The Rival

by Charlotte Duckworth

  But I have to, because as the train settles alongside the platform I realize that the concourse is full of people waiting to get on, determined to spoil my peace. I push through them and head for the Underground. I tell myself to hold my head high, that I’m going to be OK, that it’s just a normal trip into town to see an old friend, but my eyes are frantic, swivelling around in their sockets, scanning the faces bustling past, always looking, looking, looking. There’s no reason for Ash to be at King’s Cross at 2.30 p.m. on a Thursday but there’s no reason for her not to be, either – the office is still just around the corner, after all.

  The Tube is busier than I remembered. At this time of day I expected it to be empty, just a few off-season tourists staring down at paper maps. But instead, it’s crammed with people of all ages, luggage, a folded-up bicycle, even a small dog. Has London changed so much since I stopped living here? Or am I just noticing it all with fresh eyes?

  At Oxford Circus I emerge. The sun has come out and, despite the cold, I can’t help but smile. I feel alive again. Alive with adventure, with possibility and hope. Perhaps it’s the house that’s been to blame all along. Perhaps we should sell up and move back to London, back into the thick of it, and I should accept the job that David’s offering. Maybe this is the answer. Perhaps I don’t need the treatment, after all . . . perhaps the answer has been right here all along, just a £20 train journey away! I just need to convince Jack. There must be places he can rent to use as a workshop. Loads of craftsmen still manage to live in cities; they don’t have to live in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by woodland.

  I step through the great anonymous iron door and into the club, immediately embarrassed to see the concierge is the same woman as before. Judy.

  ‘Mrs Brenton!’ she says, smiling. ‘You look well. How lovely to see you.’

  ‘Thank you! You too.’

  I run my hands through my hair, smiling back at her. She is right. For once, I do look well. And even though I am too thin now, clothes somehow hang better, as though my body is a coat hanger, made for showing them off. And today there are no baggy-bottomed tracksuits or bobbled jumpers. I’ve made an effort. Slim-fitting black dress, opaque tights, my Saint Laurent boots.

  Judy waves me through, without checking whether I am still a member. David first bought me membership about six months after we met, but seeing as we put it through the business, it must have lapsed by now.

  ‘Great to see you back,’ Judy says. ‘I was . . . well . . . it’s just good to see you.’

  He is already there, in his usual armchair by the fire. I see the side of his head first. His hair is greyer than I remembered but he is still so handsome that I have to pause a little before walking towards him. He is staring down at some papers in his lap, frowning, concentrating, turning them over in his hands. For a second, it is as though I’ve been transported back two years. I stop walking, a few paces away, and just watch him. How I wish I could go back to that time. When I had everything. A husband, an amazing job . . .

  When David sees me, he stands up, as he always does. He kisses me on the cheek, and his aftershave is familiar, the memory uncomfortable.

  ‘Just before we start . . . I . . . I don’t want to talk about Ashley,’ I blurt.

  The words take us both by surprise, but he nods.

  ‘Of course. Understood. Here, have a seat. I ordered you an Old Fashioned. You look wonderful, by the way.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I reply. ‘You don’t look so bad yourself.’

  ‘So,’ he says, ‘I’m not going to pretend I’ve got any idea what . . . well . . . what hell you’ve been through, but I did want to say how very sorry I was. It’s a terrible thing. Just terrible. Elizabeth . . . she cried for days when she heard.’

  I want to snap back how sorry I am for her, but I just give a small nod instead.

  ‘How’s Jack and his new enterprise?’

  ‘He’s good,’ I say. ‘Well, as good as can be expected. He’s working a lot. It takes time to get these things off the ground, you know . . .’ It’s a stock answer, and it’s only as I give it that I realize it’s not true any more. He never seems to be in the workshop, these days, but I have no idea where he is most of the time.

  ‘Oh, but how admirable to be following your passion like that,’ he says, sounding as though he might actually mean it. ‘Takes a brave man to step away from a steady pay packet and bonus scheme.’

