Her parents thought this was a good development. She was mixing in the right circles and would find a suitable husband. They were pleased she was having fun; a girl in her position was expected to settle down in a couple of years. (Clara’s father was of the mind that as he was so rich and successful, he should choose Clara’s husband. It irritated him that arranged marriages were no longer acceptable.)
Clara soon tired of this lifestyle. She had been through most of the men in her circle, and the girls were getting on her nerves. All they talked about was hooking Britain’s most eligible bachelors (and Clara had already slept with all of them), shopping and doing the season. Clara wanted more from her life and decided to get a job.
As Clara returned and sat down again, her parents were making moves to go out to dinner. They left Claridges and went to the Ivy, her parents” favourite restaurant. Clara didn’t touch her food, or speak much. Her father was questioning James on the business again as her mother twirled her pearls. Clara thought the whole thing was so painful and felt freshly determined that, whatever she did, she would not turn into her mother. Even if it meant that she would have to learn how to do her job. At that moment, Clara realised that having a job was not going to make her successful, but being good at it would.
When dinner was over, her parents went home in their chauffeur-driven Bentley, while Clara jumped into James’s Ferrari, and revelled in the envious stares of a couple of passing females. Not only was the car hot, her brother was too.
“Clara, are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” James asked.
Clara pouted. “Nothing. I don’t know what you mean.”
“Look at you. You’re jittery, you hardly said two words this evening and you didn’t even argue with Dad. That’s not like you.”
“I couldn’t be bothered and, anyway, we had our usual row before you arrived. Look, James, I’m tired, I’m working hard, and the parents think I should just get a twinset and find a suitable bridegroom. God, the thought of turning into Mother makes me feel sick. The woman is a walking tomb.”
“That’s my mother you’re talking about. And you’ll never be like her, you’re a career girl.” James smiled at her proudly. He was pleased with the way Clara had proved herself at SFH and been promoted. He would probably have crashed his Ferrari into the nearest wall if he knew how she had got the promotion.
“Jamie, she’s a zombie and Daddy’s a pig. They aren’t the faintest bit interested in me. All they care about is how successful you are, and how I can’t boil an egg. Christ, I really don’t know why I don’t just excommunicate them. They make me feel so unloved and so fucking inadequate.”
“Well, I know you’re none of those things. Listen, when you’re ready you can come and work with me. We’ll be the best brother-and-sister team the business has ever seen.”
“Daddy will never allow it.”
“Daddy will have no choice,” James said, as he pulled up at Clara’s house. He jumped out of the car, opened her door and kissed her on both cheeks.
“Love you, Jamie,” Clara said.
“Love you too,” he replied, got back in and drove off.
Clara let herself into her flat, dropped the keys on the floor, pulled off her coat and kicked her shoes at the wall. She felt desolation welling up. She felt the walls closing in on her – life closing in on her. She ran to the bedroom, fell on the bed and sobbed uncontrollably. She always ended up that way after a Hart family dinner.
Chapter Six
As she reached her desk, Ella’s head was hammering. From the sight that greeted her, she guessed that the others were suffering as much as she was. Liam wasn’t there, Jimmy held his head in his hands, John was green, and Trevor was telling them that when he had got home, his wife had refused to let him into their bed. Bob was out on a bacon-sandwich run.
Ella tried to focus; she checked the market and was relieved that it was quiet. She went through her overnight positions: everything was fine. Bob returned with a sandwich for her and proceeded to hand out Nurofen. Liam arrived with a McDonald’s Breakfast. No one could be bothered to speak.
They didn’t notice Jeff approach with a short man in tow. He was not in the best of moods at seeing his vibrant trading desk all looking half dead. “Morning, guys,” he said, unnecessarily loudly.
They all turned their heads. Trevor had ketchup dribbling down his chin, Ella had a mouthful of bacon, Liam was noisily drinking Coca-Cola, Bob had his head on his desk.
Only John and Jimmy responded. “Hi, boss,” they said weakly.
Jeff sighed and glanced at his new companion, who was looking at the people in front of him with a mixture of disgust and despair. “This is Johnny Rupfin. He’s joining us on Monday as a trainee trader.”
Everyone but Ella looked at the new boy blankly. She sat up straight: this short, dark-haired man with a pinstripe suit, a red tie and what looked like acne was her new charge. Jeff introduced him to everyone and explained to him that there had been a big celebration last night, which was why everyone was looking ‘under par’. That was a huge understatement. Johnny made a big show of shaking hands with everyone, but left Ella until last and barely looked at her.
At that instant Ella knew she hated him. He was the sort of kid who thought he was smart because he’d been to Oxford and Harvard, who was sexist and probably thought she was the team secretary. When Jeff explained that Ella was to be Johnny’s mentor, she did not miss the momentary look of horror on his face. She knew that this man was going to be a problem.
After a few minutes, Jeff took him away and the group returned to their hangovers. It was going to be a long day – and time dragged. The amount of money traded on the desk that day was pitiful. They all left as soon as five o’clock hit, and walked out as slowly and painfully as they had arrived.
