by Sally Graham
And waited.
“What the fuck?”
The restroom was empty except for two girls kissing each other passionately.
One of them was Georgie.
“It didn’t mean anything. I don’t understand why you’re so angry. It was only a bit of fun.”
They argued in the back of the taxi back to the apartment and slept in separate beds.
But in the morning Georgie had gone.
On the small kitchen table was a scrawled note.
“I’m not the one for you, honey. Take care - G x.”
That had been then. Carrie threw herself into her work single-mindedly, and discovered that she achieved more without the distractions of a toxic relationship. If the next eighteen months went as she planned, she knew she was only two signatures away from being offered a partnership.
“Are you okay with the meeting as soon as you get back from New York?”
Carrie glanced at Josie in surprise. “Sure, why not?”
“Well, that week you’ll have met the Phyillp Corp in LA, stopped over in Chicago, and fielded investors from the pharmaceutical company in New York. Won’t you be knackered?” Her PA’s voice suggested that she knew what Carrie’s answer would be.
“Clients pay our salaries, Josie. Times are tough. If I don’t make these meetings, one of our competitors will, sure as hell.”
Josie sighed and turned back to her screen. From the day that Carrie hired her Josie had a crush on her which, she admitted, was pathetic in a twenty-four year old who was going out with a fit Spanish girl who taught pilates, but Carrie was formidably attractive, outstandingly successful and inspired a level of loyalty that Josie was happy to provide.
Josie looked through the glass partition at her boss. At least she had someone to climb into bed with at the end of a sixteen hour day, whereas Carrie?
Josie had once visited Carrie’s duplex apartment in Chelsea when she had to hand-deliver important documents that couldn’t be couriered. She made it past the stony security officer on the ground floor who pointed to a discreet elevator in the corner of the lobby. Once the doors closed silently behind her she realised that the elevator serviced only three apartments. Carrie’s was on the top floor. In moments the doors hummed open and she walked straight into a stunning open plan apartment with views across London’s skyline.
Carrie’s voice called from an open door. “Josie - I’m in here.”
“So this is where the real work gets done?”
Carrie looked up from her Philippe Starck desk. “I have to, with all the stuff you dump on me,” she smiled. “Thanks for coming over with those papers. I can read them on the way to the heliport.” She looked back at her screen, and then, “Sorry - you’ve come from office. Did you take a cab?”
Josie shook her head.
“How many times have I told you? Use the company account. If you do that again, I’ll put in a poor report to HR!”
Josie laughed, but felt a frisson of excitement lap within her at the sudden fantasy of bending over and submitting to Carrie’s punishment which had flashed into her mind. She had discovered that Valentina enjoyed bondage games in their bedroom, but it would be a game changer if Carrie were in charge.
“Let’s have a coffee before you get back.” Carrie led her PA into a stylish, minimalist kitchen, and quickly brewed espressos for them both.
“This is a such a great place,” Josie murmured as she looked across the Thames and thought of her small flat in Putney.
“Yeah, it’s nice,” her boss answered casually. “It’s functional, and everything works. There’s a gym and pool in the basement, so I have pretty much everything.”
But you don’t have someone, Josie thought to herself. The single coat draped over a couch, a lonely pair of strappy shoes kicked under the coffee table, and mail to one addressee stacked by the door made it clear that there was only one occupant in the pristine apartment, and when she nipped into the bathroom before returning to the office, she couldn’t resist flicking open a cabinet. There were expensive toiletries, but it was obvious they were chosen by only one person.
Relaxing in the cab which crawled though the London traffic, Josie wondered about the office stories that swirled around Carrie. Many of them were true: she was one of the highest grossing bankers at Frankle, Masters and Joyce, and almost certainly in line for being made a partner. She had a ferocious work ethic and woe betide you if you delivered less than perfection when you were working on one of her projects. But it was also agreed - and Josie could vouch for the fact - that she was incredibly loyal and generous to her team. Expensive presents at Christmas, bouquets of luxuriant flowers on birthdays, and sudden, unexpected gift tokens to boutique fashion stores, for a job well done.
Looking out at the Embankment, and across to the London Eye silhouetted against the cloudy sky, Josie also reflected on the other rumours. That Carrie was widowed, which was why she kept her private life, private. That she had a love child who was looked after out of town. That she had an Italian lover who headed up a fashion house - which would explain her taste in the latest fashion.
But mostly the gossip that Carrie was seriously gay. I mean, someone said, how else could you explain her?
The taxi pulled up outside FMJ; Josie signed for the cab journey and dashed through the heavy rain, up the steps to the investment company’s heavy glass office doors and swiped her security card before taking the elevator to her offie. It was all crap, she thought. I just want her to be happy.
Chapter 3
“I saw the announcement of your godmother’s death in the paper. I’m so sorry, darling.”
Carrie loved hearing from her oldest friend, even though she had only heard the news herself the day before.
Beanie - born the Honourable Roberta Fitzwilliam - had been her best friend at business school. They had often asked each other why they got on at all. Beanie was straight, and happily married to a graphic designer who was perennially chasing work. If it wasn’t for Beanie’s upmarket parfumier business Carrie wondered how the roof would remain over their heads. Their curly haired two year old, Belle, was Carrie’s goddaughter.