  We continue in this vein for several minutes; non-threatening small talk. I ask him about Elizabeth, about his dog, Benji, who was very old and had to be put to sleep. He looks genuinely sombre for a moment; a chink in his Alpha Male veneer. The children, however, are thriving, he tells me. The oldest – ironically, also called Jack – is doing well at boarding school, a big fan of the army cadets. His voice softens when he talks about Penny, his ten-year-old daughter, still the apple of his eye.

  I don’t ask him about KAMU.

  My glass is empty. David gestures for the waiter. ‘Another, please,’ he says, glancing back at me.

  ‘No! No, thank you. It’s too early. I’ll have . . . an Americano. Black.’

  ‘And for you, sir?’ the waiter asks, picking up my glass and placing it on his tray.

  ‘The same!’ David says, clapping his hands together.

  The waiter sidles off.

  ‘So,’ I say, realizing that we’ve been here for nearly twenty minutes now and there’s still been no mention of his great opportunity. ‘What were you so eager to talk to me about?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Are you working at the moment?’

  ‘No,’ I reply, the answer making me feel ashamed. ‘No, not since . . . well, I’ve been . . . having a break.’

  ‘Of course. So important to take time out. And you’ve no plans to – sorry, this is such a personal question, do tell me to get lost – but no plans to have another baby?’

  ‘No,’ I say. I’m stunned that David even thinks I’m considering it. Does he imagine that’s how you get over something like this? It just shows how little men understand. But I’m more stunned by his boldness. There’s something about David’s forthright questioning that makes me feel better. And then I realize, it’s the tiptoeing around me that’s been so painful, all those sympathetic looks, kid gloves and patronizing sentiments. They’ve done more to erode my sense of self than anything else. In my old life, I wasn’t the sort of person that people talked down to, that people felt they needed to protect. I was fearless and respected, known for my achievements in my career.

  ‘No, no plans for another baby.’

  ‘Well then, I’ve been in discussion with Shopit. A new affiliate programme in the US – you might have heard of them? They’re coming over here . . . they’re looking for a chief product officer. I thought, with your knowledge of the market, you might be interested.’

  ‘What’s your involvement?’ I say, and in an instant the last year has vanished. I am back in the right place, being serious – and, more importantly, being taken seriously.

  ‘Nothing this time, actually. The CTO, Sean, is an old mate . . . we were at Harvard together . . . he asked me if I knew of anyone, and I thought of you. By all accounts it’s a hectic place to work, but I know you’re used to that. Offices are TBC but they’re looking at somewhere east, I think.’

  ‘Remuneration?’

  ‘To be honest, with my recommendation, I reckon you could ask for whatever you wanted. Once you got past their board – it’s family owned, and they like to chat to everyone they recruit individually. They’d probably fly you over for a couple of days. They’ve got investment, though. Money isn’t the problem, they’re just looking for the right people now.’

  ‘Share options?’

  ‘Of course.’

  I sit back in my button-back chair. The waiter sets down our coffees.

  ‘So we wouldn’t be working together?’ I’m cross with myself for even asking.

  ‘Not this time,’ David replies. ‘Still chained to KAMU . . . But like
I say, Sean’s an old mate. I’ve been helping him out, so I’m sure our paths would cross. Listen, why don’t I get him to drop you a line? You’re on LinkedIn, right?’

  I nod, and take a sip of my coffee, wishing I’d ordered something alcoholic, after all.

  THEN

  Ash

  Networking is an essential part of building wealth.

  Just a shame I’m so shit at it.

  I survey the Christmas party. There’s money in the company, that’s for sure. A three-course meal (with champagne) at a swanky hotel, followed by an open bar and a vaguely famous DJ. Of course, I have no idea who he is, but Helena assured me he wasn’t cheap. I think he’s a friend of hers, in fact, or an ex-boyfriend. She seems to know so many people. And not just any people, but the right people.

  ‘Phew!’

  I turn to see David’s PA, Lizzy, holding out an upturned sparkly bowler hat full of tiny pieces of paper.

  ‘Pick one!’ she says, shaking it in front of me as though panning for gold. ‘It’s the Secret Santa, with a twist. Remember? We all pick a number and then get to choose a present in that order . . .’

