‘I’m a secretary.’
‘Cool.’ He’s the only guy I’ve told what I do for a living who hasn’t immediately said, ‘I can’t believe you’re only a secretary,’ or some other dumb thing that suggests being a secretary is not a proper job.
‘Who do you work for then?’ He’s also the only guy who’s actually bothered to ask where I work, once I’ve told him I’m a secretary.
‘A man called Roger Harris.’
‘What does he do?’
‘He edits The Voice?’
‘The Voice is great! It’s so free of bullshit, and it’s got The Dish, hasn’t it?’
‘This view!’ I say, putting my fork down and fixing my eyes to the far distance. ‘Is that the Olympic Stadium?’
‘So do you know the guy who does it?’
‘Does what?’
‘The Dish. He always nails a place so perfectly.’
‘You like him?’
‘Love him.’
‘But you just said you didn’t care what critics write?’ I say, picking up my fork again.
‘He’s different. He doesn’t write about himself, there’s no ego. He sticks to the point: you get a knife-sharp view of what he ate, the ambience, the staff. You’re right there at the table with him.’
‘This bacon is amazing, isn’t it?’
‘Nowadays everyone’s a critic – but your guy is properly insightful – and funny. And he’s never vicious for the sake of a cheap laugh.’
‘The bourbon glaze on the bacon . . . I love bourbon almost as much as I love bacon.’
‘Yeah, me too. So what’s he like to work for, this Roger?’
Thank God, safer ground! ‘There’s a line in an old Barbara Stanwyck film – she says all she wants is a man “to fight off the blizzards and the floods”. And that’s how I think of Roger. He’s charming but sincere. Brave. And ballsy. A total hero.’
‘Nothing like my bosses,’ he says, cutting into the sourdough, then adding a bite of sausage, some egg and a snippet of scone to the fork. ‘They’re absolute . . .’
‘You do what I do,’ I say. ‘You try to get an equal bit of everything into each mouthful.’
‘A nightmare with roast dinners.’
‘The peas always fall off at the last moment.’
‘Doesn’t everyone do that?’
‘My flatmate doesn’t, she never “cross contaminates”.’
‘That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard,’ he says.
‘She tried to throw away my toaster when I moved in – she’s scared of bread . . .’
‘I thought being scared of clowns was weird.’
‘Clowns are terrifying; scared of buttons is the weirdest.’
‘You’ve obviously never been alone in a dark alley with a sewing kit.’
‘She was slightly chubby as a teenager so now she won’t allow bread in the flat. No bread, no bread-enablers . . .’
He shakes his head in confusion. ‘Lunatic!’
‘Oh she’s fine, really – she’s out loads. And her dog’s adorable, when she’s not pooing in the kitchen. The antidepressants disagree with her.’
‘The dog’s on Prozac?’
‘You would be too, if you were forced to wear a leopard print onesie in public.’
‘She sounds crackers . . . ooh, can I say crackers or do they count as bread? Sorry, terrible joke . . .’ he says, his cheeks turning pink.
‘Honestly, I quite like Amber, we’re just different. My room literally was her walk-in shoe cupboard, but then my salary’s pretty compact too – and it means I can afford to have a job I love that doesn’t pay six figures.’
‘Most people are stuck in jobs they don’t like because of their mortgage,’ he says, wistfully.
‘I used to have a mortgage,’ I say. ‘Up in Manchester . . . And a husband . . .’ There it is.
‘Oh right.’ He nods. Hurrah, hurrah! A gold star for you Adam! Unfazed I’m a secretary, interested in where I work and not bothered by the fact I have a failed marriage.
‘You’re not from Manchester though?’
‘Muswell Hill, near Ally Pally – over the other side,’ I say, looking down on to the curve of the Thames.
‘Let’s go see,’ he says, standing and heading to the bar. I check my watch with a twinge of sadness, 8.28 a.m. ‘I should pay.’
‘Don’t worry, Olly knows we’re not doing a runner.’
