Wish You Were Here

by Phillipa Ashley

  Beth knew that Honor would have given her a lift whether she had a catering gig to go to or not. An old schoolpal of her mum’s, Honor had been a very good friend to the family since Diane Allen had died suddenly when Beth was a teenager. Honor had never tried to replace her mum; none of them would have wanted that. Yet she was invariably there when needed, like a well-loved, if rather eccentric, fixture.

  With very little traffic about, they had soon reached the signals at the bottom of the hill to the station. A red light forced them to stop and her eyes inevitably rested on the ranks of shiny BMWs and Audis standing guard on a garage forecourt.

  ‘Frayles,’ said Honor.

  ‘Of course,’ said Beth.

  Nothing disturbed the tranquil, imposing façade of Frayle & Son. There was no little man polishing the windscreens of the cars, no suited and booted salesman trying to persuade a well-heeled couple to part with their cash for the latest model. No Porsche with personalized plate, parked in the space marked ‘Reserved: Sales & Marketing Director Only’ and no Marcus, standing in the showroom, shaking hands on another deal.

  A pang of guilt struck her. Marcus hadn’t found out yet that she was running away to London. If he had, he’d definitely have offered her a ride and in something even flashier than a cow-patterned van. He might have tried to persuade her not to leave. Beth was almost sure he might have offered to step in and help out her family financially too. No chance of that, she thought as Daisy chugged up the hill to the little station. She respected herself, and Marcus, way too much to take handouts, however well-meaning.

  Marcus was a nice, solid guy. As far as she knew, he never wasted his hard-earned cash on online poker, drank more than the government-recommended limit, or wore a tie that clashed with his Hugo Boss shirt. Plus, on the odd occasion when she’d stayed over at the Grange with him, he’d made sure the burglar alarm was set and always flossed before coming to bed. They’d been seeing each other, on and off, for a few months now. In fact, Marcus was probably the most serious relationship she’d had since Jack Thornfield.

  Now where had he sprung from, today of all days, when her mind needed to be cool and businesslike? It must have been… no, she knew it was eight years, almost to the day, since she’d last seen him. He’d waved her off on a minibus to the airport in Corsica, wiping away her tears with his thumb, before saying gruffly, ‘I’ll call you as soon as I get back home.’

  At least, that’s what she’d always thought he’d said. After all this time, the memory was beginning to shift and become hazy around the edges, a bit like the masts shimmering tantalizingly through the mist on the lake.

  ‘Are you feeling OK?’ asked Honor, as Beth wound down the window.

  ‘Fine,’ she said brightly. ‘Well, maybe a bit nervous… It’s a big day.’

  ‘Understandable but no need. This Big Outdoors place will be begging you to stay as soon as they meet you. You’re staying overnight, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes. They said I could have a night in a hotel before the interview but they can’t see me until after lunch and I wanted to be here for Lou’s birthday dinner last night. So it seemed a good idea to stay on afterwards instead.’

  ‘Especially if it’s free.’

  ‘I didn’t like to say no. The woman who arranged it seemed really insistent. I didn’t want to make a fuss before they’ve even met me.’

  She turned her face to catch the fresh morning breeze blowing down from the fells. Jack Thornfield’s name had thrust its way into her mind most unwelcomely. She’d stopped Googling his name on the Internet years ago, which was a big step along the road to recovering from being swept off her feet then dumped by him all in the space of three weeks. When he’d left her, he’d taken something with him—her ability to trust—and for a long time afterwards, she’d been as wary of men as a pool she couldn’t see the bottom of.

  ‘Um… we’re here.’

  Honor was gazing at her in amusement and she found they were parked in the lay-by outside the station.

  ‘Oh, sorry. I was on another planet there,’ she said.

  ‘I could see that.’ She patted Beth’s arm. ‘They’ll be OK, you know, your dad and Louisa. I’ll see to that.’

  She felt a stab of guilt, realizing Honor was referring to her family. Yet she hadn’t been thinking about them at all but about some guy from years ago who should have been long forgotten. Cursing herself, she decided to shove any thoughts of Jack Thornfield into the mental bin marked ‘dump.’

