by Jayne Buxton
Marina’s seminars had better deliver results, because they’re in real danger of winning me some enemies.
“IT’S CELIA HARRIS for you. Do you want to take it?” asks Philippa, poking her head into the meeting room where I am seated with Nicki and Paul Delaney going over some new ideas for the Seville Sunset promotion.
“Oh, yes. I have to,” I say, jumping up from my seat in a way that I realize reeks of anxiety. “Will you excuse me for a moment? This call is one I’ve been waiting for.”
I take the call at my desk. “Hello, this is Ally James.”
“Hello, Mrs. James. It’s Celia Harris here. From St. George’s.”
“Oh, yes, hello. Thank you for calling.”
“Well, I said I would let you know whether or not I can offer Millie and Jack the places in reception and year four,” she says before pausing. For God’s sake, get on with it. What’s the answer?
“Well, I’m delighted to say that I can offer you the places. Would you like to think about it for a day or so?” she concludes.
I’m whooping silently into the receiver. “No, no. I don’t need to think about it. We’ll take them. Absolutely no question.”
“Well that’s excellent news. I’ll send you the appropriate paperwork, and a letter outlining how the school operates, and where to buy the uniform and so on. In the meantime, you should probably think about starting them here after the Easter break. Would that suit?”
“Yes, yes. That sounds very sensible. Thank you so much.”
“It’s a pleasure. I’m sure Millie will be happy here. I’ll personally look out to see that she is. Good-bye, Mrs. James.”
“Good-bye. Thank you again.”
I can hardly believe my good fortune. David will never believe that I’ve pulled this off. Places at good schools in London are so prized that I’m frankly flabbergasted that I’ve managed to secure two of them within a week of first deciding to try. It must be my time. Things are definitely beginning to go my way.
I fidget through much of the rest of the meeting with Nicki and Paul. The new idea for the ad is better, but still not good enough in my view. The nauseating sarong-clad couple and the marmalade jars swinging above the bar have been eliminated. But the sunset and the beach are still there, this time with a family frolicking in the foreground. I can’t help feeling it’s all a bit obvious, and off the mark at the same time. Shouldn’t we be trying to tap into people’s more basic feelings about marmalade? I’m sure there needs to be some toast and a cup of coffee somewhere in the shot at least.
After the meeting I feel like celebrating my St. George’s coup so I suggest to Lisa that we go to Papa Ciccia’s for lunch. But just as I’m unhooking my coat from the coatrack just outside Anna’s office, she swivels around in her chair and catches my eye with an intensity that cannot be accidental. Has she got a rearview mirror attached to the top of her PC for God’s sake?
“Ally, I’m glad I caught you. Can I have a quick word?”
“Oh, sure.” I stand just inside her office, uncertain as to whether it’s a stand up kind of a word that Anna wants, or the full-blown, pull-up-a-chair and listen-carefully-to-what-I-have to-say variety.
“Please come in and sit down. And shut the door.”
I shut the door and sit down in front of Anna’s desk, now almost certain that I’m about to be the beneficiary of some sort of bollocking.
“Ally, I know I don’t have to tell you how important this new product launch is.”
This statement is not rhetorical, so I oblige by saying that of course I’m aware how important the launch of this new product is.
Anna continues, wearing one of her stern smiles. “This is the first jam product we’ve launched since I took over here, and we’ve been given a good budget, so we need to make the most of it. At the same time, we can’t afford to let the other products slip. We need to keep up production and sales for all of them, especially Thin Cut, which as you know is something of a cash cow. On top of this I have to say that, with your experience, I do rather count on you to lead the others by example.”
And?
“And that’s an awful lot to do, Ally. Especially when you’re only working four days a week. (How does she manage to make this sound as if I’m on semi-permanent sick leave?) It requires a great deal of commitment. I just want to make sure that we are all aware of that.”
I’m used to Anna making slightly obtuse statements like this. Some management coach must have told her that it’s better to make vague statements containing the word “we,” and allow people to draw conclusions for themselves than to tell them exactly what to do. Me, I’d much rather have clear direction, so I usually ask for it.
