Playing by the Rules

by Rosa Temple

  My interview was with Anthony Shearman. The company was called A Shearman Leather Designs. I supposed the ‘A’ stood for Arthur, Ebony’s neighbour, and quite fitting that his son, Anthony, another ‘A’, was taking over. The office was in Mayfair, classy, so that was fine but as for leather designs, well, that could be anything. Hopefully Ebony hadn’t lined me up for a job in anything kinky and the leather might mean shoes and handbags – two of my favourite words. I’d never heard the name Shearman in top fashion so they obviously weren’t a designer label, but with an office in Mayfair they must be doing well.

  I decided to Google ‘A Shearman Leather Designs’. I opened my laptop on the coffee table and sat on the floor, my back against the sofa, a second margarita beside the laptop.

  I saw that Arthur Shearman inherited the company from Arthur Shearman Senior, long since deceased. They started as cobblers of men’s shoes in the West End of London and branched out into boot making, wallets, briefcases and men’s leather gloves. In fact, every conceivable leather item a well-to-do city gent could require, A Shearman made and sold it. They also owned a small factory in East London. Arthur Junior was recently retired and his thirty-three-year-old son, Anthony, was to take the helm.

  It looked as if most of their sales were online. There was a picture of Arthur Shearman shaking hands with his son at a party. His son was tall and looked pleasant enough. In fact, when I zoomed in on the picture, Anthony Shearman wasn’t bad-looking at all. I could work very happily alongside those looks for a year, I thought to myself as I zoomed in even closer, very happily indeed.

  I left the laptop open next to most of my margarita on the coffee table and leapt up. I padded across to my bedroom and threw open the doors to my walk-in wardrobe. I was on a mission. By ten-thirty the next morning I needed to land a new job and maybe a new boyfriend. I had to look the part. I stepped inside my wardrobe and emerged with the perfect ensemble about two hours later.

  Chapter 3

  The first thing I saw of Anthony Shearman was his backside. He was on his knees, torso under the large desk by the window, scrabbling around for something he must have dropped.

  It was a lovely sight considering the dreadful journey I’d had into Mayfair. I rarely travelled on the tube and never at that time of morning. It was far too busy for me. People barged and pushed on the crowded platform until I was squeezed into a packed carriage, hanging on for dear life, a woman’s handbag pressed against my designer summer coat and a man’s copy of Metro inches from my nose.

  At A Shearman Leather Designs the receptionist, a sullen-looking woman in her early thirties, looked me up and down as if I was in the wrong place.

  ‘I’ve got an appointment with Anthony Shearman,’ I said. She tightened her lips and put on her glasses. Obviously the Stella McCartney dress and tailored coat had worked. I hadn’t been too sure about the shoes, though. I had made several last-minute changes but another would have made me late and Ebony would have marched to my house and killed me in cold blood if I messed this up.

  ‘This is A Shearman Leather Designs?’ I asked when the receptionist said nothing. From upstairs, I heard a great big crash; someone or something had landed with a bump but the receptionist didn’t flinch. Instead, she moved her eyes towards the staircase just outside her reception office and pointed a finger in the direction of the noise.

  ‘Upstairs,’ was all she said before lowering her gaze to her desk.

  At the top of the stairs was a door bearing a gold plaque with the name: ‘A Shearman’ engraved on it. I knocked confidently and heard a muffled, ‘Er, come in,’ from inside.

  I opened the door like an actress making a dramatic entrance onto the stage. My smile was wide and bright, my eyes flashed open with excitement and that’s when I noticed there was no one in the room. Looking down I saw a chair had been knocked over in front of the desk, from under which a bottom was emerging.

  ‘Mr Shearman?’ I asked.

  The bottom moved towards me. It was covered in navy slacks, was quite tight and athletic-looking, and had a back pocket.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Anthony said as he got to his feet. ‘I lost my muffin. Cassandra brought it in earlier. I forgot it was there and went to take it out to the kitchen. I don’t like them you see? Muffins. So I was going to the kitchen for a doughnut. I suppose the muffin didn’t want to go back so it rolled off and …’ At this point, Anthony Shearman pushed his glasses up his slender nose and we both looked down at the crumbling muffin on the plate he held up to his chest.

