False Advertising (7 page)

‘As you can see from my résumé I've had experience across all aspects of the advertising industry,' Gemma said confidently.

‘Yes, and all under the one roof, the very same one you want to come back and work under again.'

She had finally been granted an audience with the infamous MD, at four in the afternoon at the airport, take it or leave it. After postponing twice, he'd finally agreed to meet her in the business lounge between flights. Okay, he was a busy man, she got it. Five minutes into the interview Gemma was already regretting she'd come. The MD had the personality of a slab of granite but with less charm. And he needed a stylist. Badly. He was wearing grey pants with a white business shirt and a navy tie; he looked like he was a clerk in the tax office, not heading up
the
cutting-edge advertising agency in Sydney. And while his glasses had black frames in the latest profile, his haircut was a shocker; Gemma doubted he'd changed the style in a decade, possibly longer. Clearly the glasses had been a case of more good luck than good taste.

‘You've had far more extensive experience waitressing and bartending,' he was saying.

‘You have a problem with that?' asked Gemma, hanging onto her dignity by a thread.

‘Not at all.' He glanced at her over his glasses. ‘I'd just like to understand how all of your previous experience equips you to fill this position. You worked for a lot of years in the hospitality industry. Then you started here in an admin role, and in no time you'd made it onto a team.'

‘What can I tell you,' Gemma shrugged. ‘I have a knack.'

‘I don't doubt that,' he returned. ‘Your progress was almost as rapid as your departure.'

Bugger. He'd been talking to people.

‘Look, Kelly has recommended you highly – it could only be an asset to have someone with your experience. But I want to make something very clear, Ms Atkinson.' He was looking straight at her. ‘I need someone who will be committed to this
role, not have their eye on another section the whole time. This is not a foot-in-the-door job. I need a stayer. Someone reliable, someone I can trust.'

Fuck. This was it. The man was asking her for something she couldn't give. Not long-term.

But on the other hand, how did anyone know what life held for them next year, next month, Christ, even next week? She certainly hadn't even expected to meet Luke, let alone get pregnant and then get dumped. She hadn't predicted any of what had happened to her in the past few months, so how could she predict the next few months?

Gemma had always held to the mantra ‘Be true to thyself'. That didn't necessarily mean being true to every Tom, Dick and Managing Director, blabbing every last intimate detail about herself in a job interview. She was entitled to hold onto a little privacy; she had no doubt the MD kept plenty to himself. So she would do what she usually did: go with the flow and worry about the consequences once the consequences made themselves known.

‘Mr Davenport,' Gemma began, ‘this is the job I'm here for and this is the job I want. I'll be the best PA you ever had, and if you don't think so in three months, then you won't have to ask me to leave – I'll go of my own volition.'

Genius. That last stroke had been pure genius. It gave her at least one, albeit tenuous, hook to hang onto when and if she lasted long enough to have to explain herself to him. She walked away with the job, and walked straight into a newsagent's to buy today's paper. Gemma had to find her own place as soon as humanly possible. Cameron had made it abundantly clear he couldn't abide living with her longer than he absolutely had to, and Gemma was only too happy to put him out of his misery.

She sang out as she came through the door of the apartment, but only the ubiquitous traffic noise greeted her. She glanced at the clock on the wall; it was probably a little early for either of them to be home. Gemma kicked off Phoebe's shoes and unzipped her skirt, breathing out with relief. God, she was going
to have to start getting those ugly elastic-waisted clothes before long. She walked over to the stereo and flicked through Cameron's selection of CDs: fashionable, yes, but popular? Perish the thought. Avant-garde, certainly, but trendy – he'd rather die. Contrived and pretentious? You bet. Gemma just wanted something upbeat, and eventually she found one that would do. She opened the player and removed a disc, dropping it onto a stack of covers. She popped in her chosen CD, closed the drawer and pressed Play, turning the volume up loud to drown out the traffic noise. She wiggled out of the skirt along to the music, stepping out of it where it had dropped, and slipped off her jacket, tossing it onto the sofa. She danced across to the fridge and opened the door of the freezer, where she knew she would find Phoebe's illicit stash of Caramel Toffee Crunch ice-cream. Grabbing a spoon from the cutlery drawer and the phone from its cradle on the wall, Gemma sashayed across to the dining table and plonked herself down on a chair. She put the ice-cream aside for now: she liked to wait for it to soften. She should have been toasting her success with champagne, but Caramel Toffee Crunch would have to do. At least she didn't have to worry about her waistline, seeing as she barely had one to speak of any more.

