by Lucy Diamond
Still, Leila was smiling. Steve had remembered to phone. That was what mattered, wasn’t it?
Saturday began as usual with the children’s swimming lessons in Amberley. Clare had ‘history’ with Amberley Leisure Centre and could never walk into its hot, chlorine-tangy reception without a flashback to her youth. She’d been a good swimmer from the word go – it was the one and only talent she had that her brother and sister couldn’t beat her on. When you were the third and youngest child in a family, such things were important.
She’d joined the Junior Dolphins club at Amberley, had trained and raced there four nights a week between the ages of nine and fourteen, perfecting her technique, steadily improving her personal-best times. She learned how to control her breathing, how to execute the perfect butterfly stroke, how to tumble-turn, how to dive. By the age of eleven she was representing the club in county trials, and was picked for the county squad when she was thirteen. There had been talk of special coaching, and vague, optimistic mentions of international championships, the Olympics even.
Then Michael had died, and everything changed. She’d never swum again, apart from one single emergency, which had caused her life to swerve in a whole new direction.
‘Two for lessons, please,’ she said, flashing their passes as they went past the doughy-faced woman on reception who was on the phone.
She helped Leila and Alex change and handed them over to their teacher, then wandered up to the spectator area to watch them. Leila was a confident, easy swimmer. She was fast and clean in the water, and her technique was naturally good. Her teacher, Ben, had suggested that she join the Junior Dolphins club (they still called it that, twenty years later), but so far Clare had put off making a decision. Maybe when Leila’s ten, she’d been telling herself for the last year. She‘d have to come up with a new excuse now.
Alex wasn’t as competent as his sister in the water. He tended to panic and flail about nervously whenever he was out of his depth, legs churning, his pale, skinny body wrestling to stay afloat. Clare found herself watching him like a hawk, ready to yell out to the lifeguard that he needed help at any given moment. He was doing all right today, though, she noted thankfully.
It was through swimming that she’d met Steve in the first place, that fateful holiday in Gran Canaria with the girls. They’d been just twenty then, her, Debbie and Maria, and it was Debbie’s first trip away from little Lydia, who was having a holiday of her own with Debbie’s parents in Bournemouth. The three mates had jetted off with their bikinis, clubbing outfits and high heels, then proceeded to large it up good and proper in the Old Town every evening, drinking sangria cocktails and dancing flirtatiously with the swarthy Spaniards and the drunk, sunburned Brits. Clare had had her eye on a dark-haired Mancunian bloke in particular – they’d snogged for hours in a corner of the sweaty, pulsing club one night, and she was hoping for a rematch.
The following evening she and the girls were on their way out to their favourite nightclub, their heels clicking through the stone paths of the pool complex, the air still warm and scented with almond blossom. Then Clare spotted the body in the water.
It was about nine at night and the pool area was deserted by then, the white plastic sun loungers stacked up at one side to await tomorrow’s scantily clad bodies, a lone orange armband bobbing in the children’s pool, the rushing waterfall slide silenced and still. And there he was, a limp figure in the main pool, face-downwards.
‘Shit!’ Clare exclaimed, adrenalin pumping through her when she saw him. A single heartbeat later, she’d kicked off her shoes and instinctively dived in.
It was the first time she’d swum in six years, but her body remembered what to do. With three swift strokes she’d reached him and tried to flip him over, so that his head was out of the water. The man was a dead weight, fully dressed, unmoving, but the shock of the freezing water and the enormity of the situation lent her strength. She dimly registered Debbie and Maria screaming for help and then, after several increasingly desperate attempts, Clare managed to haul him over so that he was lying on his back. His eyes were shut; she couldn’t tell if he was breathing. And oh, he was so bloody heavy.
She towed him to the side, keeping his head above the water. His body was inert and his weight dragged her down. No way, something inside her said grimly; we are both getting out of this pool, and that’s that.
