The Rival

by Charlotte Duckworth

  What does it matter about Toby’s paltry commission now, if it means we’ll be raking it in, in the future? I want to add. But I manage to contain myself.

  ‘That wasn’t your decision to make,’ Helena says. ‘The prices are fixed, and we made it very clear what they were at the beginning of this. It’s also unprofessional to undermine your colleagues in front of clients. Do you have a personal issue with Toby?’

  ‘No!’ I say, taken aback. ‘Not at all.’

  There’s a pause. I expect her to back down, but there’s a hardness in the way she looks at me that I haven’t seen before. Perhaps I’ve pushed her too far this time.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, even though it’s an effort. I smile at her, give her a ‘What am I like!’ eye roll. ‘I promise not to offer any more discounts. I’ll apologize to Toby. And if you like . . . the ones that aren’t fully committed yet, I can always go back and say there’s been a misunderstanding, that I got the price wrong?’

  I watch her face as she considers this; see the way her mind rolls the idea around. She knows how humiliating it would be to have to go back to them all – I’ve promised cheaper rates to at least five major brands.

  ‘It’s fine,’ she says, and there it is again: that weakness, that need to be liked. She tries so hard to show authority, but she just can’t master it. A tougher boss might have sacked me for this. ‘It’ll make us look even more unprofessional. But listen, just make sure this doesn’t happen again.’

  *

  My phone buzzes on my desk and I click to read the message. It’s from Joel: a photograph of some burgers, accompanied by the words ‘Barbecue tonight?’

  I text back ‘Yes’ immediately. God, I love the start of summer. And I love sharing the studio with Joel. I might even pick up some white wine on the way home from work tonight.

  Appreciate what you have, before it turns into what you had.

  Everything is going so well at the moment.

  For me, at least. Helena, on the other hand, seems positively miserable. She’s barely spoken to me since my telling off two days ago, and it’s clear that something’s up. I look over the top of our computer screens. She’s staring at something on her desk, but I can’t see what. Emboldened by my good mood, I skype her.

  Are you OK?

  Her computer pings. She looks up, sniffs slightly, starts to type.

  Yes, all good, thanks. Just lots to do at the moment. And it’s my mum’s birthday next week, too; she wants us to go over for lunch.

  Oh? Is that not a good thing?

  Yes, it’s fine! Don’t worry! It’s just that my mother and I don’t really get on.

  Not sure how to respond to that one. I could tell her I know how she feels – that when the problem of my mother was solved, it just led to a whole load more problems – but that probably wouldn’t be a good move.

  Mums, eh?

  Are you close to yours?

  I pause.

  Not any more. She died. When I was fifteen.

  She shifts in her seat, meets my eyes over the top of our screens. This time they’re full of sympathy, reminding me of the funeral, the stares they all gave us. The way Jason cried when we got back to Gran’s house. Confused and asking for answers, telling me it didn’t look like an accident, that he had seen me at the top of the stairs. His voice was strained as he asked if I was trying to help her, if that’s what he saw. Me reassuring him. Yes, of course I was.

  Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry to hear that. I had no idea . . . I feel terrible for complaining about mine now.

  How do I get off this subject?

  Don’t worry. She wasn’t well. It was a blessing in some ways.

  There’s a pause before she types the inevitable. So much for feeling terrible.

  Do you mind me asking what happened?

  I tell her what she wants to hear. She wants the drama, she wants the details. She can have them.

  No, it’s OK. She fell down the stairs at my gran’s house. Broke her neck on Christmas Eve. She was an alcoholic. Accident-prone, as they tend to be.

  She meets my eye again and gives me her sickly-sweet smile.

  Oh, Ashley. I’m so sorry.

  Thanks. Long time ago now.

  Unsurprisingly, she has never told me the whole story of her and her mother. I know she had some kind of breakdown and disappeared, and the family was reunited when Helena was about ten. But it sounds like Helena has never forgiven her. Which is fair enough. Ironic, really, that my mum abandoning me would have done me a massive favour, whereas she actually wanted hers around.

