by Jane Fallon
An hour later I called her back and told her that I’d spoken to someone else in Patrick’s office because Verity wasn’t around (just covering myself) and that I’d said I was from the Park View Hotel and Mr Mitchell had left something behind when he stayed that had only just come to my attention. I fudged something to cover the fact that it had taken several weeks to come to light. Something about the next guest taking it home by accident and then realizing it wasn’t his (luckily Michelle didn’t ask why anyone would believe that pile of implausible crap). The assistant had said that it was actually a Mr and Mrs Robinson who had stayed the night, so the item must be theirs, and had given an address in Scotland for it to be returned.
Michelle was so grateful, so happy when I told her my success. There was no reason in the world why she would ever disbelieve me. I was her best friend.
I sent Patrick a text. ‘Done.’ And he sent one back in return, ‘Thank you.’ And that was that.
I don’t know how I’m going to work it but I have no intention of ever speaking to Patrick again – beyond the pleasantries that I’ll be forced to offer up when other people are around. I’m going to refuse every invitation that has him attached. I’m done with him and his bullshit. Enough.
20
Bea is fuming when I arrive at the office in the morning. She doesn’t even wait for me to put my bag down before she shuts the door of my office and launches into a tirade. I’m not really in the mood.
‘I’m fucking furious,’ she states, which, to be honest, I have gathered from the way she’s stomping around with a face like a storm.
‘Do I get a coffee first?’ Bea knows I can’t function without coffee first thing.
‘I’ll go and get you one in a minute. I just have to get this off my chest.’
‘OK, that doesn’t sound good.’
‘Ian’s just asked me to type up all his notes on the budget for Rooms With a View because – and I quote – “Lucy’s a bit snowed under”.’ She sits back and looks at me, waiting for a response.
Strictly speaking, even though Bea works for me and Lucy for Ian they both work for the company, and so it’s always been deemed only fair that they pick up each other’s slack sometimes. This fact doesn’t make either of them very happy, though.
‘Well, I don’t have much for you to do this morning …’
‘That’s not the point,’ she jumps in before I can finish. ‘If she was snowed under I’d happily do it …’
Happily, I feel, is an overstatement, but I keep quiet.
‘… but she’s got an appointment to get her colour done this afternoon. When have I ever made a hair appointment in work time? When?’
‘Never,’ I concede.
‘I mean, surely Ian could tell her she has to go at lunchtime.’
‘Maybe he needs her for something else then?’
‘He doesn’t. That’s my point. She walks all over him and then he dumps all her work on me.’
Even though I know she’s got a point, I don’t want to be disloyal to Ian. It’s not up to me to tell him how to work with his assistant. ‘Hardly all her work, Bea.’
Bea rolls her eyes and I immediately want to backtrack. I hate it when Bea and I don’t get on. It makes me panic that she’ll start looking for another job. Not to mention the fact that I do think Lucy has a superiority complex and believes that we’re lucky to have her in the first place.
‘Do you want me to tell him you’re too busy?’
Bea shakes her head. ‘No. It needs to be done. I just wanted to vent, that’s all.’
‘I feel your pain,’ I say and she laughs. ‘Truthfully, though, I agree she’s a bit of an entitled cow and don’t think it doesn’t go unnoticed.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Lunch on me?’
‘Too busy.’ She smiles ruefully.
‘Tough,’ I say. ‘We’re going to the pub.’
I’ve made a decision. It’s been nearly killing me not telling Bea what’s going on. Not being able to confide in someone. But everything that’s happened, everything I’ve done, leads back to the fact that Patrick and I did something we shouldn’t have done. I wouldn’t for a moment have considered lying for him, helping to cover up an infidelity, if I hadn’t been afraid what might come out of his mouth otherwise. I remember all the rumours about Patrick that Bea told me, and I know now that they’re all true. And if Bea hadn’t messed up and dropped Michelle’s name that night we might have had our proof. And everything that has happened since would have been different. Everything.
But not having anyone to talk to is eating me up. I’m distracted to say the least. And Bea notices.
‘OK, what’s up?’ she says when we sit down with our drinks. Vodka and Diet Coke for me; red wine for her.
‘Nothing. I’m fine.’
‘So why did you just put a beer mat in your bag with your purse?’
I have a look. She’s right. ‘I collect them.’
‘Ha ha. You’re hilarious. There’s something wrong. When did you ever drink at lunchtime, or do you always sneak off for a few, you just don’t tell me?’
‘You have to swear on your life not to say a word to anyone. Anyone.’
She looks suddenly serious. ‘Of course.’
I trust her. She’s never let me down before. That said, I am only going to tell her the edited version. My own role in this little story can stay Patrick’s and my secret.
‘Patrick Mitchell is having an affair.’
Bea’s eyes widen. ‘Hold on. Haven’t we been here before?’
I nod. ‘But it’s true. He told me.’
‘I don’t know where to start. Who with? Why the fuck did he tell you?’
