by Pippa Wright
‘Mum, if you make any kind of reference to “the rich tapestry of life”, I’m going to have to discount anything else you say,’ I warn her, laughing.
‘Stop it, you – I’m still your mother and you have to listen to me,’ Mum says, squeezing my arm. ‘All I mean is that real life, real love, means you have to risk yourself. Or it’s not worth anything. Would you rather never have known Daddy than to have lost him how we did?’
‘Of course not,’ I say, feeling my throat tighten. Even though it’s nearly twenty years since he died, sometimes it can feel, for a moment, as shocking and horrific as if it has only just happened.
The path opens out into a clearing at the top of the hill. A bench has been set against a row of beeches, and a small brass plaque tells us it’s dedicated to the memory of Bill, 1925–2003, who loved this place. We sit down, and Mum reaches to put her arm around my shoulders, even though she’s far shorter than me. I shuffle down in my seat to let her do it; I want to feel small and protected again.
‘I miss Daddy,’ I say.
‘So do I, darling,’ she says.
We sit like that for a long time.
26
I don’t think I’ve ever been so grateful for a bank holiday Monday – a further day of grace before facing the mess back in London. But on my way back to Peckham that night, unattractively attired in clothes borrowed from Jenny, I start thinking of my flat, dark, unwelcoming and unlived-in. And suddenly I realize that it is even more unwelcoming than I had feared, since my keys are still at Randy’s and I have no way of getting in, short of shinning up a drainpipe.
I decide to make a detour to Lulu’s, where my spare keys hang on a hook by the front door in case of emergencies. I’ve already spoken to her today and confessed everything, and I know she’s meant to be in tonight. But still, calling in unannounced is a riskier strategy than it may first appear. Everyone knows it’s not the done thing to just drop in on friends in London, not even your very best friends. Evenings together must, by common agreement, be decided upon by at least fifteen emails batting to and fro offering various dates at least three weeks in advance, and then, once a date is agreed, it is expected that one party will have to cancel at short notice. With such a carefully planned schedule of events, an unexpected ring on the doorbell in London is to be ignored, not welcomed – only the hopelessly socially inept or undesirable, such as Jehovah’s Witnesses or door-to-door salesmen, would visit without warning.
Even so, I’m not expecting a reception quite as frosty as the one I get.
‘What are you doing here?’ asks Dan, frowning, when he opens the door on my third ring. His hair is even more tangled than usual, as if he hasn’t brushed it for days, and stubble shadows his jaw.
‘Hi, Dan,’ I say with an attempt at a smile, which he doesn’t return. ‘Is – um – is Lulu in?’
‘No,’ he says, keeping the door half closed across his body.
‘Right. Okay. Can I come in and wait for her?’ I ask, taking a step towards the door, but he doesn’t move. ‘It’s raining.’ I point upwards stupidly, as if he might have forgotten where rain comes from.
‘Look, now’s not a good time,’ he says with a backwards glance into the corridor.
‘Sorry, I didn’t realize—’ I say.
‘What do you want anyway?’ he interrupts, his eyes unfriendly.
‘I just – I’m locked out. I came to pick up my spare keys,’ I stammer uncertainly.
Without a word Dan reaches behind the door. He holds the keys out to me, pinched between his finger and thumb as if he might catch something from them; or me.
‘And – and I was hoping to see Lulu, too,’ I say, taking the keys and clutching at the door so he can’t close it on me. ‘Just to catch up.’
I’d never imagined that I would have to beg for entry to Dan and Lulu’s; I thought their door would always be open for me. It’s too weird to find myself standing on the doorstep, barred from coming in.
‘Yeah?’ he says mockingly. ‘Want to catch up on your latest fake relationship, do you? Who is it this time? Tom Cruise?’
‘Dan, that’s not fair—’ I start. He suddenly opens the door wider, and it crashes against the wall. With the hall light behind him, he seems hugely tall and intimidating – his broad shoulders tower over me.
‘Not fair?’ he hisses. ‘I’d say it’s not fair to take the piss out of your friends by lying about your relationships. Who are you to talk about what’s not fair?’
‘But Dan, I’m sorry,’ I protest, my voice choking on tears. ‘It’s not like you think.’