  I zone out as I reach in for a number, thinking not of these tedious instructions but, instead, how much her face has changed in only a couple of weeks. Is this what pregnancy does to you? Doubles the number of chins you have? She looks tired, too – none of that glow they bang on about. I wonder how old she is. Definitely late thirties. Must have worried she was running out of time, wanted to squeeze one out before her ovaries gave up on her.

  ‘Admiring my pregnancy ball gown?’ she says, hoicking her black tube dress down over her hips. ‘It’s as comfortable as it looks. Can’t wait to get the effing thing off. No one told me that when you’re pregnant the underside of your boobs starts to sweat, especially when wrapped in tight black Lycra. In fact, I’m mostly just one big sweaty mess, these days. It’s great.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say, embarrassed that she’s caught me looking. ‘No, I was just . . . thinking how lovely you look.’

  ‘Liar,’ she says, but her eyes are twinkling. She’s the most good-natured PA I’ve ever worked with. ‘I’m a fat whale. It’s OK. Apparently, it’s all going to be worth it.’

  And with that she wobbles off towards the accounts team, bowler hat aloft.

  I turn back to the room, watching Helena as I stand by the bar, making my one glass of champagne last. It’s a concession, for Christmas. I gave up alcohol a week after starting my job at Kiss and Make Up. After Gary moved out, I found myself settling into a routine of red wine and work, instead of an actual supper, and it began to affect my complexion. I’ve never had the best skin tone – what the copywriters at KAMU would call ‘deathly’. I’m too pale, and dehydration gives me the sort of dark circles under my eyes that a forty-year-old would be horrified by.

  It’s all right for Helena, of course. Good genes. I might be younger, but when the two of us walk into a room together, she’s the one that gets the first glances. She’s so much smaller than me; the definition of petite. Tonight, her body is encased in a satin black jumpsuit, her hair loose in waves across her shoulders, a trademark slick of dark lipstick bringing definition to her face.

  It would be so easy to hate her.

  I don’t hate her, though, because I’ve realized over these past few weeks that she likes me. She likes my ambition, the fact that I don’t let my age and relative inexperience hold me back.

  The trouble is, you think you have time.

  People think it’s a Buddha quote, but there’s no proof. More likely, it’s something thought up by a greetings card company. Still, I like it, and it feels relevant for today.

  Steve from the sales department has sidled over to Helena like an unattractive snake. He’s drunk already and it’s only 9.30 p.m. The music is loud and I feel for her as I watch her lean towards him to catch what he’s saying. A flick of spit lands on her shoulder as he speaks. She’s like some Disney princess, standing there surrounded by frogs, all trying to kiss her, to see if they’re ‘the one’. But, of course, she’s married. I’ve seen a photograph of her husband, on the screensaver on her phone. He’s ridiculously good-looking, in a rather conventional way. He probably has some very eligible friends.

  No use to me, unfortunately. Because, at the end of the day, she’s my boss. I’m her direct report. We’ve been getting on well – she’s made some cringe-worthy jokes about girl power and taking on the Americans – but it’s always going to be tricky to cross that professional line into friendship. She’s just signed off my probation, said everything I’ve done is excellent and that I’ve gone ‘above and beyond’. But there will always be that barrier between us.

  Not for the first time, I wonder what she’s earning. She has an expensive-looking watch on her slim wrist, but her husband is obviously well off, so that doesn’t necessarily say anything.

  My head thumps with fury when I think of my own salary. Just enough to pay for the studio flat in Mitcham – thank God I’ve been able to give up working in the shop, finally – but it’s hardly impressive. After I passed my probation, Helena announced my two grand pay rise as though it was some kind of massive deal, and I had to bite my tongue and accept it gratefully. Two grand? I asked her when I could expect another review, and she looked surprised, but not cross, and said she’d look into it.

  I’ve only been working here for three months and I’m already restless. They promised ample opportunities for promotion, but I can’t see any obvious next step. I’ll have to wait for Helena to leave, but that might be too big a leap. The short-sighted powers that be won’t promote me from Digital Executive to Creative Director. I’ll have to work my way up the digital team first. It isn’t what I want to do. I’m better than that.

