by Alison Bond
‘This is a very expensive party.’
‘Relax,’ she said. ‘You might as well try to enjoy what you’re paying for.’
He smiled at her logic. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘you wanted to ask me something?’
She did? Oh yeah. ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘What the hell were you thinking when you employed Neville Potterton?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Neville.’ She grinned, to show that she wasn’t being a bitch necessarily, just cheeky. ‘He spends all day on the phone with his useless clients, thinks it’s his job to play social secretary for a bunch of has-beens, using company money, your money, to wine and dine them then falling over himself with excitement if one of them gets a job opening a poxy supermarket. And then –’ she broke off as Jackson took her arm and manoeuvred her away from the crowds, but she quickly picked up again. ‘And then you show him an approach for a French kid who is just going to blister he’s so hot right now and Neville’s all, like, no, sorry, not enough hours in the day, when it’s totally obvious if he spent a little more time hustling and a lot less time licking arse, then …’ She tailed off, forgetting her point and feeling a little ashamed of her outburst.
‘Finished?’ said Jackson. ‘Because if you’re going to start again then can you keep your voice down? There’s a lot of those has-beens here tonight.’
She looked around and realized they were all alone, set back from the party in a little nook just past the kitchen. ‘Sorry.’
‘Neville was with me the day I started,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t have done any of this without his name on the letterhead. He was a giant in the eighties.’
‘But …’
‘But nothing. I made a deal with him. He knew he wasn’t going to have to graft any more with me. I wanted his name, and his clients’ names too. We deal with the dads, don’t we? Makes Dad feel secure if you’ve got a name like Mickey Jenkins on the books. Neville can take it a little easier. He doesn’t have to try to keep up with the aggressive little sods like me.’
‘But me. My job. I hate it. I feel like I’m being wasted.’
‘You’ve been here, what? Four months? Listen to Neville. You could learn a lot from him. I did.’
‘He’s a dickhead,’ she said stubbornly.
‘I’m going to ignore you just this once because you’re new. But I hear you call one of my senior partners a dickhead again and I’ll fire you. I don’t care how good you look in that dress.’
She blushed. ‘You think I look good?’
He stared at her so intensely that she thought he was about to kiss her. Then a veil of indifference dropped across his face. ‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘I have three hundred other guests to talk to.’
He left her standing on her own. So rude. And to think that once she even thought she might fancy him a little bit.
For the rest of the evening she made sure that she sparkled. She wanted him to see her having a fabulous time. She danced with every good-looking young man she could snare, she made witty conversation with colleagues and clients and she always knew where Jackson was at any given time. Often, when she looked across, she caught him watching her. No doubt he was thinking what an asset she was to the company, a spirited, pretty young girl wearing pink to make the boys wink.
Later, when a wannabe she didn’t know asked if she knew where to get cocaine she hooked him up with her old dealer with absolutely no regard for any future consequences. So helpful.
By midnight the party was thinning out. She scanned the room for any of the man-sized canapés to nab for the night bus home.
‘Looking for someone?’
Jackson was at her side. Emboldened by the success of the party she told him the truth. He smiled. He had a lovely smile, and he rarely used it. ‘Follow me,’ he said.
‘Where are we going?’
He went through the double doors and into the kitchen, where he opened one of the fridges and started to make her a roast-beef sandwich.
‘Are we allowed to be in here?’ she said.
‘I’m paying for all this, remember?’ he said.
‘Must have cost a bomb.’
‘A fair bit, I suppose. Do you think people had a good time?’
‘Everyone I spoke to said it was the best party this year,’ she said.
He nodded, pleased.
‘So far,’ she teased.
He watched her devour the sandwich, as if she hadn’t seen a proper meal in weeks. He would never tell her so, but he couldn’t help but admire her nerve approaching him earlier. Most of the assistants were too scared to talk to him, and mostly he liked it that way. He was a fair boss, but firm, and a little bit of fear got results. But with Samantha it was different. Was it that he felt a protective instinct because of the state he had found her in? He wanted to think so. Life could get far too problematic if it was more than that. But in that dress, with those legs. A man would have to be a saint, and Jackson Ramsay was many things, but no saint. ‘Do you need a lift home?’ he asked.
‘I’m fine,’ she said quickly, tossing her hair back from her face and looking him straight in the eye.
Could she tell what he was thinking? He sincerely hoped not.
‘But thanks for the offer,’ she added. No way was she giving him the opportunity to see the dive she lived in. Besides, she knew for a fact that he was Primrose Hill, in a completely different direction.
Maybe he was coming on to her.
And that would be too complicated.
She fell asleep on the night bus and woke up halfway to Brixton, so she walked back through some of the most dubious areas in London, fearless.
She tried to do as she was told, but all she was able to learn from Neville was that footballers were like gods and must be treated as such. Never leave them on hold, never cut them off; he was never on another call, just unavailable. Once he turned an alarming shade of puce when two of his top clients called at exactly the same time. And she learnt that he now took three sugars in his coffee instead of two and that he liked enough milk in there to turn it lukewarm.
