by Emma Curtis
She’ll have to be content with that for now. While he showers, she gets down on the floor, rests her head on the carpet, her hands splayed either side of her shoulders, her knees to her chest. Then she slowly raises her legs and holds the pose. She counts two minutes and when she comes out of the position she touches her belly and says a silent prayer.
37
Laura
I’VE HIRED THE studio in Dalston, a defunct theatre that has found a new identity as a fashionable party venue and location. The stage still exists, but the rows of seats have been replaced by a dance floor with seating areas around the side furnished with mismatched and distressed armchairs and sofas. Its mix of baroque and decayed urban chic is perfect for the profile we are trying to achieve for GZ. It’s edgy, cool and not as expensive as hiring somewhere in central London. I arrive early, buying a banana at the station for breakfast. The lorry from Good Sets is parked behind the theatre and they have started unloading. I am soon joined by Eddie, Jamie, Finn and Bettina.
It’s strange being with Eddie but not bouncing ideas off him. I miss the camaraderie and the banter. I even miss hearing about his baby. Instead I have to listen to him and Jamie, who already appear to have developed a working relationship, discussing the idea I came up with, and it feels horrible. I regret not taking the time to think before I resigned. I could have got through this; the campaign would have come and gone, and I would have been reinstated in my office without another word spoken. It’s only because of David that I acted in the way I did. He provoked me. He should be the one with his career in tatters; not me.
‘You should reconsider,’ Eddie says. ‘Rebecca would have you back like a shot.’
We are snatching a quick break, sitting on the uncarpeted stairs. The walls are stripped-back plaster, collaged with aged scraps of paint and wallpaper.
My eyebrows shoot up. ‘But not David?’
‘No, but he’s a git. I miss working with you. Jamie’s a top bloke, but it isn’t the same. I might resign.’
‘Don’t.’ My lips twitch into a smile of pleasure, even though I suspect he’s only trying to make me feel better.
‘Why not? We could apply for jobs as a team. With GZ behind me, and you taking the credit for developing the initial idea, we could get picked up by one of the big agencies, no problem.’ He smiles. ‘Or even start our own.’
‘Not if you want to stay married.’
Visions of Felicity Gunner sitting at home on her own in the evenings, while David works late or snuggles up to Rebecca, make my facial muscles tighten.
‘Cynic.’ He sighs. ‘Let’s wait and see. Have you been to any recruitment agencies?’
‘It’s on my list,’ I say.
The truth is, although I’ve made a mental note to do it, I haven’t had the time or the heart. I’ve put out feelers amongst my contacts and I’ve had a couple of responses from the online applications and an interview lined up for next week, but since I resigned I’ve had trouble accepting that it’s real and I haven’t thought beyond each day. I don’t think it’ll hit me until it’s over. I have a vague idea that I might go to Mum’s, but I haven’t said anything to her about it. She doesn’t need notice anyway.
Jamie is up a ladder, hanging the banners I’ve had made. He’s wearing the same pink shirt he wore on the night of the Christmas party, and I’ve been wondering whether this is a cunning ploy to make sure I always know where he is. It’s the way I would think, but would it occur to him? And to make me feel an even greater failure, Bettina, who appears to have recovered from her crush on Finn, has him firmly in her sights. Bettina is girl-next-door pretty in scruffy jeans and a gingham shirt knotted at her navel, her abundant hair wrapped in a scarf to keep it clean. I would be extremely surprised if he was immune. They’ve been thrown together a lot more since Jamie’s been working in my old office.
I feel a pang, and wonder if it’s jealousy, then push it aside. I had my chance.
‘Come on,’ I say to Eddie. ‘Work to do.’
We are creating something energetic and yet intimate out of this echoing space. The theme is urban jungle, so I’ve hired a scenic artist, who I’ve met on the sets of various commercials, to graffiti fake walls. And I’ve added a twist. Six models are being body-painted, wearing jeans and tight vest-tops, camouflaged to disappear into the background. When the lights are dimmed, it’s impossible to tell they’re there. They’ve been rehearsing, and when they move in and out of position, the effect is mesmerizing. I’ve busted a gut making this happen and I am determined it’s going to be a success.
