Don't Get Me Wrong

by Marianne Kavanagh

  Kim didn’t bother asking how he knew about it. Sometimes she thought Jake must have supersensory hearing that worked through office walls and over the sound of the office kettle. Or perhaps he just hacked into the CEO’s emails.

  “So will you go for it?”

  Jake looked puzzled. “Why would I go for it?”

  “But I thought—”

  “No, it’s way below my pay grade. Much too junior. I was thinking of you.”

  “Me?”

  “Why not?”

  “Well”—as usual, talking to Jake, she felt wrong-footed—“well, because I like what I’m doing at the moment, I suppose.”

  “Research.”

  “Yes. I think we’re doing a good job.”

  “And how many staff do you have working for you?”

  “You know that.”

  “Humor me.”

  “Just Rhodri. My intern.”

  Jake shook his head. “So it can’t really be described as a management position, can it?”

  I didn’t say it was, thought Kim. But that doesn’t stop it being useful.

  Jake, still holding his briefcase, sat down on the arm of the new sofa, rucking up the fabric. “We’ve talked about this before. Slow and steady progress. Managing more and more staff. You have to show leadership potential. Or you’ll get left behind.”

  He had the hypnotic tone of voice he always used when stating the obvious. Kim, attentive, nodded.

  “And, of course, it’s a fantastic way of seeing how the charity works at the grassroots level. It’ll give you a three-sixty view of what homelessness looks like across the UK. Once you’ve got that experience, you could pick up any job in this sector anywhere in the country. So you’re increasing your marketability. Becoming, if you like, more desirable.”

  Kim swallowed. She felt ashamed that he’d had to spell it out. “Would they consider me, do you think?”

  He smiled. “Why do you think I’ve always been so insistent about emphasizing your achievements to the CEO? You’re in a perfect position. Of course, they’ll have to advertise externally. But there’s nothing to stop them offering the post to an internal candidate if she’s the best. Which you will be.”

  Jake sounded so certain of this that Kim felt a small frisson of alarm. She had a vision of a horse’s head in the CEO’s bed.

  “Are there any drawbacks?”

  “To the job? None.”

  “But will it involve traveling?”

  “Oh yes,” said Jake. “All the regional centers. Week here, week there. But you’ll get expenses. For meals and hotels.”

  Kim imagined sitting alone in a poorly lit dining room.

  Jake bent down and opened his briefcase. “I’ve downloaded the application form for you. It’s a long one. Because it has to be scrupulously fair to all candidates. I’ve filled in the sections on ‘Capabilities and Experience’ and ‘What Skills Can You Bring to This Job?’ And I’ve drafted the ‘Additional Information’ section. It’ll probably only take you a couple of hours to finish it. And then as soon as it’s publicly advertised, you can whack it in, way ahead of the game.”

  Kim looked down at the neat stack of typed sheets.

  “Will you be my reference?”

  Jake frowned. “I don’t think that would be very ethical, would it?”

  It wasn’t easy carrying on as normal in the cubbyhole. Cooped up all day with her intern, she felt guilty. Rhodri was one of the few people at work she really cared about. Brought up in a tiny village in Anglesey, he’d spent his whole life in north Wales—including three years at Bangor University—before coming to London. He was bright, hardworking, and idealistic, with the kind of open expression she associated with choirboys in cathedrals. Was she letting him down? Would he be ready to take over as head of research if she got promoted? He was only twenty-three. And he didn’t seem to have a thick enough skin for the kind of office politics she was used to. If she wasn’t there to protect him, Jake would probably have him for breakfast.

  Anxiety gnawed away at her. Apart from anything else, she wasn’t sure she was ready for promotion, herself. This was, she was well aware, a stereotypically female response to the chance of a leap up the career ladder. Men think, I’ve got fifty percent of what they’re looking for—I can fudge it. Women think, I don’t know, I only tick ninety-nine percent of the boxes—am I good enough?

