by Karen Swan
‘Of course. I understand,’ Zhou nodded tersely.
She had turned down flat the company’s new cash cow and she watched in frozen silence as Sam leaned over and whispered something in Pierre’s ear, Pierre’s scowl deepening and his eyes settling on her with chilling coldness, moving over her bare shoulders and cleavage with consideration.
She stared back in rising nausea. She had not only turned down but also offended their key new client, but she would not accept his invitation. Inviting her to a party didn’t let his family off the hook for all the work she had done on their pitch – she either won or lost on merit. She didn’t inhabit the grey areas of flirting with clients, and being bought off with perks was no consolation.
Low chatter gradually started up around them again, the wives discussing their Christmas arrangements, and Allegra tried to eat. Her phone buzzed softly in her bag and she pulled it out discreetly to read it.
Stay in his house. Stay in his bed. Do what the fuck it takes to nail this deal down.
Allegra’s mouth dropped open as she read the text once, then again, her eyes slowly rising to meet Pierre’s. He was pretending to listen to something Henley was saying – at least his posture suggested it – but very slowly, he swivelled his eyes to meet hers. Disbelief trammelled through her that her boss, her mentor, would sell her out like this. He had been the one to see Crivelli’s prejudice for what it was; he had been the one to promote her through the ranks as she endured evenings sitting at dimly lit tables as girls in thongs gyrated on her colleagues’ laps beside her; he had been the one who saw that she worked harder, for longer just to be on level pegging with the boys. That he could be ordering her to do this . . . That he’d even written it down. She had a sexual discrimination claim against him all wrapped up on her lap. And yet he didn’t care. That was how badly he wanted this? He was prepared to sell her down the river and destroy a relationship that had been built over six years? Tears pricked at her eyes and she bit her lip to hold them in check.
‘Allegra looks incredible tonight, doesn’t she?’ Sam asked suddenly, making the rest of the table – women – fall silent. ‘I mean really stunning. Don’t you think, Zhou?’
Zhou looked startled by Sam’s sudden pronouncement. ‘Absolutely,’ he replied politely.
‘I guess it must be strange for you seeing her looking so . . . I don’t know, womanly, seductive. I mean, whenever you’ve met before, she’s been dressed pretty much the same as me.’
A titter rippled round the table.
Zhou’s eyes settled on her. ‘I guess so, yes.’
‘But, you see, Allegra is a very controlled person. I guess she has to be, working with animals like me and . . . this lot.’ Cue a self-deprecating laugh as he gestured vaguely to the rest of the room, where drinking games were starting in earnest and there was already a queue at the luge. ‘And I think that makes it hard for her sometimes to relinquish that control. I don’t think she meant to come across as so . . . dismissive of your generous offer. Obviously she is used to entertaining clients all the time, and I think she’s probably just not used to being the one entertained. Isn’t that right, Allegra? But I know better than most how much work she’s put into this pitch and a skiing break in Zermatt is the very least she deserves.’
Allegra’s eyes met his across the table. Bastard. Bastard! He knew exactly what he was doing.
‘And after all, even the aloof Allegra Fisher has been known to make the exception to her rule and mix business with pleasure occasionally.’
The fork dropped from her hand and clattered noisily on the plate. She couldn’t believe he’d said it. She saw the corners of the men’s mouths lift in smirks at the clear insinuation and a knot of anger tightened in her stomach. To reduce her to . . . She looked around at her dining companions. Half the faces round the table were the ones she saw more than any other in her life and yet none were her friends – none were even her allies – and it had never been more apparent than now.
Her eyes settled on Pierre, his directive still flashing on her phone, his betrayal still warm, and she realized he had never cared about her or her career. She had been useful to him only for as long as she had made him money.
She looked away, aware of all eyes on her, as she strained for dignity.
Pierre coughed lightly. ‘You know, Sam’s right, Allegra. You’ve been working very hard recently, too hard. Take a few days off and join him and Mr Yong,’ Pierre said with a casual wave of his hand as he sat back in his chair. ‘My treat.’
‘Sadly, my diary won’t allow that . . . Christmas rush.’ She shrugged.
