The Importance of Being Married (10 page)

“No. You’ve had your way with the hair, and I’m wearing the makeup. But I’m not saying that I’m a hot babe.”

“Yes you are. If you don’t say it, you won’t believe it. So until you do, you’re not leaving,” Helen commanded.

“But I don’t believe it.”

“Look, Jess, we can do this the easy way or the hard way. You can say it and go, or…or we can stay here all morning until you do.”

“You can’t make me,” I said flatly.

“I’ve double-locked the front door and hidden your key.”

My eyes widened. “You haven’t…”

“Say it.”

I stared at her pleadingly for a few seconds, but her face remained impassive. Eventually, I slumped. “I am Jessica Wild,” I mumbled. “Hot babe.”

“
Who
—? Come on, finish the sentence.”

“Who Anthony Milton is going to fall madly in love with,” I muttered. “Except he won’t. Helen, this is stupid.”

“No it isn’t. Come on, again. I’m Jessica Wild, hot babe, and I’m charming, impetuous, and gorgeous.”

“I am Jessica Wild,” I sighed. “Hot babe. I’m charming, impetuous, and…”

“And gorgeous.”

“And gorgeous,” I repeated uncomfortably. I could imagine Grandma shaking her head at me.

“Now say it like you mean it.”

I looked at Helen irritably. I was going to be late to work at this rate. “But I don’t mean it.”

“You better mean it. What time are you meant to be at work?”

I looked at my watch. “I have to go now,” I said. “Right now.”

“So say it again.”

I narrowed my eyes, doing a quick calculation of being late to work versus the humiliation of doing what Helen was telling me to do. Then I shrugged. “Fine. I am Jessica Wild.” I tossed my hair. “I am a hot babe, and Anthony Milton is going to fall madly in love with me.”

“Who are you?”

“Jessica Wild.” Big toothy grin.

“And now with the smile we practiced?”

“Jessica Wild.” I pouted, for effect.

“And what are you?”

“A hot babe, who’s charming, impetuous, and charming.” I gave Helen a little wiggle of my hips just for good measure, just to make sure she let me out.

“And who’s going to fall madly in love with you?”

“Anthony Milton.”

“Good,” Helen said, taking out her key. “And now you can go. No you can’t. You can’t take that handbag. Here, have one of mine.”

I looked at her incredulously as Helen decanted the contents of my bag into one of her latest acquisitions.

“Like the bag matters,” I said, rolling my eyes.

“The bag? Of course it matters. Bags are your calling card,” Helen said, firmly. “Bags say everything that needs to be said. Well, bags and shoes.”

“Great, I’ll remember that,” I said dismissively, grabbing the bag and waiting for Helen to unlock the door. Then, cautiously (there’s no other way to walk in two-and-a-half-inch heels), I made my way down the road toward the tube station.

By the time I got off the tube at Farringdon, my feet felt like they were bleeding. For all I knew, they probably
were.
Whoever had designed the shoes that Helen had forced on me either hated women, hated feet, or never actually wore shoes themselves.

Irritably, feeling about as far from “Jessica Wild hot babe” as it was possible to feel, I hobbled into the coffee shop on the corner for my usual (small cappuccino, no chocolate, since you ask), and waited in line.

“Coffee?”

I smiled. “Just the usual, thanks.”

Gary, the man behind the counter, frowned. Then he grinned. “Is you? You different.”

I blushed awkwardly. He thought I looked ridiculous. And he was right.

“You do your hair? Is nice!” he continued. “Very glamorous lady.”

“Hardly.” I bit my lip. “It’s far too shiny. Not practical at all.”

“No, is good.” Gary was still grinning at me. “Is very good. I like.” He wasn’t actually called Gary, he’d told me once; he was Polish and called Gerik but whenever people asked him his name, he’d had to repeat himself about a million times and then the person he was talking to still seemed to think he’d said “Gary,” so eventually he’d given up correcting them.