“Anna, is there something I’ve done that suggests to you that I don’t have the necessary commitment? Because if there is I’m sure there’s a misunderstanding.”
“I simply need to know that you are on top of things. No, let me put it another way. I’d like to see some fire in your belly. And over the past couple of weeks I’ve noticed a certain level of, shall we say, distraction. I’m sure it’s temporary.”
A flush rises to my cheeks. It’s part shame and part anger. I wonder whether my two afternoons playing hooky were noticed last week. Or whether Nicki has complained to Anna that I’m not giving her enough time. Maybe my distinct lack of enthusiasm for marmalade is becoming blatantly obvious. Or perhaps that weasel who fancies himself the next Head of Marketing has been making snide comments about the “working mothers in the department not pulling their weight.” Any and all of these are possibilities.
One thing I will say for Anna. She’s not one for long drawn-out discussions, and she doesn’t seek to prolong the pain. She’s made her point, and now her body language—fixed smile, hands already reaching for the phone on the corner of her desk—tells me it’s time for me to go. As I rise from her desk I give her the reassurance she’s looking for.
“Anna, I may have been distracted by some personal matters in the past couple of weeks, but I can assure you that I am as committed to this job as ever. And the launch plans for Seville Sunset are going very well. You won’t be disappointed. In anything.”
Anna nods. “Glad to hear it.” What she really means is “I’ll be watching you.”
You know, most of the time, I bumble along thinking that it’s just about doable to work and mother at the same time. That motherhood needn’t impinge on a career and vice versa. But in fact that’s only true when things are going smoothly in both camps. If a crisis, even a minor one, erupts in either, you’re pretty much stuffed. It’s just not possible to cater properly to the needs of a daughter who’s troubled at school and care immensely and passionately about the sodding ad campaign for a sodding marmalade.
At times like these, commitment has to be faked, and I’ll have to think of some much cleverer ways to fake it.
THE LUNCH AT Papa Ciccia’s isn’t such a celebration after all, for me or for Lisa.
“It’s Mike,” she says in between mouthfuls of tortellini. “We’ve finally called it a day.”
“Oh Lisa, I’m so sorry. What happened?” Lisa has been seeing Mike for close to a year. At the beginning she thought he was “The One,” but the past year seems to have been one long exercise in disillusionment.
“Don’t be,” she says bravely, tucking her dark hair behind her ears and taking a deep breath. “It’s not like I didn’t know this day would have to come. After all, there’s only so long you can go out with a guy who refuses to introduce you to his mother.”
The biggest sticking point in Mike and Lisa’s relationship has not been sex or money, but his mother. In the year they have been together, Mike has refused to let Lisa near his mother. In the beginning he made up elaborate excuses involving long trips abroad (his mother’s) and important meetings (his) requiring the cancellation of dinners and lunches, but later on he just came straight out with it. He wasn’t ready to let Lisa meet his mother because he wasn’t sure she would measure up to Emma
(Mike’s previous girlfriend) in his mother’s eyes. Ever since then Lisa has been turning somersaults in her effort to become someone who would measure up to Emma, but so far no invitation to a lunch with mother has been forthcoming.
Lisa’s sister once suggested that perhaps Mike’s reluctance to instigate a mother-girlfriend rendezvous was a sign of deeper troubles—such as the fact that Mike might still be in love with Emma for instance. Lisa seems to have come around to this view of things. Not only does she see his references to Emma as unhealthy, but she finds his constant deference to his mother just plain weird. I’ve met Mike only twice, but I have to say “weird” did come to mind on both occasions. You can detect something closed and tight and obsessive about Mike even over a handshake.
To be honest, I’m not sure what Lisa has been doing with him. She’s bright and pretty, and not yet at the panic-inducing age when women are encouraged to take the best thing that comes along. What, exactly, that age is I’m not sure, but it seems to be somewhere between thirty-five and forty, depending on the woman. Lisa is a mere thirty-one.
“I did it, in the end,” she continues. “I told him we were finished on Sunday. It was finally clear to me that we were going absolutely nowhere, and that I have wasted far too much of my life trying to become all the things he wants me to be. And he couldn’t even extend me the courtesy of telling me what those things were, except to say that they vaguely added up to someone like Emma.”
