by Jane Fallon
"I just wondered whether you'd had any luck, you know, if you'd heard about any jobs?"
"I have," said Laura, handing over a Post-it with a name and number written on it in black ink. Martin Ross from EyeStorm. They were big.
"It's only secretarial, though, I'm afraid. I keep trying to tell people you're totally up to it, but they all want experience. Sorry."
"Thanks for trying." Helen backed out the door. "I'll ring him," she said, having no intention of doing so.
* * *
The day crawled along. Helen had decided that if Sonny ever rang, she would say yes. She'd do the job as Eleanor Whatever Her Name Was to him and Helen Williamson to her contacts, and she'd somehow find a way to smooth out the lines between the two, so that by the time it was done she'd have the experience she needed to get a proper job. The proper job she should have tried to get years ago. She stared at her mobile, willing it to ring.
At five o'clock, the dull and pointless office ritual of Friday afternoon drinks began. The routine was that a couple of bottles of champagne were cracked open, whichever of the directors were around came and hung around the general office, and people necked down a quick glass and went home. It was meant to be a bonding thing. Usually, two or three of the sadder employees stayed on, drinking the dregs out of everyone else's glasses and raiding the fridge for beer before going on to a local pub for the evening, so that they had hilarious stories of their wild and exciting lives to relate to the office on Monday morning (I was sick in someone's glass!, I shagged some bloke in a taxi!, I danced on the table in the Nelly Dean!). Tonight, thankfully, Matthew was out at a launch, but Alan Forsyth, a partner with a well-deserved reputation for being a bit of a sleaze, was on socializing duty with Laura. The others started to drift in, Annie and Amelia among them. Helen stayed at her desk, head down, willing Laura to tell her she could leave early.
"Not having a drink, Helen?" Alan was shouting over. "Scared you won't be able to resist me if you have a couple?" The coven cackled.
"Pack it in, Alan," Laura was saying, but Alan could never pass up the chance to show off in front of an audience. Especially an audience of women.
"Not too young for you, am I?" He was finding himself so amusing his face had gone bright red and Helen thought he resembled an aubergine. An overweight, sweaty, unpalatable aubergine. She willed him to have a heart attack, or a stroke, at least. Nothing fatal, just something that might put him into hospital for a few weeks.
"I mean, I'm only, what, fifteen years older than you."
OK, something fatal.
He was never going to give up, at least not while he was making the crowd laugh.
"I do have a wife and child, though. Not that that would put you off."
Helen thought about getting out her big gun. The one that would flatten Alan with one shot. The one that would let him know that the whole office was aware of his sordid e-mail sex sessions with a woman called Felicia who was definitely not his wife. They'd spent many an afternoon when Alan was away from the office reading those e-mails aloud to each other. Somewhere along the line, Alan seemed to have forgotten that the contents of his in-box all went to his assistant, Jamie, as well as to his personal pc—Jamie, by the way, had been hired when Alan's female P.A., Kristin, had complained that he had made inappropriate comments to her at the office Christmas party, and then a few drinks later had tried to feel her up in the corridor. Of course, there had been no repercussions for Alan, except that his P.A. was let go and then a few weeks later Jamie was promoted from a runner in her place. Jamie, who was good mates with Kristin and had spent many hours listening to her complain about Alan's wandering hands, had absolutely no loyalty to his boss whatsoever and never quite got around to reminding him that his exchanges weren't, strictly speaking, confidential.
Occasionally, when one of the P.A.s had had a glass too many at Friday night drinks, they would throw in a quote or two—something along the lines of "big hard cocks" or "throbbing members" (Alan was not blessed with great originality or artistry)—and Jamie would hold his breath, hoping that his boss didn't rumble what was going on, but he never did. In his supreme arrogance, he believed he was untouchable. Helen knew, though, that a direct attack would give the game away and Jamie would probably end up losing his job, while Alan would most likely get back-slaps of congratulations from the other directors.
