by Sarah Till
“Why?”
Her eyes mocked me as she smiled slightly. Her gaze moved from me and I followed her line of vision past the coffin and behind the car. A woman, short, stout and blonde stood staring at us. Her vivid blue eyes bit into my mother like hot steel and a look of pure hatred seared through the dull morning. Mother turned back to me and moved slightly closer.
“Well, Virginia, dear, someone had to stop it, didn't they?”
Those words echoed in my head now as I watched the news report. Now, many arguments and then a prolonged silence later, the consensus was that the shock of her husband dying brought on some miraculous recovery. That was her official line, but she and I knew the truth. Now she had been murdered.
Ellis reappeared and I quickly prepared myself for work. I tried to make some conversation with him; I was aware that I had been preoccupied and didn't want him to suffer unduly because of my problems.
“Mum was on the TV. Well, a picture of her.”
Ellis studied me again.
“Well, she has been killed. It will be big news. It will be in the papers. You do know that they will know about it at work?”
I hadn't actually considered this. Predatory at the best of times, some of my colleagues would use any sign of weakness to get one over on each other, and the murder of a parent was a gaping wound just waiting to have the salt of further distraction rubbed into it. I applied some light makeup and a black suit. We left the house silently and Ellis drove across town. I studied his profile as he drove and his face seemed a little drawn and tired. Maybe all this was beginning to tell on him. I knew him so well. He liked to make throwaway remarks about the most serious of situations, but he was actually deeply sensitive. It was a coping strategy, one that made him human, and one that I shared.
Approaching my office, Ellis parked up. I kissed him full on the lips and meant it. He breathed in the kiss and watched as I got out of the car and walked to the entrance to the building. The short walk across the paved area, complete with art-deco fountain and year-long vegetation, was all I needed to key-change my roles. I knew that I had an innate ability to put aside my personal life and become immediately professional. I also knew that others in my office environment neither shared nor admired this ability. Today was going to be a test.
The offices were arranged in a hexagon. Ted Brierley, the MD, had an office at the top of the hexagon. The senior account managers flanked him. And the other two single offices were occupied by our personal assistants. The centre-area housed clerks and typists, accounts people and all the other cogs that kept a large and successful agency such as ours running smoothly. In the alcoves behind our offices were a small coffee room, the toilets and stock rooms. These were closed off by solid walls, but the rest of the offices were, for all intents and purposes open-plan, as the office walls were made of glass.
My office was right next to Ted Brierly’s, which was an advantage as he only ever came in for important meetings. Another advantage was that it was also next to the personal assistants’ office, so I could literally signal to my PA, Martina, to assist me. The major disadvantage was that my office backed onto the coffee room. I could hear almost every word that was said from my plush leather chair if I turned off the air conditioning. I often pretended to be filing in the cabinet near the wall when I heard the shrill gossip brewing. More recently, I had placed a coffee percolator near the wall and made it my business to get coffee just as the staff went for theirs.
This morning was certainly difficult. From the moment the lift doors opened, all eyes were on me. A hush rested over the room like a damp blanket as I walked, head up and semi-smiling, through to my office. It was fair to say that I wasn’t the most popular person in the hierarchy of senior staff. I wasn’t the least liked, either; I stood at about halfway between ‘resent sending an email for me’ and ‘happy to take a letter’. My bequest from Kevin Jakowski had caused a stir, and also caused my promotion but that was long ago. Ted Brierly, Damian Lewes and Julie Frazer were the only staff left who remembered and the only people who knew what had actually happened.
Eventually, I closed my door and sat at my desk. I looked at the mail that lay in my in tray and a note from Ted, written on a post it sticker, that read, ‘Sorry about your Mother’. It was written in red marker pen and embodied everything that was Ted. Blustery, hurried, insensitive, thrifty. I could see that Damien was in the office on the other side to Ted and that he was staring at me. I shot him a snide smile and he looked away. Martina phoned from the next room - from the look of her, she was too scared to speak to me directly - and told me that there was a meeting, the one from yesterday that had been held over due to my absence, at eleven. I replaced the receiver just in time to see the procession of women slink past Damien’s office, smiling through the plate glass, and towards the coffee room door. I waited until they had all gone and went over to the filing cabinet. I pretended to take out a file as I flicked off the air conditioning. I could already hear laughter and someone shriek. I poured a coffee and waited.
The conversation drifted from Samantha’s boyfriend to Annette’s friend to last night’s TV. Eventually, they got to the point.
“Didn’t think she’d be in.”
A voice shrilled the words and it sounded like Amanda but could have equally been Jane. Everyone joined in.
“I can’t believe it! Her mum not cold and she’s back at work.”
“Well, she’s a career woman. Her husband left her and she wouldn’t let her kids come back after university. Moved her toy boy in, she did.”
I almost spat my coffee out at the description of Ellis as a toy boy. He was barely five years younger than me! Another voice interrupted.
“Ooh, it’s nothing to do with her being a career woman. Although rumour has it that she was sleeping with Kevin Jakowski. Sleeping her way to the top!”
Oh, that old chestnut, I thought, as I leaned on the wall to hear better and pretended to drink my coffee and read a file.
