“You’re going to have to face him sometime,” ever-practical Claire reminded me. “Either that or leave your job, but you can’t afford to leave until you have something else lined up.”
Of course she was right. Like all people my age, I had damn-all savings; I could only afford to be off work for about six or eight weeks at most, and if I left without another job to go to, that mightn’t be enough. Besides, I had my CV to think of; it wouldn’t look good if I left Banbury’s for no apparent reason, and a failed relationship with one of the managers would only give me a bad reputation. Leaving was not an option, not for now, anyway. That thought depressed the hell out of me. I might be able to drag another day out of it, but come Monday morning I’d have to square up and get on with it. The realisation filled me with dread.
I spent Friday in bed too, but at Claire’s insistence, I didn’t switch off the phones. I could dodge Michael’s mobile and work extension thanks to caller ID, and I refused all private callers. I cried, stormed, and ranted for most of the day, just wishing the time away until the girls got home to lift me out of my misery. I didn’t even consider that it was a Friday night and that they might have plans until I got caught on the hop by an unrecognised mobile number, which I felt I had better pick up.
“Hello, am I speaking with Siobhan?” I heard a familiar voice ask. Hell, it was the old personnel director from Lynham’s.
“Speaking. Hello, Robert, how are you keeping?”
“Ah, Siobhan, I’m glad I caught you. It happens we have a vacancy in our personnel department that I thought might suit you; we’re recruiting a new personnel manager. Things didn’t quite work out with Mike, and he’s leaving next month.”
Inwardly I was cheering. Mike was the bastard who had usurped me. I was dying to ask what had gone wrong. But I needed to think about this. Lynham’s had let me down once before; they could do it again. I wasn’t sure I liked their ethos. I asked him to give me a week to think about it. It may well prove to be the escape route I craved, yet I didn’t want to act impulsively. I was still pondering my decision when the phone rang again. I knew it was the Banbury’s number, but I wasn’t sure of the extension. It wasn’t Michael’s or Myra’s. I figured it was best to answer it.
“Siobhan, how are you, my dear? James Banbury here,” he started. It was all I could do not to sob down the phone. I was letting him down, but he was asking about me!
“I’m fine, James. I’m very sorry, I’ll be back on Monday,” I offered.
“I have no doubt you will be, my dear, but something’s come to a head. Myra has announced she’s leaving; is there any chance I could meet you tomorrow? I need to inform everyone of her departure tonight, before the media get wind of it, but by Monday I’d like to have a succession plan and I know how that affects you. Do you think you could bear to come to my house for coffee and a chat tomorrow? I know it’s Saturday, but it’s pretty important.”
Shit, fuck, and damn. This was a real spanner in the works. I was really glad of that phone call from Lynham’s now. At least I had an escape plan. God above only knew what James had in store. I wasn’t foolish enough to think I was ready for Myra’s job yet—I wasn’t there long enough, but I wanted to know what he had planned. I also wasn’t that comfortable about going to his house; it seemed a bit unconventional. And I really wasn’t sure if I could work with Michael anymore. There was a lorry load of “ifs” there and I had to muddle through them all. And without a fully functional brain at that. I acknowledged that I really needed to go back to work on Monday, one way or another, either until I found another job, or just to get it over with if I decided to stay. So I agreed to meet him; what else was I going to do? I resolved to call Myra and check out the wisdom of that move as soon as James had hung up the phone.
“Myra White, can I help you?”
“Myra, is it true you’re leaving?” I asked without polite chitchat.
“Ah, Siobhan, it’s good to hear from you, how are you feeling? Better, I hope,” Myra replied with her usual decorum, making me ashamed of my own lack of courtesy.
“I’m ok, Myra, just a bit of a flu. I’ll be back Monday,” I lied easily, glad to hear no undertones in her question. “So what’s happening with you?”
She quickly filled me in about being offered a personnel director’s role in Selfridges, way too big an opportunity to pass up and they wanted her within the next month. I congratulated her sincerely; hell, that was an amazing offer. We discussed her future role and employer and then she turned the tables on me.
“I take it James contacted you, then? He was frantic when you weren’t here again today. He and Michael have been hounding me about you.”
