by Poppy Dolan
I nod dumbly.
‘That’s a really important realization. It seems to me the work you have been doing has dominated your life, but a huge part of you wants to get back home. Professional work is hugely rewarding before you even get to the financial side, but there must be a balance with our emotional life and social life, too. Do you feel you’ve got that balance at the moment?’
No. I don’t. Not the old Delilah, anyway. She was always working, working, working. She was pretty much always alone but because she worked so hard, she hardly noticed. But in the last few weeks I’ve laughed and mucked about and drunk and played. I’ve found old friends and new. I’ve been around the people I love.
‘Yes. Yes, I think so.’
Douglas grins. ‘Then you are already ten steps ahead of most of my clients, if I may say so. When you can clearly see what’s important to you, your happiness, you can find a clear path to it. I want to talk a little about what you’ve been doing these past weeks – with your family business. The skills you’ve used there. But first, let’s come back to the tabled point about your dismissal. Thinking about the fact that everybody is motivated by their own interests, what motivated your boss to fire you, do you think? I’m sorry to go over this but I think you need to draw a line under it.’
I knock back the espresso, the lukewarm bitterness not all that pleasant against the back of my throat. ‘Honestly? I don’t know. I can’t see it. Getting rid of me meant instability for clients, damage to the company’s reputation, depleting an already overstretched workforce. He must have felt, I suppose…’
‘Yes?’
‘That keeping me was a more dangerous proposition. Which I just don’t get.’
Douglas’s pencil is poised over his pad. He nods to get me to go on.
‘Something made him think I was a danger to his success – his best interest is his bonus, at the end of the day. He’ll do whatever he can to protect that. Devon must have been convinced that I was going to sabotage our targets in some way… But my work was good, I’ll stand by that till the day I die. And you say all my colleagues and clients gave me good references?’
Douglas raises his eyebrows. ‘Beyond good. Rave reviews. Well, everyone I could get hold of. One chap didn’t reply to my email and when I called I was told he’d just moved to a new job. Uh,’ he turns back a few pages again, ‘Clive. Your former assistant, I believe? Would he have any reason not to support you in this new stage in your life?’
Clive.
The headline in the paper comes back to me – about Clive taking up this new crazy-senior position for his age at Next Gen Now. What was in his best interests? Me getting fired and him stepping into my shoes. Ah huh.
Clive.
Well, well.
Chapter 21
I’m not sure which unnerves Clive more: seeing me in the yoga kit of a 60-something hippy or the huge Joker-like smile plastered on my chops as he walks through the security gate of Next Gen Now. I told the receptionist I was a recruiter who didn’t want to leave a name – with a wink to show she was in on something hush-hush. And little careerist that he clearly is, Clive tripped straight on down to the ground floor to find me now leaning against a huge potted cactus. Beware: spiky as hell.
‘Clive!’ I yelled happily, so he can’t turn and leg it, pretending he doesn’t know me. ‘We’ve got some talking to do!’ I take huge strides in his direction and angle my arm around his neck. The deodorant has worn off by now, little competition for the two-day BO stink from my armpits. And to be honest I’m delighted to be rubbing it on the posh navy suit he’s sporting. Because that’s just the first step of this epic karma correction. ‘Why don’t I buy you a coffee, for old times’ sake?’ I boom right into his ear, frogmarching him out of the building.
I’ve never clocked before that Clive has really steely grey eyes. He was always so upbeat, so cheerful, bouncing from one task to another. But with a face like thunder right now, his eyes absolutely match. I stop my march by the weird water sculptures that make a courtyard for four skyscrapers right by Tower Bridge – you can just see the bridge closing its mighty arms through the gap between two of them. From a distance, the water is so flat it looks like a bench to sit on. But that bench would give you a severely wet arse. If I was any less mature I might be tempted to dunk his lying head right in. But there are too many witnesses. And I haven’t come here for an ASBO. I’m looking for karmic justice.
