“That’s it?” Helen asked. “No other tips? It’s just that time is…well, short.”
Ivana stopped walking. “You prectice this today. I see you again soon. You tell me about touching.”
I looked at her uncertainly. “But…but I can’t. I mean, I don’t know how to. I’ll look ridiculous,” I protested.
“You do right, you look sexy,” Ivana said, walking away as though that settled the matter.
“But how do I do it right? You haven’t even shown me,” I called after her, then immediately regretted it when she stopped walking. With a sigh, Ivana looked at her watch and slowly turned around.
“I heff appointment,” she said irritably. “But okay, two things. Licking lips like this.”
Her tongue flicked out of her mouth and languidly made its way around her lips.
“See? Now you do.”
I reddened and tried to imitate her. Ivana looked distinctly unimpressed and raised her eyebrows at Helen.
“Do in mirror,” she suggested. “Better to see yourself when doing. Now for touching,” she continued. “Is better to show you close. Come here.”
I did as she told me and approached her.
“Now talk,” she barked.
Uncertainly, I started to babble about the weather. As I spoke, Ivana stretched out a hand and lightly brushed mine. “You know,” she whispered, “it vos very nice to meet you today.” Then she leaned down to take my hand in hers. She touched it so tenderly, and I suddenly realized that underneath her fierce façade, Ivana was actually really sweet. And gentle. I squeezed her hand back, affectionately.
“Thanks, Ivana. It was really nice to meet you, too.”
“Where are your eyes?” she demanded.
“Um…,” I said, not wanting to admit that my eyes had, just that minute, been drawn to admire her amazing cleavage, which had shot into view as she bent over. Then she pulled away, and I found myself frowning. I didn’t want her to go.
“You should be looking at my breasts,” she said, looking up to check that I was. Neither Helen nor I could look at anything else. “And the touching. It was nice, yes?”
I nodded, speechless. “You put that on? That was all part of the seduction?”
“Of course.” Ivana shot me a withering look. “Getting a men attention—is game, you understand? You come close, they get interest, you step away. Make them want, then make unavailable, then they want more, yes? So, you prectice this. And you prectice bending over—you fix shoe, you pick something up, it no matter; what matter is where he looking, yes?”
“Yes.” I nodded. I couldn’t believe games like that actually worked. There I’d been thinking that love and lust were a matter of natural chemicals and the power of attraction, when in reality it was all about the right touch and flashing a bit of cleavage. I wished I’d brought a notebook now, there was so much to remember.
“Thanks, Ivana,” Helen said quickly.
Ivana looked at her, then at me, her face impenetrable. “This not going to be easy,” she said, with a sigh. She gazed at my feet as though she’d never noticed them before. My feet that were now uncomfortably wedged back inside my black heels.
“You need better shoes,” she said matter-of-factly.
“Shoes? But these are new.”
“You no think Anthony deserves girlfriend with good shoes? You think he should put up with unsexy shoes? Is that what you tell me?”
I reddened slightly. Frankly after last night I wasn’t sure Anthony deserved a girlfriend, let alone one with good shoes. “These aren’t good?” I asked, looking down at my shoes.
“They no sexy,” Ivana said, shrugging. “Thinner heel. Color. Your face need color, too. No bleck, I think.”
“No black?” I gulped. My whole wardrobe was black. The only way Helen had persuaded me to buy this ridiculously tight pencil skirt was because it was black and I’d convinced myself that no one would really notice how it clung to my thighs.
But Ivana wasn’t listening—already she had nodded her goodbyes and I watched, silently, as she strode off, her high heels clacking on the path.
“I’m screwed, aren’t I?” I said to Helen as we watched her go.
She took my hand. “Come on. Let’s go shopping.”
Chapter 12
PROJECT: MARRIAGE DAY 9
To do
1. Listen to Anthony with fascinated look on face.
2. Flirt your socks off.
3. Be Jessica Wiiiiiiiiild.
Marcia was in Anthony’s office when I got in on Monday morning—I saw her sauntering out five minutes after I sat down at my desk.
