From Humble Beginnings (Joe Steel)

by Ian Harwood

  My grin was not filled with pleasure, nor the happiness of earlier, now it was with intent. Sandra saw that and without another word, fled the office.

  As soon as her flowered perfume wafted through the door a second or so after she did, I took the opportunity to take some cleansing, calming breaths.

  Everything had been on the brink of collapse at that very moment. My entire world had been on the cusp of implosion. I’d been an inch away from doing what Cass had warned me not to do.

  Fuck up.

  Suddenly sick to my stomach, I walked past Sandra’s desk and towards the door to my office. My legs are shaking, my knees knocking at the realization that I’d blackmailed Sandra into keeping quiet. I’d turned the tables on her and with her avaricious nature that was only a good thing. Everything I have would never quench her grasping nature. Or her coke habit.

  But still.

  Blackmail?

  When had I begun to stoop so low as a snake like her?

  There are times, when I just don’t recognize myself. When I look in the mirror and just fail to see Joe Steel. I see a stranger. A man in a suit that costs more than some people’s rent. A man who can threaten a woman at a moment, when anyone could have walked passed and spotted what he was doing through the transparent panes of glass separators.

  That man isn’t me, or at least, it doesn’t feel like he is.

  Where has the boy gone? The one filled with hope and foolish dreams. Who fell in love with a girl and did the decent thing, when she turned up pregnant.

  It’s alright questioning where that boy went, but I already know.

  Brook miscarried the child and I changed on the day of the funeral. The Joe of old disappeared and this Joe, the hungry one, moved into his place.

  Collapsing in my seat, I immediately slump against the desk. Resting my head on my hands, I just sit there, staring down at the wooden grain. I ignore the ringing phone, when it intrudes upon my thoughts. Since transferring Sandra and dealing with one of the spare PAs, who come in whenever they’ve got a minute, I’ve become accustomed to its bell.

  Only when the answerphone clicked on and I heard her voice did I leap out of my stupor, my hand shooting out to grab the handset.

  “Juliet? What are you ringing me for?” It’s almost a bark and the instant the words pop out, I regret them. I’m always so angry with her. So hostile. It’s like being nine years old again. Tugging at a girl’s ponytail, because I don’t understand why I like her.

  My hostility rewards me with silence. Just as I start to think that’s she’s hung up, her crisp tones sound over the miles, “I’m ringing to congratulate you, of course.”

  She hasn’t gone. My heart begins to beat those words.

  Why she of all people eats me up the way she does, I don’t know. I’m not sure if it’s a blessing or a curse. She’s only just finished her third year of university. She’s a baby in comparison to me. Cosseted, loved, protected and sheltered from the big bad world by Bernard, her dad. Nothing was too much for his little angel; for the true apple of his eye. Especially considering Bernard’s Orthodox Jewish background and the startling fact that his eldest daughter had come out five years ago.

  The roar from his office had been heard all the way down to this one on that particular day, when Bo had popped in for a visit.

  “Thank you. When did you find out?”

  “I had dinner with daddy a week ago. He told me his plans.”

  “And what? You approve? Or did you counsel him against my promotion?”

  Her sigh blasts my ear. “Why do you always do this, Joseph?” She only uses my full name, when she’s pissed off at me. And somehow, even though we’re not in close contact all that often, she tends to use my full name more than anything.

  It’s the bane of my life that I can’t talk to her like a decent human being.

  “Do what?”

  “Don’t play stupid. You know exactly what. Whenever I call you, just to talk, to ask after daddy and to make sure that he isn’t working too hard, you always do this. You start being so mean to me and I never do anything to deserve it.”

  “Why don’t you call Cass?” I ask, curiosity taking centre stage for the minute. My heart will start bleeding later on, when I’ve had a chance to go over this conversation and rage at myself for being an idiot.

  “Why do you think?”

  The majority of the company thinks Cass and Bernard are having an affair, but this was the first indication I’ve had that Juliet had an inkling something was going on between them. Surely that was the cause of her bitter tone. I’ve never heard it before and over the years; I’ve been on the receiving end of many lectures.