  ‘I know you’ll take care of them. I really appreciate your help. Thanks, Honor, you’re a star.’

  ‘Nothing starry about it. Like I said, it’s a pleasure. Now, shall I get your bag out?’

  ‘No, I’ll do it. Thanks again.’

  Impulsively, she leaned over and kissed Honor on the cheek, then mumbled goodbye and was gone, not looking behind again until she was safely in the station. After her short journey from Windermere to the main line station outside Kendal, she found herself tottering down the aisle of the swaying train in her new heels, a Styrofoam cappuccino in one hand and a breakfast panini in the other. As she mumbled her apologies after lurching into a man in an aisle seat, she wondered how she was going to last the day in the heels. She’d got them in a Faith sale and they’d seemed the kind of ‘serious’ shoes that she ought to wear for a London interview. Her little toe was already telling her she’d have been better off in her trusty O’Neill wedges. Preferably with sand under her soles and a few palm trees waving nearby.

  She slid back into her seat as the train whizzed through countryside and urban sprawl on its way to London. Balancing her coffee on the table, she peeled off the top to let the steam escape and resumed her study of the file on Big Outdoors. Ever since she’d sent her letter, on spec, to their operations director, she’d spent every spare moment on the Internet, boning up on the company’s market strengths and weaknesses. Not that she’d expected to get a reply, let alone an interview. Offering her services as a product manager had been a stab in the dark but, she reminded herself, she was desperate. Her stint with a small tour operator company had been going very well until it was cut short by her father’s accident.

  She tried to memorize the key points in her notes again. They were starred and marked with one of Louisa’s fluorescent highlighters. Sisters were useful for some things, she thought, as the first sip of coffee scalded her tongue. She’d noted three main criteria that were considered essential for the role she hoped to get:

  1. Recent, extensive, independent travel in Europe, the Middle East, and North Africa—Tick to that box, she thought with a wry smile, although the ‘recent’ part was a bit debatable.

  2. Commitment, energy, and drive—Hmm. Her energy levels were sapping slightly, again due to the events of the past six months. But a big tick to commitment and drive.

  3. Ability to forge unique client relationships and deliver outstanding customer service—She sighed. ‘Unique’ and ‘outstanding’? They were typical industry buzz words but they still sounded daunting. All those months at home must have knocked her confidence. She wasn’t sure she could be unique and outstanding, but if that’s what it took to get this job, she had no choice but to try.

  Chapter 3

  It was mid-afternoon when Beth found herself on unfamiliar terrain again. She tilted back her head, seeking out the peak of the glass atrium, far above, until she felt dizzy. In front of her was a huge reception desk and a glass lift, straight out of the starship Enterprise. Maybe, she thought, Big Outdoors had a transporter room that beamed people off to their destinations. Maybe they didn’t have to get there by plane and ferry, by camel train and elephant, by hiking through the wilderness and gully-bashing.

  Like her previous employer, Big Outdoors was a specialist adventure tour operator, but it was in a different league in terms of size. Its flash London offices made it look even more important than it actually was. According to Travel Trade Weekly, the company had moved there eighteen months before when they�
��d been one of the rising stars of their market sector. Since then its rivals had jumped on the bandwagon. In Beth’s opinion, the company badly needed an injection of new ideas.

  Catching sight of herself in the polished granite of a fountain, she wrinkled her nose. The reflection showed her distorted and unfamiliar. Was this really her? In the sharp jacket, a short skirt, and shoes that were shiny and serious? She flicked a tongue over her lips, tasting the unfamiliar slick of lip gloss. There wasn’t much call for Juicy Tubes in a Lakeland village and Marcus had made it plain he wasn’t keen on blackcurrant-flavored kisses anyway.

  Though her legs felt like jellyfish tentacles, she straightened her back and approached the starship bridge where a young receptionist was intent on a laptop computer screen. She had a purple crop, dozens of bangles, and heavily kohled eyes that made her look like a funky baby Panda. Suddenly Beth felt overdressed in her suit. Maybe her O’Neills would have been a better idea after all…

  ‘Hi there. Can I help you?’ said the funky receptionist.

