by the time I surface it’s half nine. Light from the living room’s dusty windows streams in through my open door, and I lie in bed, blinking and groggy, not quite sure where I am. Charles’s place? No. Here. I glance at the clock, and, horrified, swing my feet out of bed. Fuck it, I’m late for—
And then I remember.
There is no work. I’ve been fired. For fabricated location reports.
I groan miserably and head into the kitchen to make myself some coffee. There are a few bagels (mine) and boxes of Special K and Slimfast bars (theirs) but I don’t feel like eating. It’s chilly outside, and I just wrap my hands round the steaming mug and wonder what to do.
‘Morning.’
Janet emerges from her bedroom, looking sensational in a pair of boxers and a little camisole, yawning, her hair all sexily mussy. Blimey. I don’t look that good even after three hours of professional primping.
‘Hi,’ she says. Then she gives her head a little shake and focuses on me. ‘Anna.’
‘That’s me,’ I admit glumly.
‘Lily told me,’ she says. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘That’s OK,’ I say, even though it isn’t. ‘I expect I’ll get another job,’ and I swallow hard to down the lump in my throat. I don’t have any idea if I’ll get another job. A wave of fear crashes over me. I found the script and attached Swan, but I can’t prove that, can I? And no doubt Kitty’s been busy on the phones, making my name mud. Plus, it’s not like I’m twenty-three, is it? I’m thirty-two. Too old to start at the bottom again. If I go in as a secretary I’ll stay a secretary.
‘I’m sure you will. You’ve had a brilliant career,’ Janet lies, kindly. ‘And you’ve got that director bloke. He’ll help you.’
I look at her. ‘Janet, that’s brilliant! Of course he will. He’ll help me.’ I gulp another quick swig of coffee and pick up the phone.
‘Mark Swan’s office,’ Michelle says. I glance at Janet, who’s giving me the thumbs up.
‘Hi, Michelle, it’s Anna.’
‘Hello,’ she says guardedly. ‘How was your lunch?’
Lunch? Oh. With Mark. ‘Fine,’ I tell her.
‘And how’s your fiancé?’ she asks, a bit accusingly.
‘Also fine. Look, is he there?’
‘Hold on,’ she says, resentfully. There’s a brief pause, and then Swan’s voice on the line. Rough, impatient.
‘Anna? What’s up?’
‘I got fired yesterday,’ I say.
‘Really? Why?’
‘Over nothing. Over making up some location reports for Kitty. I was out…’ I trail off.
‘Yes?’
‘Out shopping for a ring.’
‘I see.’
‘It’s still not fair,’ I say tearfully. ‘And she knows it. I found the script, I found you – nobody does anything at that shitty company.’
‘So why don’t you complain to the boss?’
‘Eli Roth? He was in on it. He wanted me fired.’ I pause. ‘Come to think of it, I don’t know why. Kitty was jealous, but Eli…’
‘Eli didn’t care about you,’ Swan says, shortly. ‘He cared about me. I’ve signed on for the movie now. I can’t quit without damaging my reputation, maybe lawsuits. So because I insisted on having you around, he thought it’d be a great time to flex his muscles. Crack the whip on the maverick director.’
‘What are you going to do about it?’ I ask, momentarily distracted.
‘Something. I haven’t figured out what yet. But it will cost him.’
‘Can you get me my job back?’
‘Did you make up the reports?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then no, not really. You’re right, it was only an excuse, but you gave them one.’
My cheeks flame. ‘You’ve got power,’ I accuse.
‘Ah, but I only use it for good,’ Swan says.
‘Very funny.’ I breathe in. ‘But I don’t need a job, do I?’
‘I gather not.’
‘No, I don’t mean Charles,’ I say, blushing. ‘I mean, my script’s almost done. You’ll read it and you’ll help me sell it, right?’
‘I’ll read it,’ he says. ‘But I very much doubt it’ll be ready to show.’
‘Why?’ I demand. ‘I thought you said I had talent as a writer.’
‘I think you might. But this is just a first draft, Anna. It’ll take a lot of work to get that script ready to show anybody. And no, I’m not going to help you sell it.’
‘Why?’ I demand. I find my voice has gone all high-pitched and shrill. And I’m close to tears. ‘Why won’t you help me? Everybody listens to you!’
‘Because you’ve got to make it on your own,’ he says. ‘I thought you knew the film business better than to think your first attempt at a script is going to be perfect.’
‘I thought you’d be supportive,’ I snap.
‘I am being supportive,’ he says. ‘You just can’t see it.’
I swallow hard. ‘OK,’ I say, feeling defeated. ‘OK. Well, thanks for all the help you’ve been, and everything.’
‘Got to go,’ Swan says, sounding distracted. ‘Important call from the studio. Talk later, OK?’
‘No problem,’ I say, but I’m listening to a dial tone.
Janet is watching me from the couch. ‘So he wasn’t much help then?’
I burst into tears and she comes over and hugs me. ‘He’s so powerful,’ I sob into her shoulder. ‘And he could have helped me … but he wouldn’t. He said I wasn’t good enough … now I’m not working there any more it’s like he doesn’t believe in me any more…’
‘I’m sure you’re good enough,’ Janet says loyally. ‘I bet your script’s absolutely fantastic.’
‘He won’t help me get an agent. And I need one to sell my script. I don’t want to rely on Charles, you know?’
‘I know,’ she says, sympathetically.
‘It’s over for me. I’ll never get an agent. Nobody will take me on.’
‘Why wo
uldn’t they? Isn’t your script good?’
‘You don’t understand,’ I wail. ‘The script’s great, but I’m thirty-two, I don’t even look the part. These days writers have to be young. And chic. Stylish. They all look just like you,’ I say despairingly. ‘I don’t look polished. Not even with this lovely haircut.’
Janet pulls back, hands me a Kleenex. I blow obediently.
‘I’ve got a plan,’ she says.
Ominous words. I look at her warily.
‘What, just because I look like this I’ve got to be thick?’ Janet asks defensively. ‘That’s not fair either, you know.’
‘I know. I’m sorry.’
‘My career’s not going perfectly,’ Janet says, ‘so I do stuff. I call bookers and magazine editors, I send out headshots. I go to the right clubs, let them know that Jay-Me’s where it’s at!’
‘And how’s that working out?’
She frowns slightly. ‘Well … early days yet. Anyway, you must do the same thing. You’ll be applying for jobs, writing letters. And you need to look the part.’
‘No chance of that, is there?’ I say glumly.
‘On the contrary,’ Janet says triumphantly. ‘There’s every chance. Have you forgotten how I made you look for the ball?’
‘No, and that was very kind of you,’ I say, ‘but this is real life. You can’t hide everything in a big cloud of taffeta when you’re trudging up Dean Street looking for an agent.’
‘Huh!’ says Janet scornfully. ‘Do you think it only works for evening dresses? I can fit you out for everything.’
I sniffle. ‘Everything?’
‘You just dress wrong,’ Janet says. ‘I can make you look sharp.’ She snaps her fingers. ‘You already have the hair.’
It’s true. My hair still looks good from the fabulous cut Paolo gave me. And I remember how pleased I was that night at Chester House. I did look kind of OK.
‘But clothes are so expensive,’ I say. I want to believe it, but … ‘Have you ever been into Miss Sixty? It’s called that because the cheapest thing in it is sixty quid.’
Janet raises one beautifully tapered eyebrow. ‘Anna,’ she says patiently, ‘how much have you got in your bank account?’
The Go-To Girl Page 29