Talk to Me

by Jules Wake

  I interrupted her holding up my hand. ‘I know all about it. Miranda has been the sole topic of conversation for the last week.’

  ‘Then you know the background.’ She looked at me. ‘How Emily came up with the idea, I don’t know. She actually managed to come up with a winner. But I need you to keep on top of things. Miranda’s agent is a complete shark. I don’t want to come back to hear that the entire budget has been blown on room service in Miranda’s bloody hotel suite or on an entourage of thousands.’

  So far, a stylist and a make-up artist had been sanctioned but Fiona had vetoed the nutritionist, Reiki practitioner and personal Pilates instructor.

  ‘I’ve heard the problems,’ I murmured.

  ‘The main thing you have to worry about is Miranda’s partner.’

  This was news to me. ‘Who?’

  ‘Rowan Majors, recently ex-boy-band hero and supposedly heading northward up the charts. Except it’s not happening.’

  ‘So?’ There was no point even trying to hide my ignorance. Fiona needed to know that I was out of my depth.

  Fiona gave me another scornful look. ‘If,’ she paused with a heavy sigh, ‘his solo career doesn’t deliver a number one hit in the next week, he’s toast … and we’re stuffed.’

  Apparently Miranda’s ten page contract stipulated we had to find an escort if she needed one. There was even a sub-clause specifying required inside-leg measurements. Fiona wasn’t joking!

  The contract, legal and binding, was astonishing. According to the densely written paperwork she fished out of her file, the escort couldn’t have blonder hair than her (unless there were obvious roots) and his shoulders had to be broad enough to show off Miranda’s miniscule size six frame. Last but not least, Miranda had to have final approval.

  ‘God, I hope Rowan stays the course!’

  Fiona gave a ‘God-give-me-strength’ groan. ‘He won’t. It’s my worst nightmare. Or rather, it’s yours now,’ she said sounding bitter. ‘Look I need to go. My mother is desperate.’ She looked at her watch grimacing. ‘I’ll come down with you to break the news to the team.’

  ‘I’m so sorry about your mother …’ I said tentatively, wondering what was wrong with her.

  ‘Thanks.’ She smiled weakly at me. ‘It’s not totally unexpected but Mummy’s really cut up. She can’t believe the surgeon won’t operate again. And on top of Daddy, it’s too much.’

  ‘Oh, no. Is it cancer?’ I asked sympathetically.

  Fiona looked at me sharply. ‘No, liposuction. She’s devastated. She swore she’d never go to Weight Watchers again.’

  What could I say to that? If I’d been a cartoon my eyes would have done that bugging out thing where they bounce up and down on springs. All I could do was manage a strangled, ‘Don’t worry about a thing. I’m sure we’ll cope.’

  ‘Of course, Daddy’s is a little more serious with his prostate trouble. Mummy doesn’t drive so she needs me while he’s in hospital having his op.’

  Then to my surprise, she stood, smoothed her perfect skirt again and came towards me. Squeezing my good arm with an earnest expression on her face she said, ‘You know, Olivia, I couldn’t leave my team with anyone else in charge. You’re the only other person here who knows what they’re doing.’

  With that she wheeled out leaving me staring after her in amazement. Blimey! Compliments from Fiona and David? What a day it was turning out to be. Perhaps I should be off sick more often. Now all I had to do was break the news to Emily. Deep joy.

  My visit to the top floor had been the subject of much conjecture, so when I came into the office all eyes swivelled my way. I cringed looking at all the curious faces.

  Max might just break down and cry and as for the beauty team’s reaction, I didn’t even want to go there. It was going to be bad enough trying to do the job. Miranda’s demands sounded outrageous. She was one high-maintenance chick.

  Old Jabba the Hutt had never demanded any more than a hanky to wipe his sweaty brow before a photo shoot. In fact, I’d maligned him. Today, I’d returned to find that he’d sent two dozen scented pink roses and a beautiful card wishing me well.

  Predictably, Emily was livid. She couldn’t believe it wasn’t her stepping into Fiona’s shoes. The fact that it was me was a double whammy. Even I could see it was a very public slur.