  ‘I could get the doughnut for you, Mr Shearman,’ I said, full of purpose and as if being a waitress had been my calling in life.

  ‘Could you?’ he said, looking every bit the angelic schoolboy with his tie neatly knotted around a strong neck. His shirt was immaculately ironed and there was not a hair out of place. His hair was dark, not too short, just at a length that showed the beginnings of a wave. He looked at me for a long moment, dark lashes blinking around large brown eyes that developed fine lines at the side as he began to smile.

  ‘Maybe I should just ignore the muffin and get down to the interview, Miss, um …’

  ‘Bright. Magenta Bright.’ I put out my hand and quickly grabbed his for a vigorous shake bordering on a standing arm wrestle. I needed to make a good impression and when I saw his smile grow that bit wider I knew I was onto something.

  ‘Take a seat, Miss Bright.’ He picked up the overturned chair opposite his desk and presented it to me. ‘May I call you Magenta?’

  ‘Absolutely.’ I was grinning broadly and felt assured, which might have had something to do with Ebony’s early morning alarm call at six a.m. when she woke me from a deep sleep.

  ‘You should be up and preparing,’ she’d said and proceeded to pep talk me through my interview technique after having grilled me about what I was wearing. Smile. Look enthusiastic. Be confident. Strong handshake. And for goodness’ sake try to sound like you know what you’re talking about. All of Ebony’s guidance stuck with me on the journey over to Mayfair.

  The offices of A Shearman Leather Designs were old but stylish. The ceilings were high. There were tasteful plants here and there, dark wood furniture and stark white walls with expensive prints hanging from them. The large, sash windows in Anthony’s office sported open blinds and looked across to a small hotel.

  Anthony went to sit in his high-backed, leather chair, still holding the muffin. He looked at it briefly before placing it onto his large, oak desk that contained nothing more than a telephone, a few letters in a wire rack and a half-drunk cup of coffee. He put his elbows on the desk and folded his hands under his chin. Expensive watch. No wedding ring. He looked young for his thirty-three years. He was not as good-looking as the photo online but there was a strong sexual appeal going on that I was sure he wasn’t even aware of. He looked like a complete innocent and the next time he opened his mouth I could tell he was greener than the lining of the designer jacket hanging over the back of his chair. This job was mine.

  ‘Could you tell me a little about yourself?’ Anthony asked. ‘Or maybe I should tell you a bit about the company.’ He droned on for a full five minutes but I kept alert and focused on him, nodding in all the right places. ‘And so,’ he was saying when I began to listen properly and stopped fantasising about his sumptuous lips, ‘Dad said the first thing for me to do was to hire a PA. To be honest with you I don’t really know what a PA does. Maybe you could tell me how you’d go about being my PA?’

  Was this guy for real? During his blah, blah speech about his father and him and the company, I gathered that he’d agreed to take over because there was no one else to do so. His father had flown out to Anthony’s apartment in a small seaside town in southern Italy and had practically press-ganged him into taking over the running of A Shearman Leather Designs.

  Anthony’s older brother, a top-ranking physician, was by no means interested and as a vegan, he wanted nothing to do with leather. Anthony, meanwh
ile, had happily been painting landscapes and portraits for five years and teaching sculpture at the local college while Father dear was keeping him in oil pastels and canvasses. Sound familiar? On the plane back from Italy his father had tried to fill him in about the family business and how to run it and insisted it would make him and Anthony’s mother so proud.

  The short version, from what I could tell, was that Anthony wasn’t cut out for business, he was an artist not a businessman – and he was also a bigger flake than me.

  I began to try to convince Anthony that I was the best person for the job. I told him about my work as a PA to the CEO of an entertainment agency, the PA to an art dealer in Paris, the PA to the head of a charity-run organisation that protected endangered giraffes and the PA to an entrepreneur who made food packaging.

