by Caro Fraser
Today was the day she had intended to turn over a new leaf. They were giving her a second chance at work (which was decent of them, even if they were a load of old wankers), by letting her work for this new partner who was starting at the firm. Some young woman. She’d meant to go to the launderette last night, have a bath and wash her hair, get to bed early, get up first thing, have a decent breakfast for a change. It was to have been the dawn of a new Felicity, punctual, clean, orderly, a credit to this Miss Dean person she would be working for. If only Vince hadn’t brought that dope round …
So much for my good intentions, she thought, and gave the bag full of dirty washing a kick as she went through to the kitchen to plug in the kettle and find a fag. She scratched with her fingernail at a little blotchy orange stain on the hem of her black jumper as she waited for the kettle to boil. What could that be from? she mused, trying to remember what she’d eaten over the weekend that had been orange.
She made two cups of tea and padded along the corridor of the tiny flat to her brother’s room.
‘Gordon Bennett!’ she muttered, putting the mug of tea down on the floor next to the bed, and moving across to open the curtains and one of the windows. ‘Smells disgusting in here!’ She poked at the lumpen human shape beneath the bedclothes. ‘I’m off in a minute. Don’t spend all day hanging round here watching videos with Vince. Get down the Job Centre.’
The heap under the bedclothes groaned and shifted. Felicity sighed and left the room. She hesitated in the hallway, then went into the living room. On the wicker sofa lay another heap of humanity, its ragged brown head protruding from beneath an unzipped sleeping bag. Felicity stood looking down at it, and then said, ‘Good morning, Vince.’
Vince pulled the sleeping bag down from his face and smiled at her. Even first thing in the morning, when he was hungover and unshaven and his hair was matted and sticking up, that smile melted her heart.
‘Mornin’!’ He suddenly reached out a hand and tried to pull her down towards him, but she gave him an indignant kick and pulled away.
‘Get off!’ she exclaimed. ‘D’you want a cup of tea?’
‘I want you, is what I want,’ replied Vince, crinkling his eyes and folding his arms underneath his head as he surveyed her.
‘Now, now,’ replied Felicity. ‘What about Carol? What would she say if she heard you talking like this?’
‘Carol’s blown me out,’ said Vince, still smiling. ‘So.’
‘Oh, yeah? You need a good blowing out, you do. I’ll get you a cup.’
She went back into the kitchen, took a swift draught of her tea, and thought about this. How wonderful if Carol had given him the push. Then again … she needed someone like Vince like a hole in the head. That’s the way it goes, she thought as she waited for the kettle to boil again. You fancy someone for months, you begin to get the idea he fancies you a bit, and then it all happens at the wrong moment. It was important for her to clean up her act for the next couple of months, make a good start with this new boss. If she lost this job (and she very nearly had, what with that business on Sandra’s birthday when she’d had one too many Malibu-and-Cokes at lunchtime and fallen asleep at her word processor), then they would be right in it. Rent not being paid, bills not met. Oh, no, tempting though he was, Vince was one of those things that would have to be put on the back burner.
With this resolve, and adopting her new persona as competent and sensible secretary to one of the thrusting new partners of Nichols & Co, solicitors, she took Vince his tea with a cool, polite smile.
As she struggled out of his arms and pulled down her sweater five minutes later, she made one last effort at salvaging her dignity.
‘Don’t think,’ she said, standing up and patting her curly hair down, ‘that you’re going to get the chance to do that again in a hurry.’
‘Tell me about it,’ said Vince with a smile. ‘Did you know you’ve got amazing legs?’ He lay back and yawned.
Felicity glanced at her watch. ‘God, I’m gonna be late! Help! Listen, don’t you go leading my brother astray. He’s going to be looking for a job today, right?’
‘Yeah, yeah.’ Vince reached up and pulled Felicity back down onto the sleeping bag.
While Felicity was busy making herself late for work, Rachel Dean, who was to be the fortunate recipient of Felicity’s secretarial services henceforth, was herself getting ready for her first day at Nichols & Co. She sat in the quiet of her pretty little kitchen in her Fulham flat, eating muesli and drinking Earl Grey tea, while the discreet voice of Radio 3 issued forth the news, followed by Haydn’s Symphony No. 29. She glanced at her watch, rose, and rinsed out her bowl and cup and saucer. She was a slender, fine-boned girl, quite tall, with a graceful hesitancy of movement. She was wearing a new suit for work that day, fine grey wool with a faint pinstripe, a cream-coloured silk blouse, and her black, sleek hair was drawn smoothly back from her face.