Gemma opened the newspaper to the property section, scanning to find share accommodation. She couldn't afford a place on her own, especially once the peanut arrived. Not that she was altogether sure yet that she was going to be bringing it home. She didn't like thinking about the alternative, but it was even worse when she tried to imagine herself with an actual baby, caring for it, being responsible for it. It was slightly terrifying, in fact. So she would continue to focus on one thing at a time. She had a job, now she needed a place to live. And sharing was her best option for the meantime.

However, half an hour later, and after nearly half the container of ice-cream, Gemma was rapidly getting nowhere. She had made a dozen calls but as soon as she mentioned she was pregnant, the person on the other end of the line went into a spin, becoming flustered as he or she tried to come up with an excuse that didn't sound like an excuse. Others were more blunt – no dogs, no kids. One woman just hung up on her. Gemma didn't really blame
any of them; if she was in their shoes she wouldn't want to live with her either. The prospect of sharing a house with a screaming, poo-shooting bundle of helpless humanity was daunting enough for Gemma, and
she
was going to be related to it.

‘He-
llo
!' Phoebe and Cameron had suddenly materialised in the entrance to the living area. Gemma hadn't heard them come in, probably because of the music.

‘Good news,' she announced loudly. ‘I got the job!'

Phoebe gave her a weak smile. ‘That's great,' she said, watching Cameron as he strode across to the stereo and flicked it off.

‘Can't hear yourself think in here,' he muttered as he picked up the previously discarded CD, shaking his head like a disappointed headmaster.

‘Sorry,' Gemma chirped. She wasn't even going to let Cameron get to her today. ‘You'll be pleased to know I'm looking for somewhere to live, as we speak.'

‘Alleluia.'

‘Cam,' Phoebe chided lamely as she proceeded to pick up the pieces of her suit from the floor and the sofa.

‘Hope you're enjoying that ice-cream,' Cameron said to Gemma, crossing his arms and glaring at her. ‘Seeing as no one else can now you've eaten it straight from the carton.'

She frowned at him. ‘I'll replace it, okay?' Gemma glanced across at Phoebe for backup, but she apparently had nothing to add.

‘So, have you found anything promising?' Phoebe asked, coming over to the table.

‘Plenty, it's just that they don't want me.'

‘And to think, these are people who don't even know you,' Cameron sniggered.

Phoebe sighed quietly, returning her attention to Gemma. ‘What do you mean, they don't want you? Why not?'

‘What do you think? The peanut, of course.'

‘Peanut?'

‘The sprog, the spawn, the bun in my oven . . .'

Phoebe looked troubled, frowning and biting the edge of her lip. But Gemma had a feeling it didn't necessarily have anything to do with her.

‘No worries,' Gemma said brightly. ‘I'll keep trying. It's only the first time I've looked. Something'll come up.' She peered at the paper again, tracing down the columns with her finger. ‘I was about to call this one actually . . . where is it . . . Ah – “Quiet thirty plus pref. female to share three-bedroom house with woman and four-year-old boy. Board and bills.”'

Cameron was making a low, chuckling sound. ‘You, quiet?'

Fuck off, Cameron.

‘I am a lot quieter these days,' said Gemma squarely. ‘I'm a nonsmoker and a nondrinker, at least for the next few months. And as of today I have a decent job. I think you'll find I'm quite the model housemate.'

‘Except you're pregnant.'

‘Except for that,' she relented. ‘But if this woman's got a child of her own she might be more open to the idea. I mean, she'd have to like kids at least.'

‘Having one doesn't automatically mean you like everyone else's,' said Cameron. ‘She's got inside information, remember; probably the last thing she wants is another screaming brat running around.'