She took a deep breath and stood up and reached for her coat on the back of her chair.
"You know what, Alan, you're right. I do want to sleep with you. I'm not sure if it's your impeccable reputation, your astonishing talent, or your sparkling wit, but I find you utterly irresistible."
"Ooh, I've touched a nerve," Alan was saying, but his laugh sounded a bit less sure of itself.
"Fuck you."
Ignoring the collective ooh of the other women, Helen stomped off toward the door. Then, with horror, she realized, just as she'd thought she'd safely made it into Reception, that she'd forgotten her bag. For a split second, she thought about leaving it, but it contained her whole life. Keys, money, mobile. Scarlet, she had to turn back and make her way through the office again, all eyes on her. She kept her head up, trying to make it look as if this double exit had been part of the plan all along.
"How dare you take the piss out of me? Don't expect a fucking reference," Alan was spitting in her direction. Annie, Amelia, and Jenny were purple with laughter. Helen kept her head down.
"Oh, for fuck's sake, Alan, grow up," she could hear Laura saying. "Why would she want a reference off you? She works for me." She raised her voice so that she knew Helen would hear. "And I intend to give her a very good one, too."
As Helen reached the downstairs lobby of the building, still waiting for her color to go down, her mobile rang. It was a number she didn't recognize. She took a deep breath before answering.
"Hello."
"Hi, is that Eleanor?"
Bingo. She felt a little light-headed when she realized who it was, and she had to force her voice to sound calm and competent.
"It is."
"We met earlier, in Soho Square…"
"Yes! Hi."
"Yeah, erm…I was thinking, Sophie's right, and if you think you might have time to help me out, then I was wondering whether we could meet up and talk about it."
Helen tried to sound professional.
"Definitely. I'd love to. Name your time."
"Well," said Sonny, "how about now? I'm at the restaurant, if you want to come over and see what you'll be plugging."
Helen retraced her steps back toward the stairs and went into the ladies'. I'll just check I look presentable, she thought, but then found herself completely redoing her makeup. It's important that I look good, she said half aloud as she combed her hair through, PR is all about image. But she knew she was kidding herself and she wanted Sonny to think she was attractive.
There was nothing else for it. She wanted, no, she needed this job, but there was something else going on and it was making her feel…uneasy. She had to call Sophie and find out exactly what the story was with Sonny before she put herself in a situation where she might end up doing something she'd regret. She dialed. Answerphone.
Oh, fuck it, she thought, I'm an adult, I make my own choices, and I am absolutely not going to do anything wrong. I just need some work.
* * *
Sonny's restaurant was in the last stages of frantic renovation work. Helen let herself in, clambered over the rubble, and tried not to trip over the wiring. There was clearly no electricity at the moment, and the small space was lit by a few battery-powered lamps dotted about the place. Despite the bitter cold outside, the warmth from a Calor gas fire gave it a cozy feel. Two men were working away, heads down, and through the layer of dust she just about recognized one of them as Sonny. He was working intently, plastering a wall. In his old T-shirt and paint-spattered jeans, he looked like the epitome of a Diet Coke man. Helen could imagine whole offices full of secretaries putting down their dictation pads and taking off thei
r reading glasses to gather and stare at him through the window. She stood for a moment, not quite knowing what to do, then realized she was staring at him herself. The other man looked up.
"Can I help you?" he asked "Oh…yes…I'm…erm…I'm Eleanor." She felt bizarrely nervous. Maybe it's because I'm an utter fraud, she thought, wondering if she should just back out the door she had come through and leg it. But Sonny had looked around at the sound of her voice and was coming over, hand outstretched, smiling.
"Eleanor. Thanks so much for coming over." He took her hand and shook it firmly. "So…this is it, what do you think?"
"It's…er…"
"It's a complete fucking state is what it is," he said, laughing. "But it will get finished on time if it kills me. Come through to the back and I'll show you the plans."
