Susie clears her throat. ‘Yes. Yes, I now have that. I only discovered ... I’m fifty-five ... quite recently ... you must think this very strange, sorry—’
‘It’s fine. It doesn’t sound strange.’ The voice is very gentle. ‘So, you have your birth certificate – have you been able to get any more details?’
In a week when pressure at Parliament has been high, Susie has somehow found time to drop in to the Records Office. Constrained by the weight of work and the endless demands on her time, she rushed in, checked her sealed record, obtained a copy of the court order finalising her adoption and was back out before she had time to examine what she was feeling.
Every word of the birth certificate is etched into her mind, the rounded Rs, the names Joyce Miles, Brenda – Brenda! Her passport to the truth. Another lump of apprehension has clogged her throat and she clears it again.
‘I have copies of the Court papers.’
‘Good. That’s all excellent.’ There’s the briefest of pauses, then the voice says sympathetically, ‘Would you like to come in? Tell us about your story? Sometimes people find this easier face to face.’
Tact and understanding envelop Susie.
‘I’d love to,’ she says.
Chapter Eleven
Mannie flies into City Airport in the early evening. Gazing down from the small aircraft at the winding loops of the Thames far below her, she reflects that the contrast between the huge skies of Scotland and the heavily developed square miles of stone, concrete and brick that house some nine million people in Britain’s capital city could hardly be greater.
London. Love the place or loathe it – and Mannie does both in almost equal measure – she is already looking forward to the buzz that is the annual Confex fair. Soon the pleasure of striding yesterday with Callum along Yellowcraigs beach in an ambitious early spring sun fades into little more than a delightful memory.
Mannie’s world revolves around financial goals, customer satisfaction measures, brand standards, and above all, targets, targets, targets. Her normal week – if such a thing exists, consists of a dozen or more calls to drum up new clients, a great deal of talking and listening, a lot of schmoozing with new and existing customers and far more meetings than she cares for.
As sales director, she also has to line-manage a small and ambitious team, all of whom are in London this week. They are good. Mannie makes sure of that. Her manager, co-ordinator and two researchers are as sharp and efficient as she is. Though she’ll need to manage their ambition too, she thinks as she inspects the stand they have put together in the ExCel centre. Hungry salespeople can be ruthless and in her job the demands – and the rewards for success – are high.
‘What do you think?’ Sylvia Collingwood, the youngest member of her team, looks anxious as she surveys their handiwork.
‘Fantastic. Great job,’ Mannie says warmly. She pats the small fan of smart hotel brochures laid out prettily on the pristine damask cloth. ‘Are there plenty more of these in the back? And presumably the flowers will be changed daily?’
The stand design is simple, yet it looks sophisticated. A table is laid for dinner, complete with silverware, crystal glasses, candles and fresh flowers. A slide show projected onto the screen at the back shows diners enjoying their meal, conference delegates in session, the leisure facilities at their city centre hotels and the glorious gardens and fabulous settings of the chain’s more rural locations. Although this trade fair is designed to attract conferences, pretty scenes never go amiss, in Mannie’s experience – and you never can tell, perhaps some pre- or post-conference bookings might result.
‘They’ll be delivered at eight every morning.’
‘Good. And there’s coffee and wine in the back?’
The stand – a large one – has enough room for a private area behind the screen.
‘All set up.’
‘You’ve done a great job.’
‘Thanks, Mannie.’ Sylvia looks pleased. ‘Everyone’s gone for dinner, but we were all here most of the day.’
‘I know.’ As she will be doing the longest shifts all week, Mannie has delegated the work of setting up to others. She hooks her arm through her young assistant’s. ‘Come on. Let’s go. You’ve earned a drink.’
It seems hard to believe that just yesterday she and Callum rambled across Yellowcraigs beach hand in hand. London seems a world away from that experience, in every sense. There, she enjoyed the simple pleasures of a day spent in wide open spaces, content in the company of the man she loves. Here, everything is brick and concrete and glass, she is alone, and she has to work.