  It was going to be a difficult couple of weeks. Changing desks with one arm was my first challenge. Not one of the beauty team offered to help. Cara was about to but when she jumped up she got a quelling look from Emily and quickly sat down again.

  Max roused himself from his perennial laziness to carry over my laptop. Being helpful didn’t come naturally to him; he just wanted to moan about how unfair it all was.

  ‘How am I going to manage? Who’s going to write the Winton Bypass release? What about the Broughton public enquiry?’ he griped, wiping his perpetually smeared glasses.

  ‘Max,’ I said with exasperation, handing him a pile of neatly labelled files. ‘I’m right here. It’s not as if I’ve been relocated to the Leeds office.’

  ‘God forbid.’ He really did look horrified at that. ‘But still …’

  ‘You know all about the bloody Broughton enquiry – and you can read. Everything’s in the file.’ And even you should be able to write a press release by now, I thought.

  ‘Yes, but Olivia, I’ve got so much to do for the Management Team Report.’

  ‘Max,’ I said raising my voice. ‘I write that report for you every month, all you need to do is update it – it’s not even my job to do it.’ Then lowering my voice I hissed, ‘Most of the stuff is confidential, I’m not supposed to know that Ian Riley is on his third warning or that David is considering restructuring again.’

  ‘Yes, but you’re so trustworthy.’ A wheedling tone crept into his voice. ‘I can always rely on you.’

  ‘Well, you can’t any more. Not until Fiona gets back.’

  ‘I get the message,’ he tutted. ‘The power’s gone to your head already. Just remember pride before a fall. Don’t you worry, Uncle Max will hold the fort for you.’

  I rolled my eyes. You’d think I was crossing a crocodile-infested river rather than the short expanse of grey carpet to the other side of the office. Mind you, looking at the grim faces of Emily, Cara, Camilla and Helene, it might be as dangerous.

  You could almost see the dark cloud hovering above them, for once united in disapproval. I hadn’t dared look at Emily when it was explained that I was taking over for the next few weeks. If looks could kill, Fiona would have spontaneously combusted.

  Sensibly, she made a speedy getaway before any of the team could utter a word. Sweeping everything on the top of her desk into her capacious handbag, she thrust a purple folder at me with a hasty, ‘You’ll need this’ and scuttled out of the office.

  Dazed, I sank into her chair and opened the folder to find ten pages of colour-coded notes. They made scary reading. Big Sister had been watching them. Helene always took five minutes extra at lunchtime, Camilla was not to be trusted with the petty cash, Cara was too generous with the samples and as for Emily; two pages were devoted to her.

  My heart sank. It didn’t sound like the happiest of working environments. I cast a regretful glance at Max. His feet were propped up on the desk, surrounded by piles of paper as he chatted distractedly into the phone, the handset tucked into his shoulder while he polished his glasses. He wouldn’t know what day of the week it was, let alone whether I’d taken a lunch hour.

  Reluctantly I put down the purple folder, wondering whether I should take Emily to one side for a private chat. From the scowl on her face and her hunched position at the computer, co-operation was going to be in short supply.

  My first meeting with the team later that morning went relatively well, compared to a train wreck. The ‘I’m on your side; I don’t w
ant to tread on your toes’ speech which I’d rehearsed in the ladies, went down like contraception at the Vatican. The coven, as I’d renamed them, weren’t having any of it.

  Only Cara showed signs of breaking ranks, which wasn’t wholly surprising. She had an Arsenal screen saver on her computer and team stickers all around her desk. Not a typical PR girly. She wanted advice on handling a difficult journalist. This particular beauty assistant who worked for one of the most important magazines was insisting she receive a second sample of a new age-defying moisturiser. At £250 a throw, this miracle cream was like gold dust and samples had been strictly rationed. I suggested a call was put into the Beauty Editor to ask if she minded the assistant getting her sample. Cara grinned gratefully.

  The other three were stony faced. It wasn’t hard to picture them revving up their broomsticks as they left the meeting room.

  ‘What’s this?’ I asked sharply.

  Emily feigned innocence. ‘It’s a purchase order.’

  ‘I know that. What’s it for?’ It was now my job to sign off the triplicate form, which had to be filled out for every piece of expenditure.