She saw Jackson around the office. She could sometimes hear him on the phone and once a week at the company meeting he described glamorous deals worth millions and foreign trips and tax-efficient investments that sounded like dirty talk to her ambitious ears. She wanted more.
Liam’s appeal approached. She visited him on Thursday mornings, regularly begging the time off work by lying and saying she was in college studying part-time for her law degree. It occurred to her that she should study law for real if she wanted to be negotiating her own million-pound deals one day. She started investigating evening classes at the place where she had once learnt Japanese.
‘Why do you want to do that?’ asked Liam. ‘I thought you liked your job.’
‘I like the company,’ she clarified. ‘My job is just entry level.’
‘So now you’re going to be a lawyer.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘An agent. A sports agent.’
‘Shame,’ he said. ‘I could use a better lawyer.’
He was right. The appeal was thrown out of court within an hour. The verdict and the sentence would remain unchanged. He looked across at her and mouthed words which broke her spirit.
I’m sorry.
This time when they took him away they took all of Samantha’s remaining faith with him. A searing bolt of resentment hardened her heart. He could have been anything. But now his hope would have to wait. What were the chances of dreams outlasting that kind of incarceration? He had screwed up his life and in so doing he had left her completely alone. They were supposed to take care of each other. Bullshit. The only person you could rely on was yourself.
That night she went to bed shortly after midnight, but remained far from sleep. She lay awake and wondered what Liam was thinking. She felt angry at him, and guilty for being angry, then angry at herself for feeling guilty. Nasty thoughts circled in endless rotation, each bumping into the next, like dodgem cars in a brash fair
ground. The knowledge that being deserted felt familiar crept under her skin and unwelcome memories of their mother brought tears to her eyes.
Even after all these years she still wanted Mummy? No, she was stronger than that.
She yanked the bedcovers away and ran from the room. She had to get out. She thought of the ordered piles of paper on her desk at work, each one needing a direct course of action, a black-and-white solution, no grey. She gathered up her bag and her keys, left the house and started walking north.
The Legends offices were different at night, peaceful, resting after the dramatics of a typical day. She found it calming.
She sat down behind her desk, smoothing her hands over the cold, flat surface. She picked up the first piece of paper that her hand fell upon and began to work.
Later, when her systematic approach had lulled her racing mind to a quiet hum, she took a break.
It was nice to wander the calm corridors. She liked going into the empty offices and looking closely at people’s desks. Trying to guess whose baby that was in the photograph on Richard’s desk or if the diet pills in super-slim Karen’s drawer meant she was anorexic. An entire drawer in Jennie’s desk was packed like an overnight bag with spare underwear, deodorant, toothbrush. Was prim little Jennie a secret dirty stop-out?
She hesitated outside Jackson’s office but pushed open the door, idly considering the probability that this might have been her destination all along. His desk was unexciting. A neatly stacked outbox, an empty inbox, pens and pencils stored in a stainless-steel tankard commemorating Coventry City’s 1987 FA Cup victory. She sat in his leather swivel chair. She turned away from the desk and put her feet up on his windowsill.
Jackson had a knockout view. Below her London glittered.
So no more Liam. Except on Thursdays. Maybe … just maybe … was it too awful to think that her life might take shape more easily in his absence? Wasn’t it true that even before these catastrophic events they had been growing apart? That they no longer found their thrills in the same places? She dreamed of a career, a house, her own front door. Of success. To Liam success had become possessing the name and number of a failsafe dealer who delivered. She must truly be a terrible person for having such disloyal thoughts.
‘Who’s there?’
She spun round at the sound of his voice. ‘Jackson? What are you doing here?’
‘In my own office?’
‘I mean, it’s so late.’
‘It’s six a.m. Most people would call that early.’
Six? Already?
‘Why are you here so early?’ she said.
‘I always start work at six. But I can’t start work until you get out of my chair.’
‘One day,’ she said, ‘I’m going to have a view like that.’
‘You like it, huh?’ He smiled, even though he was trying his hardest to be authoritative and angry.
‘I like everything about this company.’
This company was his baby and he liked it when his baby was complimented. ‘Last time we spoke you told me you hated it here.’
‘I hate my job,’ she said. ‘But I think your company is pretty incredible.’
‘Then why do you hate your job?’
‘Because it’s boring. I could do it in my sleep.’
‘Is that what you’ve been doing all night?’
‘No, I had, well, I had a bad day yesterday,’ she said. ‘A real shit. I needed …’ She paused. Then she was crying. Again. Was she set to cry for sixteen years? Was that possible?
‘You want to talk about it?’ asked Jackson softly.
‘It’s a family thing,’ she said. ‘You ever have those? No, I thought not. Let’s see, only child, mum and dad still together? Proud of their son? See them three weekends a year and home for a week at Christmas?’
‘St Kitts,’ said Jackson. ‘Last Christmas I took them to St Kitts. My dad and me played some cricket.’
‘Nice.’
He nodded. ‘It really was. What about you?’
‘What?’
‘Your family?’
‘I don’t have any family,’ she said. For a moment she allowed herself to believe that was true, that there was no Liam to feel dismal about, no dumb brother to drag her down. The lie gave her a thrill.