  But after serious reflection, she decided that what was really bothering her was the thought of spending so much time away from home. She was used to leaning on Jake when she needed coolheaded advice about problems at work. Most evenings, she sat at the kitchen table while he filled the sink with dirty pots and pans and told her exactly how she should respond to tricky situations. Of course there are any number of ways to have conversations when you can’t be in the same room. But would he be able to direct her quite so efficiently by text, Skype, or email?

  A few days after the job was made public and she’d sent in her application, Kim realized that she was also sad about the timing. Eva might be home by Christmas. So if Kim did get the regional development officer job, she’d be heading off for Leeds and Newcastle and Manchester and Bristol just as Eva and Otis were finally back in London.

  Because of all this mental turmoil, Kim was very glad that she wasn’t in Rhodri’s line of sight for most of the day. Because the big flat computer screens formed a barrier between them, they had become used to interacting as disembodied voices. Luckily, like most Welsh-speakers, Rhodri articulated each consonant very clearly, so Kim never had to ask him to repeat himself.

  “Are you going to the Labour Party conference?”

  “No,” said Kim absently. “Why?”

  “I don’t know, really. Because Jake’s going, I suppose. I thought you might make a week of it.”

  “Living it up with party activists in Manchester.”

  “Well, maybe not, if you put it like that.”

  “It doesn’t even sound like you get time to see the city.”

  “I’ve never been to Manchester,” said Rhodri. “Although I haven’t really been anywhere much. Apart from Dublin.” He added, after a pause, “And Corfu. Although to be really honest, we were so mangled most nights, I don’t remember a lot of it.”

  Kim moved her head from side to side, feeling the tension in her shoulders. “There aren’t many people from here going to the conference, are there?”

  “No, I don’t think so. Just Jake and Zofia.”

  “I didn’t know Zofia was going.”

  “Well it makes sense, doesn’t it? They’re probably thinking it would be more efficient to work as a team. And give her more experience as an intern. I mean, if you were going, you wouldn’t not take me, would you?”

  This was so full of possible misunderstandings that Kim wasn’t sure how to answer.

  “Of course they’ll have the results of the leadership election at the conference, won’t they? Miliband versus Miliband. My money’s on David. But I don’t think either of them will be the winner, really, will they? They’re both going to lose in a situation like this.”

  Later, in the kitchen, as Jake burnt chicken in a wok, Kim said, “I didn’t know Zofia was going with you to the conference.”

  “It’s quite exciting for her,” said Jake, adding spring onions, which spat back at him. “Coming from Gdańsk. Home of Lech Wałesa. Solidarity. And finally elected president of Poland in 1990.”

  The pungent smell of fish sauce filled the room.

  • • •

  Each time Harry saw Syed, he was struck by how sleek and shiny his friend looked. It was as if wealth was polishing his skin. Working for a hedge fund suited Syed. He liked gambling, he enjoyed split-second trades on stock worth millions, and he had the arrogant self-confidence that made him a winning player.

  He’d ditched the suits. People who work for hedge funds don’t have to try that hard. They dress down every day.

  “So how’s the brother-in-law?” Harry said, leaning back in
one of the chairs in Syed’s Mayfair office. On the wall opposite was a Lichtenstein print in yellow, red, and blue. Or maybe it was a Lichtenstein original.

  Syed, like a conductor bringing a symphony to a close, made a gesture with both hands to show it was all over. “I am a genius. I find solutions to all problems.”

  “And what if he does it again?”

  “Even a businessman as bad as my brother-in-law can’t fuck it up a third time.”

  “The triumph of hope over experience.”

  “What are you trying to do? Drive me to drink?” Syed stood up. “Come on. I’ve booked a table round the corner. The ceviche is incredible.”

  Outside in the brilliant October sunshine—ice-cold wind, bright blue sky—Harry looked around at the gracious town houses, the parked Jaguars, the whole spruce prosperity of one of the most expensive residential areas in the world, and felt a small surge of pleasure. Wealth cocooned him. He felt safe.