‘I wouldn’t want your new employers to think you were shirking your duties so I’ll keep this short. I know it was you, Clive. The meetings I “missed” with Devon? You never put them in my calendar. The emails going astray? You deleted them. That last presentation you had printed and bound for me, the one Devon felt was so rubbish. You were in a position to tamper with it before he saw it, yes? You convinced Devon I was failing and a danger to the company. That I was involved with a client romantically? Then you spread the rumours, right?’
He narrows his eyes and rolls his bottom lip out in a sneer.
‘Cut the Mean Girls bullshit. You’re no Lindsay Lohan. Just a yes or no will do. I really don’t want to spend longer than necessary talking to you.’
‘Fine. Yes.’
‘What really gets me, on top of all that, is how you texted and emailed after I left. I thought it was genuine concern but you were just checking I hadn’t rumbled you. Right?’
He smirks just a fraction. ‘Yes.’
‘So you got me the boot, stepped into my place. And then used all that CV-padding to land you a swanky new job? Great. Good for you. Well, I was just recording that on my phone.’ I lift it out of my pocket. ‘So now it’s in evidence, let’s discuss how you’re going to help put things right. Back where they should be, OK? You totally screwed my career and now you’re going to fix that. Starting right now.’
Clive folds his arms. ‘I did what I had to do to get ahead. I learned from the best.’ He narrows those grey eyes at me.
Man, that water is looking temptingly cold right now. ‘Firstly, it’s not what you do to get ahead. You work hard. You work smart. That’s what I did. Secondly, you clearly weren’t paying attention to me. Because I’m classy as hell.’
And with that, I can’t help it, I step towards him in a way you could – if you like – interpret as threatening. Although legally no body contact was made. And Clive instinctively takes a step back and plants his bum against the water feature. Aha, ha, ha, ha.
‘Christ! Are you mental?!’
‘Why don’t you test me a bit more and find out?’ If he thinks he’s got the copyright on steely, he’s got another thing coming. I give him the ballsiest glare of my life. Like someone is stealing the last Jaffa Cake to the power of ten. And then some. ‘Pay attention. I need you to action the following instructions today and if you don’t it will take me about 0.3 seconds to google the direct line of your new boss. Capisce?’
With a sulk, Clive nods, one hand covering his unsightly wetness.
* * *
Ten minutes later, he’s walking away with his head full of tasks and I feel a fizz of energy in my fingertips. I have time. There’s just about time. I’m putting things right – back to where they should be. But where to start? If I’m going to pull this off I need all the timings to sync perfectly.
But first things first: I take a picture of Clive’s retreating damp arse. That’s one for the family album. And I will be calling his new boss about this, of course. Whether they keep him on in light of his past misdemeanours is their business. But I won’t make that call today. I’ve got some bigger fish to fry.
* * *
Mags doesn’t hide her nerves very well. She tends to chew on the end of her long plait when she’s worried about something. To be fair, I’m back in my parents’ study, glued to the PC again. Although now I am fully washed and dressed, I have eight hours of sleep behind me and some colour in my cheeks.
‘You’re certain you won’t come? Stan is picking me up and there’s plenty of room in his camper.
I just… I know JP wants to stand on his own two feet but I also know how much he’d love to have you there. If you would just extend the olive branch?’ That plait is going to be a pixie crop soon.
I gently remove it from her mouth. ‘I’m certain. And it’s fine. So Stan’s giving you a lift to the knitathon? That’s cosy.’ I nudge her with my shoulder. ‘And that pashmina looks nice, Mags, I wouldn’t have thought of wearing it tied up like a sarong like that, but it’s really pretty.’
She smooths down the brilliant blue fabric against the navy linen trousers she has on underneath. ‘Oh, thanks! Actually, Stan said he really liked it like this so I thought I could wear it again. Unless that’s a bit obvious?’
I put down my tea and plant my hands on my hips. ‘Hold up. When was this? Don’t tell me you had your dinner with him and you didn’t even inform me?! And did you even get your hair cut beforehand?!’