  In my very flowery interpretation of these jobs and how wonderful I’d been at them, not once did I mention that I was fired from every post I held. (Except as the PA to the entrepreneur; he had wandering eyes and wandering hands and I’d hit him over the head with a waste paper basket and run out screaming to the first cocktail bar I came to and called my best friend, Anya, to come and buy me a drink.)

  ‘You certainly seem well qualified,’ said Anthony leaning back in his chair and pushing his glasses up his nose. ‘I need someone who can help me keep on top of things. Dad was here for a few weeks, showing me the ropes as it were. Hopefully you’ll pick up on what’s what. Of course there’s Cassandra downstairs who is a secretary as well as a very efficient receptionist. She was with Dad before me. And we have a finance and wages department that I haven’t quite got to grips with but I think they handle marketing and sales. Not too sure what’s happening there but I’m sure you’d fit in very nicely here, Magenta.’

  ‘You mean I have the job?’

  ‘Well, I suppose so. If you want it that is. I gather your sister is my dad’s neighbour and she spoke so highly of you, it convinced me that with you as my PA I might just be able to do this job after all.’ He gave a weak laugh. His teeth were perfect: straight, brilliant white and with that slight overbite I can hardly resist in man. I liked his smile, I’d warmed to him instantly and now I had a job. And in 365 days I’d be a quarter of a million pounds better off. Where did I sign?

  I reached over and sealed the deal with a handshake before he could change his mind. We rose to our feet, still holding hands across the desk.

  ‘You won’t regret this, Anthony. I’ll be the best PA there is.’

  ‘Can you start right away?’ he asked.

  ‘Well straight away on Monday, if that’s all right?’ I said with a winning smile. I needed a few days to psych myself up. Employment was a major step after all.

  ‘Monday is great. I’ll see you at nine,’ said Anthony. We finally released each other’s hands and for some reason I gave him a thumbs up. Anthony Shearman had me all of a fluster. I questioned whether I could survive the 365 days without falling for him; but by the time he saw me to the door of the building, it was too late. I already had.

  Chapter 4

  A celebration was in order. I called my BFF, Anya Stankovic, and arranged to meet her at a fashionable restaurant and bar in town. Anya was back in London after a shoot in Milan and she was my girl when it came to getting slaughtered in the middle of the day. Anya and I had been friends since art school. I had gone to study fashion and Anya was a fine art painter. We’d met in the canteen one afternoon and, after discovering that we were both skiving from our respective lectures, became instant friends.

  It was when my department put on a fashion show and I asked Anya to be my model, that a fashion industry executive told her she should take modelling seriously. Anya jumped at the chance of having a photo shoot and meeting an agent. Her career as a fine artist would never have worked out anyway. She spent most of her days in the Student Union Bar and very few hours with her easel and brushes.

  Anya’s popularity as a model came at a time when the Eastern European look was all the rage. Her fine features, determined green eyes and slender body got her to the front page of Vogue in just two years of starting as a model. She’d arrived from Serbia as a skinny fifteen-year-old with a strong accent and perfect English. She still pronounced the W at the front of words as a V, which men found irresistible.

  We looked like polar opposites of each other: Anya with her pale skin and mine sandy brown, she with the bone-straight, dark hair and mine wild and wavy. She was tall and fragile-looking. I was tall, too, but full in the bust and butt region. Anya rarely smiled and I could never stop grinning or laughing about something or other. But we’d clicked the first time we met and while Anya had gone on to be a raging success in her career, I, quite obviously, had failed. I didn’t finish my art degree and I didn’t understand the meaning of the word career as each of my sisters had pointed out to me in turn. Yes, Anya and I were complete opposites.

  ‘Vot is this job you have?’ Anya asked as she breezed into the restaurant, causing every head to turn as she approached the table. She kissed me on each cheek, rather systematically, and I pulled her in for a squeeze. I held out the drink I’d ordered for her and she held the stem between long, slim fingers as she sat opposite me.

  ‘I’m the PA for Anthony Shearman of A Shearman Leather Designs.’ I lifted my drink and we both took a sip.

