Twenties Girl (6 page)

“Not even one little puppy.” Jean has regained her smoothness. “As I say, there’s a no-dog policy in the building.”

“And you couldn’t make an exception for Shireen?”

“I’m afraid not.” She’s polite but implacable.

“Well, thanks for your time.”

I put the phone down and tap my pencil silently on my notepad for a few seconds. Something’s up. I bet there is a dog there. But what can I do about it? I can’t exactly phone Jean back and say, “I don’t believe you.”

With a sigh, I redial Shireen’s number.

“Lara, is that you?” She picks up straightaway, as though she’s been sitting by the phone, waiting for an answer, which she probably has. She’s very bright, Shireen, and very intense. I can picture her now, drawing that endless crisscross of squares
which she obsessively doodles everywhere. She probably
needs
a dog, just to stay sane.

“Yes, it’s me. I called Jean and she says no one else in the building has a dog. She says it’s an insurance thing.”

There’s silence as Shireen digests this.

“She’s lying,” she says at last. “There
is
a dog in there.”

“Shireen …” I feel like banging my head against the desk. “Couldn’t you have mentioned the dog before? At one of the interviews, maybe?”

“I assumed it would be OK!” she says defensively. “I heard the other dog barking! You can tell when there’s a dog in a place. Well, I’m not working without Flash. I’m sorry, Lara, I’ll have to pull out of the job.”

“Nooo!” I cry out in dismay before I can stop myself. “I mean … please don’t do anything rash, Shireen! I’ll sort this out, I promise. I’ll call you soon.” Breathing heavily, I put the phone down and bury my head in my hands. “Crap!”

“What are you going to do?” ventures Kate anxiously. She clearly overheard the whole thing.

“I don’t know,” I admit. “What would Natalie do?”

Both of us instinctively glance toward Natalie’s desk, gleaming and empty. I have a sudden vision of Natalie sitting there: her lacquered nails tapping on the desk, her voice raised in some high-octane call. Since she’s been gone, the volume level in this office has dropped by about eighty percent.

“She might tell Shireen she
had
to take the job and threaten to sue her if she didn’t,” says Kate at last.

“She’d definitely tell Shireen to get over herself.” I nod in agreement. “She’d call her unprofessional and flaky.”

I once heard Natalie tearing a strip off some guy who had second thoughts about taking up a position in Dubai. It wasn’t pretty.

The deep-down truth, which I don’t want to admit to anyone, is that now I’ve got to know the way Natalie thinks and does business … I don’t really relate to a lot of it. What appealed to
me about this job was working with people, changing lives. When we used to meet up and Natalie would tell me her stories of finding talent, I was always just as interested in the story behind the deal as the deal itself. I thought it must be so much more satisfying to help people’s careers than to sell cars. But that aspect doesn’t seem to feature highly on our agenda.

I mean, OK, I know I’m a novice. And maybe I am a bit idealistic, like Dad always says. But your job is one of the most important things in your life, surely. It should be
right
for you. Salary isn’t everything.

There again, that’ll be why Natalie’s the successful head-hunter with loads of commission under her belt. And I’m not. And right now we need commission.

“So what we’re saying is, I should ring Shireen back and give her a hard time,” I say reluctantly. There’s silence. Kate looks as pained as I feel.

“Thing is, Lara,” she says hesitantly, “you’re not Natalie. She’s away. So you’re the boss. So you should do things
your
way.”

“Yes!” I feel a surge of relief. “That’s true. I’m the boss. So what I say is … I’ll think about it for a while first.”

Trying to look as though this is a decisive piece of action instead of a cop-out, I push the phone aside and start leafing through the post. A bill for office paper. An offer to send all my staff on a team-building trip to Aspen. And, at the bottom of the pile,
Business People
, which is like the celebrity magazine of business. I open it and start flipping through the pages, trying to find someone who would make a perfect marketing director for Leonidas Sports.

Business People
is essential reading for a headhunter. It’s basically endless photo spreads of thrusting, super-groomed types who have massive offices with plenty of space to hang up their coats. But God, it’s depressing. As I turn from one highflier to another, my spirits sink lower and lower. What’s wrong with me? I only speak one language. I haven’t been asked to chair any international committees. I don’t have a working wardrobe
which pairs Dolce & Gabbana trouser suits with quirky shirts from Paul Smith.

