by Jessica Hart
As it was, they had the money—an extraordinarily generous budget under the circumstances. They had Ted as an award-winning producer, and a camera and sound crew lined up. They had the locations chosen and deals set up with airlines and hotels. They had Stella Holt to add the celebrity glamour that would pull in the viewers.
All they needed was Simon Valentine.
As Roland also kept reminding Clara.
‘You’re the production assistant,’ he told her. ‘I don’t care what you do, but get him on board or this whole thing is going to fall apart, and it won’t just be you that’s out of a job. We’ll all be out on the streets!’
So no pressure then.
Remembering, Clara put her head in her hands. ‘There must be some way of persuading Simon to take part. He won’t talk on the phone or respond to emails… I need to talk to him face to face. But how?’
‘Can’t you get contrive to bump into him at a party?’ Ted suggested.
Clara lifted her head to jab a finger at the screen. ‘Does he look like a party animal to you? He doesn’t do anything but work, as far as I can see. They even do those interviews in his office, so I can’t even throw myself at him in the lift at the BBC.’
‘He must go home some time. Hang around outside his office and then follow him.’
‘Excellent idea. I could get myself arrested as a stalker. Although it might come to that. Anyway, he drives to work. It’s very un-ecological of him,’ said Clara disapprovingly.
They brooded on the problem for a while. Ted took the other chair and spun thoughtfully round and round, while Clara Googled in a desultory fashion.
‘We could send a surprise cake to the office,’ Ted suggested at last.
‘And I could deliver it.’ Clara paused with her fingers on the keyboard and considered the idea, her head on one side. ‘I’d be lucky to get past reception, though.’
‘I was thinking more of you jumping out of it,’ said Ted, and she flattened her eyes at him.
‘Oh, yes, he’s bound to take me seriously if I jump out of a cake! Why don’t I turn myself into a call girl and be done with it? And don’t even think about mentioning that idea to Roland!’ she warned, spotting the speculative gleam in Ted’s eyes. ‘He’ll just make me do it.’
She turned back to the computer. ‘Shame he doesn’t appear to have any children. I could inveigle my way in as a governess and charm him into agreeing with my heart-warming song and dance routines.’
‘You’d be better off pretending that you’re setting up a weaving cooperative somewhere in the Third World,’ said Ted, who was used to Clara drifting into Sound of Music fantasies. ‘He’s very hot on credit systems for small organisations that are struggling.’
‘We’re a small organisation that’s struggling,’ Clara pointed out. ‘Or we will be if he doesn’t agree to take part!’ She scrolled down the screen, looking for something, anything, that might help her. ‘Pity he isn’t hotter on self-promotion, but it’s always the same story. It’s about the projects, not about him—oh…’
Ted sat up straighter as she broke off. ‘What?’
‘It says here that Simon Valentine is giving a lecture at the International Institute for Trade and Developing Economies tomorrow night.’ Clara’s eyes skimmed over the announcement. ‘There’s bound to be drinks or something afterwards. If I can blag my way in, I might be able to corner him for a while. I’d have to miss my Zumba class, mind.’
‘Better than losing your job.’ Ted sprang up, newly invigorated. ‘It’s a brilliant idea, Clara. Wear your shortest skirt and show off your legs. Times are too desperate to be PC.’
Clara sniffed. ‘I thought I’d dazzle him with my intellect,’ she said, and Ted grinned as he patted her on the shoulder.
‘I’d stick to my legs if I were you. I think they’re more likely to impress Simon Valentine.’
* * *
Clara tugged surreptitiously at her skirt. She wished now that she had worn something a little more demure. Surrounded by a sea of suits in varying shades of black and grey, she felt like a streetlamp left on during the day in a fuchsia-pink mini-dress and purple suede killer heels. The other members of the audience had eyed her askance as she edged along the row and collapsed into a spare seat at the back of the room. On one side of her a brisk-looking woman in a daringly beige trouser suit bristled with disapproval. On the other, a corpulent executive leered at her legs until Simon Valentine began to speak.
There had been no problem about talking her way in without a ticket—Clara suspected the mini-dress had helped there, at least—but once inside it was clear that she was totally out of place. She fixed her attention on Simon, who was standing behind a lectern and explaining some complicated-looking PowerPoint presentation in a crisp, erudite way that appeared to have the audience absorbed.
It was all way over Clara’s head. She recognised the odd word, but that was about it. Every now and then a ripple of laughter passed over the room, although Clara had no idea what had been so funny. She picked up the occasional word: percentages and forecasts, public sector debt and private equity. Something called quantitative easing.
Hilarious.
