Getting Even

by Sarah Rayner

  “Aw, go on, just one. It’s my birthday.” Dan grinned, his face all boyish persuasion. At moments like this Ivy had to admit he was pretty attractive. The way his dark hair tumbled forward in defiance of grooming, the way his eyes creased up in the corners, the way he laughed, deep and loud. Not her type at all, but she could see what Orianna saw in him.

  Still, she owed him no favors. “Birthdays are for mourning, not celebrating,” she said. “I’m afraid I’m already meeting someone.”

  “Ask them along,” suggested Dan.

  “I couldn’t do that. We’re meeting at their place.”

  Dan shrugged, defeated. “Well, we’re off now.” He turned to Orianna. “Catch you down there—we’ll be at the Pillars of Hercules.”

  Orianna grunted and went back to her Mac.

  Ivy checked her watch. If she was going to make it in good time she’d better leave. She opened her handbag. A rapid reapplication of lipstick (she could apply it perfectly without a mirror), a swift brush of her hair (the electricity crackled and sparked), a swoosh of perfume (a gift from Ed), and she was set. Her portfolio was in the trunk of the car.

  “You smell nice,” said Orianna, glancing up.

  “Thanks. Better dash. See you tomorrow.”

  “Have a lovely evening.”

  As Ivy rounded the corner to reception a girl pushed open the door. She was lugging a huge portfolio, so Ivy calculated she must be some sort of creative. What a coincidence, thought Ivy. She comes in for an interview as off I go for mine.

  She gave her the swift once-over. Early to mid twenties, younger than Ivy was—bad. Bleached-blond hair that Ivy judged from her brows was naturally dark—tacky. A tan—passé. A round, pixie face—annoying. And petite—unforgivable.

  She also looked lost. The receptionist appeared not to be around and Ivy was curious to find out more. “Can I help you?”

  “Oh … er … yes please.” Ivy detected a twang—Aussie?—she wasn’t sure. “I’m afraid I’m ever so early. I’m not due till seven.”

  “Never mind,” said Ivy. “I’ll let whoever you’re meeting know you’ve arrived. Take a seat.”

  “Oh thanks.” She sounded relieved. “My name’s Cassie. Cassie Goldworthy.”

  “And you’re here to see…?”

  “Some funny name—oops, I shouldn’t say that, should I?” She giggled. Ivy was reminded of that girl in accounts Russell had fancied and Dan had shagged—what was she called? Lara. Cassie rummaged in her bag. Pathetic, thought Ivy. She could have clarified the interviewer’s name before getting here. “It began with an O…”

  “Orianna?”

  “Ah, yes, that’s her.”

  So Orianna hasn’t even got her feet under the creative director’s desk and she’s interviewing staff, noted Ivy. More to the point, she’s doing it on the sly. And if my hunch is right, this Cassie is a junior creative. Orianna’s entitled not to tell me, but this wouldn’t have happened before her promotion. Then we’d have seen prospective candidates together … Further evidence of a rift between us. Ivy kept her tone innocent. “Are you a creative then?”

  “Yes. An art director.”

  Bingo! thought Ivy. I wonder what her work is like. She was just about to connive a peek at her portfolio when the receptionist returned.

  “Ah, Philly, there you are. So Cassie, I’ll leave you here. I’d best be on my way.”

  * * *

  Orianna liked Cassie at once. Trixie was right, her portfolio was very good. They chatted for about an hour, covering agencies where Cassie had worked, where she saw herself going, and what she felt were her strengths and weaknesses, but Orianna was convinced within the first five minutes she was worth hiring. She felt bad that she’d forgotten to mention the interview to Ivy, still, she’d been terribly preoccupied with that silly bit of gossip of Ursula’s, and all the work they’d had that afternoon …

  Not to worry, she decided as she cut across Soho Square to meet Dan, Ivy doesn’t know I’ve interviewed Cassie, so no harm done. I’ll discuss it with her in due course. As for Dan being gay, well that’s just crazy.

  She pushed open the door of the Pillars of Hercules. The atmosphere hit her at once—rowdy, crowded, jovial. The pub was small and low-ceilinged, with none of the pretensions of Cassio’s or Lucifer’s. Here people drank pints not cocktails, and you were lucky if the wine passed muster. Little surprise it was a favorite of Dan’s.