People came running to help, thank God. Diners from the restaurant, a waiter, some other men. They helped Clare heave him out onto the spongy green AstroTurf, and the waiter crouched down and tipped the man’s head back to administer CPR. Black spots were dancing before Clare’s eyes now; she was on the verge of a panic attack and her breath felt shallow. In the nick of time, a pair of strong hands grabbed her beneath her armpits and pulled her out, shivering and dripping wet onto the side of the pool, her silky black minidress clinging to her like a second skin. It had cost a bomb in River Island too, that dress, she remembered thinking at the time. Then someone put a blanket around her and she passed out.
The man survived, thanks to Clare’s instinctive bravery. It turned out he’d been drinking all day and had decided to take an impromptu dip, unknown to his mates. ‘You saved my life,’ he said shakily to Clare when she saw him later on in hospital. ‘You’ve got to let me take you out for dinner sometime, it’s the least I can do. I’m Steve, by the way.’
‘Clare,’ she’d replied.
You could look at his rescue as some kind of atonement for what had happened to Michael – that was what Debbie and Maria kept saying. Clare didn’t see it like that, though. One right didn’t cancel out a wrong. Didn’t come close.
Nonetheless, it was strange how fate brought people together. There had been hundreds of holidaymakers staying at the hotel that week – maybe even a thousand. Clare might never have met Steve if they hadn’t taken that particular route through the hotel that night; if Maria hadn’t done one of her last-minute outfit changes, making them ten minutes later than usual; if … if …
It could have turned out so differently. She might have hooked up with the Mancunian and be living up north with him and a clutch of flat-vowelled dark-haired children by now. She might even have fallen for one of the locals (that heroic waiter perhaps) and decided to settle in Gran Canaria for the rest of her life. But then of course she’d never have had Leila and Alex, and they were worth any amount of marital disappointment that she’d suffered with Steve.
She was grateful to him for them, at least. Overwhelmingly grateful to have them, to love them, to be their mum. All the same, if she ever came across her ex-husband in a drowning situation again, next time she might be tempted to carry on walking.
Chapter Five
Polly felt as if she had been dumped in a parallel universe. There might be the same anxious face as ever staring back from the bathroom mirror, but Polly wasn’t sure who the person in the reflection was any more.
For so many years her job had defined her, it had completely shaped her life. The long hours, the corporate uniform, the meetings, the number-crunching, the conferences, the kudos, the glamour, the top-whack salary – that was her. She’d always had an office to go to, always had a diary stuffed with appointments for months in advance.
All those things had gone now, in the blink of an eye. What, Polly wondered, was left? London, Paris, New York, Hong Kong … the world had suddenly shrunk to the space within her flat.
The first day of her redundancy she’d tried to act as if everything was normal. She’d abandoned the TV when she couldn’t find the remote (that wretched cleaner must have hidden it somewhere) and decided to be proactive instead. Treat this whole incident as a challenge, she’d instructed herself. Jump straight back on that horse before it tramples you into the mud. She’d fired up her computer and unearthed her CV, then spent an hour or so buffing it to perfection, adding every shred of experience and expertise she could think of. During her career she’d had to sift through hundreds of other people’s CVs and application le
tters over the years. She knew how to make hers utterly killer.
She nodded with satisfaction when she’d got it to her liking. Damn, she was kick-ass on paper. Almost as kick-ass as she was in person. Getting another job was not going to be a problem for Polly Johnson, not with this document in her armoury.
The next task was to hunt for the perfect new employer. The big four were always hiring and firing, and she knew plenty of names in them all, thanks to her years of tireless networking. She’d pull a few strings, milk her contacts and get her CV in to the very best in-trays, just see if she didn’t.
It was only a matter of time.
‘Hi, yeah, could you put me through to Alison Rothman. This is Polly Johnson.’ She perched on the edge of her seat, tapping her pen impatiently as she waited to be connected. ‘Alison, hi, it’s Polly Johnson from W— It’s Polly Johnson here,’ she said, correcting herself at the last second. She wasn’t ‘Polly Johnson from Waterman’s’ any longer. Her name felt odd without the usual addition, as if she’d been abruptly shorn. ‘Just putting the feelers out that I’m looking to take on a new challenge at a different firm,’ she went on breezily, ‘and wondering if … Oh.’ The words dried on her tongue. ‘Really? Okay. Do you think … Oh. All right then. Thanks, Alison. Let’s hook up soon, yeah? Bye.’
