The Perfect Escape

by Claudia Carroll

  I rush to the ladies’ to check in the mirror. Could be worse: Tuesday morning bed hair gets pulled back into a bun. Make-up is fine; the early days of the week always see fresh mascara. Catch me on a Friday though and chances are it’s Thursday night’s face. I’m wearing a respectable M&S knee-length burgundy dress that could pass for Jaeger, in the dark. No cleavage or knees on show – extremely important, in light of Berenice’s latest paranoid fixation … Jolly good – I look like a tired, non-sexual, overworked thirty-six-year-old woman who is not having much fun. A carbon copy of Berenice, only five years younger.

  I take the lift up to the fifth floor. Her PA must be at Early-Bird Zumba so I hover awkwardly outside Berenice’s office, waiting for her to notice me through the glass wall. Maybe Sam’s right, I think, as I look at the crown of Berenice’s head. Last week Sam informed me that Berenice has her colour done every nine days at that place off Sloane Square where Cate Blanchett goes to when she’s in town. I have never seen a trace of a dark root in Berenice’s hair. It is always perfect: placid, unthreatening, shoulder-length blonde. Not sexy blonde. But grown-up, good taste, all-my-glassware-comes-from-Conran, ash blonde. Personally I favour brown. Slightly unruly, all-my-glasswear-comes-from-Ikea-or-was-borrowed-from-my-local-pub, mousy brown.

  Sam also told me that Martin Meddlar, our CEO, gets his hair bouffed at Nicky Clarke once a week and puts it down as a work expense. When I asked Sam how he came by this business-critical information he merely raised an eyebrow and said ‘Exactly!’ (Either he’s hacking into Finance’s expenses file, or he’s hacking into London’s chi-chiest hairdressers’ Hotmail accounts. He’s capable of both.)

  I glance over to see if Martin and his bouff are in their vast corner office, but no, the plush leather chair is empty. Generally Martin comes in at 11 a.m., lunches from 12 p.m. with a senior client, then returns slightly drunk at 3.50 p.m. just in time for his driver to take him home at 4.00 p.m. on the dot. (‘The A40 gets totally gridlocked after 4.30 p.m.’)

  Berenice must sense movement, as she finally looks up and beckons me in. She’s been the head of my department for six years and yet I still feel slightly sick with fear every time I have a meeting with her. ‘Susannah, take a seat,’ she says.

  My name is Susie. I know it’s the same name. I know it’s not a big a deal. But the only other person who calls me Susannah is my mother when I’ve done something earth-shatteringly wrong (borrowed her car and forgotten to reset the rear-view mirror; failed to be a successful and married dentist like my brother).

  ‘Fletchers OK?’ says Berenice, staring down at her notepad.

  Good morning, Susie. Are you well? You look a little tired. I know that we work you terribly hard, but we do so appreciate your labour on behalf of our bottom line. Would you like a cup of tea? A posh biscuit? Maybe even some eye contact? To be honest, I’m happier without the eye contact. There is something hostile in Berenice’s grey eyes that I can only assume is the by-product of her being bullied by Martin Meddlar. That’s just a rumour – he’s only ever been nice to me. Too nice, in Berenice’s opinion – hence my dowdy dress. Anyway, allegedly he bullies her, and she bullies me: a pretty little daisy chain of bullying that entwines the three of us.

  ‘Fletchers is great,’ I say. ‘Spanish pizza sales are up twenty-three per cent, and the digital campaign’s tracking well.’

  She nods. ‘How’s Jonty getting on?’

  Aaah, Jonty. The I-d-iot she’s allocated to help me out with print ads. The lazy, cocky red-jeaned idiot who is Berenice’s best friend’s godson and therefore couldn’t possibly be an idiot.

  ‘Yup. I think Jonty’s enjoying himself.’

  ‘Glad he’s helping you out. Now. I know you’re looking to progress by year end.’

  ‘Yes, absolutely,’ I nod. ‘I’ve been an account director for six years now, so I’m definitely ready …’ And have been for the last two years since I first asked you for a promotion and you first waved a little carrot near me, before smashing me with a stick of Fletchers pizza.

  ‘And I believe Devron at Fletchers has mentioned Project F to you already.’

  ‘Briefing’s tomorrow. What’s it all about?’

  She flinches. ‘I can’t share that information, I’ve signed a non-disclosure agreement.’ I bet if I asked her where her PA keeps the Earl Grey teabags she’d say she’s signed an NDA on that too.