  ‘For the Luscious Lips launch.’

  It was for £200 and made out to an Otto Omar.

  ‘I realise that but what exactly is it for?’

  She looked down at her hand defiantly admiring her polished nails. If she wound me up any more I’d take the nail clippers to them.

  ‘He’s the Reiki man for Miranda,’ she muttered.

  I looked at her in exasperation. ‘Emily, Fiona specifically said, “No Reiki”. No massage, faith healers or whatever else Miranda’s after. I’ve been through the contract. She can have a make-up artist and a stylist – that’s it. There’s no budget for anything else.’

  ‘Miranda went on and on about it …’ she trailed off weakly.

  ‘Miranda can go on and on about it. She knows full well what she can and can’t have. Talk about trying it on! Don’t forget we’re also paying her a wheelbarrow full of gold bullion.’ God only knew what Luscious Lips put in their lipstick to make it so profitable. ‘Ring Otto and tell him his services aren’t required.’

  Emily stared at me reproachfully. ‘I can’t do that,’ she said horrified. ‘I’ve only just booked him.’

  ‘Well, you’ll just have to unbook him, won’t you?’ This was scary, I was turning into Fiona.

  ‘What now?’ she queried, still looking all wide-eyed.

  I took a deep breath. Don’t shout at her. Instead I calmly said, ‘Yes please,’ and went back to my keyboard.

  Muttering to myself, I typed, ‘I will not kill Emily. I will not kill Emily’ and forced my shoulder blades back into place. God, I’d only been doing Fiona’s job for two days and the stress was killing me.

  Emily walked off sullenly. Only after she’d got herself a coffee, phoned Daniel and tidied out her handbag, did I hear her saying on the phone, ‘I’m really, really sorry, Otto. Not my fault. It’s my boss. She won’t let me book you.’

  I couldn’t care less what she said to Otto, I kept my eye line below the computer monitor. It was the call to Daniel that bugged me. ‘Hi, Dan,’ she’d tinkled. Dan! I’d never called him that in all the years I’d known him. And did she have to phone him and text him so often? Until I’d sat this side of the room, I’d had no idea they were so devoted.

  Recently they’d been out a lot; with a trip to see Phantom of the Opera; sushi dinners and frequent visits to posh cocktail bars. In fact, I hadn’t seen him since the night at the hospital. His sudden devotion to Emily was impressive, he loathed musicals and his idea of good food was Italian. Emily would have been better suited to someone like that awful guy at the speed-date, Crossword Man.

  In comparison, my social life was looking blank. I’d heard nothing more from Ned and Friday was looming.

  Ned emailed me the very next day and while I wasn’t sure that the vital spark was there, he did have a way with emails. In my book, anyone that calls me Supergirl deserves a second chance.

  To: ORMiddleton@hotmail.com

  From: N.Hillard@yahoo.com

  Subject: Supergirl

  Hi Ollie

  (Euew! Only my brother got away with calling me Ollie.)

  Date great, footie crap – we won but rubbish match. I should have stuck with you. Sorry it probably wasn’t the best day to suggest getting together but didn’t want to wait any longer. I was afraid I’d miss the boat – there’s probably a queue (although I hope not).

  How about I show you a really good time, mud wrestling in Morden, trainspotting in Tooting or birdwatching in Enfield?

  You can choose.

  Ned

  We ended up in the Nags Head, which defied my expectation by being one of those lovely North London Victorian pubs with original tiles and an ornate wooden bar, polished to a rich chestnut. I was expecting a spit and sawdust job with lots of smelly old men super-glued to the stools at the bar.

  Ned was obviously watching out for me because the minute I walked into the pub, he jumped up and escorted me straight to the bar. This had more to do with self-preservation than innate good manners. Over his shoulder two very blokish blokes were straining to get a good look.

  Despite it being eight in the evening, he still had that rumpled just-got-up-look which was quite cute. His hair kept flopping over his eyes, which he brushed away in a quick impatient movement with the back of his hand.

  ‘Gram and Midge I presume,’ I said, nodding towards the pair who immediately beamed and waved.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Ned, smiling sheepishly at their antics. ‘Sorry about them. Bit keen to meet you.’

