The Rival
Page 8
‘It’s not our taste,’ Jack says. ‘I wanted it to feel more “us”.’
‘It’ll never feel more us!’ I am shouting now, and the sound is so surprising I want to laugh with nerves. ‘We don’t belong here. That’s why it all went wrong . . . We never belonged here. We’re Londoners.’
‘I’m from Cirencester,’ Jack replies, his voice deliberately calm as he walks towards the wardrobe. ‘Actually.’
I give a whine of frustration. ‘That’s not what I mean . . .’
‘I thought you liked living here,’ he says, sulkily. ‘I thought you understood how important it was for me to be able to give the business a shot. It’s not failing, if that’s what you’re worried about. It just takes time. And anyway, you agreed that we wanted more space . . . better air quality . . . fewer people around . . .’
‘That was because—’ But I stop talking, because he knows why I wanted to move here, and I don’t want us both to start crying. Not tonight. Not when it’s meant to be our evening, the start of a promising new future.
Jack gets dressed in the en suite, which feels like he’s trying to make a point, but by the time the cab arrives and I am ready, full face of make-up, high heels and no tights, we have both calmed down. In the back of the taxi, he squeezes my hand and I watch the rain drizzle its way down the windows. Tonight is important. Lately, I’ve felt Jack shifting away from me again. It’s as though we’ve broken down in the middle of a deserted road somewhere and he’s walking away to get help, but I’m stuck in the car, and all I can see is him fading into the distance, becoming smaller and smaller, until there’s nothing left but a tiny speck. A tiny speck that’s about to disappear.
It’s twelve years to the day since we first met. We don’t really celebrate our wedding anniversary, because we got married after being together for so long and our anniversary was already set in our minds, an annual tradition, something we couldn’t change: 30th October.
I reminisce as the taxi winds its way down our lane. For once I am not thinking of the accidents, or the number of times I’ve found myself standing out in the cold waiting for an ambulance, my heart breaking all over again. Instead, I’m thinking of the party at Barney’s.
Barney was Jack’s friend from Cambridge, and the son of one of my mother’s oldest friends. Of course, the first time I saw Jack, I wasn’t that impressed. He was shy, a bit geeky, good-looking but with terrible dress sense. But he was kind. Not one of those Eton or Harrow alumni, but instead the product of a decent grammar school. Pushed by his parents, who wanted more for him than they had had, into a life in the City, but philanthropic with it, keen to change the status quo, to bring some compassion to the financial world. Barney knew – he knew me and he knew Jack, and he knew we’d get on. Within twenty minutes of meeting him, I was hooked. At the end of the evening, we were both a little tipsy. He told me I was beautiful and asked for my phone number. We exchanged a peck on the cheek, and arranged to meet the next week.
I smile when I think of our first date. A slightly less sedate affair; I got blind drunk and shagged him in a doorway in Notting Hill. He seemed a bit taken aback at the time, but more than happy to participate. So many times we tried to revisit that doorway, but we could never quite remember exactly where it was.
Those days are far away now. Twelve years. It might as well be a lifetime.
We pull into the car park. The restaurant is exactly as I’d hoped: quiet, intimate, with generous spacing between the tables. A converted coaching inn, all low-beamed ceilings and flickering fires. Our fellow diners are grey-haired, stolid and hushed.
‘Shall we go for the tasting menu?’ Jack says, looking across the top of his menu. ‘It’s the reason for the plaudits, after all.’
‘Five courses?’ I reply, scanning the dishes. ‘I’m not sure I can manage . . .’
‘It’s a tasting menu, darling,’ he says. ‘You only have to taste each. And the portions are tiny.’
And like that, the matter is decided. The old me would have railed against such behaviour, told him that I was well aware what a tasting menu was thank you very much, but I’ve grown used to letting Jack make decisions for me. The inevitable side effect of not being able to trust your own choices any more. It’s so much easier when someone else can take the blame.
‘So,’ I say, when we are halfway through the second course, which seems to consist of half a raw scallop swimming in orange juice. ‘How’s work? You haven’t talked about it for a while. How’s the prototype?’