She went into her bedroom – the bedroom which she herself had decorated in rose and white when she had bought the flat a year ago, working away at this and all the other rooms painstakingly at weekends, until each was perfect and to her liking – and shook out her bedding. Then she folded her silk nightdress and slid it beneath her pillow. She picked up her briefcase from beside the desk, on which stood a small computer and word processor, and went through into the living room. She surveyed its immaculate silence for a moment, then left the flat and went down to her car.
Little pangs of nervousness kept leaping up in her stomach as she drove to work. She felt just as she had on the first day at her new secondary school when she was twelve, fifteen years ago. But what was there to be nervous about? She had ability, she knew. That was why they had given her this partnership. It was only a salaried partnership, but time would change that. If she worked hard enough, got a big enough client base, they were bound to give her a share of the equity in a couple of years’ time. Nichols & Co had no female equity partners – she was determined to be the first. She lifted her chin slightly as she thought of this, and turned the car smoothly in to Commercial Road. The motivation was pride rather than ambition. And besides, what else was there in her life apart from work?
She parked her car – a smart little blue Fiat with a spotless interior; no litter of maps, paperbacks, cassettes and sweet wrappers – in the back streets of Shoreditch, and reached the offices of Nichols & Co in Bishopsgate at nine o’clock precisely. She gave her name to the receptionist, who smiled sweetly and said, ‘Oh, yes. You’re starting today, aren’t you? I’m a bit of a friend of Felicity, your secretary. She’s ever so nice.’ Rachel smiled a small, chilly smile, still trying to quell the unreasonable little starts of nervousness inside. Well, thought Nora, this one’s a bit of an ice queen. And she stabbed a red-enamelled nail at one of the buttons on the switchboard.
‘Hello, Denise?’ said Nora, with practised nasal resonance. ‘Is Mr Rothwell in yet? Only I’ve got Miss Dean here. She’s starting today. Yes, that’s right.’ The vowels stretched like elastic. ‘Right. Thanks ever so.’ Nora flipped a switch and smiled up at Rachel. ‘If you’d like to go up to Mr Rothwell’s office – fourth floor – Denise will meet you at the lift. Mr Lamb will be joining Mr Rothwell and he’ll show you your office.’
Rachel thanked her and went over to wait for the lift. Nora ran an expert eye over Rachel’s trimly clad figure. Good legs, nice face. Definitely more of a looker than the other three women solicitors in the firm. Only a matter of time before the office wolves got to her. And, thought Nora, as she patted her stiffly lacquered chestnut hair, there were more than a few of them about, as Nora herself could testify.
‘Good luck, dear,’ murmured Nora as the lift doors closed on Rachel. Then she turned back to the flashing light on the switchboard, cancelled it with a smart flick of her crimson fingernail, and sang into the mouthpiece, ‘Good morning, Nichols and Co. Can I help you?’
While Rachel made polite small talk with Mr Rothwell, Felicity stood wedged between a glum
body of office workers all the way from Clapham North to Moorgate. She’d hoped she might get a seat so that she could do her make-up, but now even the possibility of a quick sprint to the Ladies at work to do it there seemed to be receding.
‘Come on, come on!’ she muttered under her breath as the train ground to a halt between Borough and London Bridge. Minutes passed like ages. The rest of the passengers sighed, shifted their weight, rattled their newspapers. No one looked at anyone else. Eventually the train lurched forward, and at nine-ten Felicity was struggling breathlessly up the stationary, out-of-order escalator at Moorgate.
She scuttled through the revolving doors of the offices of Nichols & Co at nine-twenty. ‘Morning, Nora!’ she called out, and Nora fluttered a manicured hand back at her and replied, ‘Morning, Fliss! I’d go up the back stairs if I was you, love, because Mr Lamb’s going round like a bloody Dalek, checkin’ on everyone.’
