Cents and Sensibility

by Maggie Alderson

  I found the hum of newspaper offices immensely reassuring. The gentle tapping of keys, the constantly moving pools of chatter and murmuring voices, with the odd shouted phone call, bursts of hysterical laughter and occasional screaming matches, added up to an aural landscape that really felt like home to me.

  I didn’t get in until after ten that morning, which didn’t give me much time to get ready for a meeting with Peter at ten thirty. He wanted to see how things were developing with the section.

  I showed him what we’d pulled together so far and he made a lot of helpful suggestions, and then I decided it was time to tell him what had been going on with Jeanette.

  He listened carefully to what I had to say, nodding sagely, with the tips of his fingers forming a little steeple over his mouth.

  ‘So what should I do?’ I asked him, when I’d finished the sorry tale.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said, in a particularly Yoda-ish voice. ‘Just stay aware of what she is up to and defuse it gently when you can – exactly what you have been doing already in fact – and I’ll do the same.’

  He narrowed his wily old eyes and nodded slowly.

  ‘It’s very important that she thinks she’s winning, you see, because that will be her downfall. The thing is, with people like her, who try to scheme and scam their way to the top, is that it gets them to a certain point, probably more quickly than simple hard work and talent would have done, but then it generally blows up in their face.

  ‘It’s a type who seem to be particularly attracted to newspapers for some reason – or maybe there are just loads of them everywhere. Anyway, you watch. The Lovely Jeanette is going to go up like a bag of penny rockets.’

  He smiled at me with all the serenity of a Buddhist monk.

  ‘I love fireworks, don’t you?’

  I always adored Peter’s pronouncements, but it was hard to stick to his advice that afternoon, when I would have liked to have gone round to Jeanette’s office with a chainsaw.

  It all started when two carrier bags – one Prada, one Louis Vuitton – arrived in the loading dock, with my name on them. For some reason – and I strongly suspect it wasn’t an accident – the post boy delivered them to her office and not to mine.

  She produced them in the section editors’ meeting.

  ‘Oh, Stella,’ she said, when it was just about over, but before anyone had actually left the room. ‘These arrived for you.’

  She held them up like Exhibit A, so that everyone in the room could see exactly what they were.

  There were a few snarky ‘Oooh’ noises and one ‘Pra-di-dah, darling…’ from the editor of the food section.

  ‘You must be very far ahead with your section, Stella,’ continued Jeanette, ‘if you’re already calling things in for shoots – and you’re nowhere near launching yet.’ She left a just long-enough pause. ‘Or maybe these are just some more of your lovely gifts?’

  I didn’t know what they were. I hadn’t called anything in from Prada or Louis Vuitton, so it was possible they could have been presents – or they could have been press releases in carrier bags, which luxury brands did sometimes, to make sure you looked at them.

  But whatever they were, it seemed very unlikely to get two on the same day – and as I really didn’t know, I couldn’t defend myself.

  She handed them to me – one at a time, for added effect – with a plastic smile of Julie Andrews brilliance and then turned away again immediately, leaving me alone holding the ‘evidence’ in a room full of highly cynical and competitive section editors.

  ‘Go on, then,’ said the food editor. ‘Open them. I want to see what they are.’

  Every head in the room swivelled back to look at me.

  ‘I wasn’t expecting anything,’ I said, too flustered to think. ‘I’ll open them later. I need to get on.’

  Then I fled from the room.

  When I got back to my office and did open those carrier bags, I wasn’t sure whether to be deeply relieved or furious that I hadn’t opened them in front of my colleagues.

  In the Prada bag there was a pair of their latest cult sunglasses; the huge black TV-screen shades every fashion editor in London was gagging for. The Louis Vuitton one contained a fabulous logo baseball cap. And they were both presents – from Jay.

  Although I wasn’t sure how I was going to ask him not to send me any more designer presents to the office, I rang immediately to thank him.

  ‘Well, if you’re going to sneak around with me,’ he said, ‘I thought you should do it in style. And talking of sneaking around, I’ve had an idea for something fun we can do later. I really don’t feel like staying in another night, do you?’

