One Step Too Far (13 page)

“Had enough of what?” sneered Caroline. “Of my goody two shoes sister or her puke-inducing husband?”

“Caroline!” said her mother. “This is Emily’s wedding. I thought you were pleased for her.”

“Mum,” said Caroline wearily, through the champagne. “Of course I’m pleased for her, she’s my twin sister, she’s in lurve, I just wish she didn’t have to ram it down my throat.” Caroline’s words were slurring now, and Frances knew she needed to get her away from the party – people were listening, she didn’t want any trouble. She looked anxiously for Andrew – there he was talking to that busty friend of Caroline’s again, surely breasts that size couldn’t be natural? Frances had been grateful to Danielle for looking after Caroline the night she'd been sectioned, and for staying in touch afterwards while all her daughter's other so-called friends had drifted away, but she didn’t like watching her giggling at Andrew’s jokes, they’d been chatting together for far too long, people might talk.

“Andrew,” she called. “
Andrew!
” He ignored her the first two times, until eventually he couldn’t pretend he hadn’t heard her any longer, and when he finally looked round he saw his wife with their beautiful pink and orange daughter, who appeared to be holding onto her mother, her legs long and bendy, her eyes glassy, unfocussed. He sighed and thought, what now?
Why couldn't they all just have a good time for a change? And then he went over and it was clear that Caroline was awfully, hideously drunk. It had all happened so quickly, maybe it was the sun, but they needed to get her out of there before she caused a scene. Andrew took Caroline by the shoulder and between them they tried to prop her up, help her to her room.

“But I don’t want to go to my room, Mum, I’m having such a great time, it’s my twin sister’s wedding, I want to catch the bouquet,” she slurred.

“Come on, darling,” cajoled Frances. “Let’s get you out of this sun and get some water, you’ll be fine then.”

Caroline’s legs splayed as her new magenta heels dug deep in the grass. She yanked at the left one but it stayed stuck where it was whilst her foot came free, and she nearly fell over. Andrew pulled the strappy shoe out from the turf and picked it up, and then he took Caroline under the arm, more firmly this time, and as he did so the thin stiletto heel poked into her bony ribs.

“OWWWW. Get off me, you stupid fuck,” screamed Caroline. “Why don’t you just leave me alone and go finish feeling up my friend, you loser?”

The hillside went quiet and you could almost hear the lapping of the sea even though it was far below, the endless in and out of the waves, the earth breathing ominously. It was humiliating for all of them, in their different ways. No-one spoke.

It was Ben who finally broke the silence. “It’s getting late now,” he announced, as calmly as he could. “Why don’t we all go inside, the band will be starting soon, and there’s plenty more champagne.” Everyone moved at Ben’s instruction, relieved to get away from having to witness the stricken look on the bride’s face.

Later, much later, Caroline lay passed out, still in her fuchsia dress, on her single bed in the pitch darkness. The other bed in the room creaked wearily as Andrew lay with his face beneath Danielle’s breasts as she rhythmically moved against him until they both finished, after which Andrew’s self-loathing was able to seep in, gently, like the sea far below them, as the tide turned.

19

As I wait outside the agency, an immaculate girl shimmies up the street and wafts into the building. She has long dark hair like in a shampoo ad and her clothes are obviously designer – a red shift mini-dress with gold gladiator sandals. She makes me feel even more of a frump, and I know she must be Polly, the girl I’m meant to ask for. I don’t know why I feel so inadequate, I used to be quite happy with my appearance, but today I feel like I’m auditioning for a role and I don’t fit the part. When I finally go in, I can tell that she’d clocked me, out in the street, and that she thinks I’m not quite glamorous enough too, but she smiles and offers me coffee and takes me behind reception to show me what to do. Polly is stunning, cool, one of those girls that terrify you, and I find it hard to think what to say to her, I seem to have forgotten how to do small talk. As she goes through who the partners are, how they like to be contacted, who’s happy for their mobile number to be given out, what the top clients’ particular neuroses are, I look in on myself and feel even more out of place here than in a shitty house in North London. I’m aware that I’d previously taken all this for granted – getting phone calls, being told clients are in reception, having meeting rooms booked for me, I’d had no idea there was so much to it. The receptionists at my company in Manchester were normal, like me, not trophies on display like exotic flowers. As Polly is briefing me, people start arriving for work and they are achingly trendy – there are boys in the latest brand of jeans and statement T-shirts with mussy hair, they must be the creative types; others wear thick-rimmed glasses and narrow-leg trousers with polished squared off shoes, glossy leather satchels slung across their chests. The girls wear high heels and clothes I might at a push wear to a party and they carry over-sized designer handbags. Despite everyone looking different it’s almost like they’re in uniform. They arrive in dribs and drabs, lattes in hand, and no-one seems in much of a hurry, it’s Friday after all. At 9.25 an older guy in a well cut suit and white plimsolls saunters in, says, “Morning Polly darling,” then looks at me without interest and just about nods. I smile back and he takes the lift and Polly says, “That was Simon Gordon and he is GOD.” The phone goes and Polly answers and she listens and says, “OK, give me two secs,” then she disappears off somewhere and leaves me behind the desk and the switchboard starts blinking and I forget what to do. I press the button that's flashing and say, “Good morning, Carrington Swift Gordon Hughes, how can I help?” and by the time I’ve finished this mouthful the person at the other end is impatient.