Dolefully, I close the magazine and slump back, staring at the grimy ceiling. How do they all do it? My uncle Bill. Everyone in this magazine. They decide to run a business and it’s instantly a success, and it looks so easy….

“Yes … yes…” Suddenly I become aware of Kate making semaphore signals across the room. I look up to see her face all pink with excitement as she talks on the phone. “I’m sure Lara would be able to make space for you in her schedule, if you could just hold on a moment. …”

She presses Hold and squeaks, “It’s Clive Hoxton! The one who said he wasn’t interested in Leonidas Sports?” she adds, at my blank look. “The rugby guy? Well, he might be after all! He wants to have lunch and talk about it!”

“Oh my God! Him!” My spirits shoot back up. Clive Hoxton is marketing director at Arberry Stores and used to play rugby for Doncaster. He couldn’t be more perfect for the Leonidas Sports job, but when I first approached him he said he didn’t want to move. I can’t believe he’s got in touch!

“Play it cool!” I whisper urgently. “Pretend I’m really busy interviewing other candidates.”

Kate nods vigorously.

“Let me just see….” she says into the phone. “Lara’s schedule is very packed today, but I’ll see what I can do. … Ah! Now, what a stroke of luck! She unexpectedly has a vacancy! Would you like to name a restaurant?”

She grins broadly at me and I give her an air high-five. Clive Hoxton is an A-list name! He’s tough-thinking and hard-playing! He’ll totally make up for the weirdo and the kleptomaniac. In fact, if we get him, I’ll ax the kleptomaniac, I decide. And the weirdo isn’t
that
bad, if we could just get rid of his dandruff….

“All fixed up!” Kate puts the phone down. “You’re having lunch today at one o’clock.”

“Excellent! Where?”

“Well, that’s the only thing.” Kate hesitates. “I asked him to name a restaurant. And he named—” She breaks off.

“What?” My heart starts to thump anxiously. “Not Gordon Ramsay. Not that posh one in Claridge’s.”

Kate winces. “Worse. Lyle Place.”

My insides shrivel. “You have to be kidding.”

Lyle Place opened about two years ago and was instantly christened the most expensive restaurant in Europe. It has a massive lobster tank and a fountain, and loads of celebrities go there. Obviously I’ve never been there. I’ve just read about it in the
Evening Standard
.

We should never, never,
never
have let him name the restaurant. I should have named it. I would have named Pasta Pot, which is around the corner and does a set lunch for £12.95 including a glass of wine. I daren’t even
think
how much lunch for two at Lyle Place is going to be.

“We won’t be able to get in!” I say in sudden relief. “It’ll be too busy.”

“He said he can get a reservation. He knows some people. He’ll put it in your name.”

“Damn.”

Kate is nibbling at her thumbnail anxiously. “How much is in the client entertainment kitty?”

“About 50 p,” I say in despair. “We’re broke. I’ll have to use my own credit card.”

“Well, it’ll be worth it,” says Kate resolutely. “It’s an investment. You’ve got to look like a mover and a shaker. If people see you eating at Lyle Place, they’ll think,
Wow, Lara Lington must be doing well if she can afford to take clients here!”

“But I
can’t
afford it!” I wail. “Could we phone him up and change it to a cup of coffee?”

Even as I’m saying it, I know how lame this would look. If he wants lunch, I have to give him lunch. If he wants to go to Lyle Place, we have to go to Lyle Place.

“Maybe it isn’t as expensive as we think,” says Kate hopefully. “I mean, all the newspapers keep saying how bad the economy is, don’t they? Maybe they’ve reduced the prices. Or got a special offer.”

“That’s true. And maybe he won’t order very much,” I add in sudden inspiration. “I mean, he’s sporty. He won’t be a big eater.”

“Of course he won’t!” agrees Kate. “He’ll have, like, one tiny bit of sashimi and some water and dash off. And he
definitely
won’t drink. Nobody drinks at lunch anymore.”

I’m feeling more positive about this already. Kate’s right. No one drinks at business lunches these days. And we can keep it down to two courses. Or even one. A starter and a nice cup of coffee. What’s wrong with that?

And, anyway, whatever we eat, it can’t cost
that
much, can it?

Oh my God, I think I’m going to faint.

Except I can’t, because Clive Hoxton has just asked me to run through the specs of the job again.

