Food Fight

by Anne Penketh

  “I can’t believe they called it Guilty Secrets,” he said. He looked at his watch again.

  “So what happens now?”

  “Let me think about it. Tell me if there are any more developments.”

  She took his proffered business card. She watched him leave with the loping gait of a sportsman and sat back in her chair with a smile.

  She studied the embossed lettering on the thick white card. She’d been about to give him hers before deciding that would be pointless. He had her number anyway. For the first time in a long while, she didn’t feel alone.

  *

  Susan and Rod had agreed to meet for coffee after Christmas in Hammersmith. She was looking forward to going home for the holidays.

  Jessica invited her to a performance of The Messiah. It wasn’t Susan’s first choice but provided an opportunity to recount her story about ‘John from New York’ with a few embellishments for effect. Jessica referred to him for the rest of the evening as ‘American Gigolo’.

  Three days before her departure for London, she received the email she dreaded. It was from HR, inviting her to a meeting.

  She had only met the head of HR, Lynn Proctor, once before when she’d just arrived in Washington.

  “How are you, Susie? Please sit down.”

  Lynn had a spacious office on the seventh floor. Susan sat obediently in front of her desk, feeling like a junior employee.

  “Barney asked me to look into transferring you back to London at the end of your time here. I’ve spoken to Frank, of course, and others about how best to use you. Your job in London has of course been filled while you’ve been here. Let me see.” Lynn pulled up a file on her computer. “Your immigration status.”

  Susan knew that DeKripps had renewed her visa for another year so it was valid until the following September.

  “So,” said Lynn to herself. She turned back to Susan, who was waiting for the verdict.

  “Regrettably,” – the word was heavy with doom – “it’s proved impossible to find you something commensurate with your pay level, despite our efforts and all the best will in the world.”

  She smiled complicitly before adding, “As you know, DeKripps execs aren’t exactly underpaid.”

  “So we’re talking about redundancy?”

  Lynn smiled again but her glossed pink lips had tautened.

  “You do know that I’m about to leave for England on holiday? It seems very unfair if you expect me to leave Washington and never come back.”

  “Oh there’s no suggestion of that, Susie. No rush. We’ll just get the paperwork done and then let’s say you’ll be on gardening leave for a while.”

  Susan understood there was no more to be said. She got up, wanting to throw out a devastating one-liner, and longing to say “My lawyer will be in touch,” but that was Hollywood. Here, DeKripps was king, and she wasn’t even sure she had a lawyer.

  “Happy holidays,” said Lynn, opening the door.

  Susan’s legs were trembling as she took the stairs down to her office. She called Mark Palin but was put through to a secretary who said she would pass on the message.

  She couldn’t face ringing her mother to tell her about her humiliation. She shut the door and rang Lily, who was at home.

  “This is how they treat me after 13 years’ loyal service!” She could hear music in the background. “What am I going to do? DeKripps has been my whole career.”

  “What does the lawyer say?”

  “I don’t know. I’m waiting for him to ring me back.”

  “Sit tight. You’ll be fine. You’ve had a shock. Even though you knew it was coming, it must be a shock.”

  As she was walking back to the apartment after work that evening, carrying a heavy bag of shopping and trying not to slip on a dusting of snow, her mobile rang. She put down the bag carefully on the pavement and stood under a streetlight. It was Mark, who said he was sorry to hear her news but wouldn’t be able to meet before she flew home for the holidays.

  “In any case, we need to wait until DeKripps makes you an offer. You’ve only had a preliminary conversation so far.”

  Swallowing disappointment, pretending to be caught up in the bustle of Christmas and work, she promised to email as soon as she had some news.

  “See you next year,” he said, and rang off.

  She picked up her bags and walked slowly back to her apartment.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  A few days later, she awoke with a stomach ache like the grinding of a blunt instrument. It was so painful she curled up in bed, rubbing her tummy. It took her a minute or so to remember that she wasn’t in the artificial darkness of her apartment in DC. She’d spent her first night back in London on the sofa bed in Lily’s tiny Bermondsey flat. Then she remembered her arrangement with Rod and knew why she was so consumed by anxiety.

