Obsession

by Susan Lewis

  Just like that?’

  ‘Sure. Just like that.’

  ‘And you and Luke?’ Corrie blushed. ‘Sorry, I’m being nosy.’

  ‘We screw ourselves silly as often as possible.’ For a brief moment a cloud passed over Annalise’s eyes, from which Corrie correctly deduced that this might not be as often as Annalise would like. But then she was smiling again, as infectiously as ever, and Corrie thought she had never felt so comfortable with a stranger in her life.

  ‘Now, about you,’ Annalise said. ‘Can you type?’

  Corrie grimaced. ‘Not brilliantly.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. Can you use a word processor?’

  ‘Almost.’

  ‘Shorthand?’

  ‘I write fast.’

  Annalise looked thoughtful. ‘It could be that you’re over-qualified,’ she said at last.

  Again Corrie laughed. ‘What qualifications do you have?’

  ‘Oh, I scraped a couple of A levels out of St. Paul’s.’

  ‘You went to school in England?’

  ‘Sure. Where else?’

  ‘I just thought … Well, with your name being Kapsakis …’

  ‘Oh that! Kapsakis is my married name.’

  Corrie was stunned. ‘You’re married?’

  ‘Sort of. We’ve been separated for about three years now. I dropped out of University when I was twenty, went off around the world, got as far as Rhodes, met Thomas – he taught me to sail, actually – and I married him. Seemed like a good idea at the time.’ She laughed. ‘It lasted six weeks. Yet another mess Daddy managed to get me out of.’

  ‘And what about you and Luke? Do you think you two will ever get married?’

  ‘Oh God I hope so. The man is just to die for, Corrie. Well you’ll see for yourself. When can you start?’

  ‘Start?’ Corrie repeated.

  ‘Sure. I’ll speak to Luke, but there shouldn’t be a problem. We’re in need of a research assistant and I think you fit the bill.’

  ‘A research assistant?’ Corrie gasped, feeling a silly grin spread across her face.

  ‘Don’t get carried away. It’s just a high-faluting title for a dogsbody.’

  ‘Just as long as I’m not expected to bark and wag my tail,’ Corrie quipped, ‘and OK, I’ll work on my jokes before Monday.’

  ‘Then Monday it is. Welcome aboard, Corrie Browne, I think I’m going to like having you around.’

  Corrie left the Dôme on such a high that it was all she could do to stop herself smiling at strangers in the street and gushing out her good fortune. Even better the sun had come out, the first time she’d seen it since she’d arrived in London.

  Unable to wait she dived into the nearest phone box and called first Paula, then Uncle Ted. After, she shopped for more clothes until it was time for her appointment with an estate agent, who was going to show her a studio flat just off the King’s Road. She knew now of course that her mother and father had never lived there, but nonetheless it made her feel closer to Edwina to think that she was fulfilling at least a part of Edwina’s dream. That was if the studio worked out of course, she reminded herself. Already she and Paula had seen some pretty grotty places – and the fact that most of them cost close on two hundred thousand was horrifying. But she had a good feeling about this studio, and since, as Paula had put it, she seemed to be on a roll, she was sure it would be just what she was looking for.

  It was.

  From the minute she stepped in the door she knew that this was her home. The room itself was a good size, not too big, not too small. The walls could do with a lick of paint, the light fittings would have to change and the carpet was an offence to the eyes. But the tiny marble fireplace, cosy kitchenette in an alcove and lemon and green bathroom were altogether perfect. However, the pièce de résistance was without a doubt the gallery overhanging the room and its vast skylight – the only window, but it was enough to light up the entire place. A plain wooden staircase led up to the gallery, which, apart from the splashes of brightly coloured paint on the tiled floor, was bare. It would make the most wonderful bedroom. And all this, coupled with its proximity to Battersea Bridge, well, it was just too good to be true. She made an offer instantly, but knew that if came to it she would pay over the odds to make sure she got it. For a fleeting moment her heart softened towards Phillip Denby, for in truth, were it not for him, she wouldn’t have been able to afford anywhere – not without selling the cottage and the shop, which was something she’d never even contemplate.

  Monday morning she turned up at the TW offices at nine thirty sharp – the time Annalise had told her to. Unfortunately it was raining again, and still not too sure which bus to take Corrie had decided to walk from the stop in the King’s Road. As a result she was not exactly looking her best. Still, with a pounding excitement she pushed through the revolving door into the stark reception of the new building, and gave her name to the security man. He sent her up to the fourth floor, where the TW offices were located and as the lift doors opened she found herself in reception.

  The receptionist was on the telephone, and looked up as the lift doors opened. When she saw Corrie she went back to her call, and Corrie had to wait over five minutes, frequently stepping out of the way as people whizzed back and forth, before the receptionist rang off and reluctantly gave her attention.

  ‘I’m Corrie Browne,’ Corrie said. ‘I’m starting work here today.’

  ‘Yeah. Annalise told me to expect you. Go on in. It’s through there.’