Damn. CVDS weren’t hiring. In fact, Alison said, they were undergoing a similar reshuffle involving redundancies. Not a good time to be jumping ship, babe, Alison had said in her breathy, Sloanesville voice. Polly didn’t think it worth mentioning that she’d already been pushed overboard.
Still, she’d wing her CV to the HR department anyway, mention her old friendship with Larry Truman, the Vice-President of the European Investment Banking division, see if that stirred any sparks. There was no old friendship of course, they’d merely sat next to each other at a conference dinner in Zurich about five years ago, but it was better than nothing.
She picked up the phone and dialled again. ‘I’d like to speak to Henry Curtis,’ she said in her most clipped tones. You had to talk to receptionists like that, she’d learned, not wuss about with a simpering ‘please’ and ‘thank you’, otherwise they didn’t take you seriously. ‘It’s Polly Johnson.’
She heard the line buzz and then ring. She had a good feeling about this. She was sure Henry Curtis had wanted to poach her – he’d be delighted that she was a free agent now. She smirked. Show me the money, Henry, she imagined herself ordering him. Show me the goddamn money!
A young female voice answered. ‘Henry Curtis’s office, this is Sasha speaking, how may I—?’
‘Put me through to him, please. Polly Johnson,’ she interrupted.
There was a moment’s hesitation. Polly imagined Little Miss Sasha quivering on her swivel seat. ‘Um … ahh,’ she said tentatively. ‘We’ve already had word from Waterman’s about the meeting being rearranged, so …’
Polly frowned. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Mr Curtis is booked in to see … ahh … Mr Handbury now next week. It’s very nice of you to let us know that the situation has changed, though, thank you.’
Polly opened her mouth, but her powers of speech seemed to have deserted her. ‘Er …’ she managed after a moment. ‘If Henry is around for a chat, I could perhaps—’
‘Mr Curtis is very busy, I’m afraid,’ Sasha said. Was she actually typing while she spoke? So rude. ‘Thanks, anyway. Goodbye.’
‘I …’ Polly tried, but there was just a click, and then the dial tone burring in her ear. She sat there smarting for a few moments. That turncoat, Jake! He’d wasted no time in delivering news of Polly’s redundancy to Big Cheese Curtis, then. And the receptionist couldn’t get rid of her quickly enough, either.
Screw them all. She’d send Curtis her CV anyway. He’d probably be mortified if he knew how unprofessional his assistant had just been. In the meantime … She pulled up another phone number onscreen and began dialling. Let’s see if Alan March at Ernst & Young had better news for her.
By the end of the day Polly had contacted everyone she could think of, but the story seemed to be the same everywhere. Nobody was hiring. Everybody was firing, or letting staff go’, as Hugo Warrington had so delicately put it. ‘I’d sit tight if I were you, Poll,’ Hilary Armstrong from Andersen had advised plummily. ‘Give it a year before the market settles.’
But Polly didn’t have a year, she felt like screaming into the mouthpiece. She didn’t even want one week without a job, let alone any longer. Someone had to take her on; she was too good for them not to. She’d been a grafter her whole life – experience like hers was a valuable commodity in the volatile world of banking. More to the point, now that she wasn’t going to get her bonus, she needed some bloody money.
She turned off the PC, her shoulders stiff from where she’d hunched over it for so long, her eyes red and sore. God, it was quiet in here. She suddenly longed to see another human being, to hear the buzz and laughter of conversation around her, to moan about the mutha of a day she’d just had. More to the point, see someone who might be able to point her in the direction of her next career path.
She dialled the number of a cab firm and booked a car to the Red House before she could change her mind.