‘Why do you care what I think?’ Dan sneers. ‘Why don’t you just run off and cry your fake tears to your fake friends. I can’t believe anything you say any more.’
‘Dan, please,’ I say, extending my hand towards him, but he takes a step back into the hall, out of my reach.
I hear a woman’s voice call his name from inside the flat. Dan looks over his shoulder, and then back at me, eyes narrowed.
‘I’ve got to go. I’ll tell Lulu you called round.’
And he closes the door in my face.
I’m too shocked even to cry properly. How can this be the Dan I know? This big, angry, frightening man is like a stranger. I struggle to compose myself on the step, wiping my eyes and hoping that my tears might be disguised by the weather now that it’s properly raining. I entertain a slight hope that Dan might relent and open the door, but when I see the net curtains of a curious neighbour twitch for the second time, I turn to trudge down the road towards the bus stop for Peckham.
As I put the key in my front door, I hear a man’s voice shout, ‘Lizzy!’
My treacherous heart leaps into my mouth for a second – Dan? Randy?
As I turn, I’m hit by four sharp flashes from a powerful camera, and a man runs away down the street. I feel like I’ve been mugged on my doorstep and instantly burst into tears. On top of everything else, I come to the horrible realization that Randy and I remain a big enough news story for some paparazzo to bother hanging outside my house on a wet bank holiday Monday. Far from being over, this story has in some ways only just begun.
Hassan from the downstairs flat opens his door a crack as I shut the front door behind me, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. Inside I can hear the noise of the television.
‘Okay?’ he asks.
‘Hi, Hassan – thanks for checking. I’m fine,’ I sniff, and give him a wobbly smile.
‘Okay,’ he says.
‘Are you okay? How are the children?’
‘Okay.’ Most of our conversations go something like this; I’m not sure he knows more than a few words of English, but he, his wife and their four almond-eyed children always exchange shy, polite greetings with me in the hallway.
‘You been away?’ he asks. ‘Back now?’
‘Yes, that’s right, I’m back now. Back for good,’ I say, and let myself into my dark, cold flat.
27
The next morning I’m nearly at the door of the office when my phone buzzes with a message from Camilla asking me to meet her at a café in Sloane Square instead of at work. It’s not that I’m surprised she’d choose Sloane Square – this is Camilla we’re talking about, after all: her sisters are called Caroline and Sophie, and I know there’s more than one velvet headband in her wardrobe – but I don’t understand why she wants to see me out of the office. My stomach lurches with sick anticipation.
Until I received that message, I’d convinced myself I was clawing back some semblance of my old life. I’d welcomed my morning routine like an old friend after the weeks with Randy. Hello, morning run around Peckham Rye. Hello, Radio 4 in the background. Hello, own bathroom, own bedroom, own wardrobe. Shoving Jenny’s old clothes in the laundry basket, I’d dressed with great care, as if each item was a piece of bullet-proof clothing that would protect me from attack: studded strappy heels, a pencil skirt, a shoulder-padded blazer over my T-shirt, immaculate make-up. I’m not going to let anyone s
ee this has got me down. I’ve replied to all the texts on my phone and declined kiss-and-tell offers from two national newspapers. The slate is clean. My life begins again today.
Camilla hasn’t arrived yet, so I order a cappuccino from the slick-haired young waiter and look around the room, which is tiled from floor to ceiling, making it feel like we’re all sitting at the bottom of a rather glamorous swimming pool. Three coltish schoolgirls giggle over their coffees by the window, flicking their blonde hair over their shoulders. Whatever are they doing up so early in the last week of the school holidays? An ancient lady with a Margaret Thatcher helmet of hair sips tea, staring into the distance as her black pug lies snoring under the table. She sees me looking and purses her red-lipsticked mouth. I smile at her and she inclines her head in gracious acknowledgement.
