What's going on? What's happened to the buzzy Brandon C atmosphere? What's happened to Luke's company?
As I pass the coffee machine, two guys I half-recognize are standing, talking by it. One's got a disgruntled expression and the other is agreeing—but I can't quite hear what they're talking about. As I come near, they stop abruptly. They shoot me curious looks, then glance at each other and walk off, before starting to talk again, but in lowered voices.
I can't quite believe this is Brandon Communications. There's a completely different feel about the place. This is like some deadbeat company where no one cares about what they're doing. I walk to Mel's desk—and, along with everyone else, she's already left for the night. Mel, who normally stays till at least seven, then takes a glass of wine and gets changed in the loos for whatever great night out she's got planned.
I root around behind her chair until I find the parcel addressed to me, and scribble a note to her on a Post-it. Then I stand up, hugging the heavy package to me, and tell myself that I've got what I came for. Now I should leave. There's nothing to keep me.
But instead of walking away, I stand motionless. Staring at Luke's closed office door.
Luke's office. There are probably faxes from him in there. Messages about how things are going in New York. Maybe even messages about me. As I gaze at the smooth blank wood, I feel almost overwhelmed by an urge to go in and find out what I can.
But then—what exactly would I do? Look through his files? Listen to his voice mail? I mean, what if someone caught me?
I'm standing there, torn—knowing I'm not really going to go and rifle through his stuff, yet unable just to walk away—when suddenly I stiffen in shock. The handle of his office door is starting to move.
Oh shit. Shit. There's someone in there! They're coming out!
In a moment of pure panic, I find myself ducking down out of sight, behind Mel's chair. As I curl up into a tiny ball I feel a thrill of terror, like a child playing hide-and-seek. I hear some voices murmuring—and then the door swings open and someone comes out. From my vantage point, all I can see is that it's a female, and she's wearing those new Chanel shoes which cost an absolute bomb. She's followed by two pairs of male legs, and the three begin to walk down the corridor. I can't resist peeping out from behind the chair—and of course. It's Alicia Bitch Longlegs, with Ben Bridges and a man who looks familiar but whom I can't quite place.
Well, I suppose that's fair enough. She's in charge while Luke is away. But does she have to take over Luke's office? I mean, why can't she just use a meeting room?
“Sorry we had to meet here,” I can just hear her saying. “Obviously, next time, it'll be at 17 King Street.”
They continue talking until they reach the lifts, and I pray desperately that they'll all get inside one and disappear. But as the lift doors ping open, only the familiar-looking man gets in—and a moment later, Alicia and Ben are heading back toward Luke's office.
“I'll just get those files,” says Alicia, and goes back into Luke's office, leaving the door open. Meanwhile, Ben is lolling against the water dispenser, pressing the buttons on his watch and staring intently at the tiny screen.
This is horrendous! I'm trapped until they leave. My knees are starting to hurt and I've got an awful feeling that if I move an inch, one of them will crack. What if Ben and Alicia stay here all night? What if they come over to Mel's desk? What if they decide to make love on Mel's desk?
“OK,” says Alicia, suddenly appearing at the door. “I think that's it. Good meeting, I thought.”
“I suppose.” Ben looks up from his watch. “Do you think Frank's right? Do you think he might sue?”
Frank! Of course. That other man was Frank Harper. The publicity guy from Bank of London. I used to see him at press conferences.
“He won't sue,” says Alicia calmly. “He's got too much face to lose.”
“He's lost a fair amount already,” says Ben, raising his eyebrows. “He'll be the invisible man before too long.”
“True,” says Alicia, and smirks back at him. She looks at the pile of folders in her arms. “Have I got everything? I think so. Right, I'm off. Ed will be waiting for me. See you tomorrow.”
They both disappear down the corridor and this time, thank God, they get into a lift. When I'm quite sure they've gone, I sit back on my heels with a puzzled frown. What's going on? Why were they talking about suing? Suing who? And how come Bank of London was here?
Is Bank of London going to sue Luke? It sounds like everything's a complete mess! I thought Alicia was supposed to have everything under control.