I look round, just checking that no one I know is lurking among the lunchtime crowds. It’s one of those pubs that’s reclaimed retro and most of the clientele have, too. It’s all flat caps, organic ales and ironic fish-finger butties. If I had to describe its attitude I’d say it was pleased with itself. Anyway, the coast seems clear.
‘You really won’t say anything to anyone, will you, Bea? For Michelle’s sake, if nothing else.’
‘No. You know I won’t. Listen, don’t tell me if you’re stressed about it.’
‘No. I want to. I’ve got to tell someone or I’m going to go crazy.’
She waits for me to continue. Here goes.
‘Michelle caught him out basically. Or at least she nearly did. He’s asked me to help put her off the scent. Can you believe that?’
‘You’re kidding. I assume you told him where to get off?’
This is the tricky part to explain. Without telling her why I have a vested interest in Patrick not being found out it’s difficult to make a case for going along with him.
‘I didn’t know what to do. Obviously Michelle would be devastated …’
‘You’re going to help him lie to her?’
‘I already did. I didn’t know what else to do. I know some people would think I should just go straight round there and tell her myself, but I’ve never seen how that was a kind thing to do. And he said he’s going to dump this other woman …’
She snorts. ‘I bet he did. They all say that.’
‘I honestly think he will. I think this was a wake-up call. And who am I to step in and break up his marriage if he’s just had some kind of mid-life crisis but now he’s over it?’
Bea takes a sip of her wine. ‘God, what a sleaze.’
‘I know. The rumours were right all along. To be honest, he’s always been a tos
ser.’
Bea raises her eyebrows. ‘In what way? I thought he was one of your best mates?’
‘He’s my best mate’s husband, there’s a big difference. We’re friends because we have to be. Actually, that’s not fair. We get on fine, I just don’t like him much. Does that make sense?’
‘Totally. I’m not sure I get why, though.’
I can’t really be bothered to explain and I doubt Bea wants to listen to my five-year-long list of gripes about Patrick’s manners. ‘It’s a long story.’
‘So how did he expect you to help him?’
I give her the brief lowdown. When I get to the part about me pretending to call his office, she laughs.
‘At least no one had to actually do it this time. You didn’t ask me to dust Morag and her Scottish accent down and phone for real.’
‘Well, obviously, because they wouldn’t have known what you were on about.’
‘Shit,’ she says. ‘It’s all a bit complicated.’
‘Tell me about it. The awful thing is that Michelle is satisfied, though. That’s what makes me feel really shitty. That she totally trusts what I say.’
‘It’s done now, so the best thing you can do is just forget about it.’
‘I shouldn’t have done it. I should have just gone straight to Michelle and told her the truth.’
‘Probably. But it’s too late now. You’d never be able to explain away the whole phoning-the-office story.’
‘I don’t want to see him again. I don’t want anything to do with him.’
‘I don’t blame you. Although isn’t that going to be hard to carry off? Given she’s your friend and you spend half your free time at hers?’
‘I know. I’m going to have to spend my whole life making excuses about why I can’t go over there.’
‘Well, I suppose that’s a plan.’
I force a smile. ‘What a mess.’
‘I’m always here,’ she says. ‘If you need someone to talk to.’
‘Thanks,’ I say gratefully. ‘I feel a lot better just having told someone.’
Later I contrive to be hanging around in the reception area when Lucy makes her escape. I’m feeling a little tipsy from the vodka.
‘Hairdressers?’ I say with a smile on my face.
Lucy returns the smile. ‘Yes. I need to get my highlights done before I go away.’
‘Things must be quiet at the moment if you’re going now.’
‘I’m all up to date on everything, so Ian’s fine with it.’
‘Great,’ I say, the smile still there. ‘Because Bea’s snowed under so she wouldn’t really be able to help you out if you weren’t.’
She doesn’t flinch. ‘Of course not.’
When she’s gone Ashley looks up from behind the reception desk. ‘That was funny,’ she says.
‘What?’ I say, turning to go back upstairs. ‘I didn’t mean anything by it.’
She hooks her hair behind her ear. ‘I can type Ian’s budget notes up if it’s any help. I’ve got time.’
‘Fine. I’ll let Bea know.’
Sometimes actions speak louder than words when I want Bea to know how grateful I am for her loyalty.
PART TWO
* * *
21
Bea
Honestly, it’s almost funny. If the whole frigging thing wasn’t so fucked-up I’d laugh.
To be fair, Tamsin is always dumping on me about personal stuff. Her latest Tinder encounter or a date she’s been on from that site she uses – Other Half I think it’s called – in way too much detail. Not that she did Tinder for long. Too many close encounters with psychos. Too many questions about whether she was submissive or dominant within the first couple of exchanges. It all comes under the category of T.M.I as far as I’m concerned. Too Much Information. If she was a mate I’d be fascinated. But she’s my boss. I’m sure Ian doesn’t sit Lucy down and make her listen to the gory details of his sex life. Mind you, he’s usually too scared to ask her to do his filing. And if he did she would probably make a formal complaint. Hold an industrial tribunal. Call her local MP and demand answers in parliament.