‘Ta.’ Felicity dodged up the stairs just as the lift doors opened, and took them two at a time to the third floor. She hovered by the fire door, waited until the coast seemed clear, and then sped across to her desk. Four pairs of eyes, those of Felicity’s fellow secretaries, watched her as she stuffed her coat and bag hurriedly under her desk just as the figure of Mr Lamb, the office manager, appeared from the lift. He came over to her desk, smiling unpleasantly and tapping his thigh with a sheaf of papers. He was a squat, balding man in his mid fifties, obnoxiously officious, and with a personal relish for humiliating the more attractive young female members of staff.
‘Good morning, Felicity,’ he said. His voice had a nasal Essex twang which Felicity particularly disliked. He stood tapping his thigh for a few more seconds. Here it comes, she thought, and tried to quell the heaving of her chest after her sprint upstairs.
‘Morning, Mr Lamb,’ she murmured.
‘Not a very auspicious start to the week, really – would you say?’
‘Sorry, Mr Lamb?’ Felicity looked up at him with wide brown eyes, her voice soft and surprised.
‘I happened to be coming out of the lift as you were making your way up the back stairs. Twenty minutes late. Bit of a record even by your standards, wouldn’t you say?’
‘The train got stuck at London Bridge,’ replied Felicity, and began to open her desk drawer as though preparing to start work.
‘Yes, your train always seems to get stuck at London Bridge, doesn’t it? I really don’t understand how nobody else’s train ever gets stuck.’ Mr Lamb seemed to be enjoying his own heavily sarcastic humour.
‘Yes, well, sorry, Mr Lamb.’ Felicity stuck her chin in the air and looked straight at him.
‘Apart from being late,’ continued Mr Lamb as he surveyed her, ‘I think it would be an idea if you managed to make yourself rather more presentable for the office.’ Felicity’s ample bosom heaved slightly with indignation, and she thought she caught Mr Lamb’s eye flicker to it. ‘Since this position as Miss Dean’s secretary is by way of being something of a second chance for you, I’m surprised that you haven’t tried to smarten yourself up a bit.’ There was a pause, in which Felicity sat glaring at her keyboard. ‘As I say, not the best start to your week. Fortunately for you, Miss Dean is with Mr Rothwell at the moment, so you’ve got time to hang your coat up and make yourself look a bit tidier. Comb your hair, I’d suggest.’ He turned on his heel and strode off up the open-plan office.
‘Yes, Mr Lamb, no, Mr Lamb, sod off, Mr Lamb,’ murmured Felicity, and pulled her coat from beneath her desk and went to hang it in the cupboard.
Felicity was aware, as she walked back to her desk, of the watchful eyes of the other typists focused on her. She was not popular with them. They were all middle-aged, moralistic, and spent much time discussing knitting patterns, diets, and their grown-up children. Felicity was very much an outsider. They were not overtly unfriendly to her, treating her with a sort of caustic tolerance, but her very obvious sensual attractions had an almost animal effect upon them, so that their voices would fall and their glances slide away when she arrived. Her blowsy cheerfulness and rude banter made them uneasy. They did not approve of her clothes and had suspicions about her lifestyle. They took satisfaction in the fact that Mr Lamb did not approve of Felicity either, but they knew that his disapproval masked an aggressive fascination with the swing of her hips and the curve of her breasts.
The Menopausals, Felicity called them.
Only one of them, Doris, ever went out of her way to be friendly to Felicity, but it was a friendliness that Felicity mistrusted. Doris was a plump, soft woman in her fifties, the oldest of the secretaries, with a sweet voice and a permanently sympathetic expression, which was somewhat marred by the bright watchfulness of her small eyes. They were eyes that would fasten confidingly on those of her listener, and all Doris’s communications seemed to have a confidential, secretive quality. She would show little acts of kindness to Felicity, bringing her the occasional coffee, consulting her on the choice of wool for a matinee jacket for one of her beloved grandchildren, showing her photographs of herself and her husband on holiday in Spain. But in spite of these little displays of affection, Felicity mistrusted Doris. She suspected her of talebearing, of gossiping, of spreading rumours about what Felicity did out of office hours. Give her Louise any day. A bit sharp-tongued, but at least she was straight up and down with it.
As Felicity sat back down at her desk, Doris smiled across at her. ‘Ooh, Felicity,’ she said in a voice like Dralon, ‘have you seen this new lady partner yet, the one you’re working for?’
