by Anna Premoli
“Ouch—”
Vera knows all about the feud that's been going on for years between me and Ian – she's spent whole evenings listening to me moan about him and knows practically every detail of our now–famous quarrels.
I think she even warns all the new interns that it's probably not a great idea to get too close to us.
Her theory is that at the base of our animosity there's a kind of class struggle, but to be honest, I just think he's a massive idiot and that the difference in social class has nothing much to do with it. His being from the gentry has nothing to do with the fact that he's a conceited, puffed-up cretin.
“Yeah, you can say that again. Ouch—”
“That bad?” she asks fearfully.
“God, it was worse than that bad. But you know me, always on the ball, so I managed to pull it off. I have to admit, though – Ian wasn't too painful, and he kept strangely quiet.”
“Well that's good, isn't it?” asks Vera.
“Hmmm. I'm not convinced. If it had been anyone else, maybe… but Ian's not to be trusted. I've got the feeling that the only reason he didn't stick the knife in today is because he's got something even more diabolical in mind.”
Vera laughs. “Has anybody ever told you you're paranoid, love?”
“Of course I am – I'm a tax lawyer, I have to be.”
Vera is still chuckling when I see Colin walking past my desk and beckoning me to follow him.
“Got to go, gorgeous,” I tell Vera, “the big boss wants to see me. Cross your fingers for me.”
“Will do!”
“See you later.”
*
I walk straight over to Colin, who's standing in front of the coffee machine.
“Skin of your teeth today,” says the boss, in a voice that is more admiring than reproachful.
“I know, Colin. Listen, I hope you don't think that I don't realise how lucky I was there. It was a mistake – the kind that I have no intention of committing again.”
Colin puts two coins into the machine and quickly presses some buttons, and a few moments later hands me a hot coffee. I taste it – it's very sweet.
“Extra sugar?” I ask.
“You're… going to need it,” he says, sounding mysterious.
“So I should probably sit down.”
“Oh, you're a tough cookie – I'm sure you'll manage without additional support,” he says, with a wink.
“Come on, Colin, you know I'm good at handling bad news,” I say, stoically. I'm actually starting to get an idea about where he's going with this, and I don't like it at all.
“And you, Jenny, know very well what the bad news is, or you wouldn't have a face on you like a cat sucking a lemon while you drink the sweetest cup of coffee of your life.”
I have a very wise boss, apparently.
“I know what it's about, but I'm not going to save you from the embarrassment of having to say it.”
“God, you're a nasty piece of work… Right, well, if you really don't want to make it easy for me, I'll tell you – Lord Beverly is insisting on having both you and Ian looking after him.”
“Ah—”
That's all I can say. Unfortunately, I'd sensed the vibrations.
“It is obvious that our customer doesn't know about your past difficulties, and frankly, I'd rather he never finds out,” he continues.
“Listen, Colin,” I say, seriously, “you know that I never shirk my responsibilities. I understand that I screwed up and that somehow I have to pay for it, but this… This is too much. Lord Beverly might not know what happened, but you do. You know what the risks are.”
Colin nervously stirs his coffee and looks at me. “It's been four years, Jenny. I was hoping that two intelligent, mature people might have overcome their differences in the meantime.”
“Yes, we might, if Ian was even remotely intelligent or mature. But at the moment he still seems to be lacking both the necessary features.”
I say it with an angelic expression on my face – a bit mischievous, perhaps, but angelic.
There's a certain nervousness in Colin's eyes. “Jenny—” he starts.
But I don't let him finish, because I know what he's going to say. “You're right, I messed up today and now I have to suffer the consequences.”
Colin changes tactic. “Look at it like this. You're paying for a mistake that you made yourself, but Ian… well, he didn't choose to get himself involved in this situation. He's probably not jumping for joy right now either.”
Put like that, things look a little bit less grim. After all, who am I to deny Ian the immense joy of having to work with me?
“Does he already know?” I ask, with new-found energy. Never underestimate the beneficial effects of making life difficult for others.
Colin smiles resignedly. “Nice to see that the old tricks still work. You two are like a couple of schoolkids, Jenny,” he scolds, good-naturedly.
“Excuse me – seeing as I'm two years older, it's him who's the kid.”
“Oh, of course, yes – the famous two-year difference—”
“The fundamental two-year difference,” I remind him, suddenly extremely serious.
The truth is that it was that two-year difference that started all this in the first place: five years ago, when the bosses set up the first tax team containing both economists and lawyers, they were forced to make a difficult and uncomfortable choice – who was going to be put in charge?
I was twenty-eight and my career was moving along incredibly rapidly and successfully, and Ian was twenty-six and still a recent acquisition. There were already stories about him going around, though – how he was a brilliant economist and how his customers hung on his every word.
Anyway, after studying the various candidates, the bank had to choose which of us to appoint, and each of us was expecting to get the job.
It was a tough call to make, so in the end the bosses, unable to choose, eventually selected the older person – me. We were told that they needed someone with a minimum of 'seniority'.