‘Cam, don't talk like that,' said Phoebe. ‘Gemma's baby's not going to be a screaming brat.'

He grunted. ‘Why should it be an exception?'

Phoebe opened her mouth to say something, but she couldn't seem to get it out. She shook her head instead, made an exasperated groan, then turned and headed up the hall to their room. A moment later they heard the door slam.

Gemma looked over her shoulder at Cameron, but he just shrugged. ‘I'm thinking PMT.'

Dickhead.

‘If you don't mind,' he said pointedly, ‘I've got some calls to make.'

‘Sure,' said Gemma, sliding off the chair and gathering up the newspaper. ‘I'll leave you to it.' She leaned across the table and plucked up the bucket of ice-cream. Cameron gave her a look that could have curdled it.

‘It's not as though you're going to want any with my germs all through it,' she quipped as she turned on her heel and walked
up the hall, straight past her room to Phoebe's. She knocked lightly on the door. ‘It's me.'

‘Come in.'

Gemma opened the door holding the ice-cream out ahead of her, like a flag of surrender. ‘This'll make you feel better.'

Phoebe was sitting back on the bed, a pillow propped behind her. Their room was so pristine that the mere presence of a human being was like an unsightly stain. It was the type of room you saw in magazines, which you could never imagine real people living in. Which was why it suited Cameron perfectly.

‘Ice-cream will only make me feel better for a minute or two,' said Phoebe, shaking her head regretfully. ‘Then I'll just feel fat and guilty and loathe myself even more.'

‘I think it's going to take more than a little ice-cream to fatten you up, Ms yoga-pilates-run-ten-k's-a-day,' Gemma taunted, closing the door.

‘I don't run ten k's
every
day,' she denied. She frowned, eyeing Gemma up and down. ‘Are you wearing any pants?'

‘Yeah,' said Gemma guilelessly, lifting her shirt up to reveal her knickers.

‘I don't mean
under
pants.' Phoebe rubbed her eyes wearily. ‘Could you please make an effort to put some clothes on when you're at home, especially when Cam's around?'

‘You can't seriously think Cameron would give me a second look? He can't stand me.'

‘Doesn't mean he's not going to perve at you given half a chance.'

Gemma considered her. ‘Did you two have a fight?'

Phoebe sighed. ‘Cam and I don't fight. We “discuss”.'

Gemma climbed onto the bed next to her sister. ‘So, did you have a “discussion”?'

She shook her head. ‘No, not really. I just had a bad day, that's all. And my period's due.'

‘Cameron said it was PMT.'

‘Dickhead.'

They looked at each other and smiled. Gemma passed her the ice-cream. ‘Come on, you know you want it.'

Phoebe screwed up her nose, looking inside the carton. ‘Ugh, it's gone all soft.'

‘That's the way you like it.'

‘No, that's the way
you
like it,' she returned. ‘But, hey, I could learn to like it,' she added, taking the carton from Gemma and scooping up a big, runny spoonful that she had to quickly pop into her mouth.

Gemma was watching her. ‘Hey, Phee, I know you're a lot better at it, but I can do the big sister thing. I am older than you after all.'

Phoebe smiled faintly, dropping the spoon back into the container. ‘We just had our quarterly staff evaluations. I didn't do so well.'

‘But you work like a Trojan,' Gemma protested.

‘Doesn't matter, it's never enough. Women have to be five times better than the blokes around them. They can't suck up to the boss over a round of golf. Don't worry, I tried. I even took lessons, and I'm not a bad player, but I'm never even invited, so that was a complete waste of time. And don't get me started on footie speak. Unless you have an intimate knowledge of the game, and not only that, but also the major plays from the last round, you can't follow anything they're talking about. They use it as metaphors in conversations about work. It drives me nuts.'

Gemma could not recall Phoebe complaining about working hard, ever, much less making excuses. She was not accustomed to Disgruntled Phoebe, and she wasn't sure how to handle her.

‘It's a jungle out there, eh?' was her rather lame offering.

‘It's a fucking war zone,' Phoebe said bitterly. ‘Just as well we're not allowed to carry guns in this country or you'd be lucky to get out alive some days.'