“You’re right. You are so much better off to be free of him,” I say, keen to boost her resolve. There must be no backsliding on this one. “Thank God you never moved in with him.”
“Well, there was never any danger of that, was there?” she scoffs. “What if Mummy had wanted to visit? He’d have had to hide me behind the shower curtain.”
She will be fine, I think; she’s laughing and it’s only three days since the split.
“Anyway, I’ve had it with mysterious, introspective types,” she declares. “The next one is going to be an open-hearted jock. I won’t complain about sweaty socks under the sofa, or Saturdays spent watching sports on TV, but the first sign of a weird hang-up and he’ll be history.”
“Here, here,” I say as we clink glasses of sparkling water.
“Now,” says Lisa. “Tell me more about this thing you’re hosting next Friday, which, by the way, I’d love to come to.”
I should have foreseen this. You can’t expect to drop an enormous untruth without being forced to follow it up with a few more.
“Oh, yeah. I’m just trying to help out this friend. She’s not sure she wants to go into the whole life-coaching thing, but she’s been advised that the best way to find out is to give it a whirl. So I volunteered. It will all be very lighthearted, but I do need you to tell the truth—just so Clara can see the sort of thing she’ll be dealing with.”
“Oh, I’ll tell the truth all right,” says Lisa with a mischievous smile. This lunch has really cheered her up. Mike, his mother and Emma seem a million miles away. “I’ll tell you that turquoise Prada bag of yours does nothing for you so you’ll have to give it to me.”
If my Prada bag is all that comes in for criticism I’ll be lucky. The Prada is the best thing in my wardrobe, having been purchased pre-divorce when I felt richer and my job demanded that I look stylish at all times. Since then my clothes budget has been halved and visits to Jigsaw and Whistles are permitted only in the sales. It’s the same for the children; the Mini Boden catalogue goes into the recycling box the minute it arrives, and Millie now waxes lyrical about George at Asda, where a pretty summer dress can be had for £4.
Secure in the knowledge that Anna thinks she has my number, I spend the afternoon being committed and focused. I am rewarded with Andy’s report that we are finally making progress on the zest clumping problem, which is good news as production has been halved this month and we’re beginning to get calls from irate retailers about store stock-outs. Returned batches of Pure Gold are beginning to pile up in the warehouse. We’ll need to think of some way of pacifying the retailers next month.
At about four-thirty I allow myself a couple of personal calls. First I call David to gloat a little. I get his machine, so I leave a message that I think conveys modesty in triumph. Then I text Clara, who responds immediately with the message “Fantastic. U r super-woman after all.”
My final call is to the Hamiltons. I figure it will be too late to return their call when I get home, so decide to seize the moment. I ring half expecting to get a machine, but find myself talking to a person instead.
“Hello, Gary speaking. How can I help?”
Christ, what do I say now? I’ve forgotten. Oh yes. “Hello, it’s Ally James again. I was wondering if you got my message. It’s mainly my overhead lights that need attention.”
“Oh, yeah, sure. Sorry, I was meaning to get back to you but I’ve had a lot on.” So he hadn’t returned my call from Friday. Perhaps his smile wasn’t quite the invitation I’d taken it for.
“That’s all right,” I say. “Can you fit me in this week, say Friday morning?”
“Let me just see.” A minute’s pause, accompanied by much rustling of paper at the other end of the phone. “Yeah, that looks okay. Shall I come early, about eight o’clock?”
I can’t possibly have him come when the children are there to witness my dissolute forwardness. And besides, I’ve got the school run to do at eight-thirty. “Actually, could you make it about eleven?”
“Should be okay. I’ll call you if I’m running late. It sometimes happens on a Friday, what with all the traffic and everything. See you then.”
I put the phone down and sit back in my chair. Looking ahead at my week I feel dizzied by its complexity. There’s Alan on Wednesday, Gary on Friday and a potentially life-changing make-over on Friday night. And in between all this, I’ll probably spot Tom again and have to decide whether to pursue him as a duck or the real thing. Or not pursue him at all. I haven’t had a week so full of prospects in years. And that’s saying nothing about the pressure I’m now under to demonstrate superhuman levels of love for the marketing of marmalade.
