There was an audible sigh and the woman turned to her keyboard. ‘Name?’
‘Isobel.’
The woman paused, and when there was nothing more forthcoming: ‘Surname?’
Isobel stared at her blankly.
‘Surname,’ she repeated. ‘Or are you a celebrity? Like Jordan or Madonna or Cher? Do you have a last name?’
Isobel scanned the office. Her eyes fell on the computer printer. ‘Hewlett-Packard,’ she said.
The woman raised her eyebrows. ‘Isobel Hewlett-Packard.’
‘Yes.’ Isobel thought that sounded nice. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Patience,’ the woman said sarcastically, and indicated her displeasure with another, more pronounced, sigh. ‘Previous experience?’
‘None.’
‘None?’ Patience repeated.
‘None.’
Another sigh. This time even more heartfelt. ‘Qualifications?’
Isobel’s smile widened. ‘None.’
‘None?’
‘Whatsoever.’
Patience pushed her keyboard away from her and fixed Isobel with a stare. ‘Ms . . . Hewlett-Packard,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid that . . .’
‘I don’t just want a job,’ Isobel told her as she took a small glittery wand from her Birkin bag. She waved it at Patience, who went into a dazed trance. ‘I want this job.’
Isobel pointed her wand at Patience’s computer. The screen scrolled wildly until it flashed up the name Thornton Jones. Isobel tapped the screen with her wand.
Patience blinked amiably. ‘I’ll arrange an interview for you.’
‘Today,’ Isobel said sweetly. ‘At three o’clock.’
‘Fine,’ Patience replied.
Isobel zapped the woman again, stood up and returned the wand to the depths of her bag. Patience looked completely dazed and grinned at Isobel inanely.
‘Thank you,’ Isobel said politely. She reached out and shook her hand. ‘You’ve been so very helpful.’
Patience smiled. ‘It’s my pleasure.’
‘No,’ Isobel smiled back. ‘I think you’ll find the pleasure’s all mine.’
Chapter Sixteen
This was Leo’s office. Thornton Jones Associates. A big glass monstrosity shaped rather like a phallic symbol plonk in the middle of the City of London. It was very fitting for the type of well-heeled financial firm that Leo worked for. Leo wasn’t very fitting for them though, that was the mystery.
Hanging around with all the other suits in the huge, glass reception area, Leo was waiting for the lift to the tenth floor. The tenth floor was cool. Not high enough to have a great panoramic view, but low enough for it not to take twenty minutes to get out of the place in the evening. It meant that Leo looked at other people’s rooftops all day – although there were a few remaining spires from ancient churches to break the monotony. When the lift arrived, Shania Twain serenaded him rather nicely on his ascent.
Quite frankly, Leo thought that his office let the place down a bit. It was open-plan, strewn with screwed-up bits of paper amid the closely-packed desks stacked with plastic coffee cups. Colleagues with hangovers abounded. Speaking before ten o’clock unless strictly necessary was considered bad form. They were known as a heavy drinking department and, culturally, in this world it was socially acceptable to be a leery piss-head. Most of his colleagues were resolutely single or multi-divorced. Strange, that.
Occasionally Leo’s boss, Old Baldy Baldwin – a sure sign that their humour wasn’t very sophisticated either – was instructed by his bosses to have a clamp-down on political incorrectness. Out went the swearing, boozing, lap-dancing clubs and fondling junior staff at inappropriate times and in inappropriate places. And that was just for the women. Being PC made the office a very boring place and, generally, the effort lasted for about a week before they were all fucking off down to the local bar to get pissed and watch naked ladies. The one difference that Thornton Jones embraced in regard to sexual equality was that they paid all the women much higher bonuses than the men so that they’d put up with the rubbish they had to deal with on a daily basis and wouldn’t be in a rush to sue them for sexual discrimination for that particular version of it. Which, in Leo’s mind, was only fair.
