In Office Hours

by Lucy Kellaway

  By the same author

  Martin Lukes: Who Moved My BlackBerry™?

  In Office Hours

  LUCY KELLAWAY

  FIG TREE

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3

  (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephenís Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd)

  Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia

  (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd)

  Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi – 110 017, India

  Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand

  (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank,

  Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  www.penguin.com

  First published 2010

  Copyright © Lucy Kellaway, 2010

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  Four lines of ‘It’s No Use Raising a Shout’, taken from Collected Poems by W. H. Auden, is reproduced by permission of Faber and Faber Ltd.

  ‘Separation’ copyright © W. S. Merwin, 1963. All rights reserved.

  All rights reserved

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN: 978-0-14-195949-8

  For David

  Contents

  January 2010

  2008: Part One – Temptation

  Part Two – Addiction

  Part Three – Withdrawal

  January 2010

  January 2010

  Stella

  Two words: four letters, then eight. The shape of them was so familiar and yet shocking to see now, after all this time.

  Stella had just got back to the office after lunch and there his name was, sitting in her inbox next to an email containing the minutes of yesterday’s board meeting. The subject line read: hi.

  She knew what she must do. She had rehearsed it often enough with Dr Munro and with any friends who were still willing to listen. With unsteady hand she picked up the mouse, highlighted his name and clicked ‘delete’.

  Are you sure you want to delete this message? the computer asked.

  But that was the problem: no, she wasn’t sure.

  The therapist had explained that there was nothing inherently upsetting about either him or his actions. The trouble was Stella’s thoughts, which in turn caused her emotional responses. The answer, the woman had said, was to learn to control her thoughts, and then her emotions would fall into line.

  As a concept, Stella had found this seductive. But in practical terms it was useless. Stella, so good at controlling most aspects of her life, had had no success in controlling her thoughts – or those that had anything to do with him. And it was also nonsense to say that his actions had been neutral – except perhaps in some far-fetched, philosophical sense. In fact they had been devastating: five lives damaged, one of them, it seemed to her in her more hysterical moments, beyond any chance of repair. In the end she had cancelled her therapy sessions and gone to Selfridges and squandered the £210 that she would have spent on fifty minutes of Dr Munro’s time on face cream instead – which hadn’t made her feel any better, either. Worse, as she kept studying her reflection to see if it was having an effect on the deep lines between her eyebrows and the loose skin around her jaw.

  Two years ago, when Stella had first met him, she had given little thought to her appearance. She had felt younger than forty-four and because she was tall and slim clothes hung well on her. She wore almost no make-up, though she had started having blonde highlights threaded through her hair to hide the grey. But now, if she looked in the mirror and let her eyes go dead and her face relax, an old woman’s face stared back at her.

  Stella looked at the computer screen, which was still demanding a reply to its question. It had helpfully highlighted the button YES, as if knowing that this was the path of sanity and righteousness. She moved the mouse and clicked NO instead.

  She stared at his name. It was extraordinary, she thought, to hear from him today of all days. Just yesterday she had been on Primrose Hill with Clemmie, who was taking a break from GCSE revision. The two of them had got coffee from the Italian deli and were sitting drinking it on a bench in the winter sunshine. A small, fat man with a Great Dane on a lead walked in front of them, and Clemmie had said: Opposites attract, and Stella had laughed, thinking it the first normal, friendly thing her daughter had said in a very long time.

  Stella had turned her head to watch the big dog and its tiny owner pass, and then had thought she’d seen him sitting at the next bench along. He wasn’t sullen and cowering as he had been when he came into her office and stood there wordlessly as she had packed her things. Instead, she could tell from the back of his fair head and from the lazy way he was sticking his legs out that he was at ease. He had his arm around someone young and blonde with skinny jeans tucked into high-heeled boots. On the pretext of putting her cup in the bin, Stella had got up and walked towards him and at just that moment, he’d turned towards her. It wasn’t him.

  – You know, she had said to Emily on the phone that evening, I think I am really over it. I thought I saw him yesterday with someone young and pretty on a park bench. And I felt curious, and, yes, I suppose if I’m honest I was a bit – disturbed. But I wasn’t destroyed. I wasn’t even churned up. Even when I was certain it was him, I thought, it’s OK, I’ve moved on.

  There had been a brief silence at the other end of the line.

  – Well, her friend had said. Maybe you have, maybe you haven’t.

  Why were one’s closest friends, the people who had witnessed all one’s ups and downs, so superior? Maybe it was simply that for four decades, Stella’s friends had witnessed one huge ‘up’ after another, and so were relishing this catastrophic down for its novelty value.

  But what was even worse than her friend’s superiority was the fact that she was right. Stella’s dry mouth and thudding heart did not belong to a woman who had moved on. She got up and closed her office door. She didn’t want to do this under the appraising eye of her PA.