  He wouldn’t tell me any more – it was becoming clear to me that Jay loved springing surprises on people – and we just agreed that I would go round to his place as soon as I could get away from work.

  I found Jay at home in his workout gear. He had a running machine set up in front of the TV and Led Zeppelin blaring out of the sound system.

  ‘I’m a celebrity, get me out of here!’ he shouted, as he opened the door to me. ‘I’m going nuts stuck inside.’

  ‘Have you been in all day?’ I asked.

  ‘Yep. Too many people I know live round here. If I stepped outside too freely, it would be all over. I did manage to put some gasoline in the car this afternoon – in Kilburn; they know me at all the gas stations round here too – but that was it for today’s fun.’

  ‘So what’s your plan for tonight, then?’

  ‘We’re going to go over to see my pals, George and Zaria. They are great people, you’re going to love them and I really want them to meet you.’

  I must have looked as surprised as I felt, because he put his arms round me and continued.

  ‘I know we agreed to tell no one, but I really can trust them one hundred per cent not to tell anyone about us, OK? George is my oldest and closest friend and he has, er, similar issues to me. He gets it. Our secret will be safe with them. Fort Knox safe. Trust me.’

  I pulled away from him.

  ‘Jay,’ I said. ‘You are seriously whiffy. You must have been pounding that running machine.’

  He sniffed his armpit and grinned.

  ‘You’re right. I need to take a shower badly’ He grabbed my hand. ‘And you can come in with me…’

  With my new sunglasses and baseball cap in place, Jay told me to leave first and wait for him on the corner and he would pick me up in the car shortly.

  I did as I was told and looked out for the black Ferrari. I felt really stupid standing there in my cap and dark glasses, and when a vintage-looking car in a light brown metallic colour pulled up, I thought I was being kerb crawled. Then the passenger window went down and I saw Jay grinning at me.

  ‘Want a ride, pretty lady?’ he said.

  ‘I was looking for the Ferrari,’ I said, climbing in.

  ‘Oh, I took that back,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t really my thing. Too obvious. I only had it for a test drive. I prefer old cars.’

  ‘What’s this one?’ I asked him.

  ‘It’s an Aston. You know, Aston Martin? It’s a DB6 Mark 2. It’s my favourite car. Do you like it?’

  I nodded, it was ringing a bell with me.

  ‘Isn’t this what James Bond drove?’ I said. I only knew that because Ham was obsessed with these cars. He had a Dinky toy of one of them in his office.

  ‘Close, Moneypenny. Although that was actually the DB5. But watch out anyway. You’re in the ejector seat.’

  George and Zaria, whoever they were, lived in Kensington Palace Gardens. It’s a private road right on the edge of the park – so private, in fact, that you have to get a security guard to let you through the barrier.

  It was clear they were expecting us, though, because the barrier shot up as soon as Jay gave his name. They waved ‘Mr Pêcheur’ right through.

  Although I had lived within walking distance of it all my life, I’d never actually been along that road before. It was too forbi
dding even to stroll down, but I knew about it. Everyone in London knew about it. Especially since one of the houses had gone on the market for £85 million, a few years before.

  I had thought it was pretty much all embassies, but Jay drove up to the Bayswater Road end, where there was a sleek, modern seventies apartment block overlooking the park.

  ‘OK,’ he said, as we pulled up. ‘Like I said, George is my best friend since school days. We kind of grew up together. He married Zaria a couple of years ago. She’s an old friend of mine as well – I introduced them actually. No kids yet. They’re both great people. Just be yourself and they will love you too.’

  He squeezed my hand reassuringly. I didn’t quite understand why he seemed to be briefing me about his friends, but I liked it anytime Jay used the word ‘love’ in relation to me, especially with ‘too’ nearby.

  ‘Great,’ I said, squeezing his hand back.

  It wasn’t until he pushed the buzzer that I understood why he had prepped me that way. The label next to the button Jay had just pressed read: G and Ζ Xydis. Now that was a surname even I recognized.

  They were one of the great Greek shipping families. There was Onassis, Niarchos and Xydis. And I knew who Zaria was too. She was one of the famous Taylor sisters.