Needless to say, Emma didn’t understand that weekly bonding in a lap-dancing club was a requirement of the job and that it would seriously undermine his chance of promotion if Leo were to fail to appear on an embarrassingly regular basis. They didn’t do team bonding at the art gallery in which she worked. It was too upper class to embrace such commercialism – even though they didn’t mind charging forty grand for two blue blobs on a white canvas by someone considered an ‘upcoming’ artist. Con artist, more like. They weren’t so different from the grubby world of finance – Emma just chose not to see it. Leo turned on his mobile. One that he’d retrieved from his dwindling spare stash in his desk drawer. Must stock up. He couldn’t be the only person who bought phones in bulk, surely?
Leo was rather worried that Emma hadn’t phoned to harangue him yet. He normally would have expected ten bollocky calls by now. At least. Given the cake incident. Perhaps he’d call her. Then he remembered, guiltily, what else went on after the cake incident and thought that maybe he’d leave it a while longer.
Grant and Lard were already at their desks. This wasn’t unusual. Not only were they gifted in the mysterious ways of the world of high finance – something Leo had never quite come to grips with himself – but they were also punctual. Ditto the coming to grips bit.
Perhaps it was time for some further introductions. Grant’s proper title was Mr Grant Fielding. Leo and Grant had worked together for several years now – well, Grant worked and Leo turned up at the same place daily – but you get the drift. They shared the same taste in music, television programmes, films and comics – old Batman collectibles being their favourites. And they both thought that there was no finer food on earth than a botty-burning Chicken Vindaloo.
Frankly, no one had any idea what Lard’s real name was now because no one ever used it. Leo was sure that he used to know it once, but his memory wasn’t all that it might be. He suspected it was something effeminate like Clive or Jason, because Lard always went very shifty when someone tried to quiz him about it. Everyone at work knew him as Lard, even his clients, and he was so named because he was a bit on the lardy side due to his severe chocolate fetish. Lard was a bit of a loner and his colleagues didn’t have a clue about what went on in his life outside office hours. They all thought he’d gone over to the dark side, rather like Darth Vader. Or perhaps he lived with his ageing mother and didn’t want to admit it to them. Leo liked him nevertheless and he was one of the club, one of the boys – even though he had the beginnings of comely man-breasts.
Lard was eating his way slowly through a pile of Danish pastries.
‘You look particularly awful today, Leo,’ he remarked.
‘Thanks,’ Leo said. ‘I feel it.’ And he went to the coffee machine to top up with some chemicals to help him through the day. Leo was feeling very weak and was convinced it must be the lack of breakfast – on top of a monumental hangover and no sleep, of course.
Sitting on the edge of Lard’s desk, Leo helped himself to one of his pastries. ‘Uum.’ Lard slapped his hand, but only in a playful way. There was no way he could have eaten that lot. He just liked to play hard to get. Maybe, Leo thought, it was something he should try.
‘No wonder they call it the demon drink,’ Grant said as he joined them. ‘You look like the arse end of hell.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Is there a particular reason why you’re covered in glitter?’ Grant too got the slapping treatment when he helped himself to Lard’s breakfast.
‘I had a very weird night,’ Leo told them between mouthfuls.
‘Didn’t we all,’ Grant noted.
‘When I say weird, I mean really weird.’ Leo beckoned them into a manly huddle. ‘I met the most amazing woman last night.’
/> They all checked to see if Baldy Baldwin was well out of earshot and then reconvened.
‘She was about to throw herself off Tower Bridge.’ Leo paused to allow his colleagues to look suitably horrified. ‘Somehow I managed to talk her out of it.’
‘You usually make people want to throw themselves off bridges,’ Grant said.
‘I know. I know.’ Leo gave them a perplexed shrug. ‘She came back to my flat. Spent the night. We had the most incredible sex. Fantastic. Fantastic I-can’t-believe-it’s-happening-to-me sex. Six times.’
‘Never!’
Lard let some of his Danish pastry fall out of his mouth.
‘Really.’ Leo lowered his voice. ‘I woke up covered in glitter with all my hair standing on end.’
‘It seems as if it wasn’t the only thing standing on end,’ Grant observed.
‘And she’d gone. Vamoosed. Not a trace of her.’
‘Sounds perfect.’
‘Yeah,’ Leo said thoughtfully. ‘Except I sort of would have liked her to stay around.’