  Unless I’m getting the wrong end of the stick.

  Which after the morning I’ve had, wouldn’t come as a surprise.

  “I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking you,” I hedge. The last thing I want is to blurt something out that may or may not be true.

  She sighed again. “There’s no point asking her, she’ll just lie for daddy. She always does.”

  “I’m sure that’s not true.”

  “Go on; stick up for her why don’t you?”

  “Hang on a minute, Juliet. I’m not sticking up for anyone. All I know is that no one cares about your father’s health more than Cass. In this company,” I quickly amended.

  Her hum of disbelief didn’t come as a big surprise. Juliet was a perceptive woman; I know that to my own detriment. She had probably sensed the vibes passing back and forth between her father and his long-standing PA.

  “Well, whenever I ask if he’s doing too much, she says he’s just fine. And I know that’s not true. I’ve seen his last doctor’s evaluation. His cholesterol is far too high and so is his blood pressure.”

  I didn’t question the amount of snooping she’d had to undertake to find that report. Juliet with the bit between her teeth is like a hound scenting a fox. And the fox, or in this case her father, never comes out well in the struggle.

  “I’ve never known her to lie, Jules. Especially where your dad’s concerned.”

  “I think that’s the first time you’ve ever called me that,” she murmured, ignoring everything I said, save the use of her shortened name.

  “It is?” There’s no point in hedging, I know what she’s referring to and I’m still trying to figure out where it came from!

  “Yes.”

  A slight pause settles between us. Urging my chair into movement, I turn away from the wall of glass that offers no privacy from the hallway and prying eyes to face the window that overlooks the half a dozen or so leafy copses and trees that Bernard had planted, when the government bitched at him to monitor the company’s carbon footprint.

  “Has your father asked you to organize a party for me?”

  I know she thinks I’ve changed the subject. There was a huff of disappointment in her voice, as she muttered, “Look at you! One morning as Director of Overseas Development and you’ve already developed an enormous big head!”

  “No, I just know your father. Even if I told him I didn’t want one, you know what he’s like.”

  Bernard knew how to make money. Since his days in Belsen, he’d amassed a huge fortune. But in relation to the accruing of his wealth, he spent very little of it. A sizeable chunk on his daughters and their education, where money was no object. A little on himself, because projecting the image of the MD and owner of a soon to be international company was no mean feat. His only real demonstration of lavishness stemmed from the parties he liked to throw.

  When he’d made me the Director of National Management, he took me to his tailor in Savile Row and gave me some pearls of wisdom.

  “Always dress the part, Joseph,” he’d murmured as the tailor discreetly measured my inside leg. The touch of his homeland always brushed his words, but at that moment, his Polish accent had grown even thicker. “It is important. It keeps the wolves from the door. And when you are a success, you must show it. You must declare it to the world,
for only that will keep you safe.”

  In his shirtsleeves, rolled up to his elbows for comfort’s sake as he ate a crumbling Danish pastry the tailor had proffered him upon our arrival, his fingers had abandoned the cake and unknowingly rubbed the scrawled tattoo on his forearm that marked him as a Jew. Even all these years later, his experiences of the Holocaust never left him.

  I’ll never forget that day. Nor his words.

  “Well, you’re right. As usual,” she mumbles, sounding peeved. Her voice breaks me from my thoughts. “I’m tasked with arranging it. Not Cass, for once.”

  Call it instinct, or second sight, but I’d known that this party would be being arranged by Juliet. I wouldn’t put it past Bernard to do a bit of matchmaking… but, the idea that I’d be good enough for his precious Juliet, seems a little far-fetched. Although, why else would Juliet be acting as event organizer and not Cass as is usual?

  The question begged for an answer, but it was one outside of my ken.

  “Will you take pity on me and come with me?” The moment the words were out there, I both congratulated and chided myself.