He turned around and started to make my cappuccino. Then, when it was finished, he handed it to me. “No money,” he insisted when I tried to hand him two pound coins. “And you take this pastry, too. From me. Present.”

“Present?” I looked at him in alarm. He felt sorry for me. That was the only explanation. “No, no, you have to take money, Gary. Here…”

But he held up his hand. And then he winked. Frowning, I turned around to see whom he was winking at. But there was no one there, and when I turned back he winked again. “On the house,” he said, firmly.

“Really?” My eyes widened in surprise.

“Really. For brighten up the day.” Brightening up his day? I’d never, to my knowledge, brightened up anyone’s day before. Gary shot me a big grin and I managed to smile back, sort of, before turning uncertainly and making my way out.

“I’ll brighten up your day if you give me a free croissant,” I heard a woman offer as I pulled open the door.

“Bright enough, thanks,” I heard Gary say gruffly. “And you keep smiling like that, I make you pay double.”

Unsteadily, I made my way down the road toward Milton Advertising. As I approached the door, my phone rang and I transferred my coffee and pastry to my left hand, then pulled out my mobile.
HOME
was flashing on the screen.

“Hello?”

“I forgot to say, keep your head up. You always look at the floor. So don’t.”

I sighed. “Aren’t you meant to be applying for jobs today?” I asked.

“I am,” Helen said quickly. “But you’re my priority.”

“Well, thanks,” I said. “And I’ll keep my head up if you get your résumé together.”

“If you make this work, I won’t need a job. You’ll be a millionaire and I can be your paid companion,” she said.

“’Bye Helen.” I put my phone back in my pocket. As I did, I saw Anthony through the glass doors. He was on his way out; immediately I felt myself tense up.

Awkwardly, I pushed the door in front of me, but Anthony pulled it at the same time and instead of walking through, head held high, I fell forward, knocking into him. Quickly I pulled myself backward, but my legs, unused to balancing on high heels the width of a pin, swiveled under me; as I reached out to grab something—anything—to stop me from falling, I let go of my cup of coffee, which tumbled, as if in slow motion, toward the floor, toward Anthony, splashing his shoes, missing his trousers by about an inch. I would have followed it, too, if Anthony hadn’t reached out to catch me.

“Fuck! I mean, oh God. I’m sorry.” My face drained of blood.

Anthony looked at me for a moment, his clear blue eyes slightly bigger than normal, a startled expression on his face. Then he grinned and held out his hand, steering me into an upright position.

“Jessica. Feeling better this morning?”

I gulped. “Yes. Thank you,” I stammered. “And sorry. About the coffee.”

“Don’t be,” he said, still smiling. “It was my fault. Nice shoes, by the way. Are they new?”

I nodded, uncertainly, as he held the door open for me.

“See you, then.” He winked at me, then turned and strode purposefully toward his office, leaving me staring after him. Shoes? Why on earth did he like my shoes?

“Jess?”

I arrived at my desk to find Marcia staring at me.

“Hi, Marcia.” I sat down heavily on my chair and turned on my computer.

“You’ve…you’ve done something.” She was looking at me suspiciously.

“I just had a haircut.”

“What, yesterday? I thought you were ill?”

My face flushed. “My…flatmate did it. To cheer me up,” I lied.

Marcia’s eyes narrowed. “Your flatmate?”

I nodded, hoping she wouldn’t ask any more questions. Luckily she picked up a file instead.

“So I take it you’re better now? No more fainting fits to get attention?” she said, archly.

I nodded, checking that my phone was safely in my pocket. “I’m fine.”

“Good.” She sighed and leaned back in her chair. “So, listen, you know the Jarvis account?”

I slipped off my shoes. “Sure. The bank.” It was a new account that Marcia had taken on, in spite of her protestations that she knew nothing about finance.

Marcia nodded. “It’s just that I need a PowerPoint presentation done,” she said. “And you’re so good at them…You wouldn’t help me out, would you?”