  She took the mouse, moved it to the message and clicked on it to open.

  Dearest S, it began.

  From long practice she could gauge the state of his feelings towards her from the first couple of words of his messages. Once, long ago, during an interminable conference call, she had written a list of them in order of affection.

  my own dearest, funniest, cleverest, sexiest F (this had only happened once, in the very early days)

  dearest f

  dearest ferret

  my S

  dearest S

  fs –

  hi

  hallo

  Dear Stella

  Hallo she disliked doubly. First for its lack of affection, and then for its wretched spelling. But Dear Stella was the worst, as it was coldest. That was how the final and most awful message of them al
l had begun, its correct capitals underlining the correctness of the sentiment it contained.

  But now, here he was, emailing her after a long, arid year, and now she was his dearest again. She returned to the message.

  it’s been a long time. I’ve no idea how you are, or if you want to hear from me at all any more. I don’t even know where you are working now, but I’ve just googled you and I’m sending this to what seems is your new work email. I hope it reaches you. I often think of you, ferreting things out. Do you still do that? I bet you do.

  I’ve got something to ask you, and something to tell you. So I wondered…will you have lunch with me one day next week? We could meet at the bleeding heart for old time’s sake or anywhere else would be fine too.

  cheers x

  First she read it quickly. And then slowly, looking at every word. The bit about the ferret was a giveaway. Referring to that was tantamount to saying that he hadn’t moved on at all either. Stella hit ‘reply’ and typed:

  Dearest –

  Yes to lunch. Yes to the Bleeding Heart. Thursday? 1?

  Much love,

  Stella

  PS Yes, I still ferret things out. Of course. xx

  Was it too keen? She reread his message. It was definitely warm, and he did say that he still thought about her, but he didn’t say in what way. She read it again. Maybe it wasn’t that warm. At least not effusive. Cheers was a pretty distant ending, as well as being an ugly one. Respond, don’t react, Dr Munro had said. It had been one of her more helpful instructions.

  Dear –

  Lunch would be nice. Have an AFJ board meeting in Rome Monday to Wed, so could do Thursday or Friday?

  xS

  But did he really want or need to know about her schedule? He used to resent her packed diary, and so perhaps best not to mention it now. She tried again.

  How nice to hear from you. Lunch would be lovely. Thursday or Friday good for me. Let me know, Stella

  She pressed ‘send’.

  Bella

  Bella stared at her BlackBerry in disbelief. How odd to get a message from him today, of all days.

  She hadn’t thought of him in a long time. Or, at least, she might have thought of him a little bit, sometimes, but not in a bad or heavy way. But then, just yesterday, she had been packing things into boxes, finally moving on and out of her flat off the Holloway Road, and she had come across the Van Morrison CD he had given her just before it had begun. And that had got her thinking about it again.

  He’d come into the office that morning – almost two years ago now – and produced the CD from his briefcase and said: Please tell me what you think of this.

  The tone of his voice had been just the same, just as authoritative, as when he said: Please reschedule my four o’clock meeting.

  She had looked at the CD in confusion and he had said: The best song is ‘Brown Eyed Girl’. I know you think that sometimes I can’t see what is under my nose, but it hasn’t escaped my notice that you have brown eyes.

  None of his other presents had survived – when she had got back to her flat on the day after their last, awful lunch she had rounded up all of them, put them into a Tesco carrier bag and taken them to the Marie Curie shop on Highbury Corner.

  The next Saturday, when she had changed her mind and gone back to retrieve the gold earrings and the pearl necklace that were far too grown-up for her ever to wear, it was too late. They were sold.

  Last night she had put ‘Brown Eyed Girl’ on the CD player. Millie had objected.

  – Who’s this old man?

  And Bella had said: This song reminds me of a friend I used to have.

  Millie blanked this, grabbed the remote, put on ‘Love Machine’ by Girls Aloud and started to strut her skinny nine-year-old body around the removal boxes.

  Bella looked again at the message. He’d sent it on the old company address, so he must still work for Atlantic Energy. The subject line said simply: Hello.

  Dear Bella

  I expect you will be surprised to get this message, unprompted. But I have something to ask of you, which, on balance, I think might be better not committed to email. Would you allow me to buy you a drink next week? I am not sure what time you currently finish work or, indeed, where you work. However, if it were convenient, might you be able to meet me at Green’s Champagne Bar next Thursday at 7pm?

  Love –

  She read it, frowning. She’d half forgotten his turn of phrase: polite and precise; even his love letters (of which there had not been many) could not quite shake off the tone of the business memo. Bella felt a flash of the old resentment, hit ‘reply’ and typed quickly:

  Hi – thanks for your message. Hope you don’t mind if I say no to a drink – I just don’t think there’s much point in meeting up. Hope all is well with you.