A beat passed.
‘Allegra, I’ll personally make sure your schedule is cleared for you.’ His icy eyes made the unspoken point – do this or go.
Another beat.
‘No.’ Somewhere, it had become a battle of wills, and her words could have been sung by angels, such were the stunned expressions that greeted them. Even Zhou’s poker face slipped. ‘I have other commitments.’
‘Such as?’
She looked down at the napkin in her lap and realized her hands were wringing it. The sound of blood rushing in her ears had drowned out the background music and all she could see was one exit strategy from this.
‘Allegra?’ he pushed, his tone more forceful this time. ‘What else could you possibly have to do?’
Her eyes met his. ‘I’ll be looking for a new job, Pierre.’
One by one, like a domino course set into motion, jaws dropped open as her words hit like punches.
‘What?’
She smiled as she rose from the table. Pride was still hers. He hadn’t got the satisfaction of firing her; she hadn’t let him demean her. This was always going to have happened: she’d been on the way out anyway. She’d known it the second he’d put Sam on the team, on this table; she’d known it the very second he’d greeted her tonight. She couldn’t have stopped it, only delayed it – she realized that now with utmost clarity.
She looked across at Sam – the antagonist in all of this – but he was staring into his wine glass with sudden interest. He didn’t even look up as she pushed back her chair, although Tilly shot her an apologetic, timorous smile, seemingly feeling entitled to communicate on his behalf.
Without a word, she walked across the dance floor, her shoulders back and chin high as every set of eyes in the room settled upon her in immediate curiosity. Her imperious, undulating shadow was cast four ways on the dance floor by the revolving glitterballs and she almost wanted to laugh, Cinzia’s words coming back to her as more of a prophesy than apology: this dress really did come with its own spotlight.
Chapter Twelve
Day Thirteen: Sprig of Dried White Flowers
The intention had been to sleep till noon, but it was impossible to sleep through the almost constant buzzing of voicemails on her phone as people – Bob? Kirsty? HR? Financial journalist? – tried to get hold of her. And besides, who was she kidding? She’d never managed to sleep late, even as a student. In fact, it was on the bucket list Isobel had once drawn up for her – she would learn to sleep into double figures, along with learning the lyrics to ‘I Will Survive’, playing Candy Crush at least once and watching daytime TV.
But not today. The relaxing buzz from five and a half martinis had segued overnight into an antsy agitation and she’d woken up as usual on the dot of five, rolling from side to side in bed, her legs thrashing and her heart pounding. Even after sitting up and staring at the wall for twenty minutes, she hadn’t quite been able to believe she had actually done what she feared she’d done, until she’d found her laptop and logged on.
Password denied.
Only then did she realize it was official. She’d quit, pulled the plug on an orbiting career that was on the brink of going stratospheric, turned her back on everything she had ever wanted just as it was in her grasp, that final reach just fractionally, fatally, too far.
The phone kept flashing even though it lay silently beside her bed
now, the voicemail filled with messages she couldn’t bear to listen to – she didn’t want sympathy or pity. The shortcoming hadn’t been hers. She had simply jumped before she was pushed: Zhou’s play, Sam’s ambition, Pierre’s greed and that dress had collided spectacularly and this was merely the fallout.
She kicked the duvet onto the floor in a fit of rage. Well, she may have no job, but she was going to do very well, financially, out of this. Pierre’s text on her phone would be all she needed to force him into a very hefty settlement payout. She wasn’t the only one who’d be waking up with a bad taste in their mouth this morning. Oh no! Even the glory of landing an investor like Zhou was going to be scant compensation for the PR havoc she was going to wreak on PLF’s reputation.
She paced the small flat, repeatedly boiling the kettle but never quite remembering to fill her teacup, her mind overloaded, her concentration destroyed as she replayed over and over being cornered like a rat at that table, steely calm alternating with white-hot anger and shooting through her veins like flames. She couldn’t settle, couldn’t rest. She didn’t know what to do. Without the office to go to, her day had no shape, her life no purpose. Everything she knew and believed in had gone, pulled away from her like a dusty rug, the courage from last night’s martinis fully ebbed away so that only a bleak desolation remained.