  Surprised by the lack of formality – not to mention cordiality – Corrie pushed open the door the receptionist had indicated and found herself in the middle of what seemed utter bedlam. In no time at all she realized what all the fuss was about. She’d heard on the news that morning that the IRA had blown up an MP’s car somewhere on the outskirts of London, and it would appear that the following night’s programme was on terrorism. This latest monstrosity naturally had to be included.

  Everyone was talking at once.

  ‘Any news on Jacobs yet?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well is the bastard dead or alive?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ a woman screamed back. ‘They’re not saying.’

  ‘Then he must be alive.’

  ‘Shit! I don’t know!’

  ‘Get onto Scotland Yard again! Have you found a crew?’

  ‘They’re already on the way.’

  ‘Colin’s on the phone,’ someone else yelled, ‘says they’ve just arrived in Iran.’

  ‘Has anyone seen the carnet I left on this desk?’

  ‘Which reporter is handling it?’

  ‘Gavin.’

  ‘Sharon, get onto the cuttings library and get all the info you can on Jacobs. Do it now before some other bastard gets there. Then send a bike over for it. Perkin stop scratching your ass and sit on it. You can start writing a script.’

  ‘You’re in the way there,’ someone said, pushing Corrie to one side as she flew past.

  ‘Bob! Luke’s on line three for you!’

  The man who’d been asking most of the questions and dishing out all the instructions disappeared into another office, but the pandemonium continued, and Corrie looked round helplessly, wondering who she should introduce herself to. Then to her relief Annalise rushed in behind her.

  ‘Oh Corrie!’ she cried, as they collided. ‘You’re here. Great. Follow me.’

  She took Corrie to an over-laden desk in the corner, yelled out, ‘Everyone, this is Corrie Browne, the new research assistant,’ then promptly disappeared.

  ‘What did you say your name was?’ a woman asked her.

  ‘Corrie.’

  ‘OK, Corrie, get me twenty copies of these run off will you?’ the woman handed her a pile of notes then returned to her phone call.

  Corrie hunted around for the photocopier.

  ‘It’s in reception,’ the woman shouted.

  Corrie waved her thanks and went through the door. The minute she began copyin
g someone pushed her to one side telling her to make room for more urgent business. Corrie waited, then started again. Within minutes someone else was pushing her out of the way, so again she waited. At the next attempt she managed four copies before the machine jammed.

  ‘Oh no!’ she groaned.

  ‘Not a problem, just something caught up,’ a man behind her said. ‘I’m Alan Fox, by the way, one of the reporters.’

  ‘Yes, I recognize you,’ Corrie smiled. ‘I’m Corrie Browne,’ and she stood aside for him to sort the copier.

  As he was bending down his hand touched her leg. Corrie couldn’t be sure, but she thought he had done it purposely.

  Once the machine was clear Alan stayed to chat. Corrie wished he would go away since she was trying to recollate what she’d already copied. But he stayed, and she wasn’t too sure she liked the way he was looking at her. She was in quite a mess by the time someone else came and made her give way again.

  She stood back and Alan slipped an arm round her, telling her not to worry, she’d soon get the hang of it. Corrie edged away as his hand was under her arm unmistakably fumbling for her breast. Thankfully he went then, and Corrie decided to dump what she’d done so far and start again. At that point the woman who sent her to do the photocopying came out.

  ‘Oh for God’s sake!’ she cried. ‘Why don’t you go and get everyone some coffee, I’ll do this myself.’

  Dismally Corrie went back into the office. Seeing the secretaries she went over to ask where the coffee was.

  ‘In the machine,’ one of them answered, not even looking up from what she was doing. But Corrie didn’t miss the quick glance that passed between the four girls.

  She took a deep breath. ‘Where is the machine?’

  One of them pointed her in the right direction, and she went back to the over-laden desk Annalise had assigned her, found a pen and paper and started taking orders.

  The rest of the morning she spent filing newspapers, getting shouted at for removing those that were still in use, and dreading that she would be asked to operate the fax. Annalise came back for half an hour, and managed a minute to ask her how she was getting on.

  Corrie assured her that everything was OK, asked if there was anything she could do for her and promptly found herself in an edit suite logging the time codes an editor called out to her.

  It was in the middle of the afternoon, on her fourth trip to the coffee machine, that Alan Fox found her again. ‘Thought I’d come and give you a hand,’ he said.

  ‘That’s very kind of you,’ Corrie smiled. ‘But really, I can manage.’ She stooped to take another cup from the machine and almost dropped it as Alan quite blatantly put his hand on her bottom.

  Gritting her teeth, Corrie put the cup on the tray and pushed the buttons for the next one.

  ‘So you’re new to London,’ Alan said. ‘We’ll have to see what we can do to initiate you, won’t we?’

  ‘That’s very kind of you,’ Corrie repeated, not knowing what else she could say. The next coffee was ready and again she stooped to take it. Again Alan’s hand found her bottom.

  I don’t believe this, Corrie was thinking to herself, I haven’t been in the place five minutes and already I’ve found the office proper.

  She took a sideways step away from him, flashed him a quick smile and pressed more buttons. ‘I saw your programme on the Animal Liberation Front the week before last,’ she said. ‘It was very good.’