Walking into the Red House was like walking into a comforting embrace: the smell of perfume and cocktails, the pop of champagne corks, the whoops and cheers of a group of City boys … it was exactly what she needed. The opulent red velvet walls were like a womb around her; she was back on her home turf after the disconcerting events of the morning. It made her feel that the rest of the day might possibly have been a hallucination brought on by overwork. For those few short moments, as she strode towards the bar, it was as if the world was still spinning on its rightful axis, and everything was going to be okay.
She waited at the bar, gratified that it was just the same as ever. She knew the faces of the bar staff better than those of her own family, could recite the bar menu backwards if you asked her to. She knew exactly what she was going to order too: a bottle of the vintage Taittinger, a chicken-Caesar salad and some of the house-special spicy potato wedges. She would fill her glass with the best kind of bubbly and celebrate a new start. A new chapter. Okay, so she had no idea what this new start was going to be, but it was worth celebrating, Polly reckoned. Change was good, wasn’t it? She tried not to think about the phrase ‘drowning one’s sorrows’ while she waited to be served.
Who was in tonight then; anyone she knew? She scanned the room beadily. There was a group of male banky types, none of them familiar to Polly, discussing something earnestly around a champagne bucket. A hatchet-faced silver-haired woman and her tweedy male companion – they looked a bit scary and unapproachable. Ah, there were a couple of people she vaguely recognized from the business pages: brick-cheeked Charles Quarry, who was obscenely rich and very well connected; helmet-haired Selina Constable, the formidable CEO at the London office of Hartson International; and Elliot McCarthy, the rangy, dynamic New York banking mogul, currently stirring things up at Drake & Foreman.
A plan appeared in Polly’s mind in the very next second. It was simple. She’d go over there and introduce herself, press a business card into each of their palms and persuade one of them – all of them – that they’d met their new company star. Jackpot!
She’d just have a swift drink first, she decided as the barmaid laid out a slim champagne glass and a silver ice bucket, and uncorked the Taittinger. She’d bolster her nerve, run through a few killer lines in her head, then seize the moment. Oh yes.
Polly took herself over to a table near Charles Quarry and his cohorts and sipped her champagne thoughtfully. Damn, that first mouthful was good: cold and dry and fizzing on her tongue.
Hi, I’d like to introduce myself, she rehearsed mentally. I’m Polly Johnson and have been working as a senior investment banker at Waterman’s Financial for twelve years. I’d love the chance to discuss employment opportunities with you some time, may I give you my card?
Ugh. It was too vague, too undirected. Maybe it was better to target just one of them, zero in on a single member of the group rather than throw herself randomly at them all. Elliot McCarthy would probably be the most interesting of the three to work for: he was a maverick, a true entrepreneur who played hard and took risks, yet always came up smelling of roses. And money. Lots and lots of money.
Perhaps she should go in with some flattery first; soften him up. I’ve always admired your work ethics – actually no, better not. She seemed to remember some dodgy ethical practices that had been swept under the carpet by his people, now she thought about it.
I’ve always admired your drive and ambition; it’s so great to have you in the UK. I love what you did with the Hudson Link account. Slightly creepy, but in her experience millionaires liked that kind of gushing. The detail was good too; showed that she did actually know what she was talking about, that she hadn’t just pulled the compliment from thin air. Flattery and depth – good. Okay, that was her intro sorted. What next?
‘Chicken Caesar and wedges?’
She lifted her gaze to see a waitress setting her food in front of her. Polly’s stomach rumbled violently as she smelled the hot spicy wedges and the Caesar dressing ribboning the salad, and she realized she hadn’t actually eaten anything since breakfast that morning. She’d been too pumped, too adrenalin-fuelled to think about food until this moment, and now her tastebuds were about to go into overdrive. Right, okay. So she’d just eat this lot, then she’d approach the bigshots at the table nearby. She glanced over to see Elliot McCarthy pouring more champagne into their glasses and all of them laughing at something. Good. They were in high spirits at least. Hopefully that would mean they’d be receptive to a spot of ingratiation.