  “Lily?” She heard the tinkle of a phone from behind the closed kitchen door, then a hushed voice saying, “Hello.”

  “Morning,” Lily said as she came into the main room, and opened the curtains. “That was Daniel. I hope I didn’t wake you.” Susan knew she was still in touch with her estranged husband, a documentary film-maker, but Lily rarely mentioned him. Susan suspected that they’d never divorced because of her Catholic background.

  “What time is it?” It was already 9.30 a.m. She’d slept well despite the jetlag. She was supposed to meet Rod on the other side of London at 11.

  She threw off the bedclothes, ate half a slice of toast with Lily, had a quick bath, and dressed carefully. She decided on professional skirt rather than jeans. She sprayed herself with her Coco Mademoiselle, which hung heavily in the airless flat.

  She headed out, only just hearing “Good luck” as she opened the front door. She breathed in crisp London air and felt exhilarated. How many years had she carried this grudge on her shoulder?

  She rehearsed what she would say to him as she walked out of the Tube. Would she mention Serge? Why would she? She didn’t want her ex-lover’s pity. He would not even know she’d been married. She hadn’t said anything about her work or relationship status on Facebook. What about Mimi’s pregnancy? That was none of his business. Or maybe it was. She would have to see.

  Rod was already waiting for her when she arrived at the café on King Street. He wore a brown Barbour jacket with a woolly mustard scarf draped around his neck. He was restlessly turning the pages of the Times. Maybe he’s as nervous as I am. Good.

  He only saw her when she began dragging a chair towards his sofa. He stood up.

  “Here, let me do that. You look good, Susie.”

  “Thanks,” she said, sitting down, “a little heavier, but then …”

  “Are you?” he said. “It suits you, anyway.”

  She was gratified that they’d neither kissed nor shaken hands. They went to the counter and brought back a couple of cappuccinos.

  It was weird, it was as though she’d seen him only yesterday. She was no longer looking at a middle-aged man with greying hair and the beginnings of a paunch, but a dashing boyfriend who’d simply taken longer than expected to keep this appointment. If she closed her eyes and listened to his slightly breathy voice, she could whisk herself back to their romantic evenings in the flat in Brighton, to Devil’s Dyke and the leather seats of his BMW. She noticed the crow’s feet and the eyebrows flecked with white, but his grey-green eyes were as hypnotic as ever.

  She was determined to show no sign of familiarity with this person who had deserted her, fearing that his wife would find out about their affair. But she had to admit despite herself that he did look rather distinguished.

  “So how are you?”

  “Fine. Very well, thanks. And you?”

  “Yes, fine.” She started to feel awkward. What was she doing here anyway? What was she expecting from this? Did some part of her hope for the old Rod? Now he was here, what was she meant to be doing about it?

  “What made you think about me, then?” she asked.

  “I’v
e never stopped thinking about you. I suppose I wanted to make amends.”

  “Well that would cost you. Your child is now twenty two years old,” she said. The words sounded harsher than she intended.

  “No, I don’t mean financially. I guess I just wanted to see you again to say sorry. I know I behaved badly.”

  “Badly.” Susan considered the word. “To abandon your lover who was seven months pregnant with your baby? Yes, I suppose you could describe that as bad.”

  She was swallowing her coffee in gulps. How could he have any idea of how it had felt? Fearing to go to ante-natal classes alone. Bringing up a crying baby whose party trick was to throw up like the girl in The Exorcist. Susan never knew where the projectile vomit was going to land. Then there were the lonely evenings spent watching television or reading baby books while listening for sounds from the cot, the lack of a loving and reassuring presence when things went wrong.

  “You fired me. By fax. How could you do that?” She shot him an accusing glare.