  “I’m hearing good things about you.”

  “Are you?” Harry tried to sound casual.

  “One of the sharpest analysts in the City. So sharp you might cut yourself.”

  “But you still don’t rate us.”

  Syed smiled. “You do your job. We do ours.” He stepped back with a flourish to make more room on the pavement for a blonde with dark glasses and thigh-high black boots. “Do you still miss New York?”

  “Sometimes. But I think if I was in New York, I’d miss London.”

  Syed laughed. “The human condition. Perpetual dissatisfaction.” He glanced up at Harry. “She had a son, I hear.”

  “Yes,” said Harry, wondering how Syed had heard about Otis.

  “Of course he’s not good enough for her. I never liked him.”

  Harry was lost.

  “It’s the Old Etonian charm. They fall for it every time.”

  They walked on in silence. Harry had just worked out that Syed was talking about Titania when Syed said, “Of course that’s the trouble with the work we do. No time for relationships. It’s all so shallow. Luxury holidays, fine dining, fast cars—but we’d give it all up in an instant if we thought we had a real chance of enduring love.”

  “Would we?”

  Syed’s eyes were bright. “No.”

  Harry laughed. “Although you’re—what? Thirty-two? Thirty-three? It might be time to find a good woman and settle down.”

  Syed’s smile disappeared. “You sound like my mother,” he said gloomily.

  • • •

  “Where are you?”

  “In France. In a rather beautiful villa near Nice.”

  “You’re at Mum’s?”

  “At Jean-Marc’s house. He insisted. Otis is a bit shy. He’s never seen so much marble.”

  “Is Jean-Marc really rich, then?”

  “Faded grandeur. Old aristocracy. I don’t know if he’s actually got any money. But Mum’s happy. She’s wafting about in white linen trying to pretend she doesn’t find three-year-olds annoying.”

  “So when are you coming back?”

  “That’s why I’m ringing. Just in time for Christmas.”

  “When?”

  “The fifteenth.”

  “Oh, Eva! That’s so exciting! Shall I come and meet you? Is it Gatwick or Heathrow?”

  “We’re coming by train. St. Pancras.”

  “I’ll be there. I promise. Help you with all your luggage. Will you come back and stay here? Jake would love it. He could show Otis his Matchbox collection.”

  “There wouldn’t be room, though, would there? In a one-bedroomed flat.”

  “I’d have to tidy up a bit. But it would be fine.”

  “I’m really grateful. Really. But I don’t think it’s a good idea. Three-year-olds are a bit manic. It’s bad enough here. Although Mum can’t really complain because everything’s all cracked and chipped already. But Jake collects things. Valuable things. Otis would destroy it all in five minutes.”

  “But—”

  “I just think we’d really piss Jake off if we stayed. And I wouldn’t be able to relax for a second. I’d be running around after Otis trying to stop him killing himself with ceremonial daggers.”

  “So where will you stay?”

  “Harry’s offered to put us up.”

  “Harry?”

  “He hasn’t got round to buying much furniture. So it’s just an empty space. Which is perfect. Otis can run around screaming as much as he likes. Kim?”

  “What?”

  “You don’t mind, do you?”

  “No.”

  “You sound like you do.”

  “You’re my sister.”

  “It’ll only be for a couple of months. Until we’ve worked out where we want to be. Ideally, I want to join some kind of community. But not too far away. Kim? Say something.”

  “I got that job.”

  “Regional development manager? Oh, you’re so clever! That’s such good news!”

  “I suppose so.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I’ll never be in London. You come back and I leave.”

  “It’ll settle down once you’ve got it all organized. When do you start?”

  “February.”

  “So there’s a bit of time before then.”

  “Except you’ll be at Harry’s.”

  “He says you’re welcome anytime.”

  “Oh, does he?”

  “You’re not still feuding, are you?”

  “I’ve got no idea. I never see him.”