‘I’ll see you there.’ I need a make-up re-touch. In the ladies’ the face in the mirror frowns back at me. Why do people moan about bad hair days? What about bad face days? This Boots Instant Radiance balm may help, if only psychologically. I do a quick primp and head back out.
Adam’s standing looking down at the view. ‘Prettier close up than from a distance,’ he says turning and smiling.
‘Me? You’re joking,’ I say, caught off guard by the compliment – well, half compliment. Bloody hell, though, that Boots cream is totally as good as Clarins!
‘I meant the Gherkin,’ he says, laughing. ‘You’re pretty either way.’
I turn to the window so he can’t see me beaming.
‘This building is about two hundred and thirty metres,’ he says, then points to The Needle. ‘That one’s mine; it’s two hundred metres but only because they stuck a spire on top for extra height, so they could be seventh tallest.’
‘Urgh, some egomaniac property guy cares enough to compete to be seventh? It’s pathetic. Skyscrapers – just boys and their willies at the end of the day.’
He laughs. ‘Maybe I should get them to rename it The Dick – the place is full of them.’ He sighs and turns to me. ‘What’s your office like?’
‘It’s lovely, it’s an old Victorian warehouse. We have half the building, and a TV company has the top floors. Every so often you’ll smile at someone in reception you vaguely recognise; it’s only once you get to your desk you realise they were actually the knobhead from last season’s The Apprentice.’
‘Come ride the lift and show me,’ he says, a twinkle in his eye.
‘You’ll never see it.’
‘Come anyway, they’re so much fun.’
We race to the lifts like a pair of fourteen year olds bunking double physics, and step in, standing side by side, arms touching. I press the ground floor and down we fall, oohing and aahing at the speed and the view and the sheer sensation of it all. We ride down and up and down again seven times before he looks at his watch and panics.
‘Laura, I’m so sorry, I have to be at The Needle in . . . minus ten minutes.’
‘Of course,’ I say, though my heart continues to descend even as the lift slows to a halt. We walk together out to the street and I feel an overwhelming desire to follow him all the way to work – I want to keep talking to him, I need more than one hour . . .
We say a brief goodbye before he dashes twenty metres down the road and unlocks his bike. He looks over his shoulder and I give a little wave, but instead of returning it he checks his watch, then looks back in my direction. For a moment he hesitates. And then he turns his bike around and quickly pedals on the wrong side of the road back towards me, coming to a stop beside me as I feel my heart rise again, up and up and up.
‘What’s wrong?’ I say, as he leans forward, one foot resting on the pavement.
‘I can’t believe I was in such a rush, I forgot,’ he says, looking sheepish. ‘I’m an idiot.’
‘Adam – the bill’s on me.’
‘I took care of that already.’
‘Oh, you shouldn’t have . . .’
He shrugs unapologetically. His eyes lock on mine and I have to force myself to breathe out.
‘Well . . . then . . . Why did you come back? What did you forget?’
‘I forgot to do this,’ he says.
And he pulls me gently towards him.
And kisses me.
10
‘Parker, what are you up to?’
Sitting at my desk, replaying that kiss. That was a good kiss, a properl
y good kiss.
‘Roger – I’m sitting at my desk, changing your Eurostar tickets, and if you took ten whole steps from your desk, you’d see that for yourself. What is the point of wearing a pedometer if you’re not going to move?’
‘It has a jolly nice little digital clock on it.’
‘How many steps have you done this week?’
‘No idea . . .’
‘Let me log in for you . . .’
‘Don’t bother . . .’
‘You told me to keep on top of it . . . six thousand, three hundred and four! You’re about four thousand short already.’
‘Six thousand, three hundred and four? Sounds rather a lot to me.’
‘Roger – I’m going to stop ordering cabs to take you to lunch . . .’
‘Well, you’ll have to do the steps for me today, I’m afraid.’
‘What’s wrong?’ I walk into his office and nearly fall flat on my face over a golf bag. I haul it off the floor and drag it to a sliver of space in the corner.
‘So? How was it?’ he says. ‘Nice dress by the way, very South Pacific.’
‘The date? Oh,’ I say, flopping down in the chair opposite him. ‘It was a bad idea.’
