by Maeve Haran
‘You don’t know Conrad like I know Conrad.’
She winced, remembering the opening ceremony of Metro’s stylish new offices the day before yesterday. Somehow or other Conrad had persuaded the Duchess of York to do the honours. Fergie had turned up in one of her fashion disasters, a low-cut peasant number which should have stayed on the upper reaches of Mont Blanc where it belonged. Conrad had spent most of the ceremony peering down her cleavage and she was barely out of earshot when he’d whispered loudly to his deputy: ‘Did you see the tits on the Duchess? Lucky royal brats!’
Conrad would never appoint a woman to run Metro.
‘But I’m an ideas person, not a tough exec.’ Liz tried to gulp her coffee and stop Jamie wiping his nose on his school uniform. ‘I don’t have the killer instinct.’
‘You don’t push hard enough, that’s all.’ Liz could hear the exasperation in his voice. He was so different from her. So sure of himself. Thirty-five and already editor of the Daily News, Logan Greene’s blue-eyed boy, heir apparent to the whole Greene empire. Occasionally, judging David by his boyish good looks, people underestimated him. Invariably they regretted it.
But then David had always known what he wanted. To get on. To get out of Yorkshire and away from his parents’ council house. To succeed. And he had. Even beyond his wildest dreams. And he couldn’t understand her reluctance to do the same.
Looking at his watch he stood up. ‘It’s the caring sharing nineties remember. Killer instincts are out. We’re all supposed to respect the feminine now. Intuition. Sensitivity.’
‘Bullshit. Try telling Conrad that.’
He leaned over and kissed her teasingly. ‘No. You try telling him.’
Liz wiped the cereal out of Daisy’s hair and, fending off the sticky hands that lunged for her suit, kissed the tender nape of her neck. Reluctantly she handed her over to Susie, the nanny, and tried to persuade Jamie to let go of her leg so that she could check her briefcase. As usual he wailed and clung like a limpet.
On the way out she glanced at herself briefly in the hall mirror. She wasn’t too bad for thirty-six. She could do with losing a bit of weight, but at least it meant she didn’t have any lines. Thank God she’d had a decent haircut last week which dragged her if not exactly into the nineties, then at least out of the seventies. And the smoky jade eyeshadow the hairdresser had persuaded her to try gave her eyes a sensual oriental look she was quite taken with. People said brunettes kept their looks longer. Well, brunettes said brunettes kept their looks longer anyway.
Looking at her watch, Liz felt a brief but familiar blast of panic: she was going to be late for the meeting with Conrad, the Hoover needed servicing and she’d just remembered that Susie wanted the car today. What had David called her? The classic nineties woman? Ha bloody ha.
There were, as usual, only two women at the weekly ideas meeting: Liz and Claudia Jones, Metro’s Head of Entertainment. Having raced across London and run up three flights of stairs when she found the lift was full, Liz arrived out of breath and tense. Fortunately Andrew Stone, Metro’s Head of News, was late as well so she managed to slip in and sit down without looking too obvious.
It meant doing without the coffee she would have killed for, but at least Claudia couldn’t cast one of her usual withering glances at the clock. Chic, single and childless, Claudia turned Putting the Job First into a religion.
Glancing across the vast boardroom table at Claudia, Liz couldn’t decide what she disliked about her most: the way she always looked as though she’d stepped out of Harvey Nichols’s window, her blatant use of being female to get what she wanted or her complete lack of talent.
Claudia was the kind of person who kidnapped other people’s ideas and took the credit for them. She loved being a woman in a man’s world and wanted as few others as possible to be allowed to join the club. And Liz had a shrewd idea that included her.
There was also a rumour going round Metro that Claudia had the ear of Conrad Marks. And from time to time, so the gossips said, the rest of his body too.
‘Nice suit,’ Claudia congratulated her. Liz looked at her in surprise. Friendliness wasn’t Claudia’s style. ‘Armani, isn’t it?’
Every eye in the room looked Liz up and down with interest.
Claudia smiled unexpectedly. ‘Pity about the back.’
Liz looked down horrified. Over the back of one shoulder, like some lurid post-punk jewellery, was half the contents of Daisy’s breakfast.
In the Ladies there was nothing to wipe it off with. Toilet paper would disintegrate and cover the black suit with bits of tissue, and the roller towel was too short to reach. With a sudden inspiration she delved into her wallet and retrieved her American Express Card. That would do nicely.
By the time Liz got back into the boardroom Conrad had arrived. She slipped into her seat hoping he wouldn’t notice. Some hope.
‘I was just saying, Liz’ – he didn’t even bother to look in her direction – ‘that no doubt you’re all wondering who’s on my shortlist for Programme Controller. There are two candidates, both internal. I assume you’d like to know who they are?’ He looked round the room savouring the anxiety on their faces. ‘The first is Andrew Stone.’ There was a buzz of muted approval at the mention of the popular though disorganized Head of News. ‘And the other is’ – he grinned wolfishly, playing with them, enjoying the tension in the room – ‘Metro’s Head of Entertainment, Claudia Jones.’
Liz felt like a bucket of freezing water had been thrown over her, but it left her mind cool and sharp as a razor. If Claudia got the job that would be the end of Liz. She couldn’t let it happen. She’d have to make a rival bid.
And yet, how could she? Programme Controller was a body-and-soul job, you had to give it everything you had. She had two small children and she saw little enough of them as it was, God knows. If she was running Metro she wouldn’t see them at all.
Maybe Claudia wouldn’t get the job, maybe Conrad would give it to Andrew. She glanced over at Andrew, bumbling and bluff, grinning ridiculously as he gathered up his papers. When he leaned forward she saw that his shirt was only ironed down the front where it showed and remembered that his wife had run off with an ex-colleague and Andrew was having to learn domesticity the hard way.
She saw that Claudia was looking directly at her now, smiling. Of course, she must have known Liz had been passed over. That’s why she’d gone out of her way to humiliate her in front of the whole meeting.
And watching that confident, catlike smile she knew with absolute blazing certainty that Conrad would not give the job to Andrew. He would give it to Claudia.
A month ago, when she’d thrown up her promising job at the BBC to join Metro, it had been to help make it the most exciting network in British television. Challenging. New. Exciting. Different. And what would it be like under Claudia? Cheap. Derivative. Tacky. Predictable.
Liz sat motionless, gripped with panic. The drama over, everyone began to pack up their papers and leave, congratulating Claudia and Andrew as they stood up. The moment was slipping away.
Suddenly Liz heard her own voice, surprisingly calm and controlled, cut through the murmurs of excitement. ‘Since you clearly think a woman Controller would be a good thing, Conrad, I’d like to pitch for the job too.’
The Time of Their Lives
Maeve Haran is an Oxford law graduate, former television producer and mother of three grown-up children. She started her writing career with the international bestseller, Having It All, which explored the dilemmas of balancing career and motherhood. Maeve has written eight further contemporary novels, two historical novels and one work of non-fiction.
Her books have been translated into twenty-six languages, two of which have been shortlisted for the Romantic Novel of the Year award. She lives in North London with her husband, son and a very scruffy Tibetan terrier.
Also by Maeve Haran
Having It All
Scenes from the Sex War
It Takes
Two
A Family Affair
All That She Wants
Soft Touch
Baby Come Back
The Farmer Wants a Wife
Husband Material
The Lady and the Poet
The Painted Lady
Non-Fiction
The Froth on the Cappuccino
First published 2014 by Pan Books
This electronic edition published 2014 by Pan Books
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ISBN 978-1-4472-6820-8
Copyright © Maeve Haran 2014
The right of Maeve Haran to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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