‘No,’ said Felicity, ‘I haven’t.’
‘Oh, no, you wouldn’t have, would you? You were just a tiny bit late again, wasn’t you? Well, she’s ever so lovely, Felicity. Really elegant – beautiful suit she has on.’ Doris’s voice was humbly rapturous.
Felicity took all this in with interest. ‘Does she seem nice, then?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t know, Felicity. I haven’t spoken to her yet. But she’s got one of those looks – you know—’
‘Stuck-up,’ interjected Louise, in a tart voice, not looking up from her word processor.
‘Ooh, no!’ said Doris gently. ‘No. She did look very proper. But I wouldn’t call her stuck-up. No.’
‘You’ll have to watch yourself round her,’ remarked Louise to Felicity. ‘That’s all I’d say.’
God, thought Felicity, this didn’t sound too promising. When Doris had gone back to her word processor, she got up and went into Miss Dean’s empty room. She surveyed the desk, pulled open a couple of drawers. It was her job to keep Miss Dean supplied with all her bits and bobs, stationery, paperclips, stuff like that. She’d better get some. It wouldn’t take two minutes.
She trotted down to the post room, where the stationery was kept, selected some pens, paperclips, Post-it notes and a hole puncher, then stood exchanging banter with the office boy and gossip with the post girls. She glanced at her watch. She’d been down here nearly fifteen minutes, she’d better get back. But she couldn’t resist putting her head round the door of the telex room and saying hello to the boys, and since Terry had a copy of The Sun and the Sunday Sport, she had to have a quick look at her horoscope and read the problem page in the latter. Disgusting, it was. Made you wonder if they didn’t make it all up.
By the time she had giggled her way out of the telex room and stopped at reception to tell Nora, who was a Scorpio, the gist of her horoscope, it was past ten. Mr Lamb was waiting in Miss Dean’s room with Miss Dean.
‘Miss Dean and I have been waiting for you, Felicity,’ said Mr Lamb in cold and meaningful tones, ‘for ten minutes.’
‘Oh, have you, Mr Lamb?’ replied Felicity. ‘Ever so sorry. I’ve just been getting Miss Dean some things.’ And she tumbled her cache of pens and paperclips onto the desk and held out her hand in greeting to her new boss. ‘Hello. I’m Felicity.’
Rachel Dean looked at Felicity as she shook her hand, and saw a pretty, untidy-looking creature with garish clothes which did nothing to conceal an
extraordinary figure. She smiled warmly at Felicity because one couldn’t help smiling at her, but her first impression was that this scatty-looking creature did not give the appearance of being a model of efficiency. Rachel had had secretaries in the past; some had been a positive asset, some a liability. Felicity, she suspected, fell into the latter category.
Felicity, looking at Rachel, marvelled at what she saw. I wish I was that slim, she thought, and had cheekbones like that and smooth black hair all swept back. Dead sophisticated. I want to be like that. I want to wear a suit like that and have a knockout smile that looks like vanilla ice cream. Some hope, she thought. She smiled bravely at Rachel and watched her walk round behind her desk, wondering how much her shoes had cost.
‘Thank you for getting me these,’ said Rachel. ‘It’s dreadful to start off with not even a paperclip to your name. I wouldn’t even know where to get that sort of thing.’
‘Oh, I’ll take you round in a bit, if you like, introduce you to the chaps, show you where everything is,’ said Felicity brightly.
‘Miss Dean has met most of her colleagues already, Felicity,’ said Mr Lamb, ‘and I think you’ve wasted enough time this morning chatting your way round the building.’ He turned to Rachel and gave her his best smile. ‘I’ll leave you to get on, Miss Dean.’ And he strutted out.
‘They’re not all like him,’ said Felicity. ‘He’s a prize one, he is. Would you like a coffee, Miss Dean?’
‘Please call me Rachel. Yes, I would – black with one sugar, please.’
‘It wouldn’t go down too well with Mr Lamb if he heard me calling you Rachel,’ said Felicity doubtfully. ‘He’s a real one for form. He’ll never call you anything but Miss Dean.’
‘God, I hope not,’ said Rachel. ‘Still, office managers are a breed apart, aren’t they?’