She stopped at my desk and looked me up and down. I was wearing a lime-green cardigan that Helen had insisted on. It made me feel like a nighttime cyclist.
“That’s bright,” she said.
“Yes,” I agreed, trying to suppress the urge to take it off immediately and, instead, checking my calendar for the day. Nothing all morning. Meeting with Max at 2 PM. “So, good weekend?”
She raised an eyebrow. “Great, thanks. You?”
“Oh, really good.” I forced a smile, trying to feel like Jessica Wiiild and failing miserably.
“Really?” Marcia looked surprised. “Oh, and before I forget, someone called for you,” she said. “A Mr. Taylor.”
“Mr. Taylor?” The blood drained from my face. “When?”
“This morning. About half an hour ago.”
“And did he say…what he wanted?”
Marcia looked at me, wide-eyed. “Of course not—I didn’t ask.” She smiled curiously at me. “He left a number, though.” She handed me a scribbled note.
“And he didn’t say anything else?” I asked anxiously.
“Should he have?” Marcia asked, her eyebrows raised slightly.
“He sounded quite old for you,” she continued. “I didn’t realize you were into older men.”
“I’m not,” I said, about to explain that Mr. Taylor was not in any way a romantic prospect, then decided not to bother. I had other things to worry about. Much more important things. “Right, well, thanks,” I said.
Trying to breathe normally, I turned on my computer. Marcia had spoken to Mr. Taylor. There was no need to panic. Obviously he hadn’t said anything because if he had, Marcia would have told everyone in the office and would now be laughing in my face. It was fine. Everything was fine.
Moments later Marcia stalked off toward the kitchen and I quickly dialed Mr. Taylor’s number.
“Good morning, Mr. Taylor speaking.”
“Mr. Taylor! Hi, it’s Jessica Wild.”
“Oh, Jessica. Yes, thank you for calling me back. I was just hoping to get a meeting in the diary.”
“Yes,” I said, biting my lip. “About that. It might be tricky. I’ve got a…a lot on, over the next few weeks, I mean.”
“The next few weeks?”
I looked down at the floor guiltily. “Actually, I’m going away. Out of the country.”
“A holiday?”
“Yes. Kind of. Work and holiday. That’s why I’m going to be gone for a while.”
“That is a shame. And you’re not free later today?”
“No. No, I…I leave this afternoon,” I said, feeling my cheeks getting hot. “Last-minute thing. But I’ll call you when I get back. Right away.”
“That’s very good of you. And bon voyage.”
“Thank you. Thanks, and…and speak to you in a few weeks.”
I put the phone down and let out a deep sigh, then let my head hang backward.
“Jess?”
I jumped as Anthony appeared from behind me.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you,” he said, seriously. “It’s just that I think I owe you a very big apology.”
“An apology?” Easily, elegantly, he leaned against my desk.
He looked right at me, his expression one of dismay. “It was you on Friday night, wasn’t it? I didn’t realize what had happened until too late, and then you and your f
riend just ran off…I’m really so sorry. Did the car hurt you?”
“No,” I said quickly. “No, not at all. Really, it’s no problem.”
“It is a problem,” Anthony said, shaking his head as his blue eyes twinkled into mine. I could see Marcia returning to her desk, straining to hear what we were talking about, and I felt the surprising satisfaction of being the person Anthony wanted to talk to ripple through me. “And I want to make it up to you.”
“You do?” My hands moved to straighten some strands of hair that had fallen across my forehead.
“I was thinking maybe lunch. Do you think you could bear to let me buy you lunch?”
“Lunch?” I looked at him uncertainly. “You want to have lunch with me?”
“If you’re not too angry. You’re not too angry, are you?”
I shook my head. “No, no, I don’t think so.”
“Good. Shall we say one-ish?”
He was smiling mischievously now, and I grinned up at him. I had totally misread him. Anthony wasn’t rude. He was really sweet. He felt really bad. And he wanted to have lunch with me.