  There were four of them, from a majorly moneyed American family – shopping malls or something, and relatively recent, but that didn’t matter in America – they were all preposterously beautiful and they had all married spectacularly well. I’d seen the Xydis wedding in Hello! at the hairdresser’s. I remembered marvelling at her monogram.

  It didn’t make any rational sense, but now I knew who they were, I couldn’t help feeling a little nervous. For the first time I began to understand the odd way people reacted to Jay, when they knew who he was at first meeting and, at that moment, I was very glad he was still holding my hand tightly.

  ‘The Xydis residence,’ said a strongly accented woman’s voice over the intercom.

  ‘It’s Jay Fisher,’ said Jay.

  ‘Please come up, Mr Fisher,’ said the voice. I knew it wasn’t Zaria.

  When the lift doors opened, we were met by a tiny little woman in a full-on maid’s uniform. The white apron and everything.

  ‘Hi, Flo,’ said Jay.

  ‘Good evening, Mr Fisher,’ she said. ‘Mr and Mrs Xydis are expecting you.’

  She turned to me.

  ‘May I take your coat, miss?’ she asked.

  I handed her my jacket, wondering if she’d notice the Warehouse label.

  ‘Please go through,’ said Flo. ‘Mr and Mrs Xydis are in the drawing room.’

  Jay clearly knew his way around and headed off to the right, still holding my hand. I wished he would slow down a bit, so I could take in the decor. It was seriously fabulous – a perfectly balanced mix of mid-century classics, and more recent signature pieces – set against a sleek background of polished and textured surfaces, topped off with a quirky combination of modern art and tribal artefacts.

  It was beautiful, but one of Ham’s expressions did run through my mind: decorator salad. It was clear Zaria hadn’t chosen the rugs herself.

  We had just reached a large set of double doors, when they flew open to reveal a deeply suntanned man with very black hair. He was even browner than Jay, with even whiter teeth.

  ‘Jay, my main man,’ he said, in an accent as mixed-up as Jay’s, although his definitely had a twang of something exotic there. Greek, presumably. They embraced heartily.

  ‘I’m so glad you were in town,’ said Jay. ‘It’s great to see you and…’ He turned to me. ‘I really want you to meet Stella. Stella, this is Georgiou Xydis; George, this is Stella Montecourt-Fain.’

  ‘Stella, great to meet you,’ said George, or Georgiou – I wasn’t sure any more – shaking my hand and giving me a kiss on both cheeks. ‘Jay has told me all about you. He was a bit blue about you for a while back there…’

  He smiled at me. I liked him immediately, whatever his name was. He had a naturally friendly face. He was nothing like as good-looking as Jay, in fact he was a bit on the short and chubby side, but he was so warm, you just felt comfortable with him right away.

  Jay punched him playfully on the bicep.

  ‘Hey, Georgie boy, that’s enough of that – don’t give away all my secrets now. Where’s Zaria?’

  ‘Oh, she’s here somewhere… Zee Zee? Honey?’ he called out.

  He led us into the next room and then into the one after that, and the one after that – it was clear the apartment covered the entire top floor of the building – but still there was no sign of ‘Zee Zee’.

  ‘Now where is that wife of mine…?’ George was saying, as we passed through a couple more reception rooms. ‘She was right here a minute ago. Ah, there she is.’

  And there she certainly was, standing outside on a vast terrace, her golden skin perfectly lit by the last of the evening sun, the gentle breeze just disturbing the strands of her long blonde hair, the curves of her slim silhouette outlined against the sheet of water that was falling down the wall behind her.

  Now, I’m no Teletubby, but I took one look at Zaria Xydis and felt as dumpy as a Shetland pony – and about as well dressed. She was wearing a slip of a frock, which I happened to know was by Alberta Ferretti, and suddenly my white Earl jeans, wittily paired with a flimsy top from New Look, didn’t feel nearly as chic as they had when I left home.

  My girlfriends were always complimenting me on my knack for finding great bits and pieces in chain stores and mixing them with designer gear, but looking at Zaria, I felt as cheap as my top. I was so glad I had a great pair of Prada heels on. New season, too.