But when she told me about this … Jesus. I didn’t know where to look.
She prides herself on being a good boss. Fair. If you work hard and you have her back then she’ll support you. That’s what she said at my interview. And I suppose it’s proved to be true. What she failed to mention was that her definition of working hard is anyone else’s of slave labour. She demands a lot for her buck.
I can’t even remember the last time I had time at lunch to actually sit and eat. I’m used to it. Spending my precious hour picking up Tamsin’s dry cleaning or shopping for whatever it is she needs but can’t be arsed to go out and get herself. I’m used to stuffing in a sandwich while typing up some document or other. It’s OK. It comes with the territory. I’m an assistant. I assist.
I don’t mind doing all that personal stuff for my boss. I don’t think it’s beneath me – well, most of it anyway. I have a long-term plan. Work hard for Tamsin for three years doing anything and everything that’s asked of me, however demeaning, making sure I build up a fabulous reputation and references along the way. And then move on to something better. I won’t be staying at Castle. Long-running series about people buying or selling homes really don’t interest me. But I’m learning everything I can while I’m there. And TV is hardly rocket science. Most of what Tamsin and Ian seem to do is give their opinion and I can certainly do that. In fact I often do, and she passes it off as hers. I never get the credit obviously. To give her her dues, Tamsin does often tell people how invaluable I am. She just doesn’t go on to say that half the time I am actually doing her job for her.
Don’t worry, I get my little revenges. I wore a fab jacket of hers – Stella McCartney – on a night out once, after I had picked it up from the dry cleaners on my way home. I accidentally spilled gin and tonic on it, but I told her the smell was the cleaning chemicals and she totally bought it.
And I bring her full-fat lattes instead of skinnies when she sends me out to get her coffee five times a day. She’s always moaning about the fact she can’t lose those stubborn couple of pounds on her thighs, however hard she tries. I just keep quiet. When I heard her telling Ashley once that she must be getting something wrong with the coffee order because when she gets it, it just doesn’t taste right, I had to try really hard not to laugh.
And sometimes when I’m feeling particularly hard done by I add something for myself onto whatever shopping order she’s sent me out to get. Just a bottle of aspirin or a tub of blueberries. Something small. She never checks her receipts, just chucks them on the pile of crap that is threatening to engulf her office. And even if she did I’d just say, ‘Oh yes, I must give you the money for that,’ and that’d be it. I don’t even know why I do it. It’s not as if it’s stuff I couldn’t afford to buy for myself. It just makes me feel a little bit less taken advantage of, I suppose.
I don’t dislike Tamsin, don’t get me wrong. It’s just that she sometimes oversteps the mark between appropriate and inappropriate. In terms of what she asks me to do I mean. She doesn’t touch me up in the stationery cupboard or anything like that.
I nearly drew the line when she sent me up to Birmingham like some kind of super spy to try to honey trap her friend’s husband, though. I mean, what kind of person thinks of that, let alone gets their assistant to do it for them? It’s only a little short of pimping them out. Anything could have happened.
But then, I suppose if I hadn’t gone I never
would have met Patrick Mitchell.
And then things might have been very different. And I wouldn’t be so scared it was all going to blow up in my face.
22
Tamsin
Michelle and I are clothes shopping. That is, she is clothes shopping and I am watching and occasionally sighing with boredom. It’s not that I don’t enjoy buying outfits. It’s that I don’t enjoy buying them in high street chains that only contain what half the rest of the female population is wearing. Michelle, on the other hand, doesn’t really care. She wants practical, functional, appropriate clothes. So about once a year she ropes me in and we go and she stocks up on whatever she needs and that’s about it.
I find a chair to sit on while she browses. Fiddle with my phone. After what seems like an age she materializes in front of me with an armful of garments.
‘Try them all on,’ I say. ‘Except the blue. That’s a bit Princess Di.’
‘How do you know that’s not the look I’m going for?’ She cocks her head on one side and puts on an expression I can only describe as simpering. ‘Not bad, eh?’
‘Very flattering.’
‘Pad used to have a thing about Princess Di apparently.’ She laughs fondly as she says this. ‘Before my time, obviously.’
I stop myself from saying ‘her and most of the rest of the female population.’ I don’t want to join in with an ‘isn’t Patrick adorable’ conversation, though, so I just roll my eyes in what I hope is a non-judgemental fashion.
‘That red one is very you,’ I say to distract her, flapping my arm at the one red item she’s holding. ‘That first.’
She looks super cute in all of them. I try to feign an interest in which ones she should settle for. I even throw in a ‘buy all of them’ comment, which has her raising her eyebrows at me. In the end she announces she can’t make up her mind – she can never make up her mind, this is one of the reasons I’m not a fan of going shopping with her – and goes round conscientiously putting them all back.