For a while I just sit still, trying to work it all out. But I'm not really getting anywhere—and suddenly it occurs to me that I ought to get out while the going's good. I get up, wincing at the cramp in my foot, and shake out my legs as the circulation returns to them. Then I pick up my parcel, shake back my head, and as nonchalantly as possible, walk down the corridor toward the lifts. Just as I'm pressing the “Summon” button, my mobile phone rings inside my bag, and I give a startled jump. Shit, my phone! Thank God that didn't happen while I was hiding behind Mel's desk!
“Hello?” I say, as I get into the lift.
“Bex! It's Suze.”
“Suze!” I say, and give a shaky giggle. “You have no idea how you nearly just got me in trouble! If you'd rung like, five minutes ago, you would have completely . . .”
“Bex, listen,” says Suze urgently. “You've just had a call.”
“Oh right?” I press the ground-floor button. “From who?”
“From Zelda at Morning Coffee! She wants to talk to you! She said, do you want to meet for a quick lunch tomorrow?”
That night, I barely get an hour's sleep. Suze and I stay up till late, deciding on what I should wear—and when I've gone to bed, I lie awake, staring at the ceiling, feeling my mind flip around like a fish. Will they offer my old job back after all? Will they offer me a different job? Maybe they'll upgrade me! Maybe they'll give me my own show!
But by the early hours of the morning, all my wild fantasies have faded away, leaving the simple truth. The truth is, all I really want is my old job back. I want to be able to tell Mum to start watching again, and to start paying off my overdraft . . . and to start my life all over again. Another chance. That's all I want.
“You see?” says Suze the next morning as I'm getting ready. “You see? I knew they'd want you back. That Clare Edwards is crap! Completely and utterly—”
“Suze,” I interrupt. “How do I look?”
“Very good,” says Suze, looking me up and down approvingly. I'm wearing my black Banana Republic trousers and a pale fitted jacket over a white shirt, and a dark green scarf round my neck.
I would have worn my Denny and George scarf—in fact, I even picked it up from the dressing table. But then, almost immediately, I put it down again. I don't quite know why.
“Very kick-ass,” adds Suze. “Where are you having lunch?”
“Lorenzo's.”
“San Lorenzo?” Her eyes widen impressively.
“No, I don't think so. Just . . . Lorenzo's. I've never been there before.”
“Well, you make sure you order champagne,” says Suze. “And tell them you're fighting off loads of other offers, so if they want you to come back, they're going to have to pay big bucks. That's the deal, take it or leave it.”
“Right,” I say, unscrewing my mascara.
“If their margins suffer, then so be it,” says Suze emphatically. “For a quality product you have to pay quality prices. You want to close the deal at your price, on your terms.”
“Suze . . .” I stop, mascara wand on my lashes. “Where are you getting all this stuff?”
“What stuff?”
“All this . . . margins and close the deal stuff.”
“Oh, that! From the Hadleys conference. We had a seminar from one of the top salespeople in the U.S.! It was great! You know, a product is only as good as the person selling it.”
“Good luck!” says Suze. “Except you know, there is no luck in business. There's only drive, determination, and more drive.”
“OK,” I say dubiously. “I'll try to remember that.”
The address I've been given for Lorenzo's is a street in Soho—and as I turn into it, I can't see anything that looks obviously like a restaurant. It's mostly just office blocks, with a few little newsagenty-type shops, and a coffee shop, and a . . .
Hang on. I stop still and stare at the sign above the coffee shop. “Lorenzo's coffee shop and sandwich bar.”
But surely . . . this can't be where we're meeting?
“Becky!” My head jerks up, and I see Zelda walking along the street toward me, in jeans and a Puffa. “You found it all right!”
“Yes,” I say, trying not to look discomfited. “Yes, I found it.”
“You don't mind just a quick sandwich, do you?” she says, sweeping me inside. “It's just that this place is quite convenient for me.”
“No! I mean . . . a sandwich would be great!”