“Yes, he got me about half an hour ago, that’s why I called. He’s asked me to go to his home tomorrow, and I’m not entirely comfortable with the propriety of it.”
Myra laughed and told me to get used to it: James wasn’t always conventional, but was without exception totally trustworthy. Besides, his wife would probably be there; she always had been when Myra visited the house. By the time the call was finished, I was much more at ease about the visit. About ten minutes after hanging up with Myra I got a text from Michael, the ten millionth of the day, not to mention the gazillion unanswered calls.
“I need to talk to you before tomorrow, please. It’s urgent. Call me.”
No bloody way was I going to call him, but I knew I would have to face him on Monday, so I decided to send a reply, the first time I had acknowledged his existence since Tuesday night. I was not only going to have to face him, but also lay down a few ground rules to ensure we could co-exist while I mapped out my future.
“Be back at work on Monday. If you’re free for lunch we can talk then.”
“I need to talk to you tonight. Or first thing in the morning before you see James.”
Fuck, how could I be such a fool as to think I could work there with him; he and James were thick as thieves. It finally dawned on me and my brain was scorched with the sudden flash: Michael was going to be James’ successor. He had to be. And the bastard had known it all along. He had taken me for a total fool. Lord, how was I so dumb not to see that coming? That’s why Michael was annoyed about me being involved in the party preparations. He didn’t want me to be too big for my boots. Well, fuck him. I’d go to see James tomorrow, all right, to hand in my notice. I’d accept the post at Lynham’s. Sheez, I had been played like a fiddle.
I was spitting, and whatever about hell having no fury like a regular woman scorned, an Irish redhead could give Beelzebub himself a run for his money. I wanted to smash every dish in the place, but luckily the girls came in before I got to that. I seriously considered going over to Michael to fuck the head off him. Honestly, I think if he had been within my firing range, the dishes would have been thrown at him. And as hard as possible, intending to hurt, not just make a point. The day of the interview I had been right. He was a cocky, smarmy, self-satisfied bastard with no morals or ethics. He saw what he wanted, set out to get it, and hang the devil. Who cared if some dipsy Irish woman got caught in the crossfire? And boy, did I get caught. Well, more fool me; I had ignored my instincts and gotten what I deserved.
I simply replied: “MONDAY.” I didn’t trust myself with any more than that. I hoped he caught the scream in the capital letters.
The girls were true friends. They had both cancelled their Friday night plans to cheer me up. I knew how hard that must have been for both of them; Friday nights were chill-out nights and they were being wasted mopping up my tears. They arrived armed with wine and DVD’s. Even though I knew I had to go to James’ house tomorrow, I needed to blow out so I gave in to the occasion. I filled them in on the events of the day and my deductions about Michael. Claire listened open-mouthed, but she urged me not to jump to conclusions, to at least hear him out before I handed in my notice. Tara on the other hand reckoned I should tell him to take a good long run and jump, preferably from an extremely tall building. For once, I was more inclined to li
sten to Tara.
We were actually quite drunk by the time we went to bed; it was one of those nights. We had three bottles of wine between us, or in other words, a full bottle each. We agreed that every problem the world had ever seen had been created by and exacerbated by bloody men. I swore off them, again, only this time I said it would take me way longer than a year. Tara said I should just use them for physical comfort like she did, and like they used women. Even Claire, staid sensible Claire, figured that they should all be rounded up and put on an island, only being shipped on and off in accordance with women’s rules and needs.
“Let’s create our own universe,” she giggled drunkenly, “men can be slaves, or pets. We’ll keep them in shelters, feed them, and get them to do manual labour for exercise. Then when we need one, we can check them out on a temporary release, for our purposes. Then when we’re done, we’ll check them back in. Maybe favoured ones could have a longer permit or licence.”
“Yeah, like a dog licence,” Tara agreed, getting in the spirit of it. “Only it doesn’t last a year, it lasts as long as the mistress is prepared to take responsibility for the pet.”
“And the mistresses should be able to have as many licences as they choose, and there should be no fee, who’d feckin’ pay for them?” I laughed gleefully. I really liked the sound of this alternative universe.