  Clustered tightly around a table on a platform at the back were her colleagues: Neil—now that his resignation was public he could work his final days in a relaxed state and he’d been enjoying more long lunches and early evening bevvies than ever; Dan’s coworkers in production, Earl and Esme; Leon, who was in Orianna’s opinion the most talented designer in the studio; and Gavin, who’d come along to prove he wasn’t a step removed from the rest of the agency as a member of the board, though in fact he was, and everyone else would have felt more comfortable had he been absent.

  Orianna fetched herself a drink, squeezed into a chair next to Dan, and joined in the discussion. They were in the midst of a debate about reality TV—“publicity-seeking idiots have got what’s coming” (Dan, who’d already downed a couple of pints) versus “no one deserves to have their sexual incompetence splashed across the tabloids” (Orianna, swiftly taking up the baton as she was sober) when someone stumbled up the steps behind her and grabbed her chair for support. A helpless giggling interspersed with hiccups followed.

  Oh no. Orianna winced. I’d know that giggle anywhere. She turned and took in the long, fair hair of Lara, from accounts.

  Dan pulled up a stool. “Seat?”

  “Yeth pleathe,” said Lara.

  Jesus, thought Orianna, she’s at lisping stage already. Right then she missed her copywriter: she could rely on Ivy to have a good snipe. Instead hissing at Dan had to suffice. “Who asked her?”

  “I did.”

  Worse and worse. Hadn’t Dan been seeing Lara at one stage—how could he be so tactless?

  Carried away by beer and birthday buoyancy, he failed to notice how miffed she was and held out his wrist. “Hey everyone, seen my new watch?”

  There was a collective cooing and gasping.

  “Who gave you that?” asked Lara. She took his hand and peered closely at the face. Orianna prickled. “Ooh, Paul Thmith. How flath.”

  Flash? seethed Orianna. It’s not “flash” at all—it’s classy. That Dan didn’t pull away from physical contact made her fume more.

  Dan glanced at her but his ability to pick up silent signals appeared to be malfunctioning, for despite Orianna’s please-shut-up-it-will-embarrass-me vibe, he grinned proudly. “Orianna.”

  “Oh!” squealed Lara, and dropped his hand as if it would scald her. It landed on the table with a thud, as had, it seemed, Dan’s confession.

  “You are an item then?” said Earl, eventually.

  “Yes,” said Dan.

  “I knew it,” said Esme smugly.

  “How long have you been together?” asked Earl. “No, let me guess.”

  “Since Easter,” interrupted Gavin, keen to sound clued in.

  “Since February,” said Esme.

  “Since Christmas,” clarified Dan. Under the table he squeezed Orianna’s knee.

  “Stone me,” said Leon. “I’m well out of date, mate. I thought you two were shagging.” He nodded at Lara.

  Orianna reeled.

  Lara giggled.

  “Us?” Dan sounded surprised, yet, thanks to several pints, unfazed. “Oh no. Not since last autumn.”

  “Ooh Dan,” piped up Lara. “It wathn’t that long ago.” Another titter. “It was about thixth months.”

  Six months! For someone who works in accounts she’s got a lousy head for figures, thought Orianna. Dan began to stroke Orianna’s thigh more keenly. If he meant to indicate she was the one he was interested in, it merely irritated her further.

  “Thweetheart, I’m thorry to have to correct you”—another titter—“but i
t was definitely latht winter. At the Image Focuth Chrithmath party.”

  Orianna started. Image Focus was a retouching house and invitations to their annual bash were limited to those in production, so Dan must have invited Lara. More importantly, it had only been the night before the Christmas party where she’d got together with him.

  I remember it distinctly, she thought, because I was impressed Dan had the stamina for two parties in succession. Well, bloody hell, it seemed like he had the stamina for more than that! Ugh! Lara of all people!

  Dan was still fondling Orianna’s thigh, oblivious, and she pulled away at once. Coping with his full public admission of their relationship and Lara’s revelation was a lot to take. But with Lara wedged in too, shifting her chair would be impossible, so she lifted Dan’s hand from her leg and got to her feet. “Just going to the loo,” she muttered.