In my heart I knew that it was just a pretext and that I was fully entitled to the position. Being in charge of a team is not just about being the best – even though I undoubtedly am – but also about knowing how to guide and encourage the group. And as far as I'm concerned, Ian has only ever known only to guide and encourage himself.
He took it so badly that at first we all assumed he'd just give in his notice and go somewhere else, but instead he adopted a much more subtle strategy. He decided to stay, and to dedicate himself to a single goal: making my life difficult.
He kept his hostility well disguised for the first few months, but things gradually turned into an all-out war, and our team meetings became legendary and interminable.
If I said A, he said B, if I said white, he said black, and so on – with a vengeance.
After a whole year of no holds barred fighting, things reached breaking point. In the beginning, I'd tried to ignore his provocation and carry on regardless, but after the umpteenth dirty trick – this time trying to discredit me in front of a customer – I lost it. We had a showdown in his office. I told him exactly what I thought of him, he called me every name under the sun, and… well, it ended badly. All the anger that had been building up in me after a year of bickering exploded, and I ended up giving him a punch in the face. A good one, too, apparently, because Ian ended up with a broken nose and the doctor gave me a week off work for my hand.
Before that, I'd never hurt a fly.
The incident caused a stir and to try and save face, the company wisely decided that we should never work together again. We were each given our own team, and at that point the war became a professional one. And in fact, each of our groups obtained extraordinary results from trying to outdo the other, because it had become a battle to see who would be crowned ‘best’.
But so far, at least, it was still a draw.
*
“So do you think you'll manage not to kill each othe
r if you have to attend a couple of meetings together?” asks Colin, his voice bringing me back to reality.
“It's been five years – we can at least try to be civil,” I reply, surprised at myself.
Colin is pleasantly taken aback: diplomacy has never been one of my strong suits. He starts to smile. At least someone's still able to.
“You've made me very happy, Jenny. Seriously, you've no idea—”
I do, though, because I know what it means for him to be able to trust people. I admit that over the past five years there hasn't been much common sense in these offices, so maybe for once I can try to do something for him, because he's always stuck up for me. In fact, it was Colin who talked them into keeping me on after that famous punch.
After all, it was me who punched him, so the way everybody else saw it was that technically I was in the wrong. Colin knew that if I'd reacted that way, however, it was because someone else had crossed the line.
“Would you rather that I tell Ian?” he asks.
I'm thirty-three years old, though: I don't need a nanny. It would be nice, but, alas, each of us must shoulder our own burdens.
“No, thanks. I'll do it,” I say, sounding resigned. “It's down to me to talk to Ian.”
Colin puts an arm around my shoulders. “Good luck.”
Something tells me I'm really going to need it.
*
Telling Ian myself hadn't seemed like such a terrible idea when I'd proposed it to Colin, but once back in my office the awful impossibility of it starts to sink in, and I end up spending all day glued to my chair.
I'm a coward, I know… and that's not like me. And that thought is all it takes to rouse me from my torpor and spur me into action.
The office is almost completely empty now, and outside its pitch black. Dinner time is long past, and tomorrow is Saturday, thank God, so those who can leave early have left, gone for a weekend away or out on a date.
George, my PA, peeks round my office door. “You still here?” he asks, as though there's a chance I might not be.
“What do you think?”
He gives me a look, and I see compassion in his eyes.
“Good luck,” he says, and I know what he's referring to. The whole office probably knows what's going on.
“Thanks, George. Have a nice weekend. Have fun,” I reply.
Part of me would like Ian to have already left so I could spend the next two days in relative peace and wait until Monday before confronting him, but today destiny seems to have it in for me.
Sighing in dismay, I climb out of my chair and set off, ready to flush my two days of serenity down the toilet. The light from Ian's office is bright and impossible not to notice, even from right down the corridor.
I've never been one to hold back in the face of a challenge, but today, for the first time, I almost wish I knew how.
As I walk stealthily along the corridor, I notice that Tamara, Ian's PA, has very wisely decamped: not even her crush on her boss is powerful enough to keep her in the office until nine o'clock on a Friday night.
No hesitation or second thoughts as I knock firmly on his door and walk straight in without waiting for an answer. Better to catch him off guard – every little psychological advantage helps, and indeed I must have surprised him, because he gives me a look of genuine astonishment. But it only lasts a second, because it almost immediately turns wary and dangerous, and the eyes that were clear before become veiled and hazy.
It's funny, but I'd never realised the effect my physical presence has on him. One second I was looking at a perfectly relaxed man, and now in his place there's an enemy, ready to attack.
Ian is sitting comfortably in his black leather chair, his guarded face lit by his PC screen. My eyes immediately fall on his unbuttoned collar and loosened tie and the huge sheaf of papers he is holding in one hand, which he dumps on the table as soon as he notices my presence.
“Why knock if you're not going to wait for me to answer, I wonder?” he asks, thinking aloud.
“Do I really have to tell you?” I reply, sitting down in the chair across from him.
The corner of his lips curls up in a hint of a smile. “Of course not – you know very well why: you knocked out of respect for the formalities, but didn't wait for my answer so that way you'd have the advantage of surprise. Isn't that right?”