‘Was he different to how you remembered him? Did he look like the Elephant Man?’
‘Worse – a bit like Paul Newman, those beautiful pale blue eyes but a slightly less perfect nose.’
‘I can see why you’re so upset. Oh come on, Laura – stop this nonsense, you’re being neurotic. You have my blessing.’
Maybe Roger’s right and I’m worrying about nothing . . . I was just doing my job . . . still, I fear it may all end in tears.
‘Is that March’s issue?’ I say, noticing a copy of the magazine in front of him.
‘Checking the type on the classifieds – I woke in the middle of the night with palpitations about the overlap –’
‘They’re fine, I already checked. Have you taken your meds today?’
He waves his hand at a stack of papers on his desk. ‘I took whatever was in Tuesday’s slot.’
‘But it’s Thursday!’ I say, scrabbling under the pile to find his pill box. Monday to Thursday’s compartments are now empty, the rest of the week’s days still have a little pink statin and a red and white anti-hypertensive, nestling side by side. ‘Roger, I do not appreciate you winding me up about things like that.’
‘And I do not appreciate you treating me like a child, I am capable of taking my medication. Anyway – as I was saying, just checking they hadn’t ballsed up again but panic over.’
‘Do you want me to keep Print Tender on the agenda for tomorrow?’
He scratches behind his ear. ‘Two cock-ups in nine months . . . Sandra will want to hang them out to dry. Still, I’m a firm believer in learning from one’s mistakes, aren’t you?’
I cross it off the list.
He flicks to my column and nods approvingly.
‘Have you thought any more about Second Helpings?’ I say.
‘Show me something next month, this month’s too busy; and have you decided about the New York Times?’
I was hoping he wouldn’t ask.
‘I’ll hold them off for now,’ he says, ‘but I think you’re being paranoid. Oh, and one more thing?’
‘Yes, Roger?’
‘Could I trouble you for a cup of March’s finest? What’s on the menu this month?’
‘Are you taking the piss again?’
‘Absolutely not! You know I love that stuff.’
‘OK then . . . March’s blend is a mix of Brazilian and Bolivian, a rich, sweet base, with ten per cent Mexican which gives it an earthiness, and a smidge of Ethiopian for a fruity note.’
‘And what are the farmers’ names?’
‘Roger . . .’
‘And will it taste exactly the same as last month’s?’
‘Roger!’
‘I’m only joking, I think it’s terrific. Three sugars and cream please and don’t try slipping me sweetener.’
When I left Bean To Cup, Doug, my old boss, bought me an AeroPress coffee maker – £20, a brilliant piece of kit – and every month for that first year he sent me down a kilo of freshly roasted beans. He knew I was struggling and he didn’t want me to be without good coffee. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I’d lucked upon Fabrizio’s so I brought Doug’s blends in for the team here – there were only twelve of us back then. And I brought in the AeroPress. And because the AeroPress looks a bit like a bong I did a five-minute all-staff meeting on how to use it. And then I figured I might as well do a mini-cupping session with tasting notes – to give the team an overview of flavour profiles.
Everyone was slightly awkward at first, because the noise you make when you’re tasting properly is a weird slurpy, sucking noise as the air hits the back of your throat. But Roger embraced it, and soon everyone else was getting into it, saying they could taste smokiness, and red fruits and of course Azeem – ever the joker – swore he could . . . why, he could actually taste coffee! Roger said anyone who could taste ‘butterscotch and green bananas’ in this brown liquid must have more taste buds than a catfish. (I googled catfish – quite disgusting, one site called them ‘swimming tongues’.) We had such a laugh that day so Roger decided to allocate a budget for Doug’s monthly blend. It wasn’t like I was getting commission – I just wanted the guys to have better quality coffee. Little treats can make a disproportionate difference to one’s happiness – a fact I was beginning to appreciate.