An hour later, Sonny had convinced Helen that the restaurant was bound for great things and Helen had convinced Sonny that she had fantastic and original ideas for promoting it. She'd actually gotten so carried away with her plans for features (she knew, she just knew that Lesley David from the Mail on Sunday would go for a piece on Catalan specialties because she owed her one) and promotions and a glittering launch night, that she'd forgotten about her adolescent crush on Sonny. She'd invite all of Global's celebrity clients that she had gotten to know over the years to the launch. She knew the D-listers would attend any event where they stood a chance of getting in the papers, and she knew the photographers would attend any event which promised a cocktail of D-listers and free alcohol. She was just congratulating herself on how well she was handling the situation when Sonny did two things which threw her right off balance again.
He asked her out to dinner.
He asked her what her surname was.
And to deflect attention from the second, she found herself agreeing to the first.
* * *
She called Matthew from the restaurant's candlelit toilet. For some reason, she found herself lying to him and telling him she was meeting Rachel.
"Sophie won't…you know…mind, us going out to dinner?" she said to Sonny when she came back out, putting her phone away.
Sonny looked confused. "Sophie? Why?"
"Well, I just thought maybe you and her…" She stopped when she saw that Sonny had started to laugh.
"Me and Sophie? God no. God…no."
"Oh."
Sonny was still helpless.
"I mean…I love her and everything, but really…no. Don't worry."
"OK." Helen was starting to feel embarrassed. By asking him that question, she'd given away that she was interested, but she couldn't allow herself to be interested, not till she'd sorted the Matthew situation out. Try as she might, though, she couldn't bury the feeling that she was pleased that he wasn't Sophie's boyfriend.
Sonny had gotten a grip. "Sorry," he was saying, "I'm not laughing at you. It's just, it's impossible to imagine me and Sophie…I mean, she's lovely, but it just couldn't happen…God, no…"
Helen interrupted him, laughing. "OK, I believe you. Let's go, shall we?"
The evening was perfect. Well, it would have been perfect if it hadn't been for Matthew and Sophie and the fact that she wasn't really Eleanor or a real PR person. Sonny was attentive and funny. He wasn't sixty, he didn't have a family, he was uncomplicated. Helen knew she must be coming across as uptight, what with all the lies she was having to tell and the history she was making up for Eleanor, but he was acting like he was enjoying her company anyway. A few glasses of wine in and she was sailing dangerously close to the wind, getting her Helens and Eleanors mixed up and contradicting herself all over the place, but he didn't seem to notice. Everything amused him and he made her feel as if she were the most entertaining, witty person he'd ever met. For Helen, it was the ego boost to end all ego boosts. She just had to keep reminding herself that that was all it was.
At nine thirty, while they were waiting for their coffees to arrive, Sonny suddenly put his hand over hers. Helen froze. She was feeling distinctly fuzzy from all the Pinot Grigio. She looked at him, and he was looking right back at her.
Say something, she told herself.
Sonny cleared his throat. "Eleanor…"
"No." She withdrew her hand. "Sorry, I can't do this."
"OK." He was looking hurt and a little bit pissed off.
"It's just, I have a boyfriend but, well, I didn't mention it before because…it's a bit of a complex situation."
"I see."
"No, you don't. I think it's over, I just haven't told him yet. God, no, that sounds awful. I'm trying to find a way to end it that'll give him the least possible pain, and that's just taking longer than I thought."
"Eleanor, it's no big deal. I like you, but we've only just met, so it's not like I'm going to be heartbroken if you knock me back. Well, just a bit."
He was smiling at her now; that was a good sign.
"It's probably for the best, anyway, seeing as we're going to be working together for the next few weeks. And then, once we're not working together, if it turns out you no longer have a boyfriend, then, who knows, I might try again, if you're very, very lucky. And, of course, if I haven't met someone better in the meantime."