Abandoning her attempt to follow the lecture, Clara planned her strategy for afterwards instead. Somehow she would have to manoeuvre him into a quiet corner and dazzle him with her wit and charm before casually slipping the programme into the conversation.
Or she could go with Ted’s suggestion and flash her legs at him.
Clara wasn’t mad about that idea. On the other hand, it might be more effective than relying on wit and charm, and it would be worth it if she could stroll into the office the next day. Oh, yeah, she would say casually to Roland. Simon’s on board.
Roland would be over the moon. He would offer her an assistant producer role straight away, and then, after a few thought-provoking documentaries, she could make the move into drama. Clara hugged the thought to herself. She would spend the rest of her career making spell-binding programmes and everyone would take her seriously at last.
A storm of applause woke Clara out of her dream.
OK, maybe an entire high-flying career was a lot to get out of one conversation, but she was an optimist. Climb every mountain, and all that. It could happen and, at the very least, convincing Simon Valentine to take part would save her job and mean that Ted could stay in his flat.
There was the usual scrum to get out of the room to the drinks reception afterwards. The International Institute for Trade and Developing Economies was as stuffy as its name suggested. It was an imposing enough building, if you liked that kind of thing, with elaborately carved plaster ceilings, portraits of stern Edwardian economists lining the walls, and a grand staircase that Clara longed to dance down. It was just begging for a sparkly dress and a Ginger Rogers impersonation.
The reception was held in the library and by the time Clara got in there the glittering chandeliers were ringing with the rising babble of conversation. Grabbing a glass of white wine, she skulked around the edges of the crowd, trying to look as if she understood what everyone was talking about. She recognized several famous journalists and politicians, and the air was thick with talk of monetary policy frameworks, asset bubbles and exchange rate policies.
Oh, dear, if onl
y she was a bit more knowledgeable. She would never be able to dazzle Simon Valentine at this rate. Clara was careful to avoid eye contact with anyone in case they asked her what she thought about the credit crisis or interest rate cuts. She didn’t want to be exposed as the imposter that she was.
The atmosphere was so intimidating that Clara was tempted to turn tail and go home before she was outed as utterly ignorant, but this might be her only chance to talk to Simon Valentine face to face. She couldn’t go until she had at least tried. It would be too shaming to go into work the next day and admit that she’d lost her nerve.
Humming under her breath to bolster her confidence, Clara scanned the crowds for her quarry and spotted him at last, looking so austere in a grey suit that everyone else seemed positively jolly in comparison. Several women in monochrome suits of various shades were clustered around him, nodding fervently at everything he said. Those must be his groupies, thought Clara disparagingly, unable to see what it was about Simon Valentine that made obviously intelligent women fawn over him.
Not that he seemed to be enjoying the experience, she had to concede. He had a definite air of being at bay, and she saw him steal surreptitious glances at his watch.
Seriously, the guy needed to relax a bit, Clara decided. He was holding a glass but not drinking from it and, as she watched, he put it back on a passing tray, offered a smile so brief it was barely more than a grimace to his disappointed fans and started to make his way out of the crush.
Terrified that he was leaving already, Clara drained her second glass for courage and headed after him. She couldn’t let him get away without at least trying to buttonhole him.
Pushing her way through the crowds, she followed him out into the cavernous entrance hall in time to see him striding purposefully towards the cloakrooms. He was going to get his coat and leave, and her chance would be gone. She would have sat through a lecture on economics for nothing!
It was now or never.
Her heels clicked on the marble floor as she hurried after him. ‘Dr Valentine?’ she called breathlessly.
Simon bit down on an expletive. His lecture had gone very well, but he would much prefer to have left immediately afterwards. Instead, he’d had to stand around and make small talk. He’d barely stepped into the library when a whole gaggle of women had descended on him. Ever since he had appeared on the news explaining the blindingly obvious about the financial situation, he had become a reluctant celebrity.
At first it had seemed an excellent idea. His firm was all for it, and Simon himself believed it was important for people to understand the economic realities of life. He had no problem with that, and the opportunity to bring new thinking about micro financing to global attention was too good to miss. He was delighted that the ensuing documentary had had such an impact, but had been totally unprepared for the effect of his television appearances on female viewers.
It was all very embarrassing, in fact, and the intent way some women had taken to hanging on his every word made him deeply uncomfortable. If they were that interested in economics, why didn’t they go away and read his articles instead?
And now, just when he’d managed to escape for a few minutes’ quiet, here was another one.
For a moment Simon considered pretending that he hadn’t heard her, but some of his so-called fans could be annoyingly persistent, and he wouldn’t put it past some of them to pursue him right into the Gents. So he paused, clenched his jaw, and fixed on his least welcoming expression.