  ‘Jay, darling,’ she said, coming towards us, a beatific smile on her face. ‘We’re so excited you’re here. We haven’t caught up for so long, it’s crazy’

  There was a big hug and lots of smacking kisses, until Jay extracted himself and put his arm out to bring me into the aura of golden glow that seemed to surround Zaria.

  ‘Zee, this is Stella – you know, the girl I was telling you about?’

  ‘Hi, Stella,’ said Zaria, putting out her hand to shake mine and while Jay looked happily on, she smiled sweetly at me. ‘Great to meet you.’

  But as George distracted Jay, to come into another room to see some photograph he’d just bought, Zaria’s friendly smile went out like a light and she looked me full in the face, eye to eye for a few distinct beats. It was a very significant look and it clearly said: And who the hell are you?

  I felt distinctly uncomfortable.

  ‘Come and sit down,’ Zaria – or Zee – said eventually. ‘Flo will bring us some drinks. Champagne?’

  I nodded. ‘That would be lovely’

  But when the drinks arrived Flo handed Zee a long glass of mineral water, with a twist of lime.

  I also noticed that when she took the canapés around, she never offered them to Zee, which made it even harder for me to say no, even though I didn’t particularly feel like a slab of foie gras the size of a paperback book at that particular moment.

  ‘So, where did you meet Jay?’ she asked me, without any warmth, after Flo had gone to take flutes of champagne through to the ‘boys’, as Zaria called them.

  ‘At the Cap Mimosa,’ I said. ‘We were both there for the Jericho jewellery launch and a mutual friend introduced us.’

  ‘Oh, that’s right,’ said Zaria, in unashamedly icy tones. ‘You’re a journalist, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said as brightly as I could, although the way she had said it, the name of my profession might more normally be used for the words ‘crack dealer’.

  ‘Who do you hack for?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m a senior writer on the Daily Journal,’ I said, just managing to keep the edge out of my voice. ‘I write about luxury brands – the designers, the artisans, the hot trends and the history, right through to the business side of things.’

  She remained stony-faced. Clearly my description of my job – which was
subtitled: Look, bitch, I don’t do gossip bullshit, so back off – hadn’t done anything to impress her.

  ‘Do you know the paper?’ I asked eventually, out of desperation.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she said, shrugging. ‘George gets all the papers, they’re all the same to me. I only read the Times really. The New York Times…’

  There was another long pause. What was I supposed to say? So, what do you do, Zaria? Apart from having your nails painted and paying someone to redecorate the odd island? They’d been given an island, I remembered, as a wedding present, from one of their fathers. I couldn’t recall which one.

  Really, there was nothing for me to say to her. If there was sometimes a chasm between me and Jay, there was a black hole between me and Zaria. And she clearly wasn’t planning on building any bridges across it.

  I was just starting to feel seriously can-I-go-home-now-please uncomfortable, when Zaria crossed her legs. It was the first time I’d noticed her shoes. They were exactly the same as mine.

  ‘Nice shoes, Zaria,’ I said brightly, raising my own foot in the air and waving it around so she couldn’t miss it. They were even the same colour. What the hell, I thought, I had nothing to lose with her. This might be the only thing we ever had in common.

  Zaria looked at my foot and an expression of horror came over her face.

  ‘Oh!’ was the best she could come out with, she was so clearly taken off guard. Then her features tightened up again. ‘Did Jay buy those for you?’

  I laughed.

  ‘No, he did not. I bought them for myself. In Milan. I love these shoes, aren’t they great?’

  That was it. I wasn’t going to take any more of that ice-maiden shit from her, I didn’t care if she was Jay’s best friend, she was being a bitch to me and I wasn’t going to play her game.

  ‘Look at this, guys,’ I said, when he and George came back into the room. ‘Zaria and I have the same shoes on, isn’t that hilarious?’

  ‘That is so funny,’ said Jay, looking delighted. ‘I knew you two would get along.’

  Zaria, who had clearly missed her vocation in Hollywood, was suddenly all delighted beams.