“Do you mean you’re thinking of not going to her funeral? I can’t believe it.” Beanie’s voice was mildly incredulous. “You’ve always told me how important she’s been in your life.”
“I know,” Carrie replied. “It sounds awful, but the funeral couldn’t come at a worse time. I’m knee high in deals, and there’s an important one that everyone is screaming at me to complete.”
“Carrie - listen to me. Sometimes you just have to get some perspective. There’s more to life than career, banking, and deals.”
“How’s Bella?” Carrie asked.
“Don’t change the subject, darling. She sends her love, and I hope she won’t treat her godmother’s funeral with the same shallI/shan’t I uncertainty!”
“That’s not fair!” Carrie replied, frowning.
“I’ll take that as a yes, then.” Beanie paused, then, “Talking of perspective, how’s the love life?”
“You’re my love life,” Carrie joked. “I’ve told you often enough. I’m just not into relationship seeking. Not until I can slack off.”
“How many times do I have to tell you, Carrie? You can’t treat relationships the same way as you treat business deals: pick them up, sort the deal, next. Are you still chasing girls as you always do? You must have quite a reputation by now. Seriously, darling. I’m sure I can find someone.”
“Beanie - we’ve been over this. Your gay girlfriends are all happily sorted. And the straight men you’ve tried to set me up with all fancy me but give me the creeps! I can’t stand their ghastly ‘I-can-show-you-what-real-sex-is-like.’ Ugh!”
Her friend sighed. “Well, it looks like you’re only after sex at the moment so I can’t see that matters too much!”
“I know it sounds strange to a happy, straight, monogamous woman who I would really like to sleep with - ”
&nb
sp; “We sorted that years ago after a particularly drunken evening and the answer is still no, sweetie!”
“How many times have I told you I’m not into relationships right now,” Carrie continued. “Work has to come first. I get my orgasms shrink wrapped over the counter when I go to clubs. No strings attached and with disposable packaging.”
“You are so revolting. I’m not sure I should let my daughter come near you!”
Carrie laughed. “You wait. When she hits the terrible teens you’ll be turning to your best friend for advice!
“I worry about that!” Beanie’s voice changed. “Listen, remember what I said about making time for yourself and someone else, wherever she is. You’ve made enough money. Go forth and find love! Byeeee!”
Carrie smiled at her friend’s infectious optimism and turned back to a company report she was trawling through. “Go forth and find love,” she thought to herself. Beanie always maintained there was more to love than good sex, and they had argued the point more than once over a bottle of Pinot Noir.
“I’m worried about you, Carrie. What are you going to do when you get tired of so-called love that’s limited to what’s between your legs?”
“What do you mean, darling? What could be better?”
Beanie put her glass down and took her best friend’s hand in hers. “I can’t explain it. It’s just that there’s so much more. And you’re missing out. I worry that you go for girls just for sex. And they go for you because of your money.”
“Isn’t that fair?” Carrie asked. “It seems ok to me. Everyone’s happy.” She sipped her wine and smiled at Beanie, who shrugged.
“I can’t explain it. You always out-argue me. But just wait till you find someone who doesn’t fancy you.”
“No one’s resisted me yet, darling. And if they did, I’d just walk away. No hard feelings.”
Carrie shook her head to return to the present and focus on the spreadsheets in front of her. After a few moments she got up and walked across to the window and stared across the City.
She decided that she would go to her godmother’s funeral. If she got up early she would be able to sort out overnight emails. And to hell with what her boss thought.
Chapter 4
“And so we commend the body of our beloved sister, Hazel, to the grace of God and light everlasting.”
There was a murmur from the congregation. The vicar nodded to the undertakers who stepped forward and lifted the dark polished oak coffin on to their shoulders and turned to walk carefully down the aisle towards the church door.
Carrie had arrived late. It had not been easy taking time out of the project at work and she had to get up at four that morning to check emails and feed back her comments. Her team were behind schedule and she knew that her decision to be absent for a critical client meeting would not go unnoticed.
“I appreciate that it’s a family bereavement,” snapped Marc Delaney, “But you know - even when it’s personal - we at the bank have to put our clients first.”
He leaned back in his chrome and black Scandinavian leather chair, and glanced out of the wall to floor window from his thirty-fourth floor office across London’s financial heartland, lit mesmerically by the setting sun. “You must know that you’re in line for significant recognition by the bank. It would not be good to, shall we say, tarnish your reputation at this stage, would it?”
Carrie nodded dutifully, inwardly despising the weasel faced banker and his fake sincerity: didn’t he realise that the last thing she wanted to do was to spend time away from the office and not be present for the pitch to win the multi-million account that she had been working on for weeks?
She had been shocked when she’d heard that Hazel had died in her nursing home, and torn between simply sending flowers or attending in person. Did she really have to go to the funeral? But she had been so close to her godmother who had stepped in when her parents were killed in the car crash and who had always been a support to Carrie when she was fighting her way up the male-dominated corporate ladder.