‘Ooo,’ Grant and Lard said in unison.
‘Told you it was weird.’
‘You were very lashed last night, Leo. Even by your standards.’
‘I know. I could have imagined the whole thing, I suppose.’
‘Except for the glitter.’ Lard might be a fat bastard, but he was also very sharp.
Leo shook his head and some more silver dust fell from his hair onto his desk, despite the fact that he had washed it twice with extra strength Head & Shoulders. ‘Except for the glitter,’ he agreed.
Just then, Baldy Baldwin came out of the lift. He looked very hungover and bad-tempered as he strode up to them. ‘Haven’t you lot got any work to do?’ he snapped.
Grant and Leo stood up. Baldy slammed into his office.
‘Have we got any work to do?’ Leo asked.
‘Nothing that can’t wait,’ Grant assured him and they returned their bottoms to Lard’s desk again.
‘What happened to Emma?’ Lard gathered his remaining pastries to himself protectively. ‘I thought you were going to her birthday party.’
‘I did.’
They waited expectantly. Leo would have liked to disappoint them and tell them that it was all completely uneventful, but given his previous discourse they wouldn’t have believed him. ‘I fell in her cake,’ he admitted. ‘Well, more sort of passed out.’ He grimaced.
His friends grimaced in support.
‘She dumped me.’
‘Again?’ Grant frequently voiced the opinion that he believed the course of true love should run infinitely more smoothly than the lumpy route that Emma and Leo decided to take.
‘Yeah.’ Leo tried to look downcast, but it was very hard when he began to remember the full outcome of last night’s indiscretions. ‘I think she means it this time though.’
‘You say that every time,’ Lard pointed out.
‘Yeah.’
Grant gave him a sage look. Leo’s friend was younger than him and, irritatingly, was saner and more sensible – though he wasn’t as devilishly handsome, Leo consoled himself. ‘Though she might be a bit more serious if she ever finds out about Miss Glitter Knickers.’
‘True.’ Leo and Grant stood up and prepared themselves for the rigours of the day ahead by stealing the rest of Lard’s pastry stash.
‘Oi!’ Lard complained.
And as they hurried away, Leo said to Grant, ‘You’re right about Emma. She’d do her pieces. I’ll just have to make sure she doesn’t ever find out.’
Chapter Seventeen
The gallery where I work is in a tiny cobbled courtyard amid the winding, narrow back streets of old tobacco warehouses which have all now been converted into trendy flats. It’s in a world of its own, a quiet, restful sanctuary, cut off from the hurly-burly of London at its worst. The surrounding shops are made up of exclusive jewellers, high-end estate agents, boutiques selling handbags with price tags that start at two thousand pounds, and ritzy art galleries galore.
Art For Art’s Sake has the type of intimidating frontage that puts off all but the most dedicated of art collector – and that’s exactly how the owner, Gregory, likes it. We are currently exhibiting sculptures by up-and-coming artist Earl Van Klug – which means that we’re displaying life-size naked torsos fashioned from wire mesh, complete with ‘men’s furniture’ as my mother would call it.
We have only a few regular clients at the gallery, but those who do visit tend to spend vast sums of money in one fell swoop. Which is rather nice as Caron and I are paid partly on commission. Going for quality rather than quantity of customers does tend to make the days drag somewhat, but ever since we had a bungled ram-raid last year, Gregory has been forced to employ increased security measures, which mean that now my friend and I work together on the same shift instead of just crossing briefly when we change over. Gregory deems it too unsafe for one person to be entrusted with the safekeeping of the artworks in the gallery and, secretly, I’m rather glad of it. Gossiping with my friend at least makes the slow hours enjoyable.
Caron and I get on very well. We share the same taste in scandal, were educated to the same standard in the same sort of high-security, elitist public school for ‘gels’, prefer Starbucks to Coffee Republic, both think the art we sell is over-priced and pretend to despise Hello! magazine while devouring it each week.