  ‘Congratulations,’ said Anya. ‘I hope he isn’t some boob-grabbing boss like the last time.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I said. ‘Anthony is a sweetie. He’s Clark Kent in these super sexy glasses.’

  ‘Oh and I guess you’re dying to rip off his shirt and reveal the S on his chest.’

  ‘You could say that. But I can’t get involved. I need to keep my job for a year, not fall in love.’

  Of course Anya had no idea about the conditions of the will so, after ordering a second cocktail, I told her everything. She barely raised an eyebrow during my tale of hardship and hard work.

  ‘So, you think you can do this, Madge?’ she asked. This was only going to be the greatest challenge of my life.

  ‘Look, I’m twenty-eight,’ I said. ‘I can’t go on living off my parents and eating out on your credit card for the rest of my life.’

  ‘Vye not?’ she asked. ‘I have a lot of money and I get so many gifts: dresses, bags, shoes, hotel rooms. I can share vith you.’

  ‘I haven’t done anything to earn it, Anya. You’ve worked hard since you were eighteen. You look after your body. You eat weird food and you lived like a pauper for a year in Paris. You made sacrifices and you made it to the top. I’ve got nothing to show for myself.’

  ‘Rubbish. You have your flat, your car.’

  ‘I could never have had those without my parents’ money. Besides, I had to give the car back – failure to pay the loan, remember? And I’m in rent arrears. Any second now I could be served with an eviction notice. I don’t actually own a thing. You’ve got three places to live. If I get flung out for non-payment of rent I have to move in with my mother – or worse, my father. You know he’ll never stop lecturing me. He’ll have me working for him and he’ll drive me completely nuts.’

  ‘You know you can alvays move in vith me if you needed to. Besides …’

  ‘What is it?’ I said.

  ‘Vorking for a year isn’t so bad if it means you can practically retire at tventy-nine ven you come into your inheritance.’

  I stopped with my cocktail glass halfway to my lips.

  ‘But you know what, Anya?’ I’d had an epiphany. ‘That inheritance could be the making of me. I wouldn’t carry on as I have been. If I get hold of that money before I’m forty-five, I swear I’ll make something of myself. I’d use the money for something – something worthwhile.’

  Anya smiled a thin smile.

  ‘Don’t you believe me?’ I asked her.

  ‘It’s not that I don’t believe you, darling. It’s just that you’ve had lots of schemes in the past that didn’t really take off. I mean,
there vos the time you vonted to be a stylist. I introduced you to a number of celebrities. You turned up late for everything and you made Matt Damon look like Coco the Clown.’

  ‘Silk trousers were in that year.’

  ‘Not for a man vith his physique. And vot about the time you tried to be a singer?’

  ‘Oh, that. Look I know I’m no Beyoncé but you’d be amazed at what they can do in the studio. They can touch up your vocals and make you sound really good.’

  ‘But, Madge, no amount of touching up could save you. It vos awful.’

  ‘Okay, don’t go on about it.’ I sighed.

  The catalogue of disasters that was my life wasn’t entirely my fault. Practically everything that happened to me since my brief but tempestuous relationship with Hugo seemed doomed to fail. Nothing had really gone right since him. I don’t suppose my family and friends accepted that Hugo was to blame for all the catastrophes that went to make up the Magenta Bright existence. And anyway, as it had been ten years since he left, they must all have assumed I’d moved on. In many ways I had, but memories of Hugo were never far from my mind.

  I was eighteen when I met him. He was ten years older than me. I was about to start art college and had gone out for a drink with friends. Hugo was on the opposite side of a wide bar in a loud pub where live music was blaring from the stage. The bar itself was being propped up by fashionable, yet totally inebriated folk from neighbouring Notting Hill.

  Hugo looked shiny and perfect in a sea of shabby chic and Gothic black. He wore a creased T-shirt and his skin was olive-coloured. His eyes were almond-shaped and I could tell they were blue, even from across the room. From the moment we glimpsed each other we never looked away. Hugo pushed through the crowd, still keeping eye contact, and joined me at the bar. I had a twenty-pound note in my hand and was about to buy a round of drinks.