“Good! I recommend the Italian chicken!” She eyes me up and down. “You look very smart. Off somewhere nice?”
I stare at her, feeling a pang of mortification. I can't admit I dressed up specially to see her.
“Erm . . . yes.” I clear my throat. “A . . . a meeting I've got later.”
“Oh well, I won't keep you long. Just a little proposition we wanted to put to you.” She shoots me a quick smile. “We thought it would be nicer to do it face to face.”
This isn't exactly what I imagined for our power lunch. But as I watch the sandwich guy smoothing Italian chicken onto our bread, adding salad, and slicing each sandwich into four quarters, I start to feel more positive. OK, maybe this isn't a grand place with tablecloths and champagne. Maybe they aren't pushing the boat out. But then, that's probably good! It shows they still think of me as part of the team, doesn't it? Someone to have a relaxed sandwich with, and thrash out ideas for the forthcoming season.
Maybe they want to take me on board as a features consultant. Or train me to become a producer!
“We all felt for you dreadfully, Becky,” says Zelda as we make our way to a tiny wooden table, balancing our trays of sandwiches and drinks. “How are things going? Have you got a job lined up in New York?”
“Um . . . not exactly,” I say, and take a sip of my mineral water. “That's all kind of . . . on hold.” I see her eyes watching me appraisingly, and quickly add, “But I've been considering lots of offers. You know—various projects, and . . . and ideas in development . . .”
“Oh good! I'm so glad. We all felt very bad that you had to go. And I want you to know, it wasn't my decision.” She puts her hand on mine briefly, then removes it to take a bite of her sandwich. “So now—to business.” She takes a sip of tea, and I feel my stomach flutter with nerves. “You remember our producer, Barry?”
“Of course I do!” I say, slightly taken aback. Are they expecting me to have forgotten the name of the producer already?
“Well, he's come up with quite an interesting idea.” Zelda beams at me, and I beam back. “He thinks the Morning Coffee viewers would be really interested to hear about your . . . little problem.”
“Right,” I say, feeling my smile freeze on my face. “Well, it's . . . it's not really a—”
“And he thought perhaps you would be ideal to take part in a discussion and/or phone-in on the subject.” She takes a sip of tea. “What do you think?”
I stare at her in confusion.
“Are you talking about going back to my regular slot?”
“Oh no! I mean, we could hardly have you giving financial advice, could we?” She gives a little laugh. “No, this would be more of a one-off, topical piece. ‘How shopping wrecked my life.' That kind of thing.” She takes a bite of sandwich. “And ideally, it would be quite a . . . how can I put this? An emotional piece. Maybe you could bare your soul a little. Talk about your parents, how this has ruined their lives too . . . problems in your childhood . . . relationship trouble . . . these are just ideas, obviously!” She looks up. “And you know, if you were able to cry . . .”
“To . . . to cry?” I echo disbelievingly.
“It's not compulsory. By any means.” Zelda leans earnestly forward. “We want this to be a good experience for you too, Becky. We want to help. So we'd have Clare Edwards in the studio too, to offer you advice . . .”
“Clare Edwards!”
“Yes! You used to work with her, didn't you? That was why we thought of approaching her. And you know, she's quite a hit! She really tells the callers off! So we've decided to rename her Scary Clare and give her a whip to crack!”
She beams at me but I can't smile back. My whole face is prickling with shock and humiliation. I've never felt so belittled in my life.
“So what do you think?” she says, slurping at her smoothie.
I put down my sandwich, unable to take another bite.
“I'm afraid my answer's no.”
“Oh! There'd be a fee, of course!” she says. “I should have mentioned that at the beginning.”
“Even so. I'm not interested.”
“Don't answer yet. Think about it!” Zelda flashes me a cheery smile, then glances at her watch. “I must dash, I'm afraid. But it's lovely to see you, Becky. And I'm so glad things are going well for you.”
After she's gone I sit still for a while, sipping at my mineral water. I'm outwardly calm—but inside I'm burning with mortified rage. They want me to go on and cry. That's all they want. One article in one crappy tabloid—and suddenly I'm not Becky Bloomwood, financial expert. I'm Becky Bloomwood, failure and flake. I'm Becky Bloomwood, watch her cry and pass the hankies.