I force a smile. Yes, it is. Of course.
I have to be honest: Ian's brain has always been a problem. I can usually outwit most people, but in his case his perfidious intelligence almost matches my own. Which is very annoying.
Ian relaxes his shoulders and sinks into the chair.
“To what do I owe the honour?” he asks, peering at me with those blue eyes.
Now that I'm here, I don't really know where to start. In my mind I'd built up a sort of outline of what I was going to say, but now it's as if my mind is blank.
“You're not here to thank me, presumably?” he asks sarcastically, the little snake.
“Thank you?” I ask in shock. “For what?” My voice has suddenly got very loud. Ian chuckles. “This morning, for having saved your arse with Beverly—” he points out.
I interrupt him instantly. “I saved myself with Beverly, actually.”
“Of course, but only because my being there softened him up for you. So you could save yourself,” he emphasises.
Part of me knows that he's right, but he's caused me so much grief that it would take a thousand more good deeds like todays to even the score between us.
“Let's get one thing straight – I would have managed perfectly well myself even without your annoying presence, Ian.”
He glances at me doubtfully. “That remains to be seen, dear lady.” The way he says it sends a shiver down my spine.
For a moment we just stare at each other, neither wanting to be the first to look away but eventually Ian breaks the silence. “Well, I'd love to stay here all evening but, alas, in ten minutes I have to be out of the office as I have a date, so I'd ask you to get to the point,” he says in a voice which is suddenly cold. He's finished with the pleasantries.
“The point is Beverly,” I say, clearly. “He wants us to work together on his portfolio.”
“Of course he does,” says Ian as if it was the most normal thing in the world, “he's heard that we are the two brightest brains in the whole department and he wants both our contributions. I can understand that. You can develop your project and once you've finished pass it over to me and I'll see if I can suggest any improvements,” he says calmly.
And it's strange, because Ian is anything but a predictable man. In the worst sense of the term, of course. “This bimbo you're taking out to dinner tonight has obviously got you all hot and bothered, but do try to stay focused for a few minutes,” I snap back.
My sentence obviously stings him, because he immediately leans out of his chair, grabs my wrist and comes dangerously close to my face.
“Bimbo?” he echoes angrily. In his eyes I can see literal flashes of blue.
And it makes me smile. “They usually are. Or have your tastes changed recently?” I ask with an expression of perfect innocence.
Ian leans close to my face and, struggling visibly to control himself, says, “God how I wish I could shut that big mouth of yours once and for all. It would be the greatest satisfaction of my life.”
In his eyes I can see an anger that's close to uncontrollable. I've really made him lose his temper. Good.
With a determined yank I manage to remove my arm from his grasp and put a safe distance between us. I've already broken his nose once, I wouldn't want to have to do it again.
“Point one, Beverly wants us to work together, and the two of us, being the perfect professionals and adults we are, are going to do it,” I explain. “Second, there isn't going to be any team, there will just be the two of us on this job – we're already irrational enough without involving other people in this feud of ours.”
His expression is a mixture of
irritation and understanding. I see he's starting to guess where I'm going with this. “Point three, when we have to pull each other's hair, figuratively of course, we will do it outside this office. As far as everyone else is concerned, the two of us will get on like a house on fire for the duration of the assignment. Our inevitable rows will take not take place here,” I conclude.
“You don't want witnesses, you mean,” replies Ian, without a trace of surprise.
“Of course not, and neither do you. Last time, the constant arguing nearly cost us both our careers, and I don't want anything like that this time.”
“Especially because it cost me my nose—” he points out with irritation.
“And I wouldn't want to have to ruin your plastic surgeon's sterling work,” I answer sarcastically.
I know that Ian didn't have any work done on his nose after its appointment with my fist, but insinuating that he did always gives me some satisfaction, because it's an issue he's particularly sensitive about. His obsession with his appearance is well known to all, as is his terror of hospitals and operations.
“The sterling work I would have liked him to do, you mean,” he points out angrily.
“God, honestly – you're more obsessed with the shape of your nose than a woman! I've got an ugly nose but I manage to have a perfectly normal life,” I say, feeling wise.
“You don't have an ugly nose,” he says with conviction, “you have a normal nose which is perfectly suited to your face.”
His words leave me in shock for a moment: Ian saying nice things about my nose? Where on earth is this conversation going?
“Of course, if we were talking about your hair, I'd have something to say,” he adds hastily.
Ah, there we go – I'm more comfortable with criticism. For the record, I have very normal hair, a very normal brown colour and of an extremely average length. There's not really much to criticize.
“So is it a deal?” I ask, ignoring his comment as I stand up and proffer my hand instead. Professionalism above all.
“Do I have a choice?” he asks, a resigned look on his face.
“Of course not,” I reply affably.
Ian sighs. “Alright, it's a deal,” he says. He looks doubtfully at my hand, and I'm almost starting to think he won't shake it when he suddenly makes his mind up and grabs it. A firm grip, which leaves no room for indecision.