“Is Simon there?” says an
extremely
well-spoken voice.

“Simon who?” I say, noticing two Simons on the laminated list Polly has given me.

“Simon Gordon,” she says, with a “dumb-fuck” tinge to her tone.

“Who shall I say is calling?” I reply, and she snaps, “His wife.” So I look up Simon’s extension, 224, and I press 224 and it connects and after a couple of rings he picks up and I say, “Your wife is on the line, Simon,” and he says, “Oh,” and he pauses and then says, “Thanks,” and I press the transfer button and a loud angry continuous beep sounds through my head-piece.

Fuck.
My arm-pits are growing hot. The switchboard blinks again and I know who it is but I don’t know what I did wrong so I’m too scared to pick up in case I do it again and I don’t know what to do and I’m beginning to really panic now, maybe it’s better to just not answer than cut her off again. I’m desperate for the flashing to stop, it feels ominous, like a warning, and I know if I screw up this time I’ll probably be fired, and then at last Polly shimmers gracefully round the corner, so I beckon frantically at her and she comes across to the front of the desk just as I answer.

“Hello, is that Simon’s wife, I’m so terribly sorry,” I say in my best voice, trying to disguise my flat Northern tones. I press 224 again and look helplessly at Polly, and as Simon says, “Where’s my wife gone?” Polly drapes herself over the wide glass desk, leopard-like, and with the end of her long manicured nail she connects the call.

Polly is a really nice girl. We have little in common and she’s way too trendy for me, but she has a good heart and shows me exactly how the switchboard works, and although it’s not hard it’s unfathomable if you’ve never been told. Simon has forgotten his mobile today, so all the calls he would normally get direct are coming through me, Simon’s wife has somehow managed to redirect his calls. I spend half the morning focussing on not cutting people off and managing people’s confusion that I’m not Simon when I answer, but after a couple of hours I’ve got the hang of it, and Polly has told me that I don’t have to say Carrington Swift Gordon Hughes each time, but that CSGH will do fine. Fortunately Simon found the incident with his wife funny (“It depends what mood he’s in, Cat,” said Polly), and it has given us a little bond (“Ha ha, I’m glad I’m not the only one who’s pissed my wife off this morning”) and Polly tells me it’s because he has a long lunch at the Ivy to look forward to, not with clients or anything boring like that, but an over-due jolly with his best mate who runs one of the satellite channels.

Friday is definitely the best day to have started this job: there’s only one day to get through before the weekend, and everyone is either in a good mood anyway or massively hungover, and so (apart from Simon’s wife obviously) they're a bit more forgiving than they might have been in the earlier part of the week. It was a good decision, in terms of timing at least, to run away on a Monday, not that I knew it at the time of course. It’s meant I met Angel for a start, plus it’s given me the whole week to sort myself out, and although at night my soul still screams through the dark for my boy, for how I’ve let him down, lost him, I'm otherwise oddly proud of my achievements. I’ve done it, I’ve made it here, I already have a home, a job, a head-start on forgetting.