  I want to lead a team, to effect real change, to have an impact. As Helena has done.

  I look back over at her. She glances up and meets my eyes, giving me a broad and beautiful smile. I smile back and watch as she leans forward and excuses herself to Steve, making her way over to me.

  ‘Champagne!’ she says, nodding at my glass. ‘I’m impressed. Don’t tell me you’re letting your hair down for once.’

  ‘Only at Christmas,’ I say, drinking the last mouthful in one gulp. ‘There.’ I put the glass down on the table next to me. ‘That’s me done.’

  ‘You are funny,’ she says, smiling. ‘Why don’t you have another? I’m quite tipsy myself, Jack will be most unimpressed.’

  ‘Is he controlling?’ I ask, the words out before I have given them proper thought.

  ‘What?’ She frowns slightly, and when she frowns she looks like a cross child. ‘Not at all! I just mean . . .’ She leans forward conspiratorially. ‘He finds me rather hard work when I’ve had a few drinks. I have a tendency to come home, put music on – you know, a bit of old-school trance – and dance around the living room. He’s more of a blues fan.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say. ‘I don’t know . . . I’m not really into music.’

  ‘Oh, Ashley, you do make me laugh!’ she says, but she isn’t really listening now; she’s watching Lizzy trying to balance the glittery hat on her distended stomach, a performance for an appreciative bunch of drunkards from sales. ‘What have you been doing all your life?’

  ‘Working,’ I say, under my breath.

  She smiles again and gives a half-nod, and I know she’s not listening to me at all.

  ‘Doesn’t Lizzy look amazing?’ she says. ‘Eight months pregnant, and all that energy.’

  ‘I think she’s hating every second of it, actually,’ I say.

  Helena’s head whips back towards me.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘She just told me how uncomfortable she is.’

  There’s something in the way Helena’s staring into space. Perhaps she’s pregnant herself, or trying?

  ‘I think she looks brilliant . . .’ Helena continues, but her voice is even dopier now and her attention has been diverted towards David, who’s busy chatting to Rebecc
a, a round-faced brunette from the content team.

  That’s when I realize. I’m just a cover; an excuse for her to be on this side of the room. She stares at David, as he drapes his arm around Rebecca’s shoulders.

  ‘She’s after a promotion,’ I say, unthinkingly. Rebecca’s shiny bob is swinging back and forth as she simpers in David’s arms.

  ‘What?’ Helena replies, looking back at me. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I heard her talking to Lizzy. She thinks there’s room for a more senior editorial role. Reckons she can work alongside you.’

  This isn’t strictly true. What she actually said was that she wished she had more editorial work, her background was in journalism and she was bored of classic copywriting. But this is what happens to me when I’m left to do small talk; words just fall out, usually the ones I think will get the most dramatic reaction. Blame the champagne, blame my dysfunctional childhood. It’s been a lifelong curse: I’ll say anything to make sure people don’t forget me.

  ‘Work alongside me as what?’

  ‘Well, she wants to be a kind of editor, I guess,’ I say, shrugging and reaching for another glass of champagne. If I’ve started on this road, which it looks like I have, I’ll need some more Dutch courage.

  ‘Hmm.’ Helena bites her lip. She doesn’t look worried, exactly, more confused. ‘I don’t think David would be interested in creating a role like that. It’d make the structure too top heavy. And we need her, she’s a good copywriter.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, taking another sip. ‘She is, isn’t she? Really good at her job. I really enjoy working with her, in fact.’

  ‘Do you?’ Helena says, her eyes suddenly sharp. ‘That’s great. I’m glad to hear you’re happy here. We’re lucky to have you. I hope you know that.’

  And with that, she has snapped back into work mode like the professional she is. There’s seemingly no way of penetrating her glossy shield.

  She makes her excuses then, and leaves. I remain in my corner as she quickly and carefully works the room, meandering her way over to David and Rebecca as if it were the most natural thing in the world. The three of them chat for a bit, and then Rebecca slips off to the toilet. David and Helena talk for a while, and then their chatting grows more animated, until Helena is throwing back her head and laughing, her cheeks bright and shiny.