"No chance." She laughed. It was fine, it had been a moment, but it was all over and they could still work together. They managed to make jokey conversation over their coffee and they made each other laugh, but something had gone out of the evening and they were both aware of it. A slight formality had crept back in and Helen noticed they were both furiously avoiding eye contact. At one point his hand brushed hers when they both went to pick up the bill, and they jumped apart as if they'd been stung.
But when they said good-night, he kissed her on the cheek and stayed there for just a fraction of a second too long. Before either of them really knew what was happening—and, thinking about it afterward, Helen really couldn't say who'd instigated it—they had maneuvered themselves around and it had become a full-blown snog. No, not a snog, she thought, that was too adolescent, too drunken and reminiscent of girls' nights and Ibiza and having to ask their name in the morning. This was a kiss, grown-up and loaded with meaning and things that they wanted to say but couldn't. This time, though, he pulled away, embarrassed and apologetic.
"I'm really sorry, I don't know what I was thinking of."
"It's OK," Helen said, still reeling. "It was…nice."
But Sonny wasn't having it. "No, no, I just promised to leave you alone till you're ready, and then I do this. I never move in on other people's girlfriends. I mean, really, never."
"I'm the one with the boyfriend," Helen said. "I'm the one who should be apologizing."
"We won't do it again." Sonny was moving backward, creating a physical barrier between them.
"Definitely not," Helen agreed.
"Well, hopefully someday. Just not now."
"Exactly."
Neither of them quite knew how to end the conversation and move on, and they stood awkwardly for a few moments, their breath white in the cold air, hands rammed into their pockets to stop them making a grab for one another, like two hormonal teenagers. Then Sonny pecked her on the cheek again—this time as if he were saying good-bye to his grandmother.
"Night, then," he said.
"Night," said Helen, stepping out into the road to flag down a taxi. She waved at him as it moved off, feeling guilty about Matthew already. But she knew that the possibility was still there that something might happen in the future, and she couldn't help smiling.
* * *
Matthew, she thought when she got back home and found him on the sofa in his Calvin Klein pajamas, eager to hear how her night had been, is an old man. It wasn't his fault, and it shouldn't necessarily have been a problem—plenty of people had very successful and happy relationships where there was a massive age gap—but somehow it had become one. When she was fifty, he would be seventy. Was that what she wanted? To spend the rest of her life with a man who was drawing his pension?
If I reall
y loved Matthew, I wouldn't be thinking like this, she thought. If I really loved him, I would've told Sonny that there was no chance, that I was in a happy relationship and that I couldn't work for him after what had just happened. She had said to Sonny that it was over, that she was just waiting for the right time to tell him. And, looking at Matthew now, she was forced to acknowledge the thoughts that had been bubbling around in her head ever since he'd moved in, and which she had been trying not to allow to surface—that she didn't truly love him. At least not enough.
She just had to decide what to do about it.
18
ON SATURDAY MORNING, Matthew and Helen picked out a large, green-eyed tabby from the local animal shelter. They'd gone for a kitten, but there were none to be had, and anyway, he'd almost begged them to choose him, rubbing up against the side of his cage when they walked by and rolling over, purring, when they stopped to look. They named him Norman. Helen knew that Matthew was interpreting this act of domesticity as some kind of nesting instinct on her part. She didn't like to tell him that Norman was bait.
She had slept badly, waking often and veering between feelings of elation and guilt. Before the kiss good-night and all the complications that it had given rise to, Sonny had pressed one of his cards into her hand so that she could call him after the weekend and tell him how her plans for the campaign were going. It was hidden, now, in the back pocket of her jeans, and Helen felt alternately thrilled and dismayed knowing it was there. She knew she should tell Matthew about the restaurant and her potential break, but she couldn't work her way through the tissue of lies she'd need to get there. They were pretty much avoiding the subject of work now, anyway, since Helen had asked Matthew whether he could put in a good word for her anywhere.