The band, who have been setting up for the last half hour, launch into a spoken ballad. It’s witty and rude and catchy and Bettina and I spontaneously stop what we’re doing and give each other a congratulatory nod.
Jamie hefts pieces of MDF on to the stage and I watch as he sets them up, working out how the pieces fit to create a back-of-houses, trompe-l’œil, inner-city feel. A carpenter asks him a question and I watch him explain what needs doing. Eddie is peculiarly impractical, and can barely hang a picture, and I’ve noticed that people go to Jamie whenever they have a logistical problem, trusting him to have the answer. It’s interesting. I like people who offer solutions rather than saying they haven’t got a clue, like Eddie does. I sigh and turn away. He isn’t ignoring me, but he is keeping his distance, understandably.
The number comes to an end and the band members huddle round and confer before starting again. The caterers arrive and need to know where to set up; time is disappearing fast. I get a message from Rebecca saying they’ll be here in ten minutes and I run up on to the stage, waving to get everyone’s attention.
‘Get rid of the rubbish and straighten things out. Rebecca and David are bringing the client over for a look.’
Someone yells, ‘Shitting hell!’ and there’s a burst of laughter.
I need to get changed. I brought everything with me, knowing there wouldn’t be time to go home. I pick up my bag and run downstairs to the dressing rooms where I put on my dress. It’s dove-grey chiffon, and off-the-shoulder with a tight bodice, full skirt and sleeves that finish under the elbows. I bought it in Paris with Isabel two years ago and it makes me feel like Audrey Hepburn. I refresh my make-up, slip my feet into a pair of high-heels and do what I can with my hair. It’s still as much a surprise to me when I look in the mirror as my own face is.
I climb the stairs and push open the heavy double doors. David, Rebecca and Paige have their backs to me as they look up at the stage. I take a deep breath and walk over.
‘It’s awesome,’ Paige gushes.
She directs her words at me, and I try not to show surprise. Perhaps she has a short memory. At any rate, I appear to be out of that particular doghouse. Rebecca is wearing her hair down and huge chunky platinum-and-diamond earrings gleam through her glossy tresses. Paige has her hair up.
‘Fantastic, isn’t it?’ David says, without looking at me.
‘Everyone’s worked hard.’ I don’t look at him either.
David is wearing a white shirt with the top two buttons undone, under a suit, fashionably short in the leg to show a glimpse of orange socks. This is presumably in homage to the product, since there’s an orange hanky tucked into the breast pocket too. Thank God for the quirky touches. The thought of the challenge ahead sends a wave of despair through me. I should have insisted on labels and not let myself be overridden by Rebecca, who said it would spoil the look of the thing, and that I would just have to cope.
‘Laura,’ Rebecca says warmly. ‘It looks amazing. Clever you.’
‘You did good,’ Paige says, surprising me again. She checks her watch. ‘One hour.’ She turns to Rebecca. ‘We’d better let these guys get on.’
And with that the three of them leave. They are going to have a quick, stomach-lining supper at a local Italian restaurant. That banana I ate on the way in seems a long time ago. My stomach rumbles. I catch Bettina’s attention and wave her over.
‘You couldn’t be a
n angel and get me a sandwich, could you?’
‘Of course I can. Any preferences?’
‘Big, with meat. And a fizzy drink. Oh, and a Crunchie … no, make that a Mars Bar.’
She laughs, and I watch her walk across the room and speak to Jamie. He looks down at her, then turns and says something to Eddie before following her to the exit like an obedient hound. I watch them go with my mouth hanging open. How many people does it take to buy a sandwich?
38
Laura
IT’S AT TIMES like this that I’m reminded forcibly of why I don’t like parties and I ache with envy for everyone who can recognize a face in the crowd, who knows their mother from their neighbour, their friend from their enemy. I despair of finding any equilibrium in my life.