‘Oh? But I thought you just said …’
She waved his confusion away. ‘It’s complicated.’
‘Family shouldn’t be complicated,’ he said. ‘Mine is pretty much the only undemanding thing in my life.’
‘Well, you’re lucky,’ she said. ‘You think that’s what made you a success?’
If so then she had no chance.
‘Success always seems to me to be the logical result of hard work and application,’ said Jackson. ‘It’s not a lottery. You make your own breaks.’
‘It doesn’t feel like that to me,’ she said. ‘I’m doing everything I can think of to move forward in this company. I’m learning languages, I’ve signed up for evening classes in law, but I’m stuck out there with Neville so nobody will ever even notice. So you have to ask yourself, what’s the point?’
‘Be patient. You’ll find a way,’ he said. ‘You’re a special girl. I could tell the first moment we spoke.’
‘You’re right,’ she said slowly. ‘So why am I working so hard when I’m obviously going nowhere? You only gave me this job because you felt sorry for me. I’m your good deed, not your protégée. I want to be more than that.’
Clarity. A moment of clarity. She only had one life.
‘I quit.’
‘What the hell?’
‘I’ve seen people, people close to me, who have wasted their lives, totally wasted them, and I don’t want that to be me.’
In Jackson’s experience, people that came to work at Legends would slave for months doing whatever they were told just to have the chance to work here. His assistant had a file of CVs as thick as the phone directory of excellent people willing to work for free merely to get a foot in the door. Yet this girl, on salary, was walking out on him. She thought she could do better. She was – what? – twenty-one and she thought he was holding her back. And maybe he was.
‘I wouldn’t want you to feel like you’re wasting your life.’
‘Which is why I should go.’
‘I think …’ he said, ‘… that you should stay.’
‘I really don’t want to work for Neville any more.’
‘I think we can probably fix that.’
She smiled. ‘Can I get that in writing?’
‘You have my word. We’ll sort something out by the end of the week. Now will you get out of my office before I have to call security?’
She walked past him and was almost at the door when something made him hold out his hand to stop her. Perhaps it was the curve of her hip as she shimmied past him, or the sheer audacity of her promotion-grabbing dramatics, but he couldn’t let her go without telling her something.
‘I didn’t give you a job because I felt sorry for you,’ he said.
‘No?’
‘I gave you a job because I admired you.’
She frowned.
‘What?’ he said. ‘Oh relax, I mean after you’d put your clothes on. Your little speech about me being a hero? Clever.’
‘I’m not going to sleep with you just to get promoted,’ she said seriously.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘But who knows? Maybe one day you’ll sleep with me just for the hell of it.’
‘Don’t count on it,’ she said.
‘Sam, I don’t count on anything until the deal is done. But, like I always say, anything is possible.’
Neville found himself a new assistant, a mature woman called Yvonne who made his coffee just the way he liked it, and Samantha was shifted sideways to work for Graham, a young agent who needed a right-hand man.
‘Right-hand woman,’ she corrected.
‘Not too many of those in this business,’ he said, clearly not counting the accounts department, secretari
es and assistants that made it difficult to get mirror space in the Ladies’ on a Friday night.
‘Why do you think that is?’ she asked, genuinely curious. If she was going to blaze a trail then it would be useful to know the pitfalls.
‘Too competitive,’ said Graham. ‘Women don’t have the …’ He paused, searching for the right word, then laughed. ‘The balls,’ he said. ‘Women don’t have the balls.’
‘Then I’d better get me some of those,’ she said.
22
‘The Russian called again,’ said Leanne. ‘Sexy accent. Asked where you were.’
Every day Leanne called her on the road and gave her a rundown of what was happening back in the new Krakow office. Most days it was the only time she spoke to another woman. Which was fine.
‘If you’re not interested,’ said Leanne, ‘can I have a go?’
‘Who says I’m not interested?’
‘I thought he was, like, young?’
‘Whereas I am …?’
‘Old,’ said Leanne bluntly.
Was she really that old? She wasn’t confident enough to be old. She wasn’t rich enough. Or wise enough. ‘I’m back tomorrow,’ she said. ‘I’ll deal with him then.’ She looked out of her window. The Croatian town of Zadar was bound to have some pretty parts, but she couldn’t see them from where she was standing. She only saw the cranes and forklifts of the busy port. And yet she couldn’t even see the water.
‘Deal with him?’
‘Speak to him, call him, you know what I mean. Anyone else?’
‘Eric Royston?’ said Leanne. ‘Do you know him?’
‘I’ll deal with that,’ said Samantha. ‘Give me the number.’ It had been weeks since she had heard from the private detective.
She rang him immediately. ‘You have news?’ she asked eagerly.
‘Yes,’ said Eric, ‘but I’m not sure you’ll like it. It wasn’t easy, but I managed to trace one of the deposits to a bonds and securities firm working behind what I assume is a mail-forwarding company.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means that at least one of these deposits was made with loaned money.’
‘So whoever did this might have been borrowing the money to do so?’
