by Niamh Greene
‘I dunno.’ Penny shrugs. ‘But if even a condemned prisoner doesn’t want you, things must be bad. She lives in a fantasy world.’
I glance over at Samantha. Her eyes are half closed and she’s typing swiftly on the keyboard, like she’s in a trance. I feel bad that I’m pulling the wool over her eyes. But I can’t admit that Charlie has left me, even if it is temporarily. She’d be devastated. And I definitely can’t confide in Penny. She’d use it as another reason to add to her list of why all men are bastards. She hates men. Mind you, she has good reason: her boyfriend left her at the altar. Literally at the altar. Just before the priest proclaimed them man and wife he sprinted down the aisle and was never seen again, like in some really bad movie. She spent the weeks before Charlie and I got married telling me I was making the biggest mistake of my life. Looks like she might have had a point, although at least Charlie made it through the ceremony.
I go back to clearing my in-box. There are still 683 emails waiting for a response. That has to be some kind of a record. I’m quite obviously indispensable – maybe I should think about asking for a pay rise. OK, so quite a few of the emails seem to be asking if I want to thicken my men’s appendage or make it stay harder for longer, but still, the volume of correspondence is there, that has to count for something. I deserve a pay rise – I’ve been on the same measly salary for years. It’s about time my achievements were recognized. It’s not easy persuading high-profile contributors to write for a two-bit magazine – not when other glossies with much higher circulation figures are fighting tooth and nail for their opinions too. And as well as being responsible for features, I also do lots of other stuff that’s not in my job spec – such as anything that Minty asks me to. You see, Minty doesn’t believe in job specs. She prefers to throw people in at the deep end and see if they can sink or swim. It’s her favourite hobby.
‘Earth calling Molly! Come in, Molly!’ A shrewish voice interrupts my thoughts.
It’s Minty. She’s standing over me. How long has she been there? It’s so spooky the way she can creep up on people like that.
‘Sorry, um, Minty, did you want me?’ I peer up at her.
‘You’re back.’ It’s a statement, not a question.
‘Yes. I had a great time!’ I start to gush.
‘Yeah, yeah, OK. Spare me the details. It’s good you’re here.’
Wow – Minty’s being nice, I can’t believe it. She’s actually glad to see me back at my desk. She’s taking a personal interest in me. Maybe this means I am going to get a pay rise.
‘Thanks Minty…’ But before I can finish she interrupts again.
‘Yes, it’s good you’re back because we need to firm up next month’s issue. We’re way behind thanks to you being off.’
‘Well, I was on my honeymoon, Minty…’ I start.
‘Whatever.’ Minty ignores me. ‘Be on top of things by tomorrow. Samantha can help – just make sure she doesn’t fuck up.’
Then she sweeps away. I can hear Penny snorting with laughter on the other side of the partition.
Great, that’s all I need. Samantha has a heart of gold but she’s really hopeless at anything other than dictation. Having her help me out could prove more of a hindrance than anything. I look over at her now. She’s still typing happily, mouthing along to her headphones, her eyes half closed.
There’s no point in dwelling on it now though. Once Minty has decided something there’s no changing her mind, and I know Samantha will at least try her best. I’ll just have to make sure I keep a really close eye on her.
I go back to checking my email and in my in-box I spot a mail from Lee Merkel, the senior publicist at Embassy Publishing. I’d written to her requesting a ‘Day in the Life’ feature on one of her authors, chick-lit queen Carla Ryan.
I click on it quickly and grin when I read her response: she’s agreed to it. That’s bound to be major brownie points for me – Carla Ryan is notoriously wary of the press. Ever since a former PA provided the Gazette with explosive behind-the-scenes details of her alleged temper and secret binge-eating episodes a few years back, she’s been really media shy. Not that all the juicy revelations harmed her sales: they trebled in the weeks after that. If I pull off this exclusive it’ll be a real scoop. But I’d better keep it quiet for a little while longer, just until it’s in the bag. I still haven’t lived down the time I told everyone that Hollywood A-lister James Law was going to give me a tell-all interview. James and his ex-wife Angelica were locked in a bitter divorce and custody battle over their only son, and bagging an exclusive scoop was going to be the highlight of my career. It was all set up and then his people pulled out at the last minute. I was so embarrassed.