I am standing in the doorway and the guests have arrived, most of them straight from work. There are mixologists and agency people, GZ employees and representatives from all the best outlets. We want the drink to be seen in places like Selfridges and Harrods, as well as behind the trendiest bars. The beautiful people are here; the models and actresses that Bettina and I have reeled in with promises of being snapped by photographer to the stars, Simon McAulay. Some of these faces brighten when they see me, lifting their hands in greeting as I swiftly move away.
Someone is heading towards me, and I break out in a cold sweat. Every sound is intensified; the music, the chatter and the clink of glasses making it harder to think.
‘Laura! What a fantastic event. I hear it’s all your doing.’
I smile. ‘I can’t take all the credit. I have a great team.’
Give me a clue. Say something to help me place you. Please.
Then someone else comes up, a man in a black shirt. In a moment of panic, I think I’m going to have to introduce them and brace myself for flight, but I’m spared that humiliation when he kisses the woman on both cheeks.
‘Maxine! Where have you been hiding yourself?’
Maxine Lorimer. She’s the producer at the production company we’ve chosen to make the commercial. The man though – do I know him or not? He has silver hair and broad shoulders.
‘This is Laura Maguire,’ Maxine says. ‘She’s the creative force behind all this.’ She indicates the room, with a sweep of her hand.
‘Nice to put a face to the voice.’ He holds out his hand and I take it. ‘I’m Colin Pask.’
I grin, relieved. We’ve never met but we have spoken on the phone. We talk for a minute or two and then politely sidle away from each other, me saying I need to keep an eye on things. Every so often guests stop and stare at the wall, frown then laugh. My actors glide in and out of vision, creating a surreal, unsettling effect. It’ll be that extra touch that makes the party and the product memorable.
I weave amongst the crowd, greeting anyone who catches my eye with a promise to come and find them when I’ve done some made-up task, like checking on the drink situation. It works, but it isn’t something I can keep up. I’ll have to stop moving and have a conversation at some point.
Rebecca comes over. She raises her glass and I tap it with mine.
‘Not drinking the product, Laura?’ she says, eyebrows arched.
‘Nope.’ I take a long sip from my wine. ‘I’m leaving, so I can drink what I like.’
Her eyes narrow for a second, but she lets it pass, as I knew she would. ‘Do you see what I see?’ she asks.
‘What?’ I look around.
‘Can you see David? Next to the lady with the pink hair. Guess who he’s talking to.’
I spot him. He’s with a man, and they are chatting animatedly, David all back-thumping bonhomie.
‘Who is it?’ I ask.
‘Adam Powell. So, there you go. A lot of fuss about nothing.’
‘I didn’t realize you knew about that.’
She shrugs. ‘He was just blowing off steam. This is great, by the way. Are you enjoying yourself?’
‘Yes,’ I say firmly. ‘It’s all under control.’
She takes a deep breath. ‘Listen, Laura. I don’t think we behaved well by you. And I wanted you to know I’m sorry about that.’
‘You’ve done nothing wrong.’ I glance again at David. A woman has joined them, and he’s in his element; animated by their fawning respect.
‘You shouldn’t take what he says to heart,’ she says, following my gaze. ‘His bark is worse than his bite. He just needs more people to stand up to him.’
‘He’s a bully, Rebecca.’
She doesn’t need me to tell her anything else. She certainly doesn’t need me to tell her that her secret’s out, or to make oblique and bitchy comments about how well she knows him. I’m angry, but not the kind of angry that would deliberately cause collateral damage.
As soon as she’s left my side, someone touches my arm.
‘Phoebe sends her apologies,’ Elliot says. He reaches for my shoulder and we clumsily knock heads as we both go for the wrong cheek. ‘Her sister’s gone into labour.’
My phone rings and it’s Phoebe’s name on the caller display. I assume that she’s phoning to apologize, so when I pick up I immediately tell her not to worry. I’m only sorry she can’t make it. There’s a slight hesitation before she speaks.
‘It isn’t about that. I should have called you earlier but what with Harriet’s waters breaking and all that drama, I forgot. I think I might have put you in it.’