I looked at her archly. “Marcia, I’ve explained how to use PowerPoint. It’s really very simple…”

She smiled. “I know, I know. But you’re so much better than me. I just thought, since you were out all day yesterday, you might give me a hand…”

“Fine,” I said, sighing and taking the file. “So when do you need the presentation by?”

She flinched slightly. “Ten
AM
.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Today.”

I stared at her. “Today? That’s in…like…one hour.”

“I know, I know.” Marcia’s eyes widened like a puppy’s. “I should have gotten it done before, but I’ve been so busy. I mean,
I
haven’t managed to have
my
hair cut in weeks…” She looked at me hopefully and I reddened. I knew the haircut was a bad idea.

“Sure,” I said levelly. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thanks, Jess. You’re a star.” Marcia winked at me, waited for me to smile back, then picked up her phone. “Hi, Net-A-Porter? Yes, I wonder if you could tell me a bit more about a Marc Jacobs dress I’ve got my eye on…”

I opened the file. Inside was a twenty-page spec from Jarvis Private Banking, which was planning to launch a new investment fund specifically aimed at women—young professional women who had never considered investment funds before—and it wanted an advertising firm to come up with a name, a brand, and a concept that would make it sound fun, cool, aspirational, and desirable.

Attached to the spec were two sheets of A4, on which Marcia had scribbled some barely legible notes. They read:

• Chester Rydall, chief exec. From New York. Smart suit.

• Blue chip, needs weight.

• Women—young. Colors? Logo? Bright, not cheap, not tacky. Expensive.

• Aspirational? How to…?

• Organic farmers market—find out what kale is??

• Angel book. Do I have Guardian Angel? Can I harness?

• Sample sale, Kensington Church Street, Sat. 12
PM
. MUST REMEMBER!!!

On the other page, she had helpfully written a shopping list of all the things she was hoping to buy at the sample sale, including a pair of black trousers and a cocktail dress that worked with her new handbag.

I stared at the list. These weren’t notes for a pitch. They weren’t even close. Was this some kind of a joke that I didn’t understand?

“Working hard?” I lifted my head to see Anthony leaning over me and quickly closed the file again. “Only I thought you might like one of these. You know, since your other one got…knocked over. I’m terribly sorry about that, by the way.”

He put a coffee down in front of me and I stared at it, uncomprehendingly. “You…you got this for me?” I asked.

“I didn’t know how you took it,” Anthony continued easily. “So I brought you some sugar.”

“Sugar,” I repeated blankly. Anthony Milton had just bought me a coffee. It was just so…unexpected.

“That’s right. I hope you don’t mind?”

“Mind? No, no, I don’t mind,” I managed to say. He smiled at me; immediately Marcia appeared next to him.

“Anthony,” she chided flirtatiously, “Jessica has work to do. And we need to talk about Chester Rydall.”

He turned, and I hurriedly looked back at Marcia’s notes.

“Of course,” he said. “My office?”

“Perfect.” Marcia smiled and stood up, brushing her skirt down in a seamless movement.

“You’re going?” I said quickly, looking in her direction. “Only…before you go, I think you gave me the wrong notes.”

“The wrong notes?”

“For the presentation. I don’t have the information I need.”

Marcia rolled her eyes. “It’s all in there,” she said irritably, before shooting another smile at Anthony. “Look, just be a bit creative, can’t you? I mean, this is a creative agency.”

“Be creative?” I raised an eyebrow. “Okay, but…are you absolutely sure I’ve got the right file? Or do you want me to base the presentation on the spec instead?”

Marcia glanced at the file on my desk. “Yes, it’s the right file. And why would anyone want a presentation based on a spec that the client gave us in the first place? Look, Anthony and I have got some important things to discuss. So I’d really appreciate it if you’d just put a presentation together for me like I asked. Okay, Jess?”