“Um, okay. One-ish.” I nodded.
“Great. Well, I’ll see you then.”
He gave me a little wave, then wandered off back toward his office, leaving me reeling slightly. I was having lunch with Anthony Milton. Just the two of us.
“Oh, so Anthony found you, did he?” Marcia said, sitting back at her desk. “He said he wanted to talk to you. Was it about Jarvis? Something to do with the account? Tell me if you need any help, won’t you? I mean, what I don’t know about handbags isn’t worth knowing.”
“Um, something like that,” I said uncertainly, quickly digging out my phone to send Helen an incredulous text. “And thanks. I’ll let you know.”
Lunch was at a little wine bar just a few hundred yards down the road, where we were ushered to a small corner table. If I’d been self-conscious leaving the office, then I was even more so when we sat down. The table was so small, our knees were almost touching. Me and Anthony Milton.
As soon as we sat down, Anthony pulled out a cigarette.
“You mind?” he asked, suddenly catching my eyes on him. “Because I don’t have to.”
“No,” I said quickly. “No, it’s no problem at all.”
“What a relief.” Anthony lit up two cigarettes, passed one to me, then leaned back in his chair. “People are so funny about smoking, aren’t they? I mean, give it a few months and I’ll be banned from doing this. No one’s allowed to have any fun anymore. I mean, would Pulp Fiction be any good without smoking? Would Camus have written such great books if he hadn’t been able to sit in Left Bank cafés breathing in nicotine?”
I was as surprised by the Camus reference as I was by the cigarette, which I surreptitiously stubbed out.
“You like Camus?”
His mouth creased upward slightly. “That depends. Do you?”
I nodded. “Actually, I do. I think The Outsider is one of the best existentialist texts around.”
“I see. Well in that case I’ll have to confess that I’ve never read any Camus. I was hoping you hadn’t, either, in which case I’d have gotten away with pretending that I had.”
He grinned and I looked at him uncertainly. “And Pulp Fiction?”
“Seen it. Loved it.”
“Me, too.” I smiled nervously.
“Well, that’s something we’ve got in common then. So, Jessica, what do you fancy eating? You’re not a vegetarian or anything, are you?”
“Vegetarian? No, not me,” I said, picking up the menu and relaxing slightly.
“Glad to hear it. The steak here is wonderful, if you fancy it?”
“Sounds great!”
Anthony called the waiter over and ordered, adding a bottle of red wine as an afterthought. Then he turned to me and grinned.
“You’re going to have to help me drink that, you know,” he said. “We don’t want a repeat performance of Friday night, do we?”
I smiled. “No. No, we don’t want that.”
Anthony nodded and a slightly awkward silence descended.
“So I’m meeting Max later to talk about the Jarvis account,” I said brightly after a minute or two. “I can’t tell you how excited I am to be leading it. It’s such a great opportunity.”
“Yes, it is,” Anthony said. “But that’s work and this is lunch, so we’ll hear no more about it until we’re back in the office. Okay?”
“Okay,” I agreed. “No work.”
There was another pregnant pause.
“It was really cold today, wasn’t it?” I heard myself say.
“Was it?” Anthony frowned. “Can’t say I really noticed.”
I swallowed awkwardly. God, I really was boring. But if I wasn’t allowed to talk about work, what else was there?
I picked up the menu again, my eyes scanning the words but not taking any of them in. And then, suddenly, I could hear something in my head. You heff to ask questions. You heff to find everything he says fascinating.
Nervously I looked up. It would never work. Not in a million years. I didn’t want it to work—it made me feel like a 1960s airhostess. But it wasn’t like I had many other options. I cleared my throat, again. “Um, you…You must be so proud of what you’ve achieved at Milton Advertising,” I said. “I’d love to hear about how you set up such a successful firm.”
Anthony raised an eyebrow at me. “You would?”
“Oh yes.” I sounded phony. Completely ridiculous. I knew I did. Anthony was going to think I was weird, and he’d probably eat quickly, and…
“Well, in that case, I’d be delighted.”
