by Susan Lewis
After settling herself in the driver’s seat she turned on the engine, belted up and was about to pull away when she heard a text drop into her inbox. Deciding she ought to read it in case someone from the agency was trying to inform her of a change of plan, she put the car back in neutral and fished the phone from her bag.
It was from Lauren. Thinking of you. You’ll be brilliant. Don’t forget to ask about holidays! Remember, we’re going to India! Love you xxx
Smiling to herself, Emma sent a quick love you back, and deciding now wasn’t the time to fuss herself about India, or Berry’s exhibition, or Lauren’s performance exam, she put the car back into first and pulled away. It would be awful if she did have to miss Lauren’s big night, she was thinking as she drove to the end of the street. She’d absolutely hate it, especially when she knew how much it meant to Lauren to have her there. Of course Will would turn up, was there a father alive more convinced that his daughter was going to be even bigger than Norah Jones, or Alicia Keys, or more boastful of the fact? He’d no doubt bring Jemima and their little brood – what a treat it would be for Emma to see them! Berry would certainly make it, so would Phyllis. Harry and Jane would definitely be there, along with all Lauren’s friends and probably most of the teachers. Emma was already experiencing tremors of excitement and nerves on Lauren’s behalf, and ready to burst with pride at the mere thought of her standing up in front of all those people not only to play her flute and guitar solos, but then to provide accompaniment on the piano for Donna while she made her violin sing, and for Emily Brooking who was so gifted on the clarinet that the London Philharmonic had already approached her. Come what may, Emma had to get herself to London that night, it simply wasn’t an option not to be there, and for all she knew there wouldn’t be a problem, so she couldn’t think why she was getting herself all worked up about it now when she ought to be channelling her entire focus on the personal statement she’d had to submit with her CV.
How excruciating that had been, and remained so, never having had to sing her own praises before. Though she’d read her self-glorification through several times that morning, still cringing in spite of the congratulations she’d received for it from Helen at the agency, for some reason she was totally blanking on it now. Why was she any good? What the heck did she have to offer that would set her apart from everyone else? And whatever great ideas for events, both corporate and private, that she’d managed to come up with this past week had apparently vaporised, along with the reasons why her own business folding wouldn’t, shouldn’t, impact on the magnificence she had to bring to the Avon Valley Manor Hotel.
It would all come back, she assured herself, as she wove a little too fast through the country lanes. Once she was sitting opposite the three managers who were apparently interviewing her – HR, Catering and General – she would start to sparkle and impress in exactly the captivating manner Berry had assured her she’d have no problem conjuring at will. She better had, because everything, everything depended on her getting this job, or that was certainly how it felt, so she wasn’t even going to allow herself to consider the fact that she might not.
However, if she wasn’t successful, it would only be because she was destined for greater things, and though she couldn’t begin to imagine what greater job there might be than this one, she would try to hang on to that cheery little nugget in order to help herself over the crushing, bruising disappointment when it came – if it did.
And it might not.
‘I believe they have selected twenty people for interview out of over two hundred applicants,’ Helen had told her – and Emma really wished she hadn’t.
She was up against nineteen other people, all of whom would no doubt have full-on, flashy degrees from hotel schools, top universities or catering colleges, plus years of experience under their belts, references from such prestigious establishments as the Ritz, or the Dorchester, and they probably weren’t yet thirty.
Why was she going, again?
Because they had been sufficiently impressed with her application to want to see her.
With so much chaos going round and round in her mind she almost missed a red light and had to pull up so fast that she went into a mini-skid.
No harm done. She could cope with the moron behind who was beeping her, and the bloke crossing the road giving her the evil eye. They were not in her sphere and in less than two minutes they would disappear for ever.
Her mobile was ringing. She could see it was Berry, probably to wish her luck, but dared not answer it, because the lights were turning green and the last thing she needed was to find herself being pulled over by the police.
She had to think about something else. Maybe she should put the radio on, listen to some music, or the news. There might be more about the golden angels. Did she care? Not right now.
Forty minutes later, after an uncomfortable spell in the hotel’s plush reception watching two rival candidates (both under thirty) go in ahead of her and come out looking taller and smug, it was her turn to be called into the River Room. It proved to be a rather typical conference suite with an enormous TV on one wall, a long oval table down the centre with a dozen chairs in haphazard arrangement around it and large, sliding glass doors that in better weather would open on to a stately veranda and the (currently winter-torn) gardens beyond. The people sitting at one end of the table were something of a surprise, not for the way they looked, but for how warmly they greeted her. Hamish Gallagher, the general manager, even poured her a coffee himself, which she didn’t drink for fear of spilling it, or burning her mouth and dribbling.
Later, she couldn’t be sure of how long the interview went on for, but it certainly felt longer than the time allotted to the two applicants who’d gone in ahead of her, and because it seemed to be going so well, and she’d felt she was being erudite and attentive in equal measure, she even ventured the odd lame joke or two. To her amazement they all laughed, and when she got round to explaining how the economic downturn and a poor choice of husband had done for her business they appeared far more sympathetic than shocked or judgemental.