  ‘I have an appointment with Mrs. Arnold.’

  ‘Could I have your name, please?’

  ‘Beth Allen.’

  ‘Cute name,’ said the girl, typing it into the computer. ‘Short, I mean.’

  ‘Yes. I suppose it is. Short, I mean. Though I have to say I hadn’t really thought of it as cute.’

  ‘It is. Easy to spell too,’ said panda-girl sagely. ‘I mean, when you give people your name on the phone you don’t want anything long or weird like Philomena Bottomley or Montague Spraggworthy, do you?’

  She felt a giggle rising. ‘Definitely not.’

  ‘I mean—like my name. Freya Scott. That gives people a bit of trouble. Not the Scott bit, naturally.’

  ‘Naturally,’ said Beth, half wanting to laugh and half wishing Freya would shut up and lead her to the guillotine.

  ‘People always know the Scott, no probs. Cos they’ve heard of that bloke who went to the North Pole or the poetry guy. No, it’s the Freya part that gives them trouble,’ she said, rolling her eyes dramatically. ‘Dunno what my mum and dad were thinking of. I mean, people think it’s some kind of weird made-up name—like Chardonnay or Chanterelle or Jackdaniels or something.’

  ‘Chanterelle? Isn’t that a mushroom? And Jackdaniels? People don’t really call their kids these names, do they?’

  Freya looked astonished at Beth’s ignorance of such matters. Her reading consisted mainly of Trail and Mountain Bike World, unless she managed to get a peek at something glossy or scandalous—or both—while she was in the hairdresser’s.

  ‘I read it in one of those magazines my mum gets to read in the bath,’ Freya went on. ‘You see, this woman, she’d had five kids by four different guys, plus the one she didn’t know she was having, and she called him Jackdaniels because she’d had sex with the dad in the toilets in All Bar One and—’

  Suddenly, Freya curled her tongue over her lip, making the silver stud jiggle. ‘Oh flip. I’m going on, aren’t I? I keep getting into trouble with Allegra for that. She’s our—’

  ‘Human Resources director?’

  ‘Oh… er… Do you know her? Have you come for a job here?’

  Beth felt a bit sorry for Freya; she looked so young and worried. She nodded discreetly.

  ‘Oh… er… I’d better shut up then. I thought you were a supplier or customer come to complain about their trip or something. Ah. Here you are. Oh!’ She paused. ‘Oh, er…’

  ‘What is it?’ said Beth, getting worried now.

  Freya clammed her black-lipsticked mouth shut then said in a posh voice: ‘Nothing. Someone will be with you in a moment. Please take a seat, Miss Allen.’

  Beth resisted the urge to ask which one and walk out with it. She doubted if even Freya would understand her sense of humor down here but then again, Big Outdoors did claim to be an adventure travel company. Sinking back in the voluminous leather couch, she picked up a travel magazine and flicked through it, trying to look businesslike. Better behave, she reminded herself; there was more than her career development riding on this job. Both her dad and Louisa were depending on her, for a start.

  ‘Ms. Allen?’

  A tall woman with her silver hair in an immaculate updo was smiling down at her.

  ‘I’m Martha Symington, the managing director’s personal assistant,’ she said, holding out a manicured hand. ‘I hope your journey went well?’

  Beth coughed to clear her throat and laid the magazine on the table. ‘Absolutely fine, thank you,’ she said, shaking hands. She hadn’t greeted anyone so formally for months now and it felt pretty strange.

  ‘I hope you had no trouble finding us?’ said Martha as Beth struggled to rise elegantly from the depths of the sofa.

  ‘No problem,’ she lied, deciding it was better not to mention a slight mix-up on the Tube that had resulted in an unscheduled scenic tour of the London Underground. Not if she wanted a job planning routes along the high Alpine trails.

  ‘This way, please,’ said Martha. ‘Shall I get Freya to take your overnight bag and keep it in the storeroom? You won’t be needing it until later.’

  Freya emerged from behind the reception desk. ‘Good luck,’ she mouthed, raising her eyebrows behind Martha’s back. As she took the bag, she hissed, ‘You’ll need it with him up there.’