  Why on earth would she want to go out with me? She had the world at her feet and my world was only just coming into shape.

  She’d just sat her finals at Oxford; with people who were of her standing, her natural peers.

  I’m too old for self-doubting, but she makes me that way.

  Makes me feel like the boy I once was, whose trousers were always a size too small, because my parents couldn’t afford to kit me out every time I grew another inch. That’s probably the reason why I always snap at her. Why I’m always angry with her.

  I’m not used to being on edge. To doubting myself and my judgment calls.

  “I’ll be the hostess. I’ll be there anyway.”

  Even though she spoke cautiously, her lack of a firm retort pisses me off. “If you don’t want to come as my guest, then just say so, Juliet!”

  “Calm down, Joe. Of course, I’ll go with you. I just didn’t want you to feel…” She hesitates. “Obligated.”

  “Obligated? Why would I feel that?”

  “I’m the boss’ daughter, Joe. Why else?”

  “I don’t need you to give me a leg up the ladder, if that’s what you’re implying, Juliet!”

  “Stop reading into my words and getting it all wrong! For God’s sake, I’ve said I’ll come with you and I will, gladly. Okay? Now, before you piss me off even more, enough to make me refuse, I’m going. I’ll call you tomorrow to confirm dates. Hopefully, you’ll be in a better mood by then!”

  Before I could say another word, she disconnects the call and leaves me speaking to air. That was when the nerves hit me; it reminds me of the first time I asked Brook out. The only woman I’ve ever really loved.

  That doesn’t exactly calm my anxiety.

  At thirty-two, I shouldn’t be willing to make a fool out of myself with the same eagerness as I had at sixteen with the girl who’d eventually become my first wife. But, she does that to me.

  Juliet, with her raven black hair that curls about her shoulders. Eyes as green as soft moss, with a slight slant to the edges that add an exoticness to her face. She’s beautiful in her own way. Not traditionally so, but to me, she’s like Salome. Entrancing.

  I just hope that she doesn’t serve my head on a platter to her father.

  As I grimace at the idea, a voice breaks into my thoughts.

  “Well, I never thought I’d see the day.”

  Quickly spinning around, I frown at the intruder. “You should have knocked, Cass.”

  A part of me is relieved that it’s her. God, if it had been anyone else, I’d have been the laughing stock of the firm.

  Another grimace has my mouth twisting at the jibes I’d have enjoyed, once the rumour mill started.

  ‘Mooning over the boss’ daughter; how very working class,’ Percy from Accounts would say with delight.

  ‘Trying to get his leg over Juliet and on the ladder to the top man’s position,’ Mark from Delivery would grunt, probably kicking himself for not thinking of it himself.

  The idea of being so badly thought of doesn’t really bother me. That they’d be slurring Juliet does.

  Christ, I’m a goner.

  “After all the girls I’ve seen mooning over you and you fall for Juliet. Of all people.” Cass shakes her head as though the idea is astounding.

  “I haven’t fallen for anyone.”

  “Bull. That’s a lie and you know it.”

  “Why would I lie?”

  “Because you don’t want me to tell Bernard.”

  “She’s coming as my date to the party celebrating my promotion.”

  Cass cocks a brow at that and steps closer to my desk. As she nears, she warns, “Don’t do anything foolish, Joe. Where she’s concerned, you have to be careful. Bernard doesn’t react normally when his precious Juliet comes on to the scene.”

  “Don’t start, Cass. I don’t need it. I’m just being polite. She’s the hostess and I’m the reason the party’s being thrown. Don’t make more out of it than there really is.”

  And if she believes that, then she’ll believe anything.

  Perhaps she sees my hesitancy to talk about Juliet, because she shakes her head and places a thick wad of paper on my desk. “Here’s your contract. Get a lawyer to look over it.”

  “For God’s sake, Cass, I trust Bernard.”

  “Of course, you do. But still, understand what’s being asked of you.” She takes a step back, her eyes on me as she deliberates over her next words. “I won’t say any more about Juliet. Just watch yourself, okay? I’d hate for you to come so high only to fall.”