  He looked downcast. “I had to tell you. And I didn’t want a scene like this.”

  Susan kept her eyes on a corner of the sofa, and Rod waited patiently to meet them.

  “So she’s called Mimi,” he tried again.

  She was silent. And the spitting image of you, she wanted to tell him. How she’d missed him in those early years, when she’d been so jealous she’d been tempted to track down his wife to confront her. Finally, she asked the question that had been on her mind since he first got in touch.

  “And are you still married?”

  “Yes I am.”

  The violence of her reaction surprised her.

  “So exactly what is the point of this charade? You walk in here after twenty two years, saying you want to make amends, but we can’t exactly pick up where we left off, can we? You broke my heart, Rod,” she said, “I brought up our child on my own, never knowing whether I would ever see you again. You ran off like a coward! And now you say you’re still married to the same woman you refused to leave in the first place. Just tell me what is the point of all this?”

  Her voice came back at her from the wooden floorboards like a squash ball. A few of the other customers looked their way.

  “Susie, listen,” he began. But she didn’t want to hear it. She stood, picked up her bag and said to anyone within earshot: “Don’t you ever get in touch with me again.”

  She strode out of the café, ignoring astonished looks. Oh God, I screwed that up, she thought.

  *

  Back on the sofa at Lily’s, a mug of tea in one hand and her phone at her ear, she was listening to Mimi screaming at her.

  “It just came out that way. I didn’t mean it to,” she said. “And he’d just said he wanted to make amends.”

  As she’d feared, Mimi made her feel as though she’d committed treason. According to her, the sole purpose of their encounter was to engineer a meeting between father and daughter. “And I couldn’t even trust you to do that!”

  When Susan protested that it wasn’t an easy situation, Mimi started screaming that she’d just lost the only opportunity she would ever have to meet her real father. Lily came in and heard the shrieks coming down the line. She made a cut-throat gesture. “I’ll call you later,” said Susan, and rang off.

  Co-habiting with Lily in such a small space proved a challenge, despite their closeness. Lily insisted she didn’t mind practising in the bedroom, although Susan knew that she usually set up in the living room, now her makeshift bedroom. Lily was preparing for a concert by her ensemble at the Royal Festival Hall but was already worrying about the stage fright which might, or might not, strike at any moment. And she was complaining about a pain in her arm.

  Through the door, she could hear the trilling, meandering flute. She could imagine Lily playing, didn’t recognise the melody but sat still enjoying the music. Lily stopped and started again. She repeated the same bars. And again. Eventually, the repetition forced Susan outside in search of some quiet.

  On her last morning in Bermondsey, she received an email from Lynn Proctor. She sat staring at the screen of her laptop on Lily’s dining table while she read. DeKripps was offering her a redundancy package which, including three months’ pay in lieu of notice, would amount to a full year of her London salary. In other words £125,000.

  “DeKripps believes that these terms are exceptionally generous,” Lynn wrote. She also said that as Susan came under the purview of the London office, she should discuss any issues about terms with HR there.

  Susan was astonished. A full year’s pay to walk away!

  “Lily, listen to this!” she called out, forwarding the email to Mark Palin for advice. She was tempted to accept on the spot.

  Lily was as amazed as Susan at the terms.

  “Goodness, imagine what you can do with £125,000.”

  “I know! And the first £30,000 is tax free.” She realised that figure must seem monstrously unreal to her impoverished friend. “It’ll give me a breathing space while I consider my next move.”

  “More than a breathing space, I’d say. This calls for a celebration!” Lily returned from her bedroom with her flute, and pretended to be the Pied Piper of Hamelin. Susan followed behind, giggling, kicking her legs in the air.

  Picking up the phone, she called Mimi. Once again, it went straight to voicemail. She could just imagine her checking the caller before coldly switching off.

  Mimi had made it quite clear that she didn’t want to see her while she was in London. She certainly wasn’t going to plead with her for an audience. So in the end, she appealed to her mother to intercede.