  ‘Did you think so?’ he said, his narrow eyes, as grey as his hair, seeming to slide all over her body. ‘Perhaps we could look at it together sometime, I’ll show you how it was put together. You said yourself, you’ve got a lot to learn.’ The double entendre gleamed in his eyes as they seemed to rake her face, so deeply that she felt sure the lines on his own were now etched indelibly on hers.

  God, is he sleezy, Corrie was thinking, trying not to curl her lip as she removed her eyes from his moistened lips.

  The next cup of coffee was ready. This time he didn’t touch her with his hand, instead he stood behind her and rubbed himself against her.

  Corrie straightened abruptly, almost knocking him off balance. ‘Please, don’t do that again,’ she said tersely.

  Alan’s nostrils flared. ‘Do what?’

  ‘Rub yourself against me.’

  The blood rushed to his face, turning it purple. ‘You flatter yourself, darling,’ he spat. ‘And let me tell you this, looking like you do you should be grateful anyone would want to,’ and before Corrie could as much as draw breath he stormed off.

  For a minute Corrie wanted to cry. Why was everyone so hostile? she wondered. Then quickly pulling herself together she got on with dishing out the coffee.

  She didn’t see Annalise again that day and by six o’clock she was exhausted, dazed and in a way exhilarated. The fact that she had been treated like a leper all day she put down to how busy everyone was and started to pack up her bag.

  ‘Where are you going?’ someone said.

  Corrie looked up to see Perkin glaring at her across the office.

  ‘Well, I thought …’ She glanced at the secretaries’ empty desks. ‘I was going home,’ she said, ‘but if you need me to stay …’

  ‘I want this voice-over put on the WP,’ Perkin told her, handing her reams of handwritten notes. ‘Luke will need a copy in the studio first thing in the morning.’

  ‘Of course,’ Corrie said.

  By nine o’clock she was the only one left in the debris-strewn office and was still only half way through deciphering Perkin’s handwriting. She could hardly believe that a half hour commentary could take up so many pages. But at least she’d got the hang of the WP by now. She went out to the coffee machine, got herself a drink then came back to start again.

  By one o’clock in the morning, feeling as though her eyes were hanging from her head, she had finished. She got up to put Perkin’s notes back on his desk and at that moment the power failed. Within seconds it was back on, but those seconds were all it took. She had forgotten to press the save button – the whole voice over had been wiped.

  She wanted to cry, scream, shout, throw the machine out of the window, nuke the electricity board. But taking a deep breath she sat back down again. She finally left the office just after four in the morning. Oswald, the nightshift security man downstairs, called a cab to take her home.

  She was back in the office for nine thirty. Perkin was screaming because one of the secretaries couldn’t find the voice-over on the computer. Corrie’s insides went to jelly. She rushed over to the secretary, and told her she had stored it under VO.

  ‘What!’ the secretary screeched. ‘VO? Who told you to put it under VO?’

  ‘Well, I thought, as it’s a voice-over …’ Corrie began.

  ‘You’ve created a document called VO?’

  Corrie nodded.

  The secretary turned to Perkin. ‘Well you’ve got your commentary, Perk, but she’s only gone and wiped …’

  Corrie never did find out what she’d wiped since Luke Fitzpatrick came in then and Perkin shouted at the secretary to get printing. The secretary gave Corrie a filthy look and Corrie went off to her desk.

  Her second day turned out to be even worse than her first, mainly, she told herself, because she was so tired. But at the end of the day, when she watched everyone go off to the wine bar for a quick drink before transmission, and she wasn’t invited, she had to admit that her difficulties were mounting. Nevertheless, she assured herself she didn’t care that she wasn’t invited, besides which, she couldn’t have gone anyway since she had an appointment with the estate agent who was coming with her to the studio to measure up for a blind.

  The front door to the studio was at the top of an iron staircase which ran up the side of the Victorian house where the studio was situated. When Corrie arrived Nicholas, the agent, was hauling a step-ladder up to the front door. Corrie was glad to see him for when she’d first met him he had been extremely friendly, and she was much in need of
a friendly face right now. But Nicholas seemed impatient with how long she was taking with her tape measure, and when Corrie tried to make conversation he answered in monosyllables, clearly preoccupied with something else. When they were leaving Corrie invited him for a drink. He refused, saying he had to dash off somewhere, so she was left to wend her way back to Regent’s Park, through a rush hour that seemed endless. She looked at the faces around her on the tube, wondering where they were going and who they were going home to. She imagined their cosy homes, the nights out they might be planning, and felt the loneliness seep into her heart.

  When she got home she turned on the TV to watch the TW programme, then called Paula to tell her about her first couple of days, making it all sound a good deal more successful and exciting than it really was. She didn’t want Paula to worry, and besides, her pride wouldn’t allow her to admit that things were heading rapidly down the road to disaster.

  Beth was crying in the background, so Paula was distracted enough not to pick up the despondent note in Corrie’s voice. She did ask, however, if Corrie had spoken to Luke Fitzpatrick yet, but Corrie hadn’t. She was able to confirm that Annalise was right, though. Luke Fitzpatrick was even more gorgeous in the flesh than he was on TV. This seemed to satisfy Paula, and since Beth’s wails had grown even louder, she had to ring off.