  She spins around and strides out and as I watch her go, my eyes following her as she enters the hallway and returns to her desk, I admit, to myself at least, that I’ve already stumbled.

  How deep the fall is I’ve yet to ascertain.

  I just hope this isn’t the beginning of the end.

  Chapter Two

  Christ, I hate parties. Always have and always will. No matter how many I attend and be they in my honour or somebody else’s, I hate them.

  Bernard, the devious old bastard, has managed to turn this into a PR event. I’d expected a small office party, one that took place in the boardroom and consisted of the upper echelons of management drinking champagne and devouring over-priced canapés. All of this as Juliet wafted around, fussing over her father, while making sure that everyone had enough thousand-pound-an-ounce caviar on perfectly formed blinis.

  Instead, I’ve been driven out of London, forced into the grounds of Bernard’s country pile and been thrown to the lions.

  The Press.

  Shuddering at the idea of the tortures I’ve had to suffer tonight, I allow my eyes to wander over the event that Bernard wants to hit the early pages of many a paper and magazine.

  The party is a thousand-strong and even though I’m bored out of my mind, Juliet has done a fabulous job. Poisonous Poppy, Bernard’s PR guru, is on hand so Jules did have some help, but still, there’s a gentility to the bash that isn’t Poppy’s style.

  Bernard’s country digs consist of a Grade One, Georgian Manor House. It wouldn’t suit graffiti being sprayed all over the Palladian façade; as Poppy had done for the last catwalk showing of Modiste’s latest collection. Not that that wouldn’t have stopped her from doing something outrageous to the two hundred year old house!

  Jule’s breeding bleeds through every inch of this party. From the dinner-suited men -the majority in bow ties- to the women dressed in gowns and jewels that wouldn’t look out of place at an award ceremony; it just screams class.

  The gently rolling hills of grass that are Bernard’s front garden have been overtaken with tables and chairs, a catwalk, huge bouquets of flowers and a thousand or so men, women and staff- the latter all dressed in Modiste’s latest gear.

  Modiste is the haute couture line of Bernard’s tailoring conglomerate. He’d recently urged Julian
Alexander on to the payroll and the fashion world had been abuzz at such a signing.

  Alexander’s extensive background and experience at other fashion houses is evident in the clean sharp lines of exquisite tailoring that bleeds into both his For Him and For Her collections. Expensive high quality fabric cut into shapes that screamed money were his forte.

  Years of working my way through the different departments of Bernard’s company has given me quite the eye. Contracting Alexander for the next two years had been a bloody brilliant idea.

  My own, of course.

  I think that decision is why Bernard finally promoted me. Alexander has already radicalized the haute couture line and profits have shot through the roof. Because of it, for being a good boy, I have to endure this party.

  God, I hate parties.

  I’ve already asked one of the guests to top up my champagne glass and received a haughty look for my troubles! Is it my fault that all the staff and guests look alike? No. I’ll bet it was Poppy’s idea. Anything to push for publicity and she was there.

  Poppy, officially known as my arch-nemesis, is a media-hungry whore and general pain in the arse.

  But, she’s good at what she does and Bernard only hires the best.

  Because everything she touches turns into publicity gold, the management have to turn a blind eye to the fact she’s about an inch away from being an alcoholic. Nearly every party she oversees ends with her sloshing about, wobbling and falling over the place. She does like to indulge in the free drinks, does poisonous, PR Poppy.

  The catwalk show, I’ll admit, went down a storm. The Press and Moda TV filmed and snapped up tons of images; I don’t doubt that the occasion will have a heavy presence in the social and business sections of the papers and its own slot on the fashion-dedicated channel. It’s all for the good, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t been ducking and diving, trying to avoid the cameras. Publicity isn’t my thing and I’ll never be comfortable with it.

  As much as this party is to celebrate my promotion, I’ve been allowed to fade into the background. And I’m not disappointed by that.