  She’d reacted sympathetically to Susan’s double disappointment: The loss of a job she’d loved, despite the generous payoff, and the tense confrontation with Rod, which her mother diagnosed as his ‘permanent mid-life crisis.’ Susan didn’t go into details on the phone about Mimi’s role in her downfall, or the cloak and dagger drama at work.

  “I’ve spoken to Mimi about your leaving work,” her mother said. “But as I don’t know all the details there wasn’t much I could tell her.”

  Susan heard the dog barking in the background. She wanted to know more about Mimi’s state of mind, but she wasn’t sure she had her mother’s full attention.

  “Hard to say, really. You can’t tell on the telephone. She was surprised, obviously, but you’ll have to tell her more about your decision yourself,” her mother said.

  “Yes, but will she speak to me?”

  “I hope so, dear. You’re losing friends like a hedge fund manager.”

  She rang off. Now that the effect of Lynn Proctor’s email had worn off, she was angry at DeKripps, and hurt by the company’s treatment of her. But she would have to accept it. Didn’t they say that redundancy was like a bereavement?

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “I would recommend you accept these terms, Susie,” said Mark.

  She was seated in his plush office at Smithson and Hopkins, an imposing red marble building on 11th St NW. “If you sued for unfair dismissal you’d stand to get much less. It’s capped at £80,000 anyway. The only way you’d get more is if you claim discrimination, sexual, racial, etc. But we’re not talking about that, are we?”

  He looked surprised when she began to fidget. “Are we?”

  “Well, I should probably tell you this in case you hear about it in the future, but my boss tried to seduce me in the office last year.”

  “Really?” She could almost see the dollar signs flashing in his eyes as she recounted the incident in her office.

  “No witnesses, of course.”

  “It’s his word against mine. And there’s another thing. And you will really think I’m an idiot when I tell you this.”

  She went on to tell him about Peek-a-boo, her online dating experience and her suspicions about Barney’s predatory behaviour. He digested the saga without comment.

  He asked whether she was a permanent employee of DeKripps in Washington, or on second
ment from London. It was the latter. She didn’t even know if she was on three months’ notice or six, which could make a difference to a settlement. He offered to put her in touch with someone in his London office who could review the redundancy paperwork for her.

  She was relieved. If she didn’t want to have anything more to do with Barney and Frank, she wouldn’t have to.

  She was still thinking about the conversation with Mark as she descended the long, steep escalator at Dupont Circle. It was a cold night, and people were wrapped up warm. A young man wearing a Peruvian woolly hat and wire-rimmed glasses brushed past her as she reached the bottom. He looked vaguely familiar. After a few seconds, she’d made the connection: The geek! She began chasing after him as he swiped his travel card.

  “Hi, excuse me, I’m Susie from DeKripps,” she said.

  “Yes, I remember you from a marketing meeting.” He stopped to wait for her.

  “Tony, isn’t it?”

  “Tony Stella.”

  “Yes!” she beamed. “Tony, I know you’ve left the company but I’ve got something really important to ask you.” He looked uncomfortable. Did he know what was coming? She wasn’t sure he could hear what she was saying over the noise of an arriving Metro train.

  “I’m just worried there’s something in Guilty Secrets that makes people fat,” she said.

  He looked around distrustfully. “Why do you ask?”

  “Let’s just say that I know there’s a secret ingredient.” He wouldn’t know she was bluffing.

  “You know I left the company months ago, right?”

  “Of course. But can’t you help me, because what’s going on is wrong. It’s bad. We can’t play with people’s health like that. And you were the key person on the R and D team.”

  He stood there silently, looking at his feet, as a group of evening commuters passed by. They were in the no man’s land behind the ticket office, and she worried he might flee in either direction.

  He hesitated. “I can’t help you, I’m afraid.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s not my problem.”

  “It may be, though. Because now it’s the whole world’s problem, and I intend DeKripps to pay for it.”