She was screwed.
She could demand back her job. Threaten to go public with the text. If the FT ran the contents of that text on the front page, PLF’s shares would nosedive.
But . . .
But . . .
Blackmail was beneath her.
And a discrimination case would hit the deadlines. It would destroy Pierre’s reputation, but her name would be blackened too. That was how it worked. No one likes a tattletale. She’d never work in the City again.
There had to be another way . . .
She looked for the answer on the pavements, running hard in the cold frost, her lungs screaming as she raced past the muffled office workers all striding in the opposite direction to her. She ran past St Paul’s, scaring the pigeons off the steps as her feet slapped the ground, her hands held in fists, her arms pumping like pistons, fury and despair the fuels that drove her forward as last night’s faces swam in front of her eyes – Pierre’s shark-like eyes, Sam’s contempt, the smirk on Crivelli’s mouth, Tilly’s perfect make-up . . .
She was at the end of Isobel’s road before she realized where she was – her feet on autopilot and bringing her back to her sister, the only person in the world who might possibly comprehend the magnitude of her actions – that there was nothing else outside of her career, that she was nothing outside of her career.
Her hand was up, ready to knock, when the front door opened suddenly and Lloyd – on the other side of the threshold – jumped back in alarm.
‘Jee-zus, Legs! What the hell are you doing here?’ he cried, dropping his briefcase and slapping a hand across his heart, his words indistinct behind a cranberry-red cashmere scarf that he had wound round the lower part of his face like a muffler. The collar of his grey coat was turned up, his hands were gloved in sheepskin mittens, and he was wearing a peculiarly ignominious trapper hat for the brisk walk to the Tube. ‘It’s six thirty in the bloody morning.’
‘I’ve got the day off,’ she replied, panting hard, with her hands on her thighs, thinking quickly. ‘Thought I’d spend it with Iz and Ferds.’
‘You? Have a day off? Pull the other one!’ he laughed, quickly tugging off the mittens and pocketing them in his coat.
‘Yeah, I have. For, uh . . .’ She blanked. What did people do if they didn’t work? ‘For Christmas shopping, that’s it.’
‘Oh.’ Lloyd pulled a face. He supposed even she had to do that. ‘Well, they’re still asleep.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Yeah, but you know me – I never can sleep in. I’ll just make a cup of tea and wait, shall I,’ she said rhetorically, rubbing her hands and blowing little white plumes into the air. It was freezing out here, she realized for the first time.
‘You’d better get out of the cold,’ Lloyd said, frowning at her thin – albeit thermal – running layers, her ankles bare and only three-quarter-length running tights on beneath her shorts.
‘Thanks,’ she said, dipping past him into the warmth of the hall. Now he was on the step and she was inside the house. With a smile, she picked up his briefcase and handed it to him – a strange role reversal that left Lloyd even more confused.
‘Uh, right, well, see you later, then,’ he said, looking unsure whether he should peck her on the cheek too.
But she made the decision for him. ‘Yep. Have a good day,’ she said briskly, closing the door on him. She pulled off her trainers and padded quietly down the dog-leg hall into her sister’s kitchen, feeling soothed already.
Her sister’s house conformed to all the usual South London stereotypes that seemed to matter – granite surfaces, the entire range of Jo Malone scented candles, a sludgy-grey palette and the ubiquitous black-and-white family portraits on the walls – but it somehow never looked like the neighbours’ kitchens. It was never tidy, for a start – cookbooks towered perilously on buckling shelves, piles of paperwork mushroomed like fungi on the island, and the tea towels were always stained, even after a boil wash. But then, that was why Allegra loved it here. She could almost guarantee there would be a tub of hummus and an orange Le Creuset of spaghetti bolognese in the fridge, a bag of Cadbury’s giant buttons secured with an elastic band in the fruit bowl and a half-drunk bottle of cava with a spoon in the top.
It was perfect in its imperfection and the closest thing she had to a home.