Ella hailed a cab, she couldn’t face the bus. As soon as she got home, she took a long bath and went straight to bed. Thursday, as far as Ella was concerned, had not happened.
***
Virginia arrived at work as she always did. Her morning routine and her drive to work were exactly as usual. The lift came in five seconds; her desk was as she had left it.
During the night Virginia had had a dream. It had been so real that, for the first few moments after her alarm woke her, she had had to rack her brain to try to remember if it was a dream or not. She was 90 per cent sure that she had been asleep, but the other 10 per cent felt it had really happened.
In this dream, Virginia e-mailed Human Resources with her CV and a covering letter so strong that she could remember every word. She had not copied Isabelle on the e-mail, she had done it all on her own. To be sure, Virginia opened her mailbox and looked in her ‘sent” folder. There was definitely no e-mail in it. She started typing and, with every word, she knew that this had not been a dream, but a prompt. She knew it was the right thing to do. She selected Helena Fortane from the internal mail list and sent her an e-mail, explaining her situation and asking for advice. She attached her CV.
That morning she did her work as usual, nervously checking each e-mail she received as soon as it came in. Although her heart was beating fast, she kept a cool head and made sure she did everything in her usual organised way. At eleven thirty her computer flashed to inform her of new mail.
The sender was Helena Fortane, and she was inviting Virginia to make an appointment to see her. As she read it Virginia was trembling. Her hands shook and she felt the colour drain from her face. This was great: this was the response she had wanted. She called Helena’s secretary and arranged an appointment over lunch-time that very day. Instantly Thursday became Virginia’s favourite day.
The time crept slowly until half past one, when Virginia felt able to leave her desk. She announced to anyone who cared to listen that she was going to lunch, and took the lift to the fifth floor.
She found Petra, the secretary, easily and was ushered straight to Helena, who greeted her as if she were an old friend. She motioned for Virginia to sit in
the chair opposite her own and looked directly at her as she spoke. “You’re looking to become a salesperson?” she asked.
“Ideally, yes. I’ve always wanted to do sales, but Isabelle doesn’t have any opportunities for me. I don’t want to go to another firm but, well, I expect you understand.”
Helena nodded. “Yes, I do. This is a big firm. Let’s look through your CV.”
An hour later, Virginia got up to go. Helena had listened and advised. The conclusion was that, although she could not make any promises, Helena would talk to a number of different managers about her and would get her interviews with any departments that had opportunities.
Virginia felt lightheaded as she took the lift back to her floor. She sat down at her desk, a pleased shade of pink.
If anyone were to ask Virginia what happened that afternoon, she would not have been able to say. She functioned somehow, but was on autopilot; her mind was still with Helena and the opportunities of the future.
As she left that night, she drove her scooter to the supermarket. It wasn’t her shopping night, but she felt the need to celebrate and floated around with her basket. She selected Italian ham, expensive Brie, fresh soft bread and a bottle of sparkling wine.
“I’ll live like this all the time when I’m a salesperson,” Virginia said to herself, happy to indulge in a little luxury.
When she got in, she laughed as she popped the cork and it flew into the air. She poured the wine into a glass, and made a mental note that maybe soon she could buy champagne flutes and drink real champagne. She cut the bread, and spread it liberally with Brie and ham. Sitting in her small chair with a documentary on the television, she drank the fizz, ate her supper and, for once in her life, felt like royalty.
She giggled to herself as she poured glass after glass. She danced around the room, she jumped up and down and, although anyone watching would have thought she was mad, it was clear to Virginia that she was merely celebrating the start of the end of her madness. She was finally becoming sane.
***
When Clara woke her head hurt. She recognised the headache as one she got from crying. She woke most days with a headache, and she had learnt to distinguish the causes. Normally it would be a hangover from either drink or cocaine. Today her eyes were puffy and sore, and her throat was dry. She pulled herself out of bed, noticing that it was already eight: she would be late again.
She felt like crawling back to bed, but she remembered her vow of last night to work harder, to prove herself worthy – and her parents wrong. She knew what she had to do: go to bed earlier, get up earlier, drink less and, as soon as she felt she had secured her position, dump Tim.
Dressed in her sharpest pinstripe suit, she jumped into the cab she had ordered and, with a new feeling of determination, started her journey to work.
That morning Clara looked at the SFH building through new eyes. The building impressed her, standing tall; its marble floors gleamed with pride. She smiled at the security guards as she showed them her access pass. She strode confidently to the lift. She got out at her floor and went to her desk. “I’m so sorry I’m late.” She smiled briefly and sat at her desk. As she logged on to her computer the others watched her, astounded. They could count on one hand the days that Clara had arrived on time. She had never apologised before.
Clara read her e-mails, responded to the senders and then she turned to Sarah. “Do you think we could have a word?”
Sarah nodded; she was still in shock. They both got up and went to a nearby meeting room.
“Look, this is a bit embarrassing, but I know you don’t really like me,” Clara said.
“Right,” Sarah replied. She felt uncomfortable.