  That was a good sign. I’d obviously got a good write up, so far. I studied him as he ordered the drinks, exchanging banter with the barman. The jury was still out on whether I fancied him.

  ‘We always meet here on a Friday. What you having?’

  Armed with a large glass of wine, I took a deep breath as we went over to sit with them.

  Ned made the introductions. There was an awkward silence as Midge’s eyes zeroed in on my chest, before moving swiftly up to my face. Gram had a bit more subtlety, he checked my face first.

  ‘Sowhaddyado?’ asked Midge, taking a swallow from a pint glass dwarfed by his hand.

  I looked blank.

  ‘Work,’ prompted Gram. ‘Don’t mind him, he’s a teacher. He’s spent too much time with the kids.’

  A teacher? He looked more like a builder.

  ‘Ah,’ I smiled gratefully at Gram, whose boyish face wrinkled at Midge. His patchy adolescent stubble, still bald in places, was at odds with the prematurely grey tuft of hair sticking up on his head.

  ‘Repeat after me. The rain in Spain—’

  ‘Piss off,’ responded Midge calmly, flicking a beer mat at him.

  I glanced at Ned. With his elbow perched on the table he was watching the pair of them with an indulgent smile. He gave me a wink.

  ‘Teacher eh? Gosh that must be tough in London,’ I said. ‘Real front-line stuff.’ Compared with that, I really didn’t want to have to explain my job.

  ‘You get used to it,’ Midge said, with a grin, ‘although my first day was a bit of a shock.’

  ‘Really? Was it rough?’ He looked as if he could handle a couple of scrapping sixteen year olds. Ned and Gram were sniggering.

  ‘Yeah, I had to tie thirty pairs of laces, open fourteen Dairylea Triangles and one kid weed on me. It’s murder teaching reception.’

  ‘Little ones?’ I’d assumed he’d teach older ones. ‘Do you like kids, then?’

  ‘Only on toast.’ He roared with laughter.

  It was an old joke. Ned, the leader of the pack, shot him a look. The three of them had obviously known each other for a very long time. They had a habit of finishing each other’s
sentences and had too many in-jokes. When Ned disappeared to the loo, giving the other two a definite ‘behave’ look, they both leaned over the table and gave me the thumbs up. Midge looked over at Gram winked and said, ‘A babe’. I blushed.

  There was a silence, as if without Ned the two had lost the necessary prompt to make small talk. This was broken eventually by Gram politely asking, ‘So what do you do?’ just as Ned came back.

  ‘She’s one of those glamorous PR types,’ he said, sinking back onto his stool, moving it as he did so that his leg now touched mine.

  ‘I hate to disappoint but I work on the building side,’ I replied. If I mentioned the film premiere it would match all their preconceived ideas. I was conscious of the hard thigh next to mine. Slightly thrown by it, I said the first thing that came into my head. ‘My main client is Collingwood Construction.’

  All three heads dipped dramatically towards me.

  ‘Really?’ said Gram, his mouth dropping open.

  ‘Whoa,’ enthused Midge.

  ‘Nice,’ said Ned, his leg definitely pressing against mine.

  I looked back at them, looking from face to face and raising my shoulders. ‘What?’

  ‘You don’t know?’ said Midge incredulously.

  ‘Don’t know what?’

  ‘Collingwood Construction sponsors a box at Arsenal,’ explained Ned gently.

  I tutted. ‘Yeah, the Chairman’s always inviting me to go to a match. Says I can take a friend.’ Looking up I suddenly felt like a very meaty bone under the gaze of three starving dogs.

  ‘And you’ve never been?’ Midge’s voice went up several octaves. Gram’s eyes were wide.

  ‘Dear, dear,’ said Ned, shaking his head and patting my leg with his hand. ‘D’you know people would kill for that?’

  ‘I don’t think so, you’ve never seen Jabba. There’s no way you’d want to be in a box with him.’

  ‘The Collingwood box is one of the biggest and the best in the premiership,’ said Gram in a strained voice, fanning himself with a beer mat and looking round furtively at the rest of the pub.