  ‘Berenice, can I just check, it is still a pizza brief, isn’t it?’ It had better be. Pizzas are bad enough. (I’ve also done time on Jumbo Pasties and Asian Cuisine, which for some reason included Polish dumplings.) Just please, please, please don’t put me on Dog and Bog. The worst possible fate for anyone here is to be moved to Dog and Bog. (Household department: pet food and loo roll.)

  She sighs. ‘Basically it’s their biggest launch of the financial year. Super-high-profile, game-changing, mega-strategic. Lots of … fun.’ She says the word ‘fun’ like other people say the word ‘herpes’. She squints at something on her notepad. It’s the only thing on her desk other than a white porcelain vase with a narrow neck that is currently strangling a single pink orchid. My desk looks like a crime scene. Berenice associates messiness with stupidity, which might explain why she always talks to me like I’m nine years old.

  ‘Susannah. This is your opportunity to prove yourself. It’s time to put clear blue water between you and your peers. That’s if you want to notch it up to the next level. You’ve got people like Jonty at your heels, champing at the bit for projects like this.’

  My peers? Jonty thinks spaghetti grows on trees. He actually does.

  ‘This project will define you,’ she says. ‘If you get this right …’ She looks at me with almost a smile. Of course she will not say ‘If you get this right I will promote you’ for that would amount to a sentence (in mid-air, if nowhere else) for me to clutch onto in my darkest hours. Two years ago Berenice said ‘If you prove yourself on pizzas …’ She never finished that sentence and I never pinned her down; cowardice stopped me. Well, cowardice has not served me well – it’s time for a change of tack.

  ‘Are you saying that if I get this right then at Christmas you’ll promote me?’ I say, as softly and gently as a human voice can deliver a sentence.

  Her almost-smile disappears instantly. ‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.’

  ‘I don’t mean to push you, but I’m just trying to be clear what I need to do to …’ What was her awful buzz-word? Mirror her awful buzz-word, speak Berenice back to her. ‘What I need to do to notch it … to the next level …’

  She stares at me as if she’s trying to decide between two identical shades of white paint, neither of which are satisfactory. ‘I need you to exceed my expectations. I need to see a step-change in your performance. I need to be convinced you’re ready for this. You are ready for this, aren’t you, Susannah? I need to see that you’re hungry. Are you hungry?’

  ‘Oh I’m hungry, Berenice. I’m hungry.’

  I’m always hungry.

  I’m the hungriest.

  ‘Can we go and eat?’ I say to Rebecca as I hover over her desk at the end of the day. Rebecca and Sam are the only two reasons I’ve stayed borderline sane at NMN and arguably that border has been crossed a few times of late.

  ‘Not bothered about food but I could murder a drink,’ she says, pointing to a presentation on her screen titled ‘Shlitzy Alcopops – Nurturing The Brand Soul’.

  ‘How can you always drink on an empty stomach?’ I say.

  ‘I’m a professional,’ she says, shutting down her computer and grabbing her coat. ‘Where’s good on a miserable rainy Tuesday?’

  ‘Hawksmoor? Killer cocktails and their burgers are meant to be amazing.’

  ‘First round’s on me,’ she says. ‘Let’s make it a double.’

  Is Rebecca a Leftover then? She’s thirty-three, single, does a bullshit job, drinks a little too much. She happens to be gorgeous: she has huge brown eyes with naturally long, thick curly lashes. She ne
ver needs to wear mascara, but when she does, people just stare at her as if her eyes can’t be real. Plus she’s curvy, and leggy! Honestly, if I didn’t know her I’d hate her. But I do know her. So I know that along with being naturally beautiful, she’s also funny, kind and loyal.

  What I don’t know is why she’s single. Other than that she’s playing a numbers game and hasn’t found that mythical ‘one’ yet. And with Rebecca it definitely isn’t for lack of trying. Well, who knows what’s around the corner?

  A novel about love, hope and the power of pasta from the bestselling author of Pear Shaped.

  Enjoy this extract? Buy the rest of the book here:

  LEFTOVERS: 9780007478446

  The Clause

  Anna Lou Weatherley

  ‘My, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?’

  Lance Spencer rolled over onto his side and admired his wife’s perfect naked form next to him, gently circling her exposed pink nipple with an expert finger.

  ‘Hmmm … what time is it?’ she murmured in response to his touch.