“Really?” I asked, slightly taken aback. “I mean…you would?”
Anthony looked at me quizzically. “You’re really interested?”
“Sure. I mean, definitely.”
“Well, okay then,” he said, sitting back in his chair. “You asked for it. We started about ten years ago. But you know that, I’m sure. What you may not know is that for the first three months of its existence, Milton Advertising sat above a fish-and-chip shop…”
“Fish and chips?”
“We smelled awful. Had to hang our suits out the window before every pitch so we didn’t turn up smelling of overcooked oil.”
I laughed, the wine arrived, and Anthony carried on talking.
“Max and I were working for rival firms, and we both wanted a new challenge. So we both sweet-talked as many clients as we could into jumping ship with us, moved above the chip shop, and tried to make enough money to survive. We made a point of selling ourselves as the real deal, you know? An advertising agency that took what it did seriously. Promoting our clients but in a truthful way, getting to the core of their offering, getting the details right.”
“You mean like grammar,” I said.
“Grammar?” Anthony asked uncertainly.
“Getting grammar right,” I said, seriously. “You know there was an article in Advertising Today a month or so ago on how advertisements are full of poor grammar these days. Like putting apostrophes in the wrong place, or saying less than when it should be fewer than—that sort of thing.”
“Exactly!” Anthony said, banging his glass down on the table. “Exactly, Jess. Grammar. Details. Getting things one hundred percent right. A hundred and ten percent right. Going the extra mile.”
“And your strategy worked?”
“It certainly did. I think our track record speaks for itself. We grew, bit by bit, and before too long we got a proper office space, right next to a brothel in Soho.”
“A brothel?” My eyes widened in shock, then I remembered Ivana’s advice. “I mean, how amazing!”
“It was, rather,” Anthony said, grinning. “The girls were great fun. And actually, it worked in our favor. One of my former colleagues threatened to sue us for poaching clients, and we…discovered, shall I say, that he frequented the brothel. Once I let him know that I knew that…well, the problem went away.�
��
“No way!”
“Way. I tell you, those were the days. Adrenaline city, every day. Each pitch was make or break.”
“You did really well,” I heard myself say, feeling the warmth of the wine hit my stomach. “You’re one of the top London firms now.”
Anthony smiled. “I suppose we are.”
The food arrived, and as we ate and drank Anthony told me how he’d grown the firm, how they’d pitched for their biggest clients, how they’d become successful. And by the end, hanging on his every word was becoming the most natural thing in the world; with every ooh and aah that came out of my mouth he seemed to relax, to enjoy himself more. By the end, I wasn’t even pretending. I was warm, I was comfortable, and Anthony’s blue eyes were twinkling away, looking right into mine.
“It’s so impressive,” I said when we’d finished eating. “I mean, so many people talk about launching their own businesses, but so few people actually do it.”
“You’re very kind.” Anthony shrugged, then looked at me quizzically. “You know, it’s been really good fun talking to you, Jess. You’re a very interesting person. You have quite hidden depths.”
“I do?” I smiled bashfully, thinking of pointing out that I’d said nothing indicative of any depths all lunch, then deciding against it.
“Yes, you do.” He held my gaze for a fraction longer than was entirely comfortable, and I reddened slightly. Then he asked for the bill and flashed a smile at me. “So look, thank you again for being so understanding about Friday night. It was apalling behavior and I am truly sorry.”
“Oh no!” I said immediately. “It wasn’t your fault. I was walking in completely the wrong place.”
“You’re very kind.” Anthony smiled. “So, out in Soho. Does that mean you live centrally, or is Soho just your Friday-night stomping ground?”
“My stomping ground?” I looked at him in surprise, then forced a smile onto my face. “It’s my flatmate’s stomping ground really. We live in Islington.”
“Islington!” Anthony nodded thoughtfully. “Lots of nice bars in Islington. I keep meaning to get up that neck of the woods.”
The Importance of Being Married: A Novel Page 12