“Sure, Marc. But it’s the first time I have taken time out. And I can be contacted at any time, of course.”
He swivelled back to face her, a thin smile crossing his smooth features as though he had won a match point.
“Well then, Carrie, have a nice day.”
Josie looked up in surprise when Carrie rushed out of her office. “I’ll be out all day tomorrow. Call or email, but where I’m going the reception could be crap. I want to know the outcome of the pitch meeting immediately, ok?”
“Sure, of course, but - ?”
“Funeral. Have to rush. West country. Back of beyond.” And she was gone.
“Will we make a nine-thirty train?” Carrie asked the cab driver anxiously as they crawled through the London traffic.
“Have you got a ticket?”
She shook her head into his rear view mirror.
“I’ll do my best, lady,” was the tired reply.
But the barrier was closed and her train pulling away, gathering speed as Carrie ran across the concourse. Damn and damn. Do I really need to be there?
The funeral service had already begun when the local taxi dropped her at the wooden gate of a pretty sandstone parish church. Carrie pushed open the heavy wooden door and smiled gratefully to a stooping verger who handed her a service sheet. Hoping that her her arrival wouldn’t be noticed by too many of the congregation who were singing the opening hymn, she slipped down a side aisle and tried to put the hassle of her journey behind her, suddenly aware of the peace and restfulness of her surroundings.
Carrie looked around and was aware of a vague sense of regret when she realised how long it was since she had been in a church. A cousin’s wedding? The carol service in Norfolk where she had spent Christmas with friends?
She breathed in the faint scent of candle wax, lingering incense, hymn books and damp. She found her attention wandering during the service: the sweet scent of the bouquets was spreading through the nave; one of the tall candles was guttering, adding to the aroma of beeswax; specks of dust were swirling gently in the shaft of sunlight that cut across the muted light inside the fourteenth century vaulted Somerset church.
She looked at the plain coffin with the bouquet of white lilies resting on top and felt a pang of sadness. Carrie knew her godmother had been frail, but hadn’t realised how ill she was, and was still shocked at her sudden decline when she had last seen her.
It could only have been a few months since she visited the nursing home and come away inspired by Hazel’s robust common sense and intuitive understanding of her favourite goddaughter.
“You’ll find the right person my dear. Goodness knows, in my day we all jumped into wedlock far too quickly. Your generation have got it right - take your time.” Carrie smiled at the godmother, and was struck by her beauty. Even though she was frail, her startlingly blue eyes looked at Carrie with a frankness that must have entranced many hopeful men in years gone by; her flawless cheekbones and luminous skin were still mesmerising.
Hazel put down her tea-cup and looked at Carrie intently. “What happened to that South African girl you brought to see me some time ago? She seemed very pleasant. Georgie, wasn’t it? I wondered if you were asking me to vet her?”
Carrie blushed and was about to deflect her godmother’s shrewd questioning, but Hazel chuckled and pushed the plate of scones towards her. “I’d have given you a straight answer,” she went on. “All those years looking at petty criminals when I worked in the Magistrate’s Court taught me a thing or two!”
Georgie had moved out eighteen months ago of course, Carrie thought wryly as she listened to a short reading. The peace and beauty of the small parish church was unexpected, and it gave her space to think about her life other than the next mega-deal to be brokered for clients .
She was brought back to the present by a movement at the communion rail as the vicar edged past the coffin to lead the pall bearers out of the church.
The
congregation stood as organ music accompanied the coffin’s slow procession down the nave. As it passed each pew relatives and friends left their places and followed it slowly. Carrie’s thoughts were interrupted by a polite tap on her arm and the shy raised eyebrows of an elderly couple asking if they could move past her.
She nodded quickly, picked up her black purse and stood back to let them squeeze by. Then she left her place and followed the rest of the mourners out of the church into the crisp fresh air.
White March snowdrops dotted around the graveyard contrasted with the funereal black everyone was wearing. Here and there the bright spring sunlight glistered off jewellery. A blackbird hopped around a dark yew tree. Some graves had bunches of flowers that must have been laid recently: the colours still vibrant, contrasting with the withered plants that were waiting to be removed.
Ahead of her, the vicar’s stiffly starched white surplice ruffled in the breeze as he led the cortege to the freshly dug grave at the edge of the churchyard by a low stone wall, past lichen covered head stones whose lettering had long become indecipherable.
Standing towards the back of the mourners, Carrie listened as the time honoured words of committal rang across the graveyard, the simple plain words from the Book of Common Prayer calling everyone’s thoughts to the peaceful conclusion to the service.
A few moments later the coffin was lowered gently, mourners were invited to scatter some earth into the grave and Hazel Buchanan was laid to rest in the Somerset village where she had spent the last years of her life. Carrie wondered if her godmother had missed Scotland where she had lived for so many years.
Inevitably, people began to scatter into small groups, rekindling lost friendships or commiserating over the loss of an old friend. There was an easing of tension now that the funeral was over: quiet laughter as memories were shared, the shy recollection of long forgotten friends as people shook hands nervously, not certain that their memory was correct, before their faces lit up with the delight of recognition.