  ‘Let me see,’ he said, absentmindedly reaching for his platinum Rolex on the bedside table, ‘it’s sex-o’clock,’ he raised an eyebrow, Roger Moore style.

  She laughed softly.

  ‘You’re nuts, you know that?’

  ‘I’m nuts about you, that I do know.’

  She was propped up on her elbow now, facing him, admiring his fresh-faced good looks, crumpled Egyptian cotton sheets outlining her naked form. He was such a handsome man, even first thing in the morning, too handsome really she supposed, a head-turner as they say, with his perfectly symmetrical features, large doe-brown eyes framed by thick lashes, chiselled cheekbones and a square jaw, his thatch of dark hair flecked with silver giving him that distinguished, silver-fox look that suggested he had a wealth of sexual experience in his repertoire. And he had; women had thrown themselves at him like suicidal lemmings his entire adult life. And he had tirelessly pursued the ones who hadn’t. Of course, they all gave in eventually, where a man like her husband was concerned – an international playboy who spoke five different languages and wrapped his charm around you like a mink coat – it was simply a matter of time.

  ‘Shall I send down for breakfast?’ she fixed him with wide blue eyes. ‘Eggs florentine and some Buck’s Fizz do you?’

  He smiled. His wife loved to eat. And he loved the fact that she loved to eat. In his vast experience, women who enjoyed their food enjoyed sex far more than their self-starved counterparts.

  ‘Let’s work up an appetite first shall we …’ he said, grinning, though there was detectable authority in his tone. Not that he’d ever needed to raise his voice to her once during eleven months of marriage. So far, she had been the most compliant of his four wives; accommodating, her thoroughly amendable disposition proving to be just the tonic he needed from the vociferous, demanding, harridans he’d previously saddled himself with.

  By and large, women had been Lance Spencer’s downfall, at least certainly according to his exasperated and somewhat disapproving mother. This time however, she had been active in the selection process for a new wife for her only son. In fact, it had been Mother, good ol’ mums, who had first introduced him to Soledad at the Cartier International Polo final last July.

  ‘Perfect wife material,’ Margaret Spencer had surmised, casting a critical eye over the young, beautiful socialite. ‘Father’s a Russian; mother’s Spanish; educated at Wentworth House,’ she had studied her intently as though she were a rare piece of art, glasses perched on the tip of her nose in critical examination.

  Margaret Spencer despaired of her only son and heir’s lack of ability to hold down a decent wife long enough to produce grandchildren and maintain the Spencer lineage that she was so proud of. An impatient woman, it had sent her half mad to watch that ridiculous lothario of a son of hers make a royal balls-up of his love life, collecting decrees nisi like cheap portraits, making a mockery of the sanctity of marriage and their good family name. She and his father had been together for thirty nine years, thirty nine years, thirty six of them married before he went and had a heart attack, leaving her disappearing into old age alone, the selfish bloody bugger.

  Fifteen years tops, she reasoned, that’s what she had left on the planet if she was lucky and she was determined to fill her twilight years with the sound of children’s voices. Only that useless boy she had birthed couldn’t manage to keep a woman happy long enough for the girl to push one out. His trouble was he just couldn’t keep his thing in his trousers, never had been able to, even as a child, always waving it around like a loaded weapon, and women today simply wouldn’t tolerate their husband’s infidelities. Not like in her day when you practically expected it and accepted it, turned a blind eye and got on with the job in hand. Girls today were far less forgiving, as Lance had discovered to his detriment, which was why she had added the clause to his pre-nup with Soledad. The clause stated that should her son commit adultery during the first fifteen months of marriage – more than long enough to produce a child – then he would forfeit his entire inheritance to his wife. All twenty four million pounds of it. Now if that wasn’t an incentive to keep his pecker zipped then she wasn’t sure what was, because she knew this: her son loved women, yes, but he loved money more. And even he wasn’t stupid enough to gamble away his entire birthright for the sake of a quick knee-trembler with some game little slut. It was precautionary, but she’d had it stamped by the lawyers all the same. This time she’d meant business and if it had to be done the hard way then so be it. Besides, it had been the girl herself who had inadvertently given her the idea. Soledad had told her a tale about some Saudi king who’d had something similar put in place to keep his wayward daughter, who had brought terrible shame on the family, in check. Quite inspired really.