‘All in all,’ she said to Polly when she stopped off at her friend’s house on her way home to report back, ‘I’m not sure it could have gone better, but that’s me. God only knows what they think.’
‘I bet you blew them away,’ Polly declared supportively. ‘And that suit really works, by the way. I’m glad you chose it, because red’s a great colour on you. It’s a bold, confident statement, which is what they’d want from someone who’s going to organise their five-star events. Plus, you’ve got an air about you that would convince anyone to trust you.’
‘You make me sound so exciting,’ Emma grimaced. ‘Anyway, the general manager came across as the kind of man it would be great to work for, which is extremely encouraging when I’m used to being my own boss ... Where are all the kids, by the way?’
‘I’ve only got five today and they’re either asleep or upstairs in the playroom with Jilly. We’re moving back into the church hall a week from Monday, isn’t that fantastic? Alistair’s already paid the outstanding rent, but the vicar’s got some other stuff going on there next week, otherwise we’d be in there sooner. Anyway, back to the job, when are they going to let you know?’
Weakened by a bolt of nerves, Emma said, ‘Apparently they’re hoping to make a decision by the end of next week, so should be in touch soon after that.’
‘Oh God,’ Polly murmured, seeming to catch the nerves. ‘Not long, which is brilliant, but I still don’t envy you the wait. Do they still want you to start at the beginning of March?’
‘I imagine so. I hope so, because then I won’t have to worry about being able to make Berry’s show and Lauren’s recital. On the other hand, if they want me earlier, I’m hardly in a position to say no.’
‘One step at a time,’ Polly counselled as she went to answer the phone. ‘Help yourself to more tea,’ and into the receiver, ‘Hello, Polly’s Playtime. Yes, this is Polly. Oh,
hi, that’s right I’ve been expecting your call.’
After refilling her cup and helping herself to a biscuit, starving now after missing lunch, Emma wandered over to the cluttered bay window that looked across to the quaint old Norman church, a row of miners’ cottages made all trendy and desirable in recent years, and the village shop with its Lottery thumb outside on the forecourt and four parking spaces vital to its trade. It was a pity about the busy road running straight through the heart of the community, since it was bordered by two thick yellow lines either side, allowing no one to stop even for a minute, and had turned the coming and going from driveways into a very risky business. Now all the houses were double-glazed, mostly gardenless at the front thanks to the need for hard standings, and people generally felt less involved in their surroundings than they had over the past two centuries when there had been no road at all. Still, there was almost always a good atmosphere at the pub, which had an enormous car park at the back, and the various fetes, sales and children’s clubs at the church hall did a lot towards bringing everyone together too.
Noticing a Sainsbury’s delivery van pulling into the drive of Orchard House, next to the shop, Emma said, as Polly rang off, ‘Did you hear on the news that they’ve found out who’s behind the golden angels?’
‘Oh yes, that’s right,’ Polly replied, going to top up her own tea. ‘It’s that bloke who used to read the news, ages ago, Russell Lomax. Do you remember him?’
Emma frowned. ‘Sort of,’ she said, unable to put a face to the name. ‘I didn’t quite get what his wife was saying about him using it for publicity though, when he seems to have gone out of his way not to be identified.’
‘That means you probably haven’t heard the latest. Their son was on Radio Bristol about an hour ago explaining that there had been a misunderstanding and that actually, his grandmother had dreamt up the scheme before she died, so she was the one who should be taking all the credit.’
Emma pulled a face.
Polly laughed and threw out her hands. ‘I’m just telling you what he said. But that’s not all. They had a friend of the wife’s on after, Fiona something-or-other, saying that Mrs Lomax hasn’t been well lately and that the press would do her a great kindness if they just left her alone.’
Emma’s eyebrows rose. ‘Come to think of it, she did sound a bit strange during the little I heard,’ she commented.
‘For strange, read drunk. Apparently she’s got a real problem, but they’re trying to keep it hush-hush.’
‘So is this the end of the angels as we know them?’
‘I don’t think so. The son said something about it continuing but “the family are not willing to give interviews about it and nor are they looking to be thanked”.’
Emma was surprised. ‘Well, I suppose that’s their right, though I can’t see how they’re going to stop people thanking them now they know, can you?’
‘Not off the top of my head, but I guess that’s their problem. Mine is the meeting I’ve just been summoned to next Wednesday with Alistair’s business manager to go over the terms and conditions of our new contract.’
Emma’s face broke into a smile. ‘It’s fantastic that this is going ahead, but do you think you’re going to need a lawyer to advise you?’
‘I suppose it wouldn’t be a bad idea. Or will it look as though I don’t trust them?’
Emma pondered. ‘Why don’t you ask your father-in-law what he thinks?’
‘Good idea. I’m going down there on Sunday, so I can talk it over with him then. Now, what are your plans for the weekend? I know Lauren’s coming, but she’ll be out with the girls on Saturday night so I was wondering if you’d like to join me and my team for a quiz night over in Wrington.’
Emma gave a laugh. ‘Can I think about it?’ she asked. ‘It’s just that I’d like to spend some time writing up your interview – which I still haven’t got round to yet – and researching other possibilities for my series of articles just in case I do run with it, and I probably ought, because I’ll need something to feel positive about if this job doesn’t work out.’