Making a pot of tea – taking care to shut the kitchen door to stop the sound of the kettle boiling from travelling upstairs and waking Ferdy – she settled down on the charcoal-grey sofa in the far corner and turned on the TV, flicking straight to BBC News 24.
The first rush of anger was gone and emotional and physical exhaustion were beginning to hit. By the time Isobel descended the stairs an hour later, Ferdy on her hip and yawning, Allegra was curled up on the sofa, fast asleep, her hand still holding on to her phone.
‘There you are!’ Isobel grumbled, as Allegra pocketed her phone and pushed her way through the crowds to where her sister was standing, grim-faced, as she rummaged through a sale bin of French baby clothes. Ferdy, who was strapped to her back in one of those curious baby backpacks, was delighted by the melee around him and kept pulling other women’s hair if they got too close. ‘I want your thoughts on this.’
Isobel held up a delicate baby-blue and ivory silk sailor romper suit, complete with flapping collar – more like a mini cape – at the back.
‘No, I’m not sure you do,’ Allegra replied.
Isobel sighed dramatically. ‘Not funny. I need something for Ferdy to wear on Christmas Day.’
‘And have you met your son? Let’s just take a moment to consider the facts. He is the child who eats like a cow, having to spit up his meal at least once before finally committing to digestion.’
Isobel snorted with laughter. ‘He’s not that bad.’
‘Iz, you are blinded by love, but I am telling you now, no sailor who ever sailed the high seas could do to that costume what Ferdy will do to it. Navy. Navy is your friend. Go for something navy.’
‘But this has got seventy per cent off.’ Isobel pulled a pained expression.
‘Which should give you some indication of just how many other people knew it was a bad idea too.’ She patted her sister’s arm.
Isobel tutted. ‘I hate shopping with you. It’s like shopping with Lloyd. Everything has to be practical. What’s wrong with wanting to celebrate my beautiful boy? One day, he’ll be too big for me to dress and it’ll be dirty jeans and hoodies all the way.’ But she took one look at Allegra’s expression and let the fey sailor costume drop back into the bin.
‘Close one, buddy,’ Allegra said to her little nephew, stroking his cheek as he kicked his legs in reply.
> ‘You’re unusually acerbic today.’
‘Thank you.’
Isobel regarded her sister suspiciously. ‘Why are you really here? I usually have to get the lowdown on Kirsty’s divorce before she’ll book me in to see you.’
Allegra looked surprised. ‘Kirsty was married?’
Isobel groaned. ‘Ugh, God! How can you not know that? She’s been your PA for almost five years!’
There was a short silence. ‘Well . . . the office isn’t the place to discuss personal matters,’ Allegra mumbled finally.
Isobel just rolled her eyes and they moved away from the sale bins, wandering slowly over the packed shopping floor. Slowly was all they could manage. It was lunchtime and all the local office workers had emptied out of their buildings to try to get ahead on their Christmas shopping before the weekend began and it was fast becoming hard to move. Carols were being piped through the speakers everywhere, and at every escalator, a stall had been set up with freshly baked gingerbread and mulled wine. Isobel nimbly sidestepped a double buggy with sleeping twins inside.
‘Not for boys, Iz,’ Allegra said, taking a pair of ‘cute’ striped tights out of her sister’s hands.
‘I don’t know why you’re knocking my taste so much today,’ Isobel said, as Allegra silently pulled her away from the velvet duffel coats too. ‘You look really good in my clothes. Much better than in your own.’
‘Thanks.’ Allegra looked down at the clothes Isobel had lent her: boyfriend jeans that hung comfortably on her hips, chequered Vans skate shoes, an oversized tweed jacket and a grey marl sweatshirt with red sequinned lips on the front. Isobel had told her she looked ‘on trend’, but to Allegra’s mind, she looked like an overdrawn student and she had seen the way the security guard’s eyes had narrowed slightly on their way in.
‘Again, that was not intended as a compliment.’
A woman stampeding towards the hallowed shoe department caught Allegra’s arm with her bag, the hard corner jabbing against her, but the woman didn’t stop, apologize or turn round, and within ten seconds she’d disappeared again, swallowed up by the crowds.