At least Docklands is surrounded by water, she thinks as she strides the next morning from the hotel to the trade centre as briskly as her neat skirt and precarious heels allow. If the sun isn’t the clean, pure sun that blessed her and Cal yesterday, at least she can watch it playing on the rippled surface of the water in the dock for a few minutes. It’s warm here, much warmer than in Scotland, where a brisk wind had whipped capriciously through her hair and goaded spots of colour into her cheeks.
Reluctantly, she turns towards the entrance to the exhibition hall. There will be little time to delight in small pleasures for the next few days.
She is right – the madness starts as soon as she steps inside, where a man-sized white rabbit sticks out its paw and thrusts a leaflet into her hand.
Ten yards into the hall, two men dressed in trench coats and trilbys take a flash photograph of her and hand her a business card.
Further down, she can see three girls on a raised dais dancing a cabaret routine.
I’m Alice, she thinks, in Wonderland. All this needs is the Mad Hatter.
It only gets worse as the crowds arrive and the stallholders fight to grab attention. The buzz is fantastic, the networking excellent – but the number of buyers dismal. Everyone, it seems, is cutting back. The lavish conferences of the past are being eschewed altogether or are being replaced by modest, workmanlike sessions: in, do the business, out. Mannie and her team have to work harder than they have ever worked to attract visitors to their stand – and, more importantly, to convert interest into contracts. The seductive chic of her stand feels understated compared with the colour and exuberance and sheer ingenuity of many others.
It’s as well, thinks Mannie as she smiles fixedly at a woman who stops to pick up one of her brochures then wanders on uninterestedly, that approaching complete strangers and doing the sales pitch is something I’m really good at.
By the last day she’s flagging. A week of being on her feet, talking all day and entertaining potential and existing clients in the evenings, is taking its toll. She can’t even be sure about her conversion rates. Of those she talks to, will half eventually book? Thirty per cent? Ten percent? The odds could mean the difference between meeting her month’s targets and failing. With the end of the fair in sight, Mannie is desperate to secure a good deal. Around ten thirty, she finds herself turning on the charm to a large German from a bank based in Frankfurt. He speaks hesitant, heavily accented English but seems perfectly capable of driving a hard bargain. It’s taking all Mannie’s ingenuity and powers of persuasion to draw him into a contract on her terms.
She sits in the private, screened area and pours him yet another coffee.
‘Herr Leeuwen,’ she says, ‘what can I say to persuade you?’
He beams at her, his large chins wobbling. ‘Throw in ze dancing girls,’ he smiles.
‘Oh Herr Leeuwen,’ she chides him, her voice full of mock remonstrance. ‘I would if I could, you know that.’ Her face is alight, mobile, the hazel eyes expressive and full of laughter, but focused. Something of her mother’s acting ability has, thankfully, come her way.
He sighs, settles his hands on his rotund tummy, and shakes his head. ‘Fraulein Wallace,’ he says gustily, his accent making the W into a V so that it emerges as Vallace, ‘Fraulein Vallace, you greatly the charm have.’ He leans forward, his watery blue eyes, their lustre diluted by years
of over-indulgence in schnapps, staring closely into hers. ‘I tell you vot, you give me the forty protsent, we a deal call it, yes?’
It isn’t a good enough deal. She pretends that the watery gaze is appealing, flutters her dark eyelashes a little and flashes a great smile. ‘Herr Leeuwen,’ she beams, ‘Two hundred guests for four nights, plus a banquet for four hundred on the Friday? I can give you fifteen percent discount – and a promise that I, personally, will look after your party. Do we have a deal?’ She sticks out her hand in the hope that he won’t be able to resist the contact.
Her strategy pays off. He shakes on it. Mannie tries not to flinch at the touch of his soft, sweaty hand and maintains her smile. She’s a professional, clinching a deal. And in fairness, Herr Leeuwen isn’t an unpleasant man, merely a grossly overweight and slightly seedy one.
Her mind hops back to Callum and the touch of his skin, so very different in its smoothness; satin and velvet under her fingers. And he loves her! He has said so! The magic of this comes fresh and fragrant into her mind.