  “But over Christmas?”

  “I don’t know. Jake and I might be going away.”

  “Kim? Please?”

  2011

  The wedding was fixed for June. The best time of year, Grace insisted, when the rough winds have blown away and summer is just beginning. Eva was talking about wild flowers from the country. But roses are always so elegant, don’t you think? So very English.

  “I’m impressed,” said Izzie. “I thought you’d be frothing at the mouth.”

  “I’ve turned over a new leaf,” said Kim. “From now on, I’m going to be calm and serene.”

  “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

  “It’s true. I’ve been reading books about mindfulness. I’ve decided that getting angry is bad for my health.”

  Izzie put her head on one side. “I thought you’d say the whole thing was ridiculous. Especially as they’re already living together.”

  “They should do whatever makes them happy.”

  Izzie laughed.

  “What?” said Kim.

  “You look as if you’ve just sucked a lemon.”

  Kim hastily rearranged her expression.

  “And you’re going to be a bridesmaid?” said Izzie.

  Kim forgot about being calm and serene. “Why would I want to be a bridesmaid?”

  “Did you know,” said Izzie, “that you puff up like a pink toad when you’re cross?”

  Kim took a deep breath. “I just meant that I don’t think I’d be very good at it.”

  “You don’t have to wear layers of tulle with a ribbon round your waist.”

  “It won’t be that kind of wedding. She says she wants to keep it simple.”

  “They all say that. How many guests are coming?”

  Kim slumped, defeated. “I’ve lost count.”

  “Well, I suppose he can afford it.”

  Kim looked even more depressed.

  “What about your father? Will she ask him?”

  “Why would she do that? She hasn’t seen him for years.”

  “I don’t know. As a way of saying that all the bad things are in the past and we’re all making a new beginning.”

  “You watch too many rom-coms.”

  Izzie laughed. “Look at it this way. At least you’re getting a holiday in the South of France.”

  Kim fixed her with a baleful stare. “I can assure you that being around my mother while she plans her wedding to Jean-Marc is not going to be a holiday.”
>
  “Is Jake going?”

  The question hung in the air. Kim didn’t know. When she’d asked him at the weekend, he’d said, “Why would your mother want me there?”

  “Because you’re my partner?”

  “But your mother doesn’t really know me.”

  You spent Christmas Day together, Kim thought miserably. It was still vivid in her memory, like a bright red scar. Harry’s vast white apartment overlooking the Thames. Lunch from Harrods Food Hall, with carefully chosen additions from Fortnum & Mason. Several bottles of champagne. The floor covered in crumpled silver wrapping paper. The sky outside pale blue.

  It was years since they’d had Christmas in the Nunhead house with all the old decorations—the bald angel with the missing tiara, the papier-mâché reindeer with three legs and a squint, the red paper chains that fell from the ceiling because Dad never put them up properly. But the tasteful opulence of Harry’s version of Christmas made Kim miss all the festive rubbish from her childhood with fierce longing. Christmas shouldn’t be delivered in a wicker hamper, she thought. What will Otis remember from today? How the icing on a shop-bought Christmas cake is so neat it looks like decorative cornicing in a stately home?

  “Will it snow tomorrow?”

  Lunch was over. The Christmas pudding had been eaten. They were all lying around on the brand-new sofas, almost too full to move. Harry, the benevolent host, was nursing a small brandy.

  “It might do,” said Eva.

  Otis tried again. He turned to Harry, his brown eyes serious. “Will it snow tomorrow?”

  “Maybe.”

  Otis looked over to Jake but thought better of it. He turned to Kim. “Will it snow tomorrow?”

  “Do you want it to?”

  Otis nodded.

  “So we have to hope it’ll get very cold,” said Kim. “Zero degrees.”

  “Although, in fact, that’s a common misperception,” said Jake. “The air temperature needs to be below two degrees, not zero. And of course above two degrees, you get sleet or rain.”

  Harry seemed to be trying not to laugh.