  Once inside the cubicle she locked the door and sat down. At least here she could get some privacy, although her thoughts were racing too fast for her to be able to pee.

  Hmm … Insofar as I can remember, Dan didn’t directly lie regarding Lara, she rationalized. I guess I never asked outright about timings, because I was happy with his assurance their fling meant little and was over. Nonetheless, he kept the truth from me. Surely it’s important to put a bit of space between different women? A healthy gap indicates a new relationship is the result of clear decision-making, and makes it more special. To go straight from Lara to me is at best impulsive, at worst sordid.

  She cast her mind back to the evening she and Dan had first tumbled into bed, when they’d been playing that game, “Who would you shag/marry/push off a cliff?” Hadn’t Earl accused Dan of being more interested in shagging than anything? No wonder—as Dan’s colleague in production, Earl had probably been at the Image Focus party too. Doubtless he knew Dan had spent the night before with Lara. She shuddered.

  Plus, there was that gossip about G-A-Y, and Ivy’s theory about Dan’s suspicious love of shopping … Orianna’s mind whirled. Men, women … who knew what, when? Certainly past experiences had shown Orianna the opposite sex couldn’t be trusted.

  You’re being silly, she scolded herself. Dan adores me. We have great sex, and get along brilliantly. Hasn’t he only just told me he loves me? He’s even suggested I might meet his parents.

  Eventually a banging on the door brought Orianna to her feet.

  “Sorry,” she said to an impatient-looking woman waiting outside.

  As she mounted the stairs, she forced herself to be sensible. The last thing she wanted was another public scene. She’d let it all wash over her, behave like a soon-to-be creative director should, and not pay any attention.

  No one was going to spoil her happiness. Were they?

  16. The thought doth like a poisonous mineral gnaw my innards

  “Darling!” Mwah, mwah. “Lovely to see you. Let me look at you.”

  Trixie stepped back and Ivy paused on the threshold. Dressed in her favorite A-line skirt and a sharply tailored jacket, she was confident she appeared her best.

  “Ooh, gorgeous, sweetie. Gorgeous. And I’m loving those shoes! Patrick…? Hang on, let me guess…” Trixie peered down, examining the strappy suede stilettos, encrusted in tiny pearl beads. “No … a touch too practical maybe; seems you can actually walk in them…” Finally, “Oh go on, put me out of my misery.”

  “Topshop.”

  “Never!”

  Ivy nodded. “Oxford Street special.”

  “You don’t say.”

  Ivy, gratified she’d scored already, followed Trixie down the hall, heels clicking on the parquet flooring. She noticed a waft of lilies coming from an imposing display on the antique mahogany table.

  “Thought we’d sit in here.” Trixie led Ivy into the sitting room and lowered herself onto a chaise longue. Ivy took a seat opposite on a deep four-seat sofa upholstered in rose-colored silk. As she sank back into the cushions, she smiled inwardly: Trixie, perched above her, was able to maintain an elegant, formal pose with her legs crossed—she had magnificent calves, even at her age.

  Whereas I’m forced to sit beneath her, noted Ivy. Still, it’s interesting she’s brought me into the lounge, not her office, where she saw me last time with Orianna. I guess these days she thinks me worthy of platinum treatment. Or maybe she’s wanting me to see just how successful she is.

  A bottle of champagne was cooling in a silver bucket on the smoked-glass coffee table, two crystal flutes by its side. Trixie removed the bottle using a linen tea towel, dried it, and deftly twisted the cork. It barely hissed, let alone emitted anything as uncouth as a pop. The champagne (for champagne it was, not some poor New World imitation) bubbled as she filled the glasses. Trixie waited for it to settle, and topped it up before handling Ivy hers.

  “Well, my dear. Long time no see. Cheers.”

  “Cheers.” They smiled at each other, and for a brief moment Ivy could see herself reflected in Trixie’s eyes.

  “Before we look at your portfolio, do update me, darling. Tell me all the gossip at Green. Am I right in gathering Neil’s leaving?”

  “Indeed.” Ivy took a sip.

  “And how do you feel about that?” A pained expression communicated sympathy.

  Ivy shrugged. “I’m not bothered, really.”

  “Can’t imagine he had much to teach you.”

  “No.”