  She didn’t have time to reply or even think about this dire warning. Moments later, she was following the PA across the foyer towards the lift. Martha pushed the button. ‘Sorry,’ she said apologetically, ‘but the management suite is on the top floor, Ms. Allen.’

  ‘That’s fine—and please, call me Beth.’

  The doors opened onto a corridor. Trotting behind Martha, she tried to read the brass plates on each door they passed. At the end, Martha pointed to a pale beech panel that looked broad enough to admit ten executive directors. She noticed the brass plaque was missing; only screw holes showed where it had been.

  ‘Well, we’ve finally arrived at the inner sanctum,’ said Martha.

  ‘Some sanctum. Mrs. Arnold certainly knows how to choose her office.’

  ‘Ah, but this isn’t Mrs. Arnold’s sanctum. Mrs. Arnold is at a conference. This,’ said Martha rapping smartly on the door, ‘is our managing director’s sanctum. He’ll be conducting your interview.’

  Before she had time to reply, a voice thundered through the beech panel.

  ‘Come!’

  Beth didn’t care too much for the way the word was barked out. It sounded far too dictatorial for her liking. There wasn’t even a please, for goodness’ sake. Maybe applying for a job at Big Outdoors wasn’t such as good idea, with an old ogre like that at the top. Yet Martha was gazing at her kindly, rather like the school secretary had when she’d been hauled up in front of the headmistress for carving graffiti on her desk.

  ‘In you go, then,’ whispered Martha, as she dithered, ‘and please, don’t look so worried. His bark really is worse than his bite.’

  ***

  As soon as Jack had heard from Martha that ‘Ms. Allen’ was in reception, he’d assumed the position—the one with his back to the door and his eyes fixed on the city skyline below. He did it partly because he thought it gave him an aura of confidence, and partly because he wanted time to bring his heart rate down to normal and his expectations to zero.

  If the truth be told, and Jack always tried to be brutally honest with himself, he’d spent the past week in a complete dilemma. He had no idea what to expect from Beth. He knew his appearance would come as a surprise. It would be weeks before his appointment filtered into the trade press, and as she had addressed her application to the old MD, he was pretty sure Beth wouldn’t know he had taken over. As for her reaction to finding him in charge, he knew that could be anything from outrage to indifference. After all, it had been eight years ago since their trip to Corsica—maybe it hadn’t meant that much to a nineteen-year-old, maybe he’d been forgotten within a few weeks as Beth moved on to new experiences and new people.<
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  He had to admit that indifference would bother him most. What if she didn’t, after all this time, even recognize him? He knew he was being irrational because, at one time, he’d prayed that she’d forget him just to minimize the pain he must have caused her.

  Checking his watch, he felt warmth on his face as the afternoon sun swung round to the front of the building. He rubbed a hand across his gritty eyes. He’d woken up at 4 a.m. that morning and hadn’t been able to get to sleep again, so he had gone out for a run, trying to make sense of his motives. Did he genuinely want to give Beth a job? Or was he trying to make up for what he’d done to her all those years ago?

  ‘Jack, it’s Ms. Allen.’

  The rap on the door made him jump.

  ‘Come!’ he shouted, then cursed himself. He really hadn’t meant to sound like a Roman emperor addressing the plebs. Maybe he needed to get in touch with his feminine side. He called again, more bellow than bark.

  ‘Come in! Please.’

  ***

  Outside the sanctum, Beth heard the call. Unclenching her fist, trying to ease the tension in her fingers, she pushed the door tentatively. The panel swung inwards, making her blink against the light. A sudden blast of air-conditioning dried out her throat. Her nose twitched as the scent of rich, expensive coffee filled her nostrils.

  As her eyes adjusted, she noticed a man standing against the huge floor-to-ceiling windows opposite her. It was hard not to notice him—he had to be well over six feet. His broad shoulders were almost straining against the white cotton shirt. His strong back tapered to a lean waist and a rather firm backside. But just as she was telling herself that it was deeply wrong to be ogling bits of her potential new boss, he turned round.

  She let out a tiny gasp as the sun blasted in through the window behind him.