  I stare at her again, wondering about her mental state, how tough she really is. She’s all bravado in public, all flouncy hair and air kisses and super smiles, but there’s more to her than that. She’s no Princess Barbie. She’s smart, for one thing, nearly as smart as me. But I know nothing about her private life, her relationships. I think back to the Christmas party; the way she was flirting with David like some stupid teenager . . . the day afterwards, when it looked like she was crying at her desk. The flowers, his inappropriate card.

  He’s what Gran would call a ‘lothario’. I spotted him with Jodie earlier, when I was waiting for the lift. They were lingering on the stairwell, deep in conversation. I couldn’t hear what they were saying but there is definitely something going on – it was clear from the way Jodie was gasping and giggling at him. Unsurprising that he’s moved on already. Jodie’s almost as attractive as Helena, and Helena has certainly let herself go lately. I feel a little sorry for her. But whatever went on between them, it hasn’t done her career any harm.

  My computer screen fades to black; my reminder to take a break. Important for your eyes, as well as the muscles in your neck and shoulders. I stand up, stretching my arms above my head, and walk towards the kitchen area. As I pass Jess’s computer, I notice her quickly flick between her personal Facebook and our content management system. She clicks on one of the tabs at the top but it’s too late, she’s redirected to the login screen, meaning she’s been inactive for more than fifteen minutes. I pause deliberately by her desk to let her know I’ve seen.

  It might be a thankless job, copywriting product details for hours upon hours, day after day, but it’s a job and she’s paid well. I wonder if Helena would mind if I requested Jess give me some help. I’m sure she’d be fine about it; she’s always telling me to ask if I need some support. I think asking her to fill all the goody bags for the pop-up isn’t too unreasonable. I was going to do it tonight. But why should I have to stay late if Jess has time to piss around on social media? Helena’s all about the teamwork, after all.

  THEN

  Helena

  Distraction and denial are keeping me sane, at least for now. I just need the launch party for the pop-up over and done with, and then I can tell Jack and together we can formulate a plan. It’s going to be all right. It has to be.

  I stand near the entrance to the venue – the achingly trendy Islington Metalworks, a former nineteenth-century stable building tucked behind Angel station, scanning the crowds. Everyone looks happy – they are talking, boozing, networking. Buzzing. So far, so good. No one has noticed I’m not drinking. We had a couple of journalists turn up, keen to chat to me and Ashley, which delighted her. There are several high-profile make-up artists here, along with a few fashion designers. In one corner, near the coffee-area-turned-bar, Ashley is chatting away to one of our clients. She’s pinned her hair up in a kind of 1960s chignon and it looks great, although it does make her look about ten years older than she actually is. I wonder why she’s so keen to look older, but then I remember I was the same at that age.

  I should join them, but I’m exhausted, and I can’t keep up with her sales patter. I’m finding her quite annoying tonight. It’s not her fault, of course, rather the situation I’ve got myself into, but she’s one of the tangible reminders of what a mess I’ve made, and every time I look at her I struggle to imagine what on earth I’m going to do. Added to this, I’ve hea
rd her talking about the event and her vision for it, and it’s always in the singular, as though the rest of the team don’t exist. I know it’s just how her mind works – she’d say she doesn’t want to speak for all of us – but even so, I don’t like it. She’s getting a little too big for her boots. She’s supposed to work for me, after all.

  It’s the first time she’s really irritated me. No, that isn’t strictly true. She irritated me the day we moved into the downstairs office, by announcing that the desk next to the window would be hers, without even asking if it was OK by me. To keep the peace, I didn’t object – even though I would have quite liked the window desk myself and thought it was pretty outrageous of her. I couldn’t imagine behaving like that in front of my manager.

  She also turns the radio off the second I leave the office, even if I’m only popping downstairs for a coffee, despite the long chats we’ve had about it and the unanimous agreement among the rest of the team that we like to work to a bit of Magic FM.

  Don’t sweat the small stuff.

  Not one of her phrases, incidentally. She seems to sweat the small stuff all the time. So God knows what she will do about the big stuff.