By the time next week’s seminar rolls around, I’ll have accomplished so much I’ll put the others to shame. Surely no one else will have made so much progress in just a week.
I decide to e-mail Mel and boast about my achievements.
FROM: [email protected]
TO: [email protected]
MEL
THOUGHT YOU MIGHT WANT A PROGRESS REPORT FOR YOUR NOTES. SO FAR AM STELLAR PUPIL. HAVE ARRANGED TWO TEST RUNS WITH SUITABLE DUCKS, ORGANIZED BRANDING PARTY (DO NOT BE LATE), AND BURIED BAGGAGE UNDER CAMELLIAS. TURNED OUT THERE WASN’T MUCH OF IT, BUT WHAT THERE WAS WAS PRETTY HEAVY.
AM LOOKING FORWARD TO RECEIVING CHECK. WANT TO SPEND IT WITH ME AT HARVEY NICKS ON SATURDAY?
FROM: [email protected]
TO: [email protected]
GREAT STUFF. BUT DON’T GET CARRIED AWAY. DO NOT,
REPEAT NOT WANT FRIEND LIKE CAROLINE.
HARVEY NICKS AT NOON SOUNDS GREAT. DOM WORKING ANYHOW.
CHAPTER 18
BLUEBIRD
Sitting in the taxi on my way to The Bluebird I’m convinced that this is amongst the most stupid things I’ve ever done. What is possibly to be gained from going out with a man I have no interest in, and no intention of ever seeing again? I know a book shouldn’t be judged by its cover. And on one level this is just homework, something I’ve been asked to do in the interests of my future romantic life and report back on in ten days’ time. But on another level it’s cruel. It will only prolong my discomfort and Alan’s suffering. Besides which, I ought to be spending this evening boning up on interesting facts about marmalade for tomorrow’s segment on Radio Five.
It’s something of a coup that I’ve managed to wrangle myself a guest spot. Fresh from my telling off by Anna I decided to put some real muscle into our efforts to secure promotional opportunities for the campai
gn, so Nicki and I spent an entire morning on the phone. By an amazing stroke of good fortune, someone from Frank Coopers had just pulled out of Thursday afternoon’s Food of the Week show, which normally features things like the history of the suet pudding, or a hundred and one uses for the pistachio nut, but will, tomorrow, celebrate National Marmalade Day. The show’s producers think I’m the answer to their panic-induced prayers. What they don’t know is that they may be the answer to mine.
For tonight, I’ve chosen an outfit that I hope flatters without being inviting. Long jean skirt, flat suede boots, white blouse with long flowing sleeves and my Uplifter reassuringly holding me up underneath. The sleeves of this blouse have proven to be something of a liability in the past, dangling stylishly beyond the wrists in a way that prevents the carrying out of any practical tasks. Definitely not things to be worn next to a gas stove, but probably just about right for sitting at a restaurant table, so long as there is no soup involved.
When I’ve checked my coat, I walk into the bar area to see Alan already seated on a sofa. He waves to me, and then stands up with his hands in his pockets and starts shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot as he waits for me to reach him. When I arrive there’s an uncomfortable moment reminiscent of Charles and Diana on the polo pitch as he tries to give me a kiss on the cheek but ends up breathing in my ear.
“Hi. You got here all right,” he says.
“Yes, no problem at all. Traffic wasn’t too bad.” What would we Londoners do, I wonder, without the conversation starters obligingly furnished by the state of the traffic?
We sit down at opposite ends of the sofa but turned toward each other. Within seconds a waiter appears and I order a white wine. Alan already has a beer on the go.
The next ten minutes are a bit of a blur. These sorts of introductory conversations at the start of dates always are. (Listen to me, talking like a woman who goes out on first dates every other night of the week.) We do a bit more on the traffic, touch on the weather, and establish whether or not we are both busy at work; we are just prevented from descent into the hell of a conversation about the latest news headlines by the sight of a waiter who wishes to take us to our table.