20

Uncle Max took Angela by the hand and led her across the busy road. Angela liked him better than she’d liked any of her other uncles, even her Uncle Ted, but she still wanted to go home, she didn’t really like these trips, and she absolutely hated being forced to dress up smart. They walked further along New Brook Street and after hanging around for a while entered yet another jewellery store. Uncle Max asked to look at some rings, a whopping sapphire one and another with a sizeable solitary ruby surrounded by miniature diamonds, as well as all the more traditional engagement rings. If Angela stood on her tiptoes she could just about see them winking on the glass counter, but she couldn't be bothered, she was bored, and she didn’t see why she was having to be dragged around like this
again
. Uncle Max had promised her a milkshake later, if she did well, so she did as she was told and stood quietly and waited.

The door to the shop opened and a woman entered. She wore black Capri pants and a big fur coat, and she had dark cloudy hair, steep black eyebrows, heavy make-up. She had a look that demanded attention, like a film star. The man serving Uncle Max looked up briefly and acknowledged the woman. The other assistant was already busy with another customer, and so the woman stood impatiently, reeking of perfume, tapping her shiny high heel. Angela ignored the woman and started to take more interest in the rings Uncle Max was being shown. The woman became increasingly annoyed, presumably at being made to wait, and she started huffing and pacing, taking stompy half-steps around the little shop. As she turned back towards the main counter for a third time she appeared to stumble. She let out a soft gasp and fell, elegantly, to her knees, her head flopping to the floor as if in supplication, her fur coat splaying open like an animal pelt. The staff looked on in horror, but they were on the other side of the glass counters, they couldn’t get to her immediately. It was Uncle Max who reacted first, and he rushed to help her. The shop workers stood transfixed, it was the most exciting thing that had happened in ages. Max bent behind the woman and put his hands under her armpits. He hoisted her up from the floor and helped her onto a chair and put her head between her knees, so the blood could return, he was sure she’d just fainted. By then another assistant had appeared from the back of the shop and she gave the woman a glass of water and fanned her with a store brochure until she felt better. Angela stayed where she was at the counter and did what she’d been told. The whole thing was over in a few seconds, and then Uncle Max returned to looking at the rings, although in the end he didn't buy anything. Afterwards he was in such a good mood he took Angela to the cinema to see Home Alone, and he even bought her popcorn.

21

Angel offers to take me clothes shopping. I’ve told her about my new job and my wardrobe problems but I say that I can’t really afford to buy much at the moment, I only have two weeks’ work and I don’t know where my next job’s coming from. Angel laughs and says she’s good at finding bargains, and besides she’s off on Saturday night, so she suggests we go late afternoon and then stay out for a few drinks afterwards. I find myself saying yes, after all there are two whole days to get through, to try not to think through, before I’m back at work on Monday, and I have no other plans – but I hate the thought of going out enjoying myself, especially when I think about everything that’s happened. I wonder if the guilt will fade, one day.

Angel says she’ll be sleeping until around two, she was working last night, and as it’s a nice morning I think I’ll go for a walk – it will help kill some time, and maybe the fresh air will clear my head. I miss our garden in Chorlton now, miss the opportunity to potter around when it’s too nice to be indoors, weeding the pots, dead-heading the roses, or best of all putting a blanket on the grass and playing trains with my little boy.

Stop it.

Brad tells me about a disused railway line that’s been turned into a country walk through the city and goes the whole way from Finsbury Park to somewhere nice, I forget the name. It’s lovely, Brad tells me, and you can carry on to Hampstead Heath from there, and I’ve heard of that. Erica looks annoyed, as if she resents me for knowing and Brad for telling, I don’t think she likes to share anything, even stuff that’s free, and she reminds me again of my sister.

I definitely need some exercise after the stresses of yesterday – cutting people off, getting their names wrong, having to say CSGH a thousand times, watching the clock as the week winds down and the call volumes dwindle. And smiling had felt like especially hard work. But Simon Gordon seems to have taken to me fortunately, despite my shaky start, and I like him, he’s nice underneath all the bullshit he’s surrounded himself with. There’s something about him, he seems to have seen right through me, almost as if he knows what I’ve done and wishes he had the guts (or the cowardice, depending on which way you look at it) to get the hell out of his life too. Two of the other partners – I haven’t met the Carrington yet (first name Tiger!) – are less charismatic: Simon appears to have been the driving force behind the agency, but he seems tired of it all to me. As he was heading out yesterday on his way to his fancy lunch he asked me if I could organise a car for him later, to take him out to Gloucestershire somewhere, and I said, “Away for the weekend, Simon?” and he said, “No, I live there, I just stay in town during the week,” and he seemed so sad and lacking in enthusiasm that I wondered whether his wife was a bitch to him too.