  I am lost in these thoughts, watching the people trickle through the entrance, their eyes darting around, lighting up as they take in the exposed brickwork and neon lighting, when I feel a little tug at my elbow. I turn round, and there Ashley is, her face flushed with excitement.

  She holds out a glass of champagne.

  ‘Are you OK?’ she says. ‘You look a little peaky.’

  I take the glass from her, wondering if she’ll notice me using the same trick she always does.

  ‘Absolutely fine, thank you,’ I say, my voice coming across like an imperious schoolteacher’s. ‘What about you?’ I fling the question back at her, nodding towards her glass of suspiciously clear liquid.

  ‘Need to keep a clear head,’ she says. ‘I haven’t drunk in so long that if I had a glass of that stuff, I’d be all over the place. Anyway, want to hear the good news?’

  I nod, pressing the glass to my lips and feeling the bubbles against my tongue, wishing I could down the whole thing.

  ‘Tilly Mae are interested in taking a double stand at the next event, apparently. One of their PAs is here – I went to uni with her, so thought I’d invite her along – and she literally just did the minutes for the meeting in which they discussed my proposal. She’s sure they’re going to get in touch on Monday. At this rate, I’m going to have to find a bigger venue for the next one.’

  ‘Wow,’ I say, and despite the tinge of excitement, there’s something else there. Not just the exhaustion, but the fear that this is all going a little too well for Ash. There’s no denying that the website’s progress has been less immediate, whereas the pop-up shop has been an instant success. ‘Let’s hope that this week’s event goes well, then. It’s all very well getting the exhibitors in, but without any punters, it’ll be a disaster.’

  ‘I know,’ Ash says. ‘Of course, you’re right. But I think it’s going to be fine. Please don’t worry, Helena, I have it under control.’

  She is smiling at me, but in an exasperated way. The way a parent smiles at their toddler when they won’t sit up to the table for lunch.

  ‘I’m not worried at all,’ I say, defensively. ‘Just realistic. We don’t want to over-promise and under-deliver. We have to build our reputation – we don’t have one yet, just a lot of goodwill in the industry . . .’

  ‘If it comes to it, I’ll work every weekend to pull it off,’ Ash says. ‘I’ll stand outside Farringdon station dressed as a giant lipstick and flyer everyone I see. I don’t mind. You know I don’t. This brand means everything to me.’

  ‘It does, doesn’t it?’ I say. But it’s not really a question, more a statement of exhaustion. I just want to go home now. I want to go home, put my pyjamas on and sit in front of Netflix with Jack and a giant mug of hot chocolate, like the old days. I want an empty week stretching ahead of me, just the two of us.

  I want to not be pregnant.

  ‘Oh, Helena,’ Ash says, her face softening. ‘You don’t seem yourself. What’s the matter? Is it your time of the month? Or has something happened with David?’

  I open my mouth to reply, but there are no words ready, and so she continues.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she says. ‘I’m not going to tell anyone. I saw you together ages ago – at the Christmas party. I don’t blame you. He’s a bit old for me, but he’s handsome enough. Are you in love with him?’

  ‘What?’ I say, stunned not only by her cheek but by the fact she even thinks this. ‘No . . . no . . . it was just . . .’

  ‘You don’t have to fib to me, Helena,’ she says, putting her arm through mine and leaning towards me, her spicy perfume scratching my nostrils. ‘I’m not going to tell Jack. I’m your friend – I’m on your side.’

  ‘Ashley,’ I say, firmly, ‘I can’t actually believe you’re asking me this! It’s really inappropriate! I’m just worried about Jack. We haven’t been spending much time together lately, and it’s been difficult. Work’s been taking up all my time. I haven’t been a very good wife.’

  ‘Oh my God, please tell me you didn’t say just say that . . . What does that even mean?’

  ‘You’re still very young,’ I say, staring straight at her. My feet are aching from six hours of standing. Oh God, I want to go home so badly. ‘You wouldn’t understand.’

  ‘No, I don’t. Sorry, I thought you were a feminist.’ She turns away from me, crossing her arms.

  ‘Listen,’ I say, pulling her back round to face me again. She’s crossed a line, but the last thing we need is a massive fight at our launch party. ‘I just don’t want him to get pissed off with me because I’m spending all my time at work.’