“And I don’t blame you. I’m lazy and late and scatty and I don’t work very hard,” Clara went on humbly. Sarah nearly fainted. “But, well, I want to prove myself. I want to work harder, make more money for the company, and I want to be successful.”
The conviction in Clara’s voice triggered sympathy in Sarah. “What does this have to do with me? I’m pleased, but what can I do?” Sarah asked.
“I was hoping you could point me in the right direction.” Clara opened her notebook and took the lid off her Mont Blanc pen. “Would you mind terribly helping me a little?” She smiled sweetly.
Sarah sat down. “No, of course not, fire away.” For the first time since Clara had started working on the desk, maybe she was being serious, she thought.
“First, when you arrive in the morning, what exactly do you do?”
Sarah realised then that the bit of help Clara wanted was not going to take five minutes. “Look, Clara, let’s be honest. You don’t know the first thing about being a salesperson. You call clients, you have lunch, but that’s it. If they give you an order, Toby or Francine handles it for you. If they ask how the markets are you just say, “Fine”, and change the subject. If you’re serious about this, and you had better be serious, you’ll have to learn an awful lot in a very short time.”
Clara took a deep breath. She had to learn – she had to prove herself— and she needed to be taken-seriously.
“I am serious.” They stared at each other for a short while. Clara thought that Sarah was the ultimate professional. She was a lot older than Clara, about forty, she guessed. She had curly brown hair, which always looked neat. She always looked immaculate. She was married, and she kept photos of two children on her desk. Once Toby had told her that Sarah had been with the firm for ages, and although she hadn’t reached management, she was respected as a salesperson. Clara could understand her initial hostility, but was grateful for her professionalism and kind heart.
“Fine. You sit with me today. I’ll go through everything with you. After that you’re on your own, but I’ll be there to help.” Sarah smiled. All of a sudden she felt motherly: Clara was obviously lost, and although she didn’t have any respect for the girl, she felt an overwhelming desire to help. She couldn’t work out what had brought about this transformation in Clara. Perhaps Tim had threatened her with dismissal or demotion.
They left the meeting room like old friends. Sarah instructed Toby to take over any queries from Clara’s clients, grabbed Clara’s chair and pulled it up to her desk. A few raised eyebrows and questioning glances passed, but the rest of the desk was too busy to take much notice.
“Let’s start with the mornings. Every morning you call your clients and tell them what the markets are doing. You prioritise your clients in order of importance and call the biggest first. OK?” Sarah was responding to e-mails, looking at screens and talking to Clara all at the same time.
Clara felt dizzy. “Could we possibly just take a step back? How do I know what the markets are doing?”
Sarah felt like tearing her hair out. “We have a meeting every day at seven, just a ten-minute rundown from the research people, which we take notes on. You didn’t know about these meetings?”
“Not really, but I’m never here at that time. The one morning I did get in early this week, I didn’t realise that when you all disappeared you’d gone to a meeting. I thought you’d just gone to breakfast or something.”
“How long have you worked here? Never mind. Anyway, you get in at seven, go to this meeting, take notes, then call your clients and give them a market run-down – it might prompt more orders. Clients like to know what’s going on. Whenever anything of note is happening that affects our markets, it’s our job to inform our clients. OK?”
“Yes, that makes sense. Should I prioritise my clients now?”
“Sure.”
As Clara worked on her client list, Sarah studied the markets. When Clara had finished, Sarah began to explain how she used the screens to look at prices, trends and markets. She taught Clara how to get the most up-to-date news, how to use the sales system and how to book client orders.
Clara listened intently, and realised that it wasn’t as baffling as she had thought. She had spent her life suffering from number phobia – as soon as she saw a number her mind w
ent blank. Now she realised that figures weren’t the evil bastards she had thought they were, and everything was starting to make sense to her.
They worked through lunch, getting the desk assistant to fetch them sandwiches. Sarah gave Clara research, reports and magazines to study. She put them in a pile to take home. Then they moved on to the client orders. Clara listened as Sarah spoke to clients, took orders, wrote tickets, shouted to traders, got confirmations, gave confirmations. Although this was stressful, and sometimes it seemed that the traders messed up, there was a methodical pattern, which Clara filed in her brain as well as taking notes.
Then Sarah gave her the opportunity to take an order herself. Clara spoke to the client, took the order, double-checked that the numbers were correct, shouted the order across, filled in a ticket, and ten minutes later called the client to tell him the order had been successfully filled. The buzz that Clara felt when she put the phone down was immense.
Sarah smiled at her. “There’s hope for you yet.”
Clara had been so caught up in her new-found enthusiasm that she hadn’t noticed Tim return to the office. He watched her, puzzled that she and Sarah seemed so chummy, especially as the other day Sarah had made plain her feelings about Clara. He had brought Clara perfume and chocolates – he had even been to his favourite underwear shop and purchased some sexy lingerie. He was looking forward to the evening when he would see her in it. He had told his wife that he would not be back until late. She would probably be so busy with the children and homework that she wouldn’t even notice what time he got home. Even if she did question him, Tim would tell her that he had been with clients. As Constance liked the money his position gave them, she would never push further. Tim smiled to himself as he realised how well he had organised his life.
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