She emerges from the screened area with Herr Leeuwen. They have completed the paperwork and both parties are content. She shakes his hand once more, fighting the impulse to dry her palm surreptitiously on her skirt, but as soon as he turns away, she does exactly that. Then she lifts her eyes to meet the gaze of another man, one she hasn’t seen before. He has observed the gesture and is clearly amused.
Sweet ... Jesus.
Mannie inhales sharply, her breath taken away by this man’s presence. She feels his scrutiny like a branding iron. Her skin prickles and grows hot. She can feel a blush rising from her neck and travelling up her face so that her cheeks, become suffused with blood and grow red. After a minute she remembers to breathe, but motion seems difficult.
The man is smiling. He is holding out his hand to her in greeting. Her colleague, Sylvia, is at the far side of the stand talking to a woman with platinum blonde hair. Mannie recognises her as the events manager for a large oil company. She can’t demand Sylvia’s support, she has to deal with this herself.
But what is there to deal with? A pleasant-looking, ordinary man has arrived at the stand. It’s a perfectly normal situation. She opens her mouth. Closes it again. She finds she is unable to speak.
He seems to have no such problems. ‘Hi.’
His hand is still extended and Mannie realises that she has lifted her own towards it. He grasps her fingers. His grip is warm and friendly, but at his touch she feels a shiver run the length of her spine, as if something fundamental is shifting.
‘Good morning,’ she croaks, her mouth dry. She clears her throat and tries again. ‘How can I help?’
He releases her hand. You couldn’t call him handsome, Mannie’s racing brain decides. He isn’t particularly tall and he certainly isn’t young – maybe fifty? He has a round head and a round face and his hair is sparse. He is stocky, though not obese, and he’s wearing a crisp business suit and a tie whose vividness speaks of some character and individuality. Or perhaps bad taste. He’s certainly sure of himself. His eyes, hazel like hers, hold a sparkle that she finds irresistible. Is he flirting with her? She isn’t sure, but behind the sparkle there’s a connection that he’s intent on making, she’s sure of that. He is holding her gaze with some intensity.
Christ, he’s hypnotised me, Mannie thinks, riveted. She can’t pull her gaze away because she is unwilling to tear the thread that binds them together.
But he has looked away. He doesn’t seem to have noticed her discomfiture. The brochure for the hotel is in his hands and he’s riffling through its pages. ‘I know the hotel in Edinburgh, of course,’ he’s saying, ‘but I’m not familiar with the facilities. How many can you feed, for a banquet?’
‘Four hundred,’ she croaks. She clears her throat. ‘Four hundred.’
‘Still with a stage for a band?’
She nods.
‘We’d need to set it up with screens, projectors, all that kind of thing. I assume that’s possible?’
‘Of course.’ Whatever it is that has swept over her, she has to overcome it, because quite clearly it’s a nonsense. She coughs lightly. ‘We are one of the premier hotels in Edinburgh. I’m delighted to say that we can offer more or less anything you need. Even dancing girls.’ Recklessly, she offers him what she refused Herr Leeuwen.
He looks puzzled. ‘Dancing girls?’
She giggles, then says quickly, ‘Sorry. Silly joke. May I ask what kind of event you are thinking of, and when?’
He asks, ‘Do you have a card?’
She reaches to the table and picks one up off a small stack. ‘Margaret-Anne Wallace, Sales Director’ it reads. She holds it out, takes the card he is proffering with the other hand, reads it. ‘Brian Henderson, Managing Director, CommX Corporate Communications Ltd.’ Mannie passes a hand across her forehead. She detects a faint sheen of sweat and feels a little faint.
‘Are you all right?” There’s concern in his voice.
‘Yes. Thank you. Shall we sit down? Would you like a coffee?’
Brian glances at his wrist, the gesture brisk. ‘A quick one, perhaps. I’ve got a few more stands to see, then I’ll have to get back to work. We’re short-staffed at the moment. I’m just looking at possible venues. We’d need a good deal.’
‘Everyone needs a good deal.’ She glances down at the business card he gave her. ‘CommX. Remind me – what do you do, exactly?’