When Camilla arrives, I see immediately that she carries nothing with her other than her red patent-leather handbag. For some reason, this deviation from her normal pack-horse routine alarms me more than the meeting itself. As she allows the waiter to pull out her chair, I see she’s even had a manicure. Something is definitely up. With brisk efficiency, she takes out a small hot-pink leather notebook from her bag and pulls a silver pencil out of its spine. She opens the notebook and looks at me with a grave expression. I feel as if we’ve swapped roles but no one’s told me. Now she’s all organized and capable, while I’m the clueless bringer of chaos. Perhaps even now there is an undetected smear of baby food on my skirt.
‘So,’ she says finally. ‘Would you like to tell me precisely what’s been going on?’
‘Regarding . . . ?’ I say uncertainly. I seem to incriminate myself every time I open my mouth at the moment, so I’m not about to volunteer anything Camilla doesn’t know.
‘Let’s start with Randy Jones,’ says Camilla, reading from a scribbled list in the notebook. ‘Followed by kiwi fruits, Declan Costelloe, Jemima, and the fact that you ran out of Randy’s after-party on Saturday without a word to anyone.’
‘I’m sorry I ran out,’ I begin. ‘I just found myself in a situation I couldn’t handle. I’m afraid I panicked. I should have told you.’
‘Perhaps you should also have told me that you were having an affair with Randy?’ says Camilla, coolly sipping her coffee and replacing the cup in the saucer as I stare at her, open-mouthed.
‘Er, right – yes, I probably should have,’ I say, squirming in my seat with embarrassment.
‘Really, Lizzy,’ says Camilla briskly. ‘I thought much better of you than that. I thought you were a professional, not one of those silly girls who’d fall for Randy’s tired old lines. Let me guess – did he tell you that you were different from all the other girls?’
‘I, er . . .’ I stammer, allowing my hair to drop forward and hide my burning face.
‘And so you thought you’d have a little fun, did you? You thought you’d risk the company’s relationship with its star client just so you could get a big celebrity notch on your bedpost? I’d expect this of someone like Mel, but not of you, Lizzy.’
‘Camilla!’ I exclaim. ‘It wasn’t like that! I never jeopardized anything. You have no idea what I had to do to make sure Randy stayed in line.’
‘Oh, I have a pretty good idea what you did,’ says Camilla with a brittle laugh. ‘I thought I could trust you to behave appropriately, no matter what the situation. I’m very disappointed to find out that’s not true.’
‘What about Jemima?’ I burst out furiously. It’s not like I’m the only one at Carter Morgan who’s fallen for the Randy Jones charm offensive.
‘Jemima,’ Camilla huffs, casting her eyes to the ceiling. ‘Jemima Morgan is even more of a fool than you are. She thought sleeping with Randy would make him want to be her client instead of mine.’
‘So that’s why—’ I say. ‘But he wouldn’t—’
Camilla lets out a harsh burst of laughter.
‘You should know as well as I do that Randy has a fierce Madonna/whore complex. Now that he’s slept with Jemima, there’s no way he’ll consider her as someone who might represent him. And the same goes for you.’
‘Are you – are you calling me a whore?’ I ask, hardly able to believe my ears. For a moment I think Camilla is about to burst out laughing – her eyes have a peculiar glint to them. But her face remains serious.
‘Well, you’re certainly not a Madonna, are you?’ she asks tartly. First Dan, now Camilla. Is everyone going to turn on me?
I don’t reply. I can’t.
‘Lizzy,’ she says, snapping shut her notebook. ‘You can consider this a formal warning.’
‘Just a minute,’ I say, suddenly enraged. I no longer care about the consequences. ‘None of this would have happened if you and Jemima hadn’t put me in this situation in the first place. You told me to act like Randy’s girlfriend. I did. And I would have thought, after everything I’ve done for you, that you could cut me a bit of slack for getting – well, carried away.’
‘Everything you’ve done for me?’ says Camilla in a dangerously calm tone. ‘Would that include making out that I am some kind of incompetent who can’t be trusted to make a decision without being saved by the sainted Lizzy Harrison?’
‘I haven’t—’ I splutter.
‘Yes you have,’ says Camilla. ‘I’m not saying I’m not grateful to you, but you should have demonstrated a little faith in me as your boss. Have I ever let you down before?’
‘No,’ I mumble, ‘but—’
‘But nothing. You have let me down, Lizzy, and you need to seriously consider your position at Carter Morgan.’ She glances at her watch. ‘I’ve got a conference call at eleven. We need to get back to the office.’