Mags purses her lips like she’s caught me with my hand in the biscuit packet before dinner. ‘Delilah Blackthorn, I am not an idiot. I know how to socialize with a man. I’ve been dating since before you were in big girl pants. It was bleeding obvious what you were up to with that haircut, but I let you at it because it seemed to make you happy. If someone would only look at me twice after a,’ she flaps her hands in the air, ‘makeover or some such, then he isn’t the man for me!’ She blows out her cheeks and ties her sarong that bit tighter.
‘Whoa. Sorry, Mags. I was playing matchmaker when I should have just left you to it. Clearly it’s meant to be. Are you going out again?’
She nods calmly, but a spot of cherry-coloured blush on her cheekbones gives her away. ‘We’re going to a Lebanese place he likes when the knitathon finishes. Though your brother is adamant it’s going to go on to the small hours.’ She rolls her eyes indulgently.
‘I know. I’ve been reading the blog this morning. And watching them set up on the live feed. Looks like it’s coming together really well.’
Mags pulls me in for a hug. ‘I hate leaving you like this. Please come?’
I shake my head. ‘I have to respect JP’s decision, that much I’ve learned. At some point he’ll come round. Maybe soon.’ I smile and wiggle my eyebrows.
Mags laughs as she pulls away. ‘What do you have planned, my girl?’
‘Wait and see!’
She bats me on the arm, gently. ‘By the way, I did have that haircut, and Benito did me a lovely trim. He said my natural grey was sensational and I shouldn’t change it for all the world. He also said he’s worried about you.’
I run a finger down my parting. Maybe my roots have been a bit neglected. ‘Is it that obvious?’
‘Not your hair. Your love life!’ Mags throws her arms in the air before grabbing her bag and keys. ‘We both agreed that if you put half as much work into finding a decent bloke as you put into your business thingies, it would be a very different picture.’
‘Just ’cause you’re all loved up and smug!’ I cheekily push Mags towards the front door. ‘I’ll be watching on the cameras – no snogging behind the bike sheds!’ She blushes furiously as she leaves.
* * *
I am sticking to my resolution that I should respect JP and stay away from the knitathon but my heart still aches to be there. I have tea, I have Jaffa Cakes; I have the live stream playing as the knitathon gears up to start. This is as close as I can legitimately be right now. All I can do is watch it unfold.
Patti has orchestrated the makeover of the school hall from an empty space that probably smelt of overcooked peas and rubber soles, to a zingy, energized space of colour and motion. JP’s bone-breaking bunting has been strung from the wooden climbing frames against the walls and she’s kept some of the wool hats pegged on to it. I’m flattered! First time any of my visual ideas have been successful enough to borrow. She’s also unwound some of the bolts of our cheap and cheerful tulle fabrics to billow like sails from the top of one climbing frame to another, creating the feel of a rainbow teepee. This morning, she’s carefully arranging wicker baskets full of spare yarns and needles by each chair. Most of the chairs are of the plastic stacking variety; there’s only so much set dressing can do. However, she’s putting knitted and plaid blankets over the backs of them to make it feel as cosy and welcoming as can be, and then at around 8.30 a.m. Ben comes wheeling in a big armchair on a little mover’s trolley and follows Patti’s instructions on just where to put it.
Watching all of this motion without sound makes you focus in on the body language and I can see Patti is working hard, really concentrating with her eyebrows drawn, but there’s also a sense of calm in her expressions and actions – she’s just feeling it and going with it. I wonder if she could teach that to me? I could pay her in hugs.
I’m also focusing quite unashamedly on Ben’s arms as he heaves a chair off the trolley and wriggles it to where Patti is pointing. Ben’s arms. Blimey. That’s something else I have to admit is becoming important to me: perving on Ben from afar.