“No, she’s just cold. Some women are like that. No feeling, no love, I bet she’s even frigid. You can tell by those serious clothes she wears and how she has her hair cut in a bob. No makeup, hardly. No, she’s cold to the bone. What sort of woman would disown her own children, let them go to university then not let them come back home? I know one of that Shiralee’s friends and she’s told her everything about Virginia. Oh, yes, she’s a terrible mother. And judging by today’s little show, a terrible daughter.”
“A mother's love is unconditional!” chimed another cliché.
“I wonder who killed her mother?” someone postulated. The conversation veered off at a tangent about someone’s granny being robbed and I returned to my seat. Nothing new arose in their conversation, nothing that I hadn’t heard a thousand times before. The only thing they didn’t manage to discuss today was the fact that I must have hidden talents, otherwise how else would I get a man looking like I do. This had been replaced by speculation about my relationship with my dead mother.
Damien had by now mustered enough strength to come through and beckon me, from behind the door, to join him and Ted Brierly in the next room. I rose and took the short walk as Julie sprinted across the office. She almost rugby tackled me to get to her ‘lucky chair’ opposite Ted. The room was quiet and no one looked directly at me. I decided to address the issue up front. I looked round brightly.
“I’m sorry I missed the meeting yesterday. It must have been an inconvenience to rearrange it.”
Ted looked up from his papers.
“It’s OK this once, Jinny, but don’t let it happen again. Business is business.”
“Right,” I said sulkily and slid down slightly in my chair, “I’ll make sure my mother doesn’t die again.”
Julie’s face rearranged itself from an uncomfortable tight mask into her usual sickly look of anticipation as she realised that it was, in fact, business as usual. Damien tutted and huffed in mock disgust, which he clearly thought would help him to secure the best
project. Their eyes focused on Ted’s face the whole time in an effort to gauge his mood. He ignored my caustic remark and picked up the project sheet.
“Ok, let’s see. First of all, well done Julie on the Bacofoil Campaign. And Damien on the Aftershave. Good work and plenty of bonuses to be had. Jinny, your toothpaste interactive was outstanding, with the survey on the web. Good work. So here we all are, a fresh month and three fresh projects.”
I glanced at Julie and she reminded me of a championship sprinter, poised on the start line awaiting the firing of the gun. She bristled with anticipation. Damien’s face was wrinkled into a pug-like squelch, ready to interrogate his imagination for the morsel of brilliance that would win him the project. The format was the usual: Ted would read out the product name. We would shout out bylines. They were all written on the board by Ted. At the end, the best one of each category would win. Julie cut in.
“Can I just say, Mr Brierley, that Jinny will be taking time off because of...”
“No I won’t. One day for the funeral. That’s all, Julie, one day.”
“Alright, people, never mind Jinny’s personal business. Let’s get on with it. First up, tennis.”
“Anyone for tennis?” Julie shrilled and looked around grinning, pleased that she was first.
“New balls!” Damien shouted, standing up and attempting to juggle two pens then grabbing at his crotch.
“Urrrrraghhhhhhhhh!” I grunted, getting into the swing of things by imitating Nadal’s service noise.
“I like it, Jinny!”
Ted pointed excitedly at me. He wrote all three on the board and we readied ourselves for the next round.
“OK, people. Now it’s the menopause test!”
Ted held up a picture of what looked like a pregnancy testing wand with a large M on the side.
“Know when your bark is going to bite?” Damien mused thoughtfully.
“All change!” Julie shrieked, jumping out of her chair and ringing an imaginary train bell.
I tried to ignore the sexist nature of Damien’s offering and the amateur dramatics of Julie’s contribution. I thought fast.
“Life begins at the menopause!”
I stated this knowingly and tapped my nose as if I had an inside informer.
Ted wrote these down as well. He turned and looked at us.
“Right, last but not least, we have a bit of an unusual one. I've got this new client and he wants to promote the power of prayer.”
“It's not God, is it?” I cut in dryly.
“No, Jinny, it's not God. It's the marketing branch of a large church organisation. We don't have a product as such. All we have is some research that shows how the power of prayer can affect people who are ill get better. It's along the lines of prayer only working if you actually know you're being prayed for. And how the more prayer you get the more it benefits you. But only if you know about it. If you don't know you are being prayed for, ten thousand people might be praying and it wouldn't make any difference. But the man next to you might have one person praying that he knows about and he would have a better chance of recovery. The marketing people want to capitalise on this power but they don’t want to mention that it only really works if you know about it.”
Julie and Damien stared at Ted. I saw from the perspiration stains on his shirt that the silence was irritating him and sensed that this was a biggie. I poised myself for the kill.
“So, you've got to be in it to win it. Prayer lotto! I see God's finger pointing, and it could be you!”
Ted grinned and clapped.
“Yes, Jinny, yes!”
Julie and Damien stared open-mouthed as I laughed heartily.
“Prayer vouchers! We issue a prayer cheque book that they can use as gifts, to make people aware. Prayer aware!”
I was on a roll now and Ted scribbled quickly on the board.