Jack is the first British furniture-maker to incorporate coppiced wood in his designs – the stubby young tree stems cut down during woodland management and usually considered a waste product. It was his passion, something he’d told me he wanted to do ever since I’d met him. When he was stuck in his desk job, he used to talk about it endlessly: the designs he would create, the difference he would make. Now he’s actually doing it, he no longer seems to want to talk about it at all. At least, not with me.
‘It’s frustrating,’ he says. ‘That’s why. Slow progress . . .’ He tears a piece of bread from his roll and pops it into his mouth. ‘But do you remember Pete Higgins? Short chap – he was on the desk next to me? He came to our engagement drinks, I think . . . I found out today he topped himself. Gassed himself in his garage a few weeks ago. His wife found him. God, am I glad I got out of that place.’
‘Oh goodness,’ I say. ‘Poor woman.’
‘Yes, although I’m sure his life insurance has set her up nicely. By all accounts they weren’t very happy together, anyway.’ He calls the waiter back over to order more water, as though this man’s suicide means nothing, and I wonder where the Jack I first met has gone. The one who set up a series of mindfulness workshops at the bank, to help bring stress levels down. The one who told me to always be kind, because everyone is fighting a battle you know nothing about. Or am I overreacting? Is it all right, him speaking like this, or is it nasty? Does it mean, deep down, he’s a total shit, or is he behaving like anyone would, indulging in a little idle gossip about a man that neither of us really knows?
I used to imagine what they’d say about me over dinner in their restaurants, in the kitchen at work and during Friday night drinks in the pub.
‘Can you believe what happened to Helena?’
‘Never thought she was mother material, anyway. Too career driven.’
‘Bet she didn’t know what she was letting herself in for.’
Would people be that vicious, or was it just my imagination tormenting me?
Most of all, though, I’d wonder what she was thinking. As I lay there sedated in the unit, my arms sore from all the needles, my eyes raw from the tears, bruises all over my body from where they had to hold me down, I’d lie there and wonder if she even cared. I’d wonder if she was lighting a candle for me, looking at the sky and asking whoever was up there to look out for me, as I would have done for her.
‘Darling!’ Jack says, bringing my attention back to the present.
The only thing that exists is the present.
That’s what she would have been thinking. I’m in the past – chucked on the rubbish heap, yesterday’s news. She wouldn’t have given me, or my predicament, a second thought.
‘Yes?’
‘Where were you?’ he says, rolling his eyes. He’s relaxed now – maybe it’s the wine, or the fact that I’ve curled my hair and put a dress on. Whatever it is, he’s been reminded of us as we were, and it’s making him happy.
‘Sorry.’
‘I was just saying. Tell me more . . . about what you’ve been thinking. About going back to work.’
I grab my glass of wine and take a huge swig.
And then I fill my lungs with air and begin to tell him everything.
Well, nearly everything.
THEN
Ash
The email arrives only an hour after I sit down.
From: HelenaB@kamu.com
Subject: Chat
Hi Ashley
Thanks
H xx
I write back without hesitation.
From: AshleyT@kamu.com
Subject: Re: Chat
Of course.
A
We are all back in the office after the ‘holiday season’, as the revolting bigwigs referred to it in their corporate ‘Thank you, worker drones, you have served us well’ message. David has been hosting various people in his glass enclosure all morning. Helena, wearing a silk shirt dress, Alice band and suede over-the-knee boots (Christmas present from Mr Conventional?), has been typing furiously. Freckles is dieting again: ‘I’m trying the 5:2 now, better not talk to me on a 2 day!’ And Joel has been emailing me, asking me about my New Year’s resolutions, and whether any of them involved giving him a second date. Even though, technically, our first one wasn’t a date at all – as I have painstakingly pointed out to him. Although I’ve been enjoying the attention, I am getting a little frustrated with the constant distraction.