He then starts to pin up a sign Patti has passed over, in a giant roll. As he stretches, his T-shirt rides up to show his back just above his jeans. I bite another Jaffa Cake in half. The sign says, Come and Meet Our Chester! And has the baby-face emoji printed all over it in Andy Warhol-style colour combos.
Patti arranges some bright cushions on the chair. Oh, so this is where Becks can recline, feed Chester when she needs to and otherwise arrange for him to meet his legion of fans. That’s really cute.
Ben then busies himself setting up the tables, hauling each one from a supply cupboard at the back. And I busy myself watching closely. JP wanders back and forth, checking in with Patti and Ben and consulting the To Do list pinned to the doors. He scratches his chin and points out that one of the Knit for your life! signs is a bit wonky, I think, and it takes me a minute to realize – he’s out of his casts! I suppose it has been six weeks or thereabouts. He had told me, back when he first started having sessions with Stan, that you can’t exactly leap back into weightlifting after being static for so long, but here’s hoping he’ll be able to get his needles clacking again today. It’s only fitting.
He’s opening bags of crisps and pretzels and tipping them into bowls – some bowls I recognize from his kitchen, some from Mags’s. There’s a real patchwork feel to the event and that’s just how it should be. Not flashy, not catered – as I might have been tempted to suggest – but real and all done with people power. That’s what today is all about. There’s a big A1 flip chart on a stand and Patti is now writing, in her funky old-tattoo lettering, Tell us your knit-count! Or how much you’ve been sponsored… A sort of on-the-hop totalizer for today’s efforts.
Ben’s arms are working their magic again as he lugs a giant tea urn onto one of the tables. And although he comes so close to the live-stream camera that I could count the hairs on his rippling forearm, he blocks the shot!
I whip out my phone and tap out a quick message.
Delilah:
Shift that urn. I can’t see!
After two beats the urn moves a few inches to the left and suddenly I can see Ben’s face and a very wry smile. He then looks down to his phone.
Ben:
Stalker.
Delilah:
Shut up. Just monitoring my assets.
Ben:
My assets more like.
He winks down the lens and goes off to tackle more tasks, with quite an annoying swagger to his step which nevertheless makes me laugh.
* * *
It’s just after nine a.m. and the hall is primed and ready to welcome the first wave of knitters at 1ten a.m. Mags and Stan have arrived, bringing with them bacon rolls and pastries for the team to fuel up. I expect About a (Knitting) Boy’s most ardent fans are already forming a hysterical queue outside the school gates, but for now it’s just Ben, JP and Patti on a low, long bench, knees almost to their chins as they chomp away. It reminds me of that poster of 1920s’ construction workers eating their lunch on a steel girder overlooking New York. These
guys have grafted and the day is only just beginning. But they couldn’t look happier.
JP breaks off from demolishing his bap to wave excitedly in the direction of the doors. Becks is making her way in slowly, Chester’s legs dangling from the baby carrier at her front. It must be a shock for her to see JP with both arms free again, too, as she’s soon prodding and poking his limbs to test if they’re genuine. She also jumps up and down on the spot when she sees Chester’s corner, making his legs flop in a very cute motion as she bounces on the balls of her feet. She sits back into the armchair and Mags bustles off to make her a cup of tea. In coming closer to the video, I can see again the bright spark to Mags’s eyes, the flush to her skin. No mind that I didn’t have anything to do with her and Stan finding a romantic connection, it’s just brilliant that it’s happening. And, blimey, who did I think I was, trying to stir up her love life? When mine is deader than a MySpace account. In the background, Patti is flicking pastry crumbs off JP’s knees, probably so used, by now, to him being a giant man-baby that she’s in the habit of tidying him up. I wonder what will happen when she goes off to art college? It seems they’re really starting something. I hope that something can stretch over hundreds of miles…
I check my watch. 9.12. Where’s the delivery I was promised? They said delivery for 9.00. My fingers tap out an unsteady rhythm against my phone screen. Another 10 minutes and then I’ll start making some calls and knocking some heads. They can’t be late. Not today.