But when he turned, the young woman coming after him didn’t look at all like one of his normal fans, most of whom tended to hide their silliness at being fans in the first place beneath a veneer of seriousness. There was nothing serious about this girl.
His first impression was of vivid colour, his second of a spectacular pair of legs. In spite of himself, Simon blinked. He doubted very much that the Institute had ever seen a skirt that short before, or shoes that frivolous.
He allowed himself a moment to appreciate the legs before he made himself look away from them. Just because Astrid had left, he didn’t have to start leering at the first pair of decent legs to come his way.
‘Yes?’ he said uninvitingly.
She offered him a friendly smile. ‘I just wanted to say that I enjoyed your talk very much,’ she said, still breathless from the effort of hurrying after him in those absurd shoes. ‘I thought you made some excellent points.’
Simon eyed her suspiciously. ‘Oh? Which particular points?’ he said. Maybe it was unfair to put her on the spot, but he didn’t feel like being helpful.
‘All of them,’ she said firmly, only to falter as her gaze met his. She had an extraordinarily transparent expression, and Simon could see her realising that as an answer it was less than impressive and dredging up something she remembered from the lecture.
Which turned out to be not very much.
‘What you said about qualitative easing was particularly interesting,’ she offered with an ingenuous smile.
‘Really? That’s strange, as I was talking about quantitative easing.’
‘That too,’ she said.
He had to give her points for trying. Most of his ‘fans’ did their homework in an attempt to impress him when they met. This one clearly hadn’t bothered.
‘You’re interested in the banks’ asset policies?’
‘Fascinated,’ she said, clearly lying, but meeting his eyes with such limpid innocence that Simon felt an unfamiliar tugging sensation at the corner of his mouth. It took a moment before he recognized it as amusement, and he pressed his lips together before he actually smiled.
Now that he looked at her properly, he could see that she wasn’t particularly pretty. Once you got past the animated expression, her features were really very ordinary, with ordinary brown hair falling in a very ordinary style to her shoulders. And yet she seemed to shimmer with a kind of suppressed energy, as if she were about to break into a run or fling her arms around, that made her not ordinary at all.
She made Simon feel vaguely unsettled, and that wasn’t a feeling he liked.
‘Were you even at my lecture?’ he demanded.
‘I sat through every riveting minute of it,’ she assured him.
‘And how much did you understand?’
He saw a brief struggle with her conscience cross her face before she opted, wisely, for honesty. ‘Well, not everything…that is, not a lot…in fact, none of it, but I do admire you a lot, obviously.’ She cleared her throat. ‘The truth is, I don’t know anything about economics. I’m here because I really need to talk to you.’
‘I’m afraid I only talk about economics, so if you don’t know anything about the subject it’s likely to be a very short conversation,’ said Simon curtly and made to turn away but she clutched at his arm.
‘I won’t keep you a minute, I promise,’ she said and plunged into a prepared speech before he could shake his arm from her grasp. ‘My name’s Clara Sterne, and I—’
But she had already said enough. Simon’s eyes narrowed. ‘As in the Clara Sterne who has been ringing and emailing me and apparently doesn’t understand the meaning of the word no?’
‘Oh, you recognize my name? Good,’ said Clara brightly.
Simon’s mouth tightened. ‘Spare your breath!’ he said, flinging up a hand as she opened her mouth to go on. ‘No, I will not participate in your ridiculous television programme. Once and for all… No!’
‘But you haven’t even given me a chance to explain about the programme,’ she protested. ‘It’s not ridiculous at all. We want it to be a serious examination of the romance industry.’
‘Clara, in case you haven’t noticed, there’s a global recession going on. I think there are more serious issues to examine than romance, even if such a thing existed.’
Clara pounced on that. ‘So you don’t think romance exists?’
She might as well have asked him whether he believed in the Jolly Green Giant. ‘Of course I don’t,’ he said. ‘It’s clearly an artificial construct dreamed up by marketing teams.’
‘Then that’s all we want you to say on the programme! That’s the whole point, in fact. It’ll be a serious discussion, with you and your co-presenter putting different sides of the argument.’
‘A serious discussion? I seem to recall you told me the other presenter was a footballer’s wife who hosts a daytime chat show!’
‘Ex-wife,’ Clara corrected him. ‘We think the contrast between the two of you will be very effective.’
She had an extraordinarily mobile face. Her eyes as she leant eagerly towards him were an undistinguished brown, but her expression was so bright that Simon was momentarily snared, like the proverbial rabbit in the headlights. Irritated by the image, he still had to make a physical effort to jerk himself free.
‘I don’t care how “effective” the contrast would be,’ he said sharply. ‘It’s not going to happen.’