  Bella

  She read it over and thought it sounded mean. Maybe the favour was something simple. And would it really be so horrible seeing him after all this time?

  The memory of that last day, when he had escorted her to the lift and looked at her as if they were perfect strangers, had stopped hurting. She had not seen him at all for a year, not counting that time, a couple of months after she’d left AE, when she had seen him on the Piccadilly Line with his two boys, both of whom were clutching large Spamalot programmes. She was sure he had seen her. But he made no move towards her and she made none towards him. She had gone home and wept.

  But now his words didn’t tug at her at all. The miracle of indifference, which she had prayed for, had crept up on her unawares, and now she really was unmoved by his message. And so maybe it would be fine to meet up. Only not for a drink – lunch would be safer.

  Perhaps something nice would come out of it, she thought. It would do her good to be able to say: Look at me now. I’m so over you. I’ve got a proper job – I’m an account manager now, and I love it, and I’m making better money. And I’ve even started seeing someone nice, who really wants me in his life properly, which – let’s face it – was more than you ever did.

  Bella deleted what she had written and started again.

  Hi – yes, it would be great to meet up but drink is difficult for me as I’m always dashing home to be with Millie (so no change there!). could do a quick lunch. am working as an assistant client manager at Lambert Finch (ad agency) so all is well with me. maybe you could pop into my office in Charlotte St, and we can go around the corner and grab a sandwich?

  bella x

  She looked over what she had written. That was better. She pressed ‘send’.

  2008

  Part One – Temptation

  Stella

  Stella’s story – a story she told and retold to herself in the hope that she might come to understand what had happened to her and why she had behaved as she had – had started two years earlier, on the day that Julia Swanson resigned.

  That morning, Stella had got in to the office early. She was writing a presentation for the board and unless she stole a march on the day she would get caught up in endless meetings and nothing would get done.

  She walked across the marble floor towards the glass barriers and reached into her handbag for her wallet, which contained her security pass. She put her bag down on the receptionist’s desk – manned at this early hour by a uniformed night security guard – and started to rummage through its contents. Nothing.

  In her head she retraced her movements from the night before. She had left the office early for a lecture on the newly attractive economics of nuclear power and then had gone on to a dinner party with Charles’s old boss from his days at Granada. She had paid for the cab on the way home – Charles, as ever, having no money with him – so she must have had her wallet then. Which meant that, with any luck, it was now sitting on the table in the hall.

  She asked the guard for a temporary pass and he opened the visitors’ book.

  – Name?

  – Stella Bradberry.

  – How are you spelling that?

&n
bsp; – I am spelling it, she said crisply, B-R-A-D-B-E-R-R-Y.

  Slowly he wrote it down, omitting the third R.

  – Department?

  – Economics.

  – Who’s your line manager?

  Stella sighed. Why, she thought, do I have to give my line manager’s name in order to get into an office where I have worked for the last twenty-two years?

  – Stephen Hinton, she said.

  The name of the CEO seemed to mean nothing to the guard, and he wrote it down indifferently.

  Under ‘Time in’ he entered 7.12, looking up to check on the clock, which was a giant, elliptical Atlantic Energy logo set into the wall over the lifts. He handed her an oblong of plastic on a string to wear around her neck.

  She smiled at him and felt a little jab of discomfort when he didn’t smile back. Charles used to laugh at the way Stella always needed everyone to love her, even people she didn’t especially like herself. As she got older she was getting a bit better: she could tolerate not being loved by security guards, but only just.

  She pushed through the glass barrier and pressed ‘home’ on her mobile.

  – Darling. Are you still in bed? … No, I’ve just got in … Can you check and see if I left my wallet by the front door?… Oh, thank God … I’ll get Nathalie to send a bike later.

  Stella took the lift to the twelfth floor and went along the corridor past the aggressive works of modern art that Stephen Hinton was so proud of. She eyed the latest arrival: an oversized blue canvas with some hessian fabric stuck to it. She looked at the name of the picture. ‘Tower of Nothing’, it was entitled.

  Her office was on the wrong side of the building, looking north over the building sites of the City of London, and was slightly smaller than her status merited. Some of her male colleagues made a fuss about this sort of thing, but she quite liked the way that her office was smaller and her pay lower than her worth to the company. It made her feel off the hook in a way that she knew was illogical, but she didn’t care.

  Stella had made no attempt to make her room homely – others had filled their offices with photos of their families, but she considered that sentimental. She had only one picture – of herself with Nelson Mandela, taken when she’d visited Atlantic Energy’s South African subsidiary six or seven years ago.