He grins. ‘We’re not, as many people assume, telephone engineers,’ he grins. ‘We work with large companies, doing media work and employee communications. Consultancy, web design, graphic design, basically. But it’s not CommX I’m thinking of – for the conference, I mean. We’re far too small. It’s for my professional institution.’
Recklessly casting professionalism aside, Mannie ignores the business hook and seizes on a phrase. ‘Graphic design? That’s what my brother wants to do. He’s got a degree, but he can’t get a job.’
‘Oh?’
‘It’s so unfair. He’s clever, he’s really talented, and nice, but it seems to be so difficult to get a job when you’re straight out of college.’
Brian says, ‘We have a job going for a graphic designer. I’m not sure, but I believe it was advertised in the press, either yesterday or today. It’s in Scotland though.’
‘That’s not a problem – we live in Scotland. Thanks so much – Jonno will be thrilled.’ Is he being helpful because he feels the same as she does? The connection between them seems to her so strong it’s inconceivable that he doesn’t feel it as well.
‘I can’t guarantee anything, he’d have to apply through the usual channels.’
‘Of course.’
He stands. She gets up too. Her head nearly collides with his as she unbends. They laugh and he reaches out a hand to steady her so that once more she feels the shock that runs between them, buzzing and spitting.
‘I’ll be in touch if we decide we can use your hotel for our reception,’ he says.
‘I hope we can be of service,’ Mannie smiles as she trots out the usual formula, but inside, she is churning.
The CommX ad is in the paper. Graphic designer required, Stirling. She calls Jonno.
‘It sounds just right for you, why don’t you apply?’ she says encouragingly.
‘In Stirling? It’s hours away.’
‘Come on, Jonno, less than an hour.’
‘I’d prefer Edinburgh.’
‘You don’t want a job?’
‘Hey Sis, you know I do.’
‘So—’
There’s a sigh and a reluctant, ‘You’re right.’
‘You’ll get it off today?’
‘What’s got into you, Sis? You’re not normally so concerned for my well-being.’
‘I am,’ she says indignantly, ‘I just don’t show it all the time.’
‘I’ll get it off. Okay?’
‘Okay.’ She’s about to ask him about their parents, whether anything has improved at home but
he has cut the call.
Chapter Twelve
Archie is, in his own way, a strong man, and not without resources. A lifetime of living with Susie has taught him strategies to help him manage his wife’s ebullient personality. He learned – a long time ago, the hard way – that jealousy is exhausting. These days he is fairly sure that his wife’s habit of hugging everyone enthusiastically is no cause for it. ‘Darling’ is a universal greeting and can be used equally when addressing people she is sweetly reprimanding and the lucky recipients of her praise. He has learned how to hold Susie back from agreeing to every engagement she is asked to undertake, and he has learned how to manage her mood swings.
Susie’s personality is like a seesaw – with himself, he sometimes thinks, as the fulcrum. Generally favourably tipped to the skies, sunny side up, there have been a few notable occasions when something flipped the weight seriously downwards. ‘Calgary Bay’, he thinks, then forces himself to move on. After Jonathan was born; when her second West End show bombed; and once for no apparent reason at all (a long winter? too much chocolate – or too little?).
Archie deals with his own low periods by either playing music or writing it. The cadences and rhythms of sound soothe his soul.
Only this time, it doesn’t seem to be working.
The studio is a spartan environment in which to be living – not that this bothers him. Apart from the musical equipment, there’s only a sofa and a small table and chair, plus a basic shower room at the far end. There isn’t even a kitchen, so he still wanders across to the cottage for his meals, usually waiting until Susie has headed off to the Parliament. However, there is a deep woollen rug on the floor and he has hung thick curtains at the windows to help absorb the echoing edges of the sound. It is these curtains that allow him to sleep late, long after the sun has started playing peekaboo through the scudding clouds of this March morning.
He hears the tap at the door while he is still three-quarters asleep. Or was it a tap? Edging slowly into consciousness, Archie isn’t quite sure.
Loving Susie: The Heartlands series Page 11