There’s a card going round for Lizzy. KEEP CALM AND ENJOY YOUR MATERNITY LEAVE, it shouts, complete with a drawing of a stork that looks more like a duck, dangling a takeaway box from its mouth. Inside, David’s scrawl implores her: Good luck and all that, but remember: KAMU was your first love! Enjoy yourself but not so much you don’t come back! Hope I can survive without you . . . xx I suppose he thinks he’s being funny, or cute, or affectionate. Thinks he’s showing her how much she means to him, rather than guilt-tripping her for choosing biology over office management. Still, it’s a shame she wasn’t able to resist the call of the Motherland. I’m actually going to miss her. There’s a warmth about her, the touch of Essex in her accent, the way she always offers you paracetamol if you say you’re feeling under the weather . . . She makes you feel safe, like she actually cares.
She’ll be a brilliant mother, I think, and so I write this in the card and push it towards Freckles.
There has been no reply to my twenty-six-page boutique brand proposal from either David or Helena. I had ‘read’ receipts for both of them, so they’ve definitely opened the emails: Helena, on 27th December; David, not till 31st December – what a way to spend New Year’s Eve! I’d like to think that Helena wants to talk to me about it this morning, but it makes no sense that she would do so at Ted’s, rather than in the meeting room, or the canteen.
The only other possibility, of course, is that she wants to talk to me about David, and what I saw at the Christmas party. My toes tingle with excitement and I find myself rashly accepting Joel’s offer of a date on Friday.
At ten to eleven, I go to the ladies’ toilets and examine my reflection. My skin is pale, my eyes bright, my lips almost invisible. My hair is jet black, along with my eyebrows, and if it wasn’t for my blue eyes, my face would look like a black-and-white photograph. I’ve never worn a lot of make-up – never really got the hang of it – and I’ve always wanted to be taken seriously for my work, rather than my appearance. But I am beginning to appreciate the value in that awful expression: power dressing. I think of Helena’s suede boots, and what an impact they make.
On the way to the coffee shop, we chatter about our holidays. Well, Helena chatters and I listen. When she asks me how my Christmas was, I skim over the surface, telling her that Gran had a fall, and that we spent most of it in the hospital by her bedside. Despite Helena’s sympathetic murmurs, her attention is focused elsewhere and I am glad I haven’t given her any more details.
Ted’s is one of those artisan-type places on the canal towpath. I take a sip of my hot chocolate as I smile at her, anxious to hear the purpose of this meeting. She insisted on paying for my drink, and for a second I am illogically terrified she is going to fire me.
‘Right, then, I’ll get to the point,’ she says. ‘I have some news. And I wanted to discuss it with you.’
‘Oh,’ I say. This is not what I was expecting. ‘Sounds intriguing.’
She looks at me, suddenly hesitant, as if she isn’t sure she can trust me.
‘Well . . .’ There’s a pause. So much for getting to the point. ‘God, I don’t know why I’m so nervous about telling you.’ She’s talking more to herself than me. ‘It’s just a coincidence, really. Or a sign we’re both geniuses. Ha, ha. So, the news is . . . in February I’m going to be moving across to a different role.’
‘Really?’ I say, careful to keep my voice measured. ‘That’s exciting. Doing what exactly?’
‘It is exciting,’ she replies, and then she starts beaming again, that same angelic smile that made the barista blush when she paid for our drinks. He clocked her wedding ring straight after, though, and I saw his face fall.
‘David’s asked me to head up a new division,’ she says. ‘He agrees with me that Kiss and Make Up are doing amazing things, but also that they’re missing a trick for the London market, in particular. So I’ll be launching a standalone site, still under the KAMU umbrella, of course, but . . . well, this is the funny thing. It’s been in the pipeline for months, I promise you. Just shows you have your finger on the pulse!’ She gives a strangled laugh. ‘It’s a site for niche brands, brands with provenance, brands with a story behind them. As you rightly pointed out in your proposal, there are so many smaller brands out there just waiting for an audience. So we’re going to give it to them.’
She’s. Stolen. My. Idea.