“There’d be no more sexual inequality or sexual harassment at work,” Claire added sagely. I didn’t point out that I saw lots of other types of harassment day in day out as a personnel assistant. We were having way too much fun for me to burst her bubble.
“Chains and collars, oh, and maybe nose rings, that’d be the way to go…” Tara added with a mischievous glint in her eye. She snorted a laugh. Aah, I noted, maybe I told the wrong housemate! Anyway, at this moment, that was a moot point; that phase of my life was over. By now the wine was all gone. We debated hitting the bottle of brandy that had been in the cupboard since Christmas, but between my early appointment and a fear of getting too maudlin, I had the good sense to go to bed.
Chapter Fourteen
Three days of tears, anger, and heartache had taken their toll. Added to that was three days of not eating or sleeping, plus a bottle of wine the previous night. When I woke on Saturday, my head felt that the Dublin-Sligo express train had ploughed through without stopping. I woke to the sound of my damn phone ringing at seven-thirty. On a Saturday. Instinct refuses to allow us to ignore calls that are outside our normal functioning hours in case it’s an unexpected emergency. Our first instinct is to panic and reach for the phone in our sleep, which of course I did. As soon as I heard Michael’s voice, I hit the end button. Damn him, he had got me off guard. And my anger meant that sleep was going to elude me now. I dragged myself down to the kitchen to find orange juice and paracetamol. Which I promptly threw up! I needed coffee in the worst possible way. I powered off the phone for a while; I really needed to come round without that noise cutting through my head like the dentist’s drill. I needed an hour, peace and solitude, me and my coffee, keeping morose company together. The coffee and a slice of toast helped settle my tummy, and I tried painkillers again. Before I knew it I had finished two pots of coffee, two hours had passed; and while the painkillers had dulled the headache, the heartache was untreatable. The realisation that Michael was probably taking over from James was a bigger punch in the stomach than seeing that woman in his office. I had always known there was something amiss; it would be easy to blame her but actually the problem was much deeper. It was a fundamental lack of trust and honesty. I could never trust him as a manager after that, even if I could get over my own pain.
What the fuck was I going to say to James? The cab would be here to pick me up at eleven; he had insisted that he would send one. I wished I could cancel and give my notice in the relative safety of the office on Monday. But I had made the arrangement, and this mess was of my own making; I could have followed my instincts and not gotten involved with Michael. I could just imagine my mother’s voice telling me, “you’ve made your bed, my girl, and now you have to lie in it.” She had an old saying for every occasion. I groaned inwardly and squared up to the task ahead, starting with the shower.
Dressing was more of a nightmare than I had considered. Just what did one wear to one’s boss’s house, to hand in one’s notice? After much deliberation I opted for casuals, a pair of skinny jeans and a twin-set, matched with pearls. Informal, but the twin-set and pearls dressed up the jeans a bit. I chose flat pumps, then I brushed my hair but left it loose; my head was aching way too much to be able to tie it back. I put on enough make-up to lose the gaunt, haunted look that had beset my face in the last few days. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and smiled. I certainly looked nothing like the woman who presents herself in heels, formal suits, and severe ponytail every day. Even though I felt like shit, I looked pretty good, different, softer. It would fool him into thinking I was doing better without Michael than I actually was. I had my letter of resignation in my handbag. I felt a bit lousy leaving at the same time as Myra, so I had left the leaving date as negotiable. I’d see how long I could get Lynham’s to hold the job open. I was relieved when the taxi arrived dead on time. I was ready and waiting and sitting around was only making me jittery. I realised I hadn’t heard from Michael all morning. At last, maybe he was finally getting the message. No wonder I was less tense than yesterday, the incessant bleeping of my phone wasn’t getting to me.