Well, they can just bloody well stuff their bloody hankies. They can just take their stupid, bloody . . . stupid . . . stupid . . . bloody . . .
“Are you all right?” says the man at the next table—and to my horror I realize I'm muttering aloud.
“I'm fine,” I say. “Thanks.” I put down my glass and walk out of Lorenzo's, my head high and my chin stiff.
I walk down the road and turn a corner without even noticing where I'm going. I don't know the area and I don't have anyplace I need to get to—so I just walk, almost hypnotizing myself with the rhythm of my steps, thinking eventually I'll hit a tube station.
As I walk, my eyes start to smart and I tell myself it's the cold air. It's the wind. I shove my hands in my pockets and tighten my chin and start to walk faster, trying to keep my mind empty. But there's a blank dread inside me; a hollow panic that is getting worse and worse. I haven't got my job back. I haven't even got the prospect of a job. What am I going to say to Suze? What am I going to say to Mum?
What am I going to do with my life?
“Oy! Watch out!” yells someone behind me—and to my horror I realize I've stepped off the pavement in front of a cyclist.
“Sorry,” I say in a husky voice as the cyclist swerves off, shooting me the finger. This is ridiculous. I've got to pull myself together. I mean, where am I, for a start? I start to walk more slowly along the pavement, peering up at the glass doors of offices, looking for the name of the road I'm on. And I'm just about to ask a traffic warden—when suddenly I see a sign. King Street.
For a moment I stare at it blankly, wondering why it's chiming a bell inside my head. Then, with a jolt, I remember: 17 King Street. Alicia.
I peer at the number embossed on the glass doors nearest me—and it's 23. Which means . . . I must have just walked past number 17.
Now I'm completely consumed by curiosity. What on earth goes on at 17 King Street? Is it some secret cult, or something? God, it wouldn't surprise me if she was a witch in her spare time.
My whole body is prickling with intrigue as I retrace my steps until I'm standing outside a modest set of double doors marked 1
7. It's obviously a building with lots of different little companies inside, but as I run my eye down the list, none sounds familiar.
“Hi!” says a bloke in a denim jacket, holding a cup of coffee. He comes up to the doors, presses a code into the keypad, and pushes the door open. “You look lost. Who are you after?”
“Erm . . . I'm not sure actually,” I say hesitantly. “I thought I knew somebody who worked here, but I can't remember the name of the company.”
“What's her name?”
“It's . . . it's Alicia,” I say—then immediately wish I hadn't. What if this guy knows Alicia? What if she's in there somewhere and he goes and fetches her?
But he's frowning puzzledly. “I don't know an Alicia . . . Mind you, there's a few new faces around at the moment . . . What sort of business is she in?”
“PR,” I say after a pause.
“PR? We're mostly graphic design, here . . .” Suddenly his face clears. “Hey, but maybe she's with the new company. B and B? BBB? Something like that. They haven't started trading yet, so we haven't met them.” He takes a sip of cappuccino and I stare at him. My mind is starting to twitch.
“A new PR company? Based here?”
“As far as I know, yes. They've taken a big space on the second floor.”
Thoughts are sparking round my head like fireworks.
B and B. Bridges and Billington. Billington and Bridges.
“Do you . . .” I try to keep calm. “Do you know what sort of PR?”
“Ah! Now, this I do know. It's financial. Apparently one of their biggest clients is Bank of London. Or will be. Which must be a nice little earner . . . But as I say, we haven't met them yet, so . . .” He looks at me and his face changes expression. “Hey. Are you OK?”
“I'm fine,” I manage. “I think. I just have to . . . I have to make a phone call.”
I dial the number of the Four Seasons three times—and each time hang up before I can bring myself to ask for Luke Brandon. At last I take a deep breath, dial the number again, and ask to speak to Michael Ellis.
“Michael, it's Becky Bloomwood here,” I say when I'm put through.
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