“An interactive prayer service website, Kneel Together. Prayer membership area. Pay and pray! Join for a year and get a free prayer in your inbox every day. There could be a musical area, Hymn-a-day and Psalm Sunday.”
Ted clapped loudly. Damien and Julie joined in reluctantly.
“Well done, Jinny, well done. It's yours if you want it. I mean if it’s not too topical, what with your mother and all that.”
I could see a tenuous link between my mother dying in that there would be a funeral and the subject of prayer in that there would inevitably be prayers at the funeral, but beyond that I had no clue.
“No, no. That’s fine. Thanks Ted. I won't let you down.”
“Good. OK. Julie, you take the menopause test. And Damo, you take tennis. I want the initial boards on my desk in three days.”
I felt a wave of superiority run through my body and felt slightly sorry for Damien and Julie, who, again, had clearly been outclassed. Then my mind kicked in. Even when your mother is lying dead, murdered, you still managed to win. It was a difficult feeling, one between victory and survival, and I strode triumphantly through Julie and Damien’s scowls.
Back in my office, I got to work on the boards straight away. The boards were a kind of comic strip of how the campaign would be run, and probably the best part of the job. I usually let my imagination run riot and then Ted would come in and sift out all the crap and I was left with the diamond chips that I would make into my advertising assault. I sucked my pen and stared into space, trying to work out how my week would run. Today was Tuesday. The funeral would probably be Thursday of Friday. Ted had already given me one day’s leeway. So, I should be able to do it. I brainstormed my way through what it was to pray, through the paraphernalia of prayer and the narrative of those for and against it.
Lunch came and went asI sat in my office, my phone on silent, getting as much of my work done as possible. I had a sense of impending doom that usually signalled that time was not on my side, and that other people’s priorities were about to eat into my time like a Pac Man game. The day went quickly and each time I looked up, a different member of staff was staring at me, pencil in mouth. Finally, Martina plucked up enough courage to enter. Martina was a timid girl of around twenty-five years old, her and her sister, Bianca, had come from Barbados to live in London when their parents had died. She lived with her fundamentally religious Aunt and presumably had the Lord metaphorically beaten into her on a daily basis. She stood in front of me now, Post-It notes in hand.
“Three people called for you.”
She placed the notes on the edge of the desk.
“Thanks, Martina.”
She shifted from foot to foot, looking very uncomfortable.
“I just wanted to say, sorry about your Mother. We don’t have television or radio, but the girls in accounts said....”
I looked up from my board.
“I bet they did. Have they found the murder weapon for us yet? Or decided who did it?”
Martina looked at the floor.
“Well, no, but they are saying that you shouldn’t be here, not today, not the day after. In my country we don’t cry. We tell stories. We mourn. You need to....”
I tilted my head sideways.
“I know, Martina. I know what you are trying to say. I understand that it looks bad, as if I don’t care, me coming in today. But it’s my way of dealing with things. Life goes on for me, and if I take time off then I’ll still have all this to come back to. What should I do, go home and watch daytime TV?”
Martina looked at me.
“Be with your family. They need you.”
She turned and left, and I breathed out deeply. Almost a sigh. The consensus of the office then, with Martina as their representative, was that I should go home and be with my family. I supposed it looked to them that I had a family. Ellis, two children, Swiss Steve, John Baxter. Somewhere in that mix there was a glimmer of the idea of a family. However, I knew that the glimmer would diffuse as soon as I stepped into the whirling spin of resentment that surrounded us all. Again, I felt alone. I knew I had Ellis’ support and that we would all have
to pull together and attend the funeral, but this kind of alone was a loneliness of the soul, a visceral momentum of unsettlement. It grabbed me at the moments I was most unaware and dragged me into an arena where there were no others, no audience. Any attempts to relate my pain to others were futile here, so I moved on a baseline of emptiness. Then, someone would appear in the equation. I would be required to emote, and the loneliness of my soul dropped me, feelingless, into the exaggerated blip on someone else’s baseline that I was expected to fill. All the office seemed to want me to drop my feelings and mould myself around their expectations. I smiled to myself and decided to call it a day. To kill two birds with one stone, I would go home. The office would concede that I was wracked with grief after all and was rushing home to fall into the bosom of my family, and I could go and watch Countdown and wait for someone to let me know who killed my mother.
I made a big show of collecting my things together and locking my door. I looked solemn as I walked through the office and bowed my head. As I reached the doors, I heard my phone beep. I read the text quickly.
c u tomorrow – Ted
I muffled a smile until I got outside. Ted was used to my ways and only really interested in my skills at constructing successful campaigns. As I walked towards the tube, I remembered the day he had told me that Kevin Jakowski had died. I had been in the office early and Ted had summoned me straight away. His face told me that something terrible had happened and for a moment I thought that he had a personal crisis. He had leaned forwards and spoken very softly.
“Sit down, Jinny. I have some bad news.” I sat and wondered what it could be as my stomach turned. Ted’s breathing was even but shallow. “Kevin died this morning. I’m sorry. He was found dead in his armchair.”
The initial shock had hit me hard, but I rallied. ILS kicked in and I giggled slightly.
“Ironic really, isn’t it? A man who spent his whole life developing the perfect condom publicity dying of AIDS?”