Smiling, Polly said, ‘It will, I’m sure of it, but it’s up to you. You know you’re welcome if you do decide to come.’
Hearing the sound of wailing from upstairs, Emma said, ‘I’ll leave you to it, but we’ll talk later, yes?’
‘Absolutely. I’m taking Melissa over to the mall this evening, but we should be back around eight. Are you going to be OK backing out on to the road?’
‘Don’t worry, I reversed in, so I should be fine.’
A few minutes later Emma was in the car, realising she could be going nowhere fast. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ she murmured crossly as she turned the key again. ‘I thought they’d fixed the problem.’
She tried again and to her relief the engine started straight away, so as soon as the traffic cleared she eased down on the accelerator and was about to pull out when her foot slipped off the clutch and the engine stalled. An instant later an Audi came round the bend at such a speed that the collision would have knocked them both straight into the next world if she had managed to get into the road.
So much for a thirty-mile-an-hour limit.
Feeling slightly dizzied by the narrow escape, while thanking whoever was up there for kicking her foot off the pedal, she gave herself a few seconds before attempting to pull out again. If whoever had been driving that car managed to get home in one piece, she was thinking, or without hurting anyone else on the way, then there truly would be some miracles at work today.
And if there were, please could one of them be a message on her answerphone when she got in, letting her know that Hamish Gallagher and his team had been so blown away by her that they’d come to a decision already that they’d like her to start on March 1st.
Russ was staring at a very depressing email from his most prolific producer-cum-partner, Paul Granger, who’d apparently, in the space of fifteen minutes, received rejections for all three of the projects he and Russ had recently submitted to various broadcasters. It’s lucky we managed to get the green light for Living Houses, Granger had gone on to say, or yours truly would be staring into the abyss right now.
Since he knew Granger was in meetings all morning, Russ emailed him apologising for not responding yesterday, which was when Granger had forwarded the rejections, and suggesting they get together at some point over the weekend to discuss the merit of appealing at least one of the decisions.
Knowing they were fortunate not to have run into even more brick walls than this during these times of austerity, Russ reached for his mobile as it started to ring and seeing the coded name for Fiona come up, he immediately clicked on.
‘Hi,’ he said, ‘where are you?’
‘Halfway to London. Are you OK to talk?’
‘For now. I’m at the office. The others are out, but I’m expecting them back any minute. You got my message?’
‘I did. And you got mine? I tried calling you all evening ...’
‘Sorry, I was with Sylvie until late,’ (and what a ball that had been). ‘So what the hell happened?’ he demanded. ‘You’re the last person I expected to turn up on the news.’
‘Russ, I’m sorry, I really am. They called my office out of the blue ... I didn’t even know Sylvie had been interviewed until they told me, and I was between meetings, rushed off my feet, so ended up saying the first thing that came into my head.’
Russ’s expression was grim as he said, ‘Have you managed to get hold of her this morning? I know she wouldn’t take your calls last night.’
‘She still won’t. I guess she’s pretty mad with me.’
‘You could say that, but there again, she’s mad with the world.’ There was no point going into Sylvie’s drunken rant about her friend’s disloyalty last night, much less her vows of revenge, since it had made about as much sense as the diatribe of tearful self-pity and pleas for understanding that had followed.
‘Exactly what did she hope to get out of doin
g it?’ Fiona asked.
With a humourless laugh he said, ‘I imagine it was intended to discredit me in some way, or pay me back, or to get some attention ... Who knows what goes through her mind? It’s got so that there’s almost no fathoming her at all these days. Or certainly not when she’s been on the bottle.’
‘So her little spell on the wagon didn’t last?’
‘If it ever really existed, which I strongly doubt.’ Glancing up at the sound of a car arriving, he said, ‘We need to talk some more. When are you back this way?’
‘I’m aiming for late tonight, but that depends on how today goes. Is tomorrow night any good?’
‘Your place? Around nine?’
‘Sounds good to me. Come earlier if you can, I’ve been missing you.’
After promising to try, he ended the call just as Graham and Angie came into the office, but before he could even start to ask how their meeting with a new producer had gone his mobile rang again.
This time it was Sylvie.
Tempted to let it go to voicemail, he decided he probably ought to find out how she’d fared through the night, considering the state he’d left her in, so clicking on he said a curt hello while giving a nod to the others as he turned his back.
‘Russ, it is me,’ she said croakily. ‘I want to tell you that I am very sorry for what I did. It was not a good thing and I feel very foolish now. I hope you will forgive me.’
Having no intention of letting rip in front of an audience, all he could say, very stiffly, was, ‘Of course.’
‘Thank you, thank you. I told myself you would, but I was afraid you might still be angry.’
‘Where are you?’ he asked shortly.
‘I am at a coffee bar waiting for Oliver. He says he would like to treat me.’
‘Did he come back to yours last night?’
‘No, he stayed with Alfie, which is a good thing, because you know, it upsets him very much when we argue.’
Wondering if she had any recollection of Oliver being there before he’d stormed out in disgust, he said, ‘It’s difficult for me to talk at the moment. Let me call you later.’