‘But I—’
‘Now,’ says Camilla, standing up.
We don’t speak a word on the way back to the office; in fact Camilla strides ahead while I trail five paces behind her like a dutiful Muslim wife. I am seething. I can’t believe she would turn on me like this. She isn’t who I thought she was. This job isn’t what I thought it was. First I’m forced to be the fake girlfriend of a celebrity, and then I get a formal warning for taking my role a little too seriously.
When we get to the office it’s nearly eleven and there’s a distinct scent of cigarette smoke in the corridor. The door to Jemima’s office is closed, as if we won’t know it’s her, back on the tabs again. Whenever Jemima falls off the cigarette wagon, it’s like a smoke signal to the rest of us: keep your head down, avoid eye contact, be prepared to fling yourself under your desk in a commando roll rather than face her wrath. There is even a rumour that, on one such smoking day, she threw a stapler at a work-experience girl, but no one’s ever been able to prove it. (Though that sixteen-year-old who’d been doing the photocopying did leave very abruptly, come to think of it.) There’s a tangibly hysterical atmosphere, and even the usually sanguine Winston is anxious.
‘It’s a Health and Safety violation, Mrs Carter,’ he calls as we pass reception.
‘It certainly is, Winston – I’ll sort this out,’ says Camilla.
She strides through the cubicles towards Jemima’s office. Every head turns to watch her pass. She flings open the door and a cloud of smoke emerges, as if she’s entering the lair of a monster. And then she slams the door behind her. It feels like the whole office is holding its breath.
And suddenly everyone is overcome with the urge to make a cup of tea or coffee in the small kitchen opposite Jemima’s office. It’s like one of those how-many-people-can-you-fit-in-a-phone-box competitions as secretaries jostle with account execs and the surprisingly aggressive work-experience boy to get a spot near enough the door for the best view of Jemima’s office, but close enough to the kettle to be able to pretend to be busy in the kitchen should either she or Camilla emerge. I pretend to be reading the laminated “What to do in Case of Fire” leaflet that’s stuck on a pinboard just outside the kitchen. Everyone is hissing at everyone else to shush.
The kitchen falls silent as everyone strains to he
ar any suggestion of a raised voice from Jemima’s office, but there’s nothing.
‘Lizzy,’ hisses Mel from within the kitchen scrum.
‘Yes,’ I answer mildly, still pretending to be engrossed in Human Resources literature.
‘You were out with Camilla this morning – what’s going on? Is this about Randy Jones and that Jazmeen slapper?’
‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ I say, thankful that self-obsessed Mel’s first thought is for office politics rather than how I might feel about it as Randy’s nominal girlfriend.
There’s a muffled thud from behind the closed door. Everyone gasps.
‘Do you think that was the stapler?’ whispers Lucy, eyes wide.
‘Definitely not,’ says Mel. ‘I removed all heavy objects from Jemima’s desk when she went to the loo earlier. It was obvious how this day was going to go.’
‘So what do you know?’ Francoise asks Mel from underneath the armpit of Josh, the work-experience boy, who has claimed pole position in the doorway.
‘Nothing,’ says Mel, rolling her eyes, ‘but something’s going on with her and Camilla.’
There’s another thud from Jemima’s office, and this time Josh, who’s a good foot taller than the rest of us, swears he can see, over the top of the frosted glass, Jemima slamming her hand down on her desk for emphasis.
‘What’s Camilla doing?’ asks Francoise eagerly.
‘I can’t . . . quite . . . see . . .’ says Josh, eyes goggling as he strains higher.
The handle to Jemima’s office door turns sharply and the stack of people in the kitchen doorway collapses into its component parts: Francoise and Lucy busy themselves by the kettle, Mel picks up a mug and intently examines its cleanliness, Josh flees to his desk. Two terrified assistants actually duck behind a partition as if a stapler might be hurled at any moment. But Camilla emerges with a serene, ‘Morning,’ to everyone as she passes the kitchen. Jemima is glimpsed for a brief moment, and closes her door again, shutting herself back into the gloom. Tendrils of smoke curl in her wake.