Suddenly Penny looms into view.
‘Great news about Samantha!’ she sniggers. ‘Lucky old you!’
I wince. I hope Samantha didn’t hear that: I don’t want to hurt her feelings.
‘By the way,’ Penny goes on. ‘I know your big secret.’ She leans right across the partition and looks me straight in the eye.
‘What?’
My stomach lurches. How can she know about Charlie? I thought I’d been doing a brilliant job of pretending to be fine. How will I persuade her not to say anything? I really don’t want anyone to know. Maybe I could appeal to her softer side. She’s been through heartbreak before – there’s a chance she’ll be sympathetic. Or else she’ll want to track down Charlie and kill him as slowly and painfully as possible. I haven’t forgotten the time she got drunk at the Christmas party and described to me, in horribly graphic detail, what she planned to do to her ex-fiancé if she ever caught up with him. I still can’t look at liver pâté in quite the same way.
‘Yes, I know ALL about it. What’s it worth to you for me to keep quiet?’ She’s smiling but she definitely has an evil glint in her eye. Mind you, that could be her peripheral vision problem. She had surgery for that last year, but I’m not sure it worked. She still squints quite badly.
I try to think what would persuade her not to pass on the gossip of the decade to everyone else.
‘I’ll buy you a latte every day for a year?’
She snorts. ‘Good one, Molly.’
‘Lattes and KitKats?’
Surely that will do the trick. Penny loves her KitKats. She keeps a bag of mini ones in the fridge in the kitchenette and counts them every morning to make sure that no one has been rifling her stash.
‘No way.’ She snorts again.
Oh God, she’s not going for it. Penny is going to tell everyone that Charlie has walked out on me. I gulp for air. What will stop her from blabbing and save me from the worst mortification of my life? My mind has gone totally blank.
‘Aw, I’m just messing with you,’ she says, and then guffaws. ‘I suppose I should congratulate you really. It’s a first, that’s for sure.’
‘Congratulate me?’ I knew Penny had a warped sense of humour, but that’s cruel, even for her. How can she congratulate me because my husband left me?
‘Yeah,’ she continues, ‘I mean, getting an exclusive with Carla Ryan is pretty big for Her. Although God knows why she’s so popular when she writes such drivel – even I could do better than that! I mean, who believes in all this happy-ever-after bullshit any more?’
Carla Ryan? What’s she on about? What does Carla Ryan have to do with Charlie leaving me?
‘I spoke to Lee Merkel. She told me all about the “Day in the Life” thing – that’s quite a scoop. Hey, are you OK? You don’t look so hot.’
I exhale. Penny hasn’t been talking about Charlie; she’s been talking about my exclusive with Carla Ryan. She doesn’t know about Charlie; she hasn’t got a clue.
‘Yes, I’m fine,’ I gasp. ‘I just have a bit of a headache – maybe the jet lag is getting to me.’
I’m so relieved that Penny doesn’t know the truth that I want to cry.
‘Are you sure?’ Penny looks over her shoulder to make sure she can’t be overheard. ‘If you need a little pick-me
-up, you can have some of these.’
She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a small clear bottle full of pink pills.
‘Three of these little babies and you won’t be feeling a thing, do you know what I mean?’
I look at Penny and realize that her eyes aren’t squinty like I’d thought – they’re more glassy, as if she’s popped one pink pill too many.
‘Um, thanks, Penny,’ I mumble, ‘but I think I’m feeling better already.’
‘OK, but keep it in mind.’ She winks at me and then disappears behind her desk.
That was close. For a minute I thought Penny had cottoned on to what was happening. I really thought she knew.
Out of the corner of my eye I can see Samantha bounding up to me. Why can’t everyone just leave me alone? I’m starting to think it might be safer to hide out in the toilets.