  ‘Let’s work up an appetite first,’ Lance gave his wife a lascivious grin, ‘breakfast can wait.’ He was practically licking his lips. He would never tire of looking at her naked. She was what the boys from the Hurlingham club referred to as a ‘total fox.’ Almond-shaped blue eyes, high cheekbones and a bee-stung pout that was always slightly open, ready and willing to receive, like a human blow-up doll. And her body; small but high and round breasts, tiny waist and curvy hips – almost retro. She had given him a permanent hard-on from the get-go.

  Lance Spencer had spent a lifetime charming women in a bid to seduce and screw them (sometimes in every sense of the word). Soledad Vladimiri was his fourth wife and, incidentally, the only woman he had ever felt anything close to resembling love for, whatever that was supposed to be. Women seemed to think they knew, tossing the word around like a tennis ball as they were wont to do.

  ‘Love is what’s left when the attraction stars to wane.’ He had read this somewhere – no doubt in some ghastly, patronising women’s magazine that claimed to have all the answers – and had found such a statement to be highly objectionable, at best questionable. If complacency was the key to eternal happiness then he’d stick to lust any day. Lust was the driving force behind all unions and was as an integral part of being in love as anything else. It frustrated Lance that women, or certainly the women he’d known, couldn’t, or wouldn’t acknowledge this fact. This time however, he understood what he meant when he said those three words; ‘I love you.’ This time he actually felt it.

  ‘Ok, sexy time first … breakfast after,’ she acquiesced, stretching out across the super king-sized bed in their palatial penthouse cabin suite, deliberately affording him a glimpse of her breasts. ‘And then perhaps a walk along the top deck … the view is breathtaking.’

  The six-star celebrity liner, all 122,000 tonnage of it, boasted an occupancy of 2,300 and was three decks of unrivalled, exquisite luxury. Their penthouse apartment, complete with three en-suite bedrooms, a vast entertaining space and 60ft terrace which incorporated a real grass lawn, gas heaters, floodlights, a private plunge pool and jacuzzi that granted unparalleled sea views, was the best available. No expense spared.
The ship, The Celebrity Silver as she was called, was slowly making her way around the Med. So far they had docked at Marbella, Ibiza, Mykonos, Santorini and were now heading over to the picturesque island of Capri. Lance had visited these locations at one time or another in his vast experience as a seasoned travelling playboy, and he’d enjoyed the sights – and the women – in every location. His wife, however, had never been to Capri before and was positively excited.

  ‘It’s supposed to be one of the most beautiful places on earth,’ she had gushed.

  ‘Wait until you see Como, and Venice …now Venice is really something …’ he had been quite touched by her enthusiasm. She was surprisingly untravelled for someone of her provenance, but her father had been a military man and by all accounts had wanted to afford his only daughter the stability which he himself had lacked as a child.

  He pulled her closer to him, her stiff little nipples against his chest making him instantly hard as he pushed her slim legs apart and took one of them in his mouth, nibbling gently. Within seconds he was inside her, powering through her gentle resistance until she began to yield, her soft kittenish moans causing his orgasm to rush to the surface too quickly. He liked to take a woman. Foreplay, though often required, slightly bored him. It was much like ordering a decent three-course meal: the entrée was simply a prerequisite to the main dish – and he often rushed to get to that too. She didn’t seem to mind though, which pleased him no end.

  ‘Breakfast?’ she beamed at him and he grinned back his approval as he rolled off her, sated. She hadn’t come, but it didn’t seem to bother her one iota. Something else he loved about her: a woman who didn’t demand an orgasm every time you fucked them. It was all rather easy and refreshing. No pressure. It was one of the main reasons he’d agreed to marry her, much to Mother’s delight. Mother had thought she was being clever adding that ridiculous clause into the pre-nup but he had zero intention of screwing things up with this one. He wasn’t stupid enough to gamble away his entire multi-million pound inheritance for the sake of a little side order of pussy. Besides, for now he was happy. Soledad was young, beautiful, educated, obliging … and he would impregnate her just as soon as possible and keep that damn interfering mother of his happy. Once she popped out a few sprogs, leaving her belly like an eight day-old party balloon with tits to match, he may well be forced to find himself a little extracurricular, but by then it wouldn’t matter. The clause his demanding matriarch had forced him to put into effect by threatening disinheritance would be long since null and void. Thankfully Soledad knew nothing of this. And she didn’t need to. It had no bearing on her. If he was to divorce her at any time then she would walk away a comfortably rich woman anyway.