  Trixie took a teeny sip of champagne. “Forgive my directness, my dear, but what I think you need is someone who can match your intelligence, your spark, your wit.”

  Three words of praise: Ivy knew she was being played, but nonetheless savored them all. “Oh?”

  “I’m not sure Neil was the right creative director for you. Copy never was his strong point, was it?”

  “No.” Ivy often thought he lacked appreciation of her skills; it was good to have this verified by someone she respected.

  “I’d like to see you working somewhere bigger, more high flying.”

  “Yes?”

  “Where writing is viewed as an art form.” Trixie uncrossed her legs and recrossed them the other way. She is terribly chic, thought Ivy, eyeing her dog-tooth tweed skirt enviously. “I’m thinking…” Trixie paused for effect. Ivy sat forward on the edge of the sofa. “Brothers and Sisters, perhaps, or even AMV…”

  “Right.” Ivy was delighted. She was talking about the crème, the very crème!

  “With things so tight at the moment, lots of places aren’t hiring, but for someone of your caliber, I’m confident we’ll find something. If there’s one area that’s not been hit too hard by recession, it’s direct mail, and with your experience, the DM division of these big agencies will be most keen, I’m sure.”

  Oh, thought Ivy, reassessing. She had assumed Trixie meant advertising proper. She was less thrilled about this suggestion—it wouldn’t be very different from what she was doing now.

  Trixie continued, “And if we don’t pull that off, there are some other small agencies, real hotshots creatively, raking it in despite the economy.”

  You mean sweatshops, thought Ivy. Though all she said was, “Indeed.” It’s amazing, she observed, Trixie has talked me down from the highest-flying agency to the lowliest start-up in less time than it takes to air a commercial. And she hasn’t even asked to see my portfolio or discussed salaries. She’s quite brilliant.

  Ivy decided to let her continue so she could see where the conversation went next. Sure enough, it proved even more interesting.

  “After all”—a still more delicate sip—“it’s probably time you broke away from Orianna, anyway.”

  “Oh?”

  “I don’t think staying there will do you any good.” Trixie nodded in agreement with her own appraisal. “I mean, if you weren’t learning much from Neil, you’re hardly going to learn from Orianna, now are you?”

  “No.” With this at least, Ivy could wholeheartedly agree. “I’d been thinking I wouldn’t mind breaking away entirely. Going abroad, perhaps.”
/>
  “That’s not such a bad idea. There’s quite a demand for English-speaking writers in some places. The Netherlands, for instance.”

  Ivy nodded. Copious sex and drugs—Amsterdam could be fun …

  “And it might be good to break from one another fully. One can be a mite too close sometimes. Claustrophobic.” Trixie settled back, relaxing a tad. “Actually, I have a tiny theory I’d like to share with you.”

  “Oh?”

  “About art directors and copywriters.”

  “Ah?”

  “You see, I was an art director, once.”

  “Really?” This did surprise Ivy, not least because Trixie seemed far more chic than most art directors she’d known.

  “It was many years ago.” Trixie smiled. “I worked with a copywriter myself, Cherie, she was called.” Cherie and Trixie, thought Ivy. They sound like matching dolls. She could see them now, for sale as a boxed duo, complete with miniature designer outfits.

  “That must have been very unusual,” said Ivy, admiringly. “Two women creatives, in those days.”

  “Oh, it was.” Trixie almost beamed, recollecting. “We worked together in all the big agencies of the seventies and eighties. Bates, Saatchis, you name it. We had some fantastic creative directors in our time, I’m telling you. So when I say it’s important to carry on learning from the best, believe me, I know.” Suddenly, her face hardened. “But I guess all good things must come to an end.”

  “What happened?” Ivy was on tenterhooks.

  Trixie’s voice dropped to a hush. “She betrayed me.”

  “Gosh,” said Ivy, genuinely surprised. “How?”

  “She left the industry.”

  “She left?” Ivy was astonished. However ambivalent she felt about advertising, there was no better alternative, surely.

  “Without telling me.” Trixie was almost spitting by now.

  “Without telling you?” My Lord, thought Ivy, what a coincidence. But she said nothing about her own experience with Orianna, just waited, keen to hear more.

  “Yes. Out of the blue. One Monday morning, she announced it.”

  “What?”