‘Oh my God!!’ Samantha’s squealing and clapping her hands with excitement. ‘Minty just told me I’m going to be your assistant. I’m sooooo excited!’
‘Well, you won’t exactly be my assistant,’ I say weakly, trying to smile. Samantha is always so overly enthusiastic about everything. It can be exhausting.
‘Don’t be so modest, boss!’ she says, grinning. Then she stops in her tracks and cocks her head at me, like an over-excited spaniel who suspects his master might be under the weather. ‘Hey, are you OK? You look very pale.’
‘I’m fine, thanks,’ I manage to reply, even though my heart is racing and I feel like I might throw up. Thinking that Penny knew my big secret has really rattled me. This nightmare is all starting to feel far too real.
‘Are you sure?’ Samantha looks like she doesn’t believe me. ‘You don’t think you’re, you know…’ She points at her stomach. I realize she’s trying to ask me if I have morning sickness, if I’m looking pale because I’m pregnant.
‘No, definitely not,’ I say firmly. My God, that’s the last thing I want people to think.
‘Going to have some alone time first, are you, before the kiddies arrive?’ she asks. ‘I think that’s a good idea – the marriage has to be rock solid before you go introducing babies into the equation, right? That’s what Steve and I have decided too. It makes a lot of sense.’
‘Um, yeah,’ I mumble. ‘Er, I’d better get back to this, I have so much to do…’ I gesture vaguely to my screen. I have to get her away from me before she asks any more awkward questions.
‘Of course, I’m sorry. I just can’t wait for us to work together. It’ll be brilliant!’ Then she punches my arm playfully, bounds happily back to her desk and snaps her headphones back on.
If only she knew the truth. I can’t have alone time with my husband, because I don’t know where he is. He’s hightailed it out of my life before we even had a chance to discuss having children. It simply doesn’t make any sense. We just had the perfect picture-book wedding. Well, almost perfect. This cannot be happening to us. We have to sort it out.
My hand shaking, I reach into my bag to get my phone. If he won’t answer my calls, maybe he’ll respond to a text message. He wrote me a letter after all. Maybe texting would be an easier way for him to tell me what’s going on in his head and why he’s suddenly decided that I’m not the intoxicating, ravishing creature he kept telling me I was.
I root around in my bag until my fingers close on something. I recognize its shape instantly. It’s not my phone, it’s the tiny photo frame of Mum and Dad I carry everywhere with me. I pull it out and hold it in the palm of my hand. They look so deliriously happy in it. It’s obvious the shot was taken when they had no idea they were being photographed. Neither of them is looking at the camera – they’re gazing at each other, oblivious to everyone else around them, lost in their own little world. Mum’s hair is whipping messily around her face and Dad is curling a tendril of it round her ear, a look of perfect tenderness on his face. It’s such a beautiful picture, just looking at it gives me a physical dart of pain in my chest.
Charlie, please call me
I text quickly. Then I say a prayer to Mum and Dad and press Send. If they can’t help me sort out this mess, no one can.
Julie’s Blog
9.01 a.m.
Am exhausted. Spent most of last night helping Mr X unpack his stuff – it took AGES. It wasn’t that he had all that many clothes, it’s just that he wasn’t happy to throw them on the bedroom chair until I found somewhere to put them, like I usually do when I can’t cram anything else into my over-packed wardrobe. When I suggested that draping them across the back of the handily placed chair for the time being was the perfect solution to the storage problem, he laughed loudly like he thought I was joking, and said we had to do things properly and start as we mean to continue. So I ended up having to empty out half my wardrobe so he could hang up his entire collection of pinstriped suits in a neat, evenly spaced row. Secretly, I was a little annoyed about it, but I guess if we’re going to live together then I need to make space for him in my life and be as welcoming as possible, not scowl at him because my Anna Sui black lace dress had to be shoved into the airing cupboard just to make room for his Thomas Pink shirts. He seemed a bit taken aback that my flat was so small, actually. Maybe I had exaggerated its size a bit, but I never thought he’d really see it. Our entire relationship has been conducted in the office, so I thought I was safe to imply that I had a massive apartment with great views and a walk-in wardrobe.