I cup my hand over my other ear so that I can hear better and make my way backstage. ‘What do you mean? What’s happened?’
‘I told my sister about your bosses having an affair. It was idle gossip, you know. Not malicious or anything. But, the thing is, Laura …’
She pauses, and I can feel the difficulty she’s having. ‘Tell me.’
‘She knows Felicity Gunner through the school. Apparently, they’re old friends. I had no idea. But she told her, and Felicity went ballistic. That’s when Harriet went into labour.’
I can feel a cold trickle down my spine. This is all I need.
‘I thought I’d better warn you. I’m sorry if it causes you problems.’
‘It’s not ideal,’ I say. It’s a gross understatement, but I’m at work and need to maintain my professional front. Inside, I’m swearing. ‘Listen, Phoebe, I’ve got to go, but thanks for the heads-up.’
I loiter backstage for a few minutes. I don’t blame Phoebe. It’s my own fault. I wonder whether David and Rebecca know yet, whether Felicity will wait till he’s home before she lets rip. If it was me, I think I would wait, so hopefully nothing will happen this evening. If I can get through this, I can get through anything.
‘You shouldn’t have resigned, you silly thing,’ Paige says. ‘I didn’t mean for that to happen, I was just mad at you.’
She’s different when she’s been drinking. Softer, almost puppyish; another big ego, like David, needing a constant supply of admiration and love. ‘Well, I am sorry,’ I say.
She must have been keenly attuned to my tone, because her mouth pulls down. ‘Don’t be like that, darling. I’m not out to wreck your career. You want me to talk to David?’
‘That’s kind of you, Paige, but there’s no point. I’ve started looking for another job.’
‘Now, that’s a shame. If you change your mind, let me know.’
She teeters off and I watch her until she finds someone new to cling to, then I discreetly make my way to the door. The place is crammed, so Rebecca won’t notice if I slip away for a while. I go downstairs to the dressing room where there’s a threadbare couch and a basketful of magazines. I toe my shoes off and sink down with relief, resting my head against the cool wall and closing my eyes. I can hear the band and the hum of conversation, the clatter in the kitchen as the caterers plate up the canapés. I’m taking a step back from the human race and it’s stupid and I shouldn’t do it, but tonight I don’t have the strength for the battle.
In the end it’s the cold that gets me going again. I had pulled a tasselled throw over me and dozed for a whil
e, but it’s slipped off and I wake shivering. Reluctantly, I squash my aching feet back into my shoes and try to smooth out the creases in the skirt of my dress.
Back upstairs the bar has closed, and the staff are packing up. I’ve stayed away longer than I meant to, and I expect to be called up on it, but no one asks where I’ve been, which is somehow worse because it makes me think I’m already fading in people’s minds. The guests have thinned out, going on to clubs and restaurants where they will hopefully discuss the product, although I don’t think, from a quick glance at the boxes, much GZ was consumed. People drank, but they preferred beer or wine. Oh well. It’s not my problem any more.
Eddie comes to find me, and we talk for a minute or two. I spot Bettina and Jamie deep in conversation in a corner. Bettina is wearing a little black dress and her hair looks amazing, dark curls tumbling over her bare shoulders. I look away.
Once the guests have gone, I help with the clear-up. I could just go. No one would care. The event was a roaring success, so there is an air of tipsy, adrenaline-fuelled bonhomie, a post-party atmosphere that I don’t feel part of. I hear snatches of discussion about where to go on to.
I take a bag of rubbish downstairs to the bins in the alleyway. It’s nippy and this is no place to linger. I open the lid and drop it in. When I turn, I yelp with fright. A man is standing in front of me, his arms crossed, his feet apart. Hostility pulses from him. I look over his shoulder, hoping someone else will come outside. There is plenty to bring down after all.
‘A word,’ he says.
I know it’s David because of the orange hanky, but I think I would have known anyway. I push past him, but he catches my arm.
‘Let go of me.’
‘Not until you’ve told me what you’re up to. I know it’s you sending those malicious little notes, so don’t pretend that it isn’t.’