  ‘He doesn’t look very pissed off,’ Ashley says, nudging me.

  I look up, and there he is, red-faced and panting slightly. What is he doing here?

  ‘Did I miss it?’ he says, breathless. ‘Oh God, I’m so sorry if I missed it. Ashley said your speech was at ten p.m., right? There’s . . .’ he looks down at his watch, ‘three minutes and thirty-two seconds to spare.’

  ‘You haven’t missed anything,’ Ash says, smiling at him. ‘In fact, I had just come over to tell Helena that we needed to get a move on. I’ll meet you at the front – give you two a couple of minutes together.’

  ‘How come you’re here?’ I say, throwing my arms around his neck. ‘I told you not to worry.’

  He smells amazing, a mixture of washing powder and aftershave with a tiny hint of sweat. It’s so familiar, so comforting, so exactly what I need. It’s like burying my face in my pillow after a long day.

  ‘Thank you for coming,’ I say. ‘I’m so pleased to see you. I can’t tell you . . .’ I feel tears stinging the back of my eyes, which is utterly ridiculous.

  ‘Ashley sent me an email. Said she wanted to surprise you, insisted I come down. I guess she thought you could do with the moral support,’ he says. ‘Wow, darling. Look at all these people. Here for you! It’s incredible. I’m so proud of you. I really am.’

  I don’t say anything, just continue resting my head on his shoulder, breathing him in but thinking of her. Surprise me? By inviting my own husband to our launch night? What’s she playing at?

  ‘Listen,’ Jack says, pulling away from me. ‘Can we go somewhere, after? Somewhere just you and me? Spend some time together? Or do you have to . . . carry on mingling?’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘No! I’ve done enough mingling tonight to last me a lifetime. Let’s go home, shall we? It’s all I want.’

  ‘Great,’ he replies. ‘I’ll just grab a drink, then – and make sure I’ve got a prime seat. Good luck!’ He kisses me on the forehead and disappears to the bar.

  I stand for a few minutes, smoothing down my dress, taking deep breaths and flicking my eyes over the crowd. Our team is bunched together in one corner, definitely not networking as instructed, but at least they’r
e all smiling. I spot Joel leaning by the bar, gazing at Ashley as he swigs beer from a bottle. They are a funny couple; he seems the opposite of her, still the opposite of who I’d expect her to go for. And then my eyes fall on someone else. Someone who is weaving past people he recognizes in his determination to get somewhere.

  David, in a suit jacket, a slim scarf hanging around his neck, is heading straight for Jack.

  THEN

  Ash

  I can’t believe David’s so late. But at least Jack turned up. He’s late, too. But still, he’s here. The evening is working out perfectly.

  Helena was all white-faced during her speech, and stumbled over some words, so clearly having Jack and David in the same room has got to her, after all. It’s interesting to see that David’s messed with her head, despite her telling me he means nothing to her. I knew there was something between them.

  They’re all chatting, anyway, in a nervous little huddle. Helena, with her arm awkwardly around Jack’s waist. David, looking completely unbothered, king of business networking. I walk towards them.

  ‘Not bad, huh? Hope you’re impressed!’ I say to David, and for a split second there’s a look on his face that says he’s forgotten all about me, and I’m tempted to throw my drink over him. But he recovers well.

  ‘Of course,’ he says, taking my hand. ‘What a party. Great work, by the way.’

  It’s all so superficial, but I’m learning to play the game. This is what you have to do, this is how you get ahead in life. Nothing to do with brains or skills, but everything to do with whether or not people like you, how you make them feel, how you network. It’s the same whether you’re a drug dealer or President of the United States. Life is just one giant popularity contest.

  I tell David how excited I am that we’re opening a division in Australia. He listens to me, accepts my compliments, and gives nothing away. But it’s fine. He’s been looking around, he understands the vibe in the room, can see that we’re doing well.

  Jack and David are discussing the rugby. This is how it works, you see: a little bit of shop talk and a lot of small talk. Helena pulls me to one side and starts whispering at me.