Once we got over the clothes blip, Mr X said we needed to celebrate. I was thrilled because I thought he wanted to take me out for a slap-up meal somewhere posh and very expensive – we’d never eaten out together before, unless you count lunch in the canteen with all the UCs – but then he said that maybe we needed to wait a while until we were seen in public together. In the end we got some takeout and wine. It wasn’t exactly what I’d had in mind, but it was lovely to be able to lean across and seductively feed him some prawn sticks with my fingers. Thought it might lead to wild, steamy sex like in that movie 9½ Weeks, but Mr X was so tired that he said he had to go to bed. Was a bit disappointed about that, but I suppose jet lag mixed with emotional upheaval can be really draining. Anyway, I’m sure we won’t be able to keep our hands off each other tonight.
9.05 a.m.
Mr X just left a note on my desk.
Will we go food shopping later? We’ll have to go out of town of course, in case anyone sees us, but we can’t have takeout every night, can we??
Eh? What’s he talking about? Why can’t we have takeout every night? I mean, we can’t have Chinese takeout every night, but there’s always Thai, or Indian or even pizza. Gianni’s does a mean special.
9.14 a.m.
Crap. Just remembered I have a meeting with Mr Dick Lit at 9.30 to discuss PR strategy for his new book. Luckily I still have sixteen minutes to read the entire thing from cover to cover and prepare a comprehensive media plan.
9.24 a.m.
Then again, I could just read the blurb on the back of the jacket cover. That’ll give me the general gist, surely. There’s no point wasting time on in-depth research when a brief overview will suffice. It’s not like he’ll notice the difference. And I can’t be expected to read every book I publicize – that just wouldn’t make logistical sense. I’ll wing it and dazzle him with my brilliance.
11.30 a.m.
Meeting was excellent. Mr Dick Lit is very promotable (i.e. good looking and charming) and will be a dead-easy sell; the media will lap him up. Didn’t tell him that of course. Told him the market was tough, times were hard and it’s impossible to guarantee media coverage and sales unless he has famous contacts we can manipulate or dark personal secrets I can use as a hook. I think it worked perfectly. He’ll be so grateful when this book does even better than his last one that he’ll think I’m a genius. Only blip was when UC One burst into meeting, accidentally on purpose, then fawned all over him, saying his novel was genius and should be nominated for a Gold Dagger award. Then she actually started quoting passages verbatim. Luckily, I could tell t
hat Mr Dick Lit could see right through her fake act.
Now just have to send completely professional email to Mr X to update him on the meeting and that will be another job well done. Will not engage in flirtatious innuendo, even if I really, really want to.
11.41 a.m.
Sent Mr X an email to say that the meeting went exceptionally well and Mr Dick Lit’s new book will be ‘massive’ and may even win a prize or two if we twist the right arms. Privately feel he probably hasn’t a hope of winning anything, but there’s no harm telling a little white lie to Mr X – he’s still bitter that one of his authors was passed over at the book awards last year. Was really tempted to say that I knew something else that was ‘massive’ as well, but I didn’t succumb to the urge – am really proud of myself. I’ve been thinking about what he said and he’s right: now that we’re together properly it’s probably best if we stop the sexy banter thing we usually do via email and keep things purely professional between us in the office.
11.46 a.m.
No response from Mr X. What’s he playing at? I know he read my email at 11.42 a.m. because I secretly ticked the message-read device.
11.47 a.m.
UC One just popped by my desk to give me a homemade chocolate and orange muffin. She says she used freshly squeezed orange juice in her secret recipe – which I can have if I’d like to try it out. She’s up to something, I can tell. She guards those recipes with her life. The deluded fool still thinks she’ll be offered a six-figure sum to publish them.
11.48 a.m.
Hate to admit it, but the muffin is unusually good – tangy but not too bitter. Maybe I’ve misjudged UC One a bit. She may be deluded but apparently she can cook. Might rescue that old muffin from my drawer: it’s nearly stopped smelling of vomit now.