My friend is tall and blonde and looks like a man-eater although she always complains that there’s too much of a time-lapse between infrequent dates. Caron shares a flat with her brother and makes it a rule never to go out with any of his mates, mainly so that they can’t regale her sibling with salacious tales when the relationship invariably goes wrong. It means that she lives in constant torment, as a selection of half-naked rugby players, firemen and stockbrokers trail through their abode. I think it’s a bit of a waste and that she should consider lowering her standards.
In our cash rich, time poor society there seems to be very little spare time left to devote to nurturing relationships. Women, it is said, are having less sex than women in the 1950s. I certainly am, and even Caron insists that it’s better to be celibate than have her sex-life discussed by her brother down at the pub. At least she doesn’t have a boyfriend like Leo to contend with. Having listened to me relate tales of Leo’s adventures, Caron has said on more than one occasion that she’s glad she is single. She’s never said it with a lot of enthusiasm though.
The rooms in the gallery are all white, brightly-lit and, beyond the main reception and the naked torsos, are hung with a small selection of canary-yellow paintings done by yet another upcoming artist from East London with multiple piercings and a retro bright pink Mohawk hairdo. Today, the paintings are giving me a headache. I’m chewing at my fingernails while trying not to really bite them, but already my nails have gone soggy. It’s now nearly lunchtime and I’m still complaining about Leo and his latest escapade.
Caron suddenly looks up from her magazine and says, ‘Didn’t you dump Leo just last week?’
‘Yes,’ I reply tetchily. Caron isn’t being particularly sympathetic to my plight. When I told her about the cake incident, she actually laughed. Aren’t we girls supposed to stick together? ‘But not for real. This is for real.’
‘Does Leo realise that?’
I pull at my hair. ‘Do you think I should phone him and tell him again?’ Picking up the phone, I toy with it.
Caron closes the latest copy of Hello! and folds it on her lap. ‘Isn’t that how you always get back together?’
I put down the phone. ‘So you don’t think I should ring him?’
‘What is wrong with people these days?’ Caron sighs. ‘Take our cosy little gang. We’re all the wrong side of thirty. Only just in your case, admittedly. But none of us are even near settling down. It’s not just Leo who seems to be stretching out his teenage years – we’re guilty too. We should have mortgages and pension plans and children. I can’t even get a man. Or, at least, not one t
hat doesn’t just want convenient sex for a few weeks. You’ve landed yourself with the most resolutely juvenile commitment-phobe imaginable and yet you can’t let go. You’re hanging on there in the unlikely event that Leo will suddenly grow up and become the perfect boyfriend.’
‘Leo isn’t that bad.’
‘You’ve been slagging him off all morning, Emma,’ my friend points out. ‘Every morning for the last five years, in fact.’
I open my mouth but don’t speak.
‘There are a lot worse than Leo out there,’ Caron says. ‘He’s handsome, he’s rich and you could have a great laugh with him, if you weren’t so concerned about your image. Perhaps if you weren’t so down on him all the time then he wouldn’t feel the need to live up to his reputation. If you don’t want him any more then move on and let some of us poor unfortunate cows have a go.’
‘I love Leo,’ I insist. ‘I’m simply trying to . . . mould him. A little bit.’ Isn’t that what love is all about? You find someone nearly perfect and then chip away at their rough edges until they eventually become the person you want them to be.
‘You’re going to “mould” him into the arms of someone else if you’re not very careful.’
‘There are very few people who wouldn’t benefit from some improvement.’
Caron rolls her eyes. ‘You included?’
‘Well . . .’ I falter.
‘You could be the perfect couple if only Leo wasn’t such a twit and you weren’t so anal. Meet him halfway.’
Good advice possibly, but I have no idea where halfway between twit and anal might be.
Caron extracts her emery board from the corner of the desk drawer that is its permanent home. She’s very proud of her nails, which are long and always painted even though they aren’t acrylic, they’re all her own. With a flick of the emery board, she points at the window. ‘Ditch Leo and you could end up with someone like that.’
There’s a man lurking on the street, staring at the naked torsos. It looks like something he might do a lot – as a hobby. He’s short with thinning hair and is wearing a grey mackintosh even though it isn’t raining, and he probably isn’t yet forty. The sort of man who wears Y-fronts – and not in an ironic way.
It’s a Kind of Magic Page 7