I’m sitting on a transparent chair at a white-clothed table. If I look to my right, I can see the famous giant lobster tank, which has crustaceans of all sorts clambering around on rocks and occasionally being scooped out in a metal net by a man on a ladder. Over to the left is a cage of exotic birds, whose cheeping is mingling with the background whooshing sound from the fountain in the middle of the room.

“Well.” My voice is quite faint. “As you know, Leonidas Sports has just taken over a Dutch chain. …”

I’m talking on autopilot. My eyes keep darting down to the menu, printed on Plexiglas. Every time I spot a price, I feel a fresh swoop of horror.

Ceviche of salmon, origami style £34
.

That’s a starter. A
starter
.

Half a dozen oysters £46
.

There’s no special offer. There’s no sign of any hard times. All around, diners are merrily eating and drinking as if this is all totally normal. Are they all bluffing? Are they all secretly quailing inside? If I stood on a chair and yelled, “It’s too expensive! I’m not going to take this anymore!” would I start a mass walkout?

“Obviously the board wants a new marketing director who can oversee this expansion. …” I have no idea what I’m blabbering about. I’m psyching myself up to peek at the main courses.

Fillet of duck with three-way orange mash £59
.

My stomach lurches again. I keep doing mental math and reaching three hundred and feeling a bit sick.

“Some mineral water?” The waiter appears at the table and proffers a blue-tinted Plexiglas square to each of us. “This is our water menu. If you like a sparkling water, the Chetwyn Glen is rather fun,” he adds. “It’s filtered through volcanic rock and has a subtle alkalinity.”

“Ah.” I force myself to nod intelligently, and the waiter meets my eyes without a flicker. Surely they all get back into the kitchen, collapse against the walls, and start snorting with laughter: “She paid fifteen quid! For water!”

“I’d prefer Pellegrino.” Clive shrugs. He’s a guy in his forties with graying hair, froggy eyes, and a mustache, and he hasn’t smiled once since we sat down.

“A bottle of each, then?” says the waiter.

Noooo! Not
two
bottles of overpriced water!

“So, what would you like to eat, Clive?” I smile. “If you’re in a hurry, we could go straight to main courses. …”

“I’m not in any hurry.” Clive gives me a suspicious look. “Are you?”

“Of course not!” I backtrack quickly. “No hurry at all!” I wave a generous hand. “Have whatever you’d like.”

Not the oysters, please, please, please not the oysters…

“The oysters to begin with,” he says thoughtfully. “Then I’m torn between the lobster and the porcini risotto.”

I discreetly whip my eyes down to the menu. The lobster is £90; the risotto, only £45.

“Tough choice.” I try to sound casual. “You know, risotto is always
my
favorite.”

There’s silence as Clive frowns at the menu again.

“I love Italian food,” I throw in with a relaxed little laugh. “And I bet the porcini are delicious. But it’s up to you, Clive!”

“If you can’t decide,” the waiter puts in helpfully, “I could bring you both the lobster and a reduced-size risotto.”

He could
what?
He could
what?
Who asked him to interfere, anyway?

“Great idea!” My voice is two notes shriller than I intended. “Two main courses! Why not?”

I feel the waiter’s sardonic eye on me and instantly know he can read my thoughts. He knows I’m skint.

“And for madam?”

“Right. Absolutely.” I run a finger down the menu with a thoughtful frown. “The truth is … I went for a big power breakfast this morning. So I’ll just have a Caesar salad, no starter.”

“One Caesar salad, no starter.” The waiter nods impassively.

“And would you like to stick to water, Clive?” I desperately try to keep any hint of hope out of my voice. “Or wine …”

Even the
idea
of the wine list makes my spine feel all twingey with fear.

“Let’s see the list.” Clive’s eyes light up.

“And a glass of vintage champagne to start, perhaps,” suggests the waiter, with a bland smile.

He couldn’t just suggest champagne. He had to suggest
vintage
champagne. This waiter is a total sadist.

“I could be persuaded!” Clive gives a sort of lugubrious chuckle, and somehow I force myself to join in.

At last the waiter departs, having poured us each a zillion-pound glass of vintage champagne. I feel a bit giddy. I’m going
to be paying off this lunch for the rest of my life. But it’ll be worth it. I have to believe that.

“So!” I say brightly, raising my glass. “To the job! I’m
so
glad you’ve changed your mind, Clive—”