Everyone seemed very enthusiastic. Everyone except for one individual who didn’t understand what all the fuss was about and didn’t think there was anything special about it and doesn’t it make a mess and what’s wrong with Gold Blend? I tried explaining freeze drying is about as delicious as any other hugely chemical, industrial process but she wasn’t having any of it. She still sighs every time she walks into the kitchen and finds me using the AeroPress. Maybe that’s why I feel quite so motivated to make five cups a day . . .
As the water’s boiling my mind drifts back to earlier with Adam. When we were riding up and down in that lift, in the beginning I still felt the nerves you feel when you’re in a small enclosed space for the first time with someone you have a crush on: that acute awareness of where your bodies are in relation to each other at all times. But the self-consciousness quickly faded as we gazed out of the window. Pretty soon I felt like a kid on the best private fairground ride ever. And that first time St Paul’s came into view on our left, Adam said it looked like it was rising up from the past, and the ridiculous thing is I hadn’t even noticed St Paul’s when I’d ridden up on my own, I’d been so nervous. But suddenly, halfway up our ascent there it was and it was spectacular; hidden one moment, resplendent the next. And each time we rode up, even though I knew it was coming, its beauty took me by surprise.
Tom wouldn’t have ridden up and down in that lift with me seven times. He wouldn’t have done it twice, he’d have said it was dumb and boring and childish. And Russell would have tried to pull my skirt up to show the City my knickers. But with Adam, every up and down was its own little adventure.
This time next month I’ll be standing here making coffee with this same kettle, this same coffee maker. This time next month I’m pretty sure Adam will be out of the picture but if by some miracle he is still around on publication day he won’t be in the mood for riding up and down in any lifts with me. This time next month, the only thing that’s certain is that things will not feel as exciting and as hopeful as they feel today.
So I should not allow my mind to linger on a memory of skylines and laughter and kissing in the street, because such moments in life – moments of pure joy and undiluted happiness – are fleeting.
11
‘First things first,’ says Roger, walking into our conference meeting on Friday morning with his files wedged under one armpit, and carrying two large brown paper bags with grease marks seeping round the bottom. ‘I’ve got six bacon, and six sausage and egg,
don’t look at me like that, Laura, grapes are not sustenance for grown men.’
‘Nor women,’ says Kiki, taking the platter of fruit I’ve artfully arranged, sliding the grapes, apples and bananas off and replacing them with a pyramid of white, salty rolls. The ad boys descend like they’ve been on hunger strike, Heather, our lawyer, holds back for twenty seconds, and Azeem tries, and fails, to negotiate with Jonesy to swap his bacon roll for sausage.
‘Right, last month’s issue, cracking job, well done,’ says Roger, plonking his files on the table and rolling up his sleeves. ‘Mick, what are copy sales looking like?
‘Looking at hitting a hundred and twenty-one thousand, three up on the month, with returns on target.’
‘Distribution?’
‘PrintPro were late into depot, but they gave us fair warning and we made up the time in transit.’
‘Hang on just one minute,’ says Sandra, bringing the agenda closer to her nose. ‘I don’t see Print Tender on here, Laura, why isn’t it on here?’
‘I told her not to,’ says Roger, skimming down the list. ‘Right, Jonesy – ad revenues, what are the scores on the doors?’
‘But after February’s issue I thought—’
‘PrintPro messed up, they won’t do it again. Jonesy, numbers?’
Jonesy’s face scrunches up in an attempt to look thoughtful. Jonesy is the perfect foil to Roger – he’s lazy, has no ethics or morals and is entirely untroubled by doing the right thing. However, he lets his clients win at golf without looking like he’s throwing his game, and remembers all their kids’ names – hence he makes the perfect Commercial Director. ‘Yep,’ he says, tipping back in his chair and passing a hand over his shaved head. ‘Storming month – March closed on eighty-seven k.’
‘Hmm. And if I recall Feb closed on ninety-two k?’
Jonesy is not stupid, yet he still falls for Roger’s chaotic act, thus continually underestimating Roger’s ability to sniff out the truth whenever there is bullshit in the air.
Roger pauses – then flicks to a small slip of paper in the back of his files. ‘Well Jonesy, it’s reassuring to know that even though our sales are down, your expenses are up . . .’
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