I take a deep breath, trying to get my feelings in some kind of order. My eyes narrow as they meet hers, scanning them for sincerity, trying to work out if she’s truly done what I think she’s done, or if it’s just a coincidence, as she’s so merrily protesting.
‘Well,’ I say. She’s still my boss. I can’t lose control. I need this job. And I did send the proposal, after all. What did I expect? That she’d give me a budget and the free rein to set up a new site on my own?
But still, the injustice of it . . . her taking all the glory, probably getting a massive pay rise.
‘That’s . . . certainly interesting.’
She smiles awkwardly. At least she’s aware of what she’s doing.
‘That’s why I wanted to talk to you about it personally,’ she says, ‘away from the office. I didn’t want you to think anything untoward had gone on. I promise that this has been on the cards for a while now – I first approached David with the idea in the summer. We were just waiting for the OK from the American team . . . They took some persuading, but they green-lit it just before Christmas, and I’ll be announcing my new role to the rest of the office later on today. Best of all, if it’s a success, there’s the possibility of rolling it out over there, too.’
‘Right,’ I say.
Back in your box, Ashley, where you belong.
What’s the point of telling me this? Some kind of weird boast? To try to make herself feel better?
‘Well, good for you. I hope they have the budgets to work with you. Always a challenge with smaller brands.’
‘Ah, listen, Ashley,’ she says, smiling. ‘That’s another reason I wanted to talk to you. I know you’re wasted in that job. I appreciated your proposal, it was so near the mark. Considering you’ve no experience in this area, your insights were . . . ambitious but impressive. Not to mention the fact that your business instincts are almost spot on. If a little naive, at times. I think getting the bigger brands to sponsor an event championing their smaller competitors is just a little bit unlikely!’
She rolls her eyes at me, laughing. I want to hit her.
‘But you’re far too bright to be writing Instagram captions all day,’ she continues. ‘I’m going to suggest to David that we promote you to a new role as Head of Influencer Marketing. I’d like to harness those business instincts, put some proper targets against your work. And Jodie needs support with the digital stuff, she’s admitted as much. We might even find the budget for
an assistant – or an intern, at least – to help you with the donkey work. What do you think?’
I’ve never been very good at hiding how I feel. It’s my strength and my weakness. I don’t have time to mess around. I don’t have time to spare people’s feelings.
What do I think? I think she’s being incredibly patronizing.
‘Yeah,’ I say, gathering myself together. ‘I’m not sure, actually. I’m not sure it’s what I want to do.’
She looks genuinely puzzled. It doesn’t occur to her that I might want more than some crappy new job title accompanied, no doubt, by a crappy two grand pay rise again.
‘Oh,’ she says. ‘Right. Sorry. I thought . . . I thought you were looking to get promoted. I must have got the wrong end of the stick. I thought you were fiercely ambitious.’
‘I am fiercely ambitious,’ I reply, and I realize I am glaring at her just in time to soften my features. ‘I’m just not fiercely ambitious to work my arse off doing what other people tell me to. Just like you, really.’
She smiles at me, and there is a silence. We are like two cats, sizing each other up before a fight.
‘I’ve underestimated you,’ she says, after a while. ‘I’m sorry. But . . . I mean, realistically, working your way up at a company like KAMU can only be a good thing . . .’
‘Do you have any idea what it’s like?’ I can tell I’m about to rant, and there is no way to stop it. The coffee shop and all its noise somehow fall away, until I can see nothing but her huge eyes, blinking at me. ‘To have come from the kind of place where no one amounts to anything, where getting a job in management in Tesco is seen as a success? To be constantly told that people like me, people with backgrounds like mine, don’t go anywhere? My gran . . . my gran would have been pleased if I’d married a postman and had two kids. That would be seen as a great achievement. Anyone who hasn’t done a spell in young offenders is considered a catch.’
She shifts about in her seat, her eyes wandering towards the exit. ‘I’m sorry.’
I let out a great sigh, running my hands through my hair in frustration, messing up my fringe. The twinkly barista chooses this moment to come over with a tray and collect our cups.