The drive to St Alban’s seemed to fly past as I was totally lost in my thoughts. The driver made several attempts at small talk as only a London cabbie can, but I just wasn’t interested and cut him off with a curt reply every time. When we got there, he had to point out we had stopped, I was that lost in my thoughts. I opened my purse to pay, but he told me it was charged to Banbury’s account and he insisted that a tip was included. James was good like that; he looked after his employees very well. I’d miss it when I went back to Lynham’s. The thing was, I loved my job, really loved it. It totally pissed me off to have to leave it over a man. How stupid was I? But I realised that if Michael did end up as the MD, my position would become untenable. There was really no choice. Anyway, they could end up hiring some twat as the new personnel manager and, after working with someone as fantastic as Myra, that would be hard to take, especially in the same job. I wondered if Myra knew Michael was James’ successor yet, but I honestly doubted she did.
The front door opened as I climbed out of the taxi and James was there, waiting for me, as if he wanted to be sure I didn’t do a runner. The taxi turned and drove off and I caught a fleeting glimpse of a red car parked round the corner. My suspicions were alerted, but I couldn’t go round to take a look as James ushered me through the door, introducing me to a stylish, very affable lady in her mid-fifties.
“This is my wife, Catherine,” James introduced.
“It’s so good to meet you at last, my dear, I’ve heard so much about you,” she said, taking my hand warmly in hers and kissing my cheek. I was quite stunned by the warmth of her greeting. It was much more effusive than the occasion warranted, I thought, and certainly not what I would have expected from an upper-middle-class English woman. That was more like an Irish greeting. I felt myself blush and try to return the compliment, but actually I had barely known she existed so I was quite flummoxed.
“You’re embarrassing her now, dear,” James chastised. “Would you like tea or coffee, before we get down to business?”
“Coffee, please.”
He led me into a well-appointed living room filled with soft plush furnishings and expensive wooden tables and sideboards. A large French window opened onto the lawn and the autumn sun filled the room with a rich warm glow. It was a room that had been decorated with taste and love and was filled with a combination of beauty and comfort. I wanted to walk around and admire the paintings, but I thought it would be too forward so I just took a seat on one of the opulent sofas.
“I’ll just give Catherine a hand. I
’ll be back in a moment; make yourself at home, my dear,” James offered as he left the room.
I got up to investigate the paintings and photos and I spotted it. In an elaborate Waterford crystal photo frame there was a man receiving his degree in cape and mortarboard. And by his side were the proud father and some woman I didn’t recognise. Lydia, his mother, I assumed. I wanted to vomit with the shock. I was reeling and I felt the blood rush from my face as I became faint and dizzy. Before I knew it there was an arm around me, leading me to the sofa again. Michael. Michael Henrii, also formerly known as Michael Banbury, apparently. Jesus, was there no end to the deception? I couldn’t even speak. I wanted to scream, to hit him, to throw things, to generally make my hysteria understood, but my body wouldn’t respond. It was like a temporary paralysis. My tongue was stuck in my head. Loss of words was a most unusual event for me. If my parents had seen it, they wouldn’t have believed it. I could hear him talking, asking was I ok, but I couldn’t answer. Then he shouted.
“Dad, can you get me a glass of water, quickly please.”
James came running in with the drink and looked at me. He went over to the sideboard, poured a shot of brandy instead, and handed it to me.
“Take a sip, my dear,” he said gently, guiding my hand with the glass up to my lips. I took a couple of mouthfuls, the fire of the liquid helping to jolt me back to reality. I could hear him hissing angrily at Michael.
“You’d better tell me exactly what has been going on; if I’d known how upset she was going to be, there is no way I would have agreed to let you be here. I warned you when I first found out to tell her the truth. Now look at the mess you’ve made of it all.”
Michael didn’t reply, just sat at my feet waiting for me to come round a bit. It was all starting to sink in. Feck, of course. Jesus, I was even more stupid than I first thought. Every time I mentioned James, Michael closed up. Same if I asked about his dad. He never had a problem talking about his mother or his boss in France. I should have made the connection ages ago, but I was too caught up in our romance to want to face up to reality. If I was on the outside looking in, I would have been disgusted at my blind crush on a man, refusing to see the signs that had all been lit up in neon. And no wonder James had been so kind on Wednesday. He knew. And Catherine knew—that’s why her welcome was so overly familiar. It seemed like I was the only one who didn’t. My tongue was finally starting to loosen again.
My Naughty Little Secret Page 12
