Wish You Were Here (36 page)

‘… Oh, a blue dress, very Topshop.'

‘… Um, about twelve-thirty, I think, in a taxi.'

‘… No, not with Topshop, on his own – Polly, please don't bully me any more, you know he's a dead loss, what more can I tell you?'

Her body slumped forward again and her head dropped back into position. The interview was over. I sighed and lit what was for me a very premature cigarette. She was right, of course, he was a dead loss. Always out, but never with me. I decided for the millionth time to end what passed as our relationship the next time I saw him. For sure. Yes, definitely. The very next time. He simply wasn't
worth it. Having made that little porky-pie of a resolution I felt better, and even had the appetite to tuck into my own daily fix of egg mayonnaise on brown and the
Daily Mail
.

Nick, my boss, and in fact
the
boss, was still in a client meeting, and when Nick was away the rest of the agency played. We lounged around on desks, sofas and – after a heavy lunch – floors. We draped ourselves decoratively around the reception area watching the television, exchanged dirty jokes, made calls to Australia, drank the ‘strictly client meetings only' drinks cupboard dry, threw up in loos (new boys only), and generally behaved like any other normal advertising agency. When Nick was around, we did exactly the same but made sure he didn't notice.

Which brings me to another sore point. Another bitter blow to add to my long and doleful list of disappointments. Nick Penhalligan.

When I switched from the overworked and underpaid world of publishing to the sexy and glamorous world of advertising six months ago, I had very definite ideas about what life at Penhalligan and Waters was going to be like. OK, it was a small agency, only fifteen people, but small agencies were by all accounts great fun. I was also going to be working for the chairman, which of course guaranteed me an enormous slice of the action.

I daydreamed about being an indispensable girl Friday to a wild and wacky ad-man full of crazy impulsive ideas like, ‘Let's get out of the agency today and go and bounce a few ideas around in the wine bar.' I imagined a snappy sartorial dresser with a fine line in enormous red-framed spectacles and swivelling bow-ties who lived in a creative
dreamworld and needed a sensible, reliable girl by his side to guide him through his hectic day.

I foresaw long boozy lunches in dimly lit Soho restaurants, where he'd confide in me and tell me all his marital problems, after which we'd pile into a taxi together and charge off to a shoot. As we swept into the studio, the crew would mutter, ‘That's Nick Penhalligan: he's brilliant, but of course he can't
move
without Polly, she's his right arm; in fact I don't know where he'd be without her.' To illustrate this point, Nick would then discover he'd lost the script for the commercial and would rummage frantically through his briefcase as everyone waited.

‘It's not here!' he'd cry, ‘but I'm sure I put it in!'

There'd be an awkward silence, then I'd smile indulgently and produce a wad of paper from my handbag. ‘Don't worry, Nick,' I'd say soothingly, ‘I've got a copy.'

Everyone would heave great sighs of relief and say things like, ‘Gosh, thank goodness for Polly,' and I'd spend the rest of the afternoon being chatted up by the director, the producer and Nigel Havers who happened to be starring in the commercial, before being whisked away to the Zanzibar for several large gin and tonics by my grateful boss. As you can see, I have quite a stranglehold on reality.

The real Nick Penhalligan turned out to be about as wacky as a filing cabinet, and the nearest I got to a shoot was nearly being fired on my first day.

I had arrived on day one of my employment dressed in what I imagined people in the ad-racket probably wore. Short leather mini-skirt, white Katherine Hamnett T-shirt complete with anti-establishment slogan, black biker's jacket, Doc Marten-type shoes and an extraordinary pair
of dangly white earrings which Pippa later told me she'd thought were tampons. Dead trendy, or so I believed.

Pippa's eyes were out on stalks when she collected me in reception in her navy blue Puffa, Liberty print skirt and velvet hairband. She eyed what passed for my skirt in disbelief and mumbled something incoherent like ‘shit', before leading me into Nick's office.

Nick didn't recognise me. Hardly surprising really, since the girl he'd interviewed for the job had been buttoned up to the eyeballs in Laura Ashley and bore no resemblance whatsoever to the apparition sitting in front of him now. He gaped at me for a long time, opening and closing his mouth a lot, and then very slowly the penny started to drop.

‘Ah, yes, you're um … you must be Polly, is that right?'

Ah yes, just as I'd thought: short memory; mind on higher, more creative things. Any minute now I'd be producing the forgotten script from my bag.

‘That's right.' I smiled and helped him out as one would help a small child. I leaned forward and spoke very slowly. ‘You interviewed me last week, remember?' I smiled encouragingly and nodded.

‘Yes, yes, of course I did. It's just that last week you looked, um, different … more sort of businesslike.' Nick coughed and adjusted his extremely businesslike navy blue tie which I could tell was never going to swivel.

Now, I'm sensitive to atmosphere, and the one we had here was not good. In fact it dawned on me that I'd cocked up. I surreptitiously slid the bubble-gum from my mouth to my hand and pulled the leather skirt down from around my knicker-line, trying to make it look less like a belt.

Nick was shifting around in his chair looking uncomfortable. ‘I suppose I'd better make it clear right now that we have quite a lot of important clients coming in and out of here, and whilst some of them I'm sure are very broad-minded, they're probably not used to seeing quite such, um, unusual clothing in an office. I don't want to appear dogmatic or old-fashioned, but I was wondering if in future you could, um, well – tone it down a little?'

‘Oh, it's OK,' I said quickly, ‘I can explain. I know exactly what you mean about the clothes, but you see I stayed at my sister's place last night and had to borrow some of her things. She's only sixteen and going through a rather rebellious stage, hence the – well, hence the rather avant-garde style! Not me at all!'

‘Oh, I see.' He wasn't totally convinced.

‘Yes,' I hurried on, ‘she's such a worry to my parents: thinks life is just one big party, you know; sex, drugs, rock and roll.'

‘Drugs?' he looked alarmed.

‘Oh well, not strong ones, no,' I laughed nervously. ‘Just, you know … recreational.' Was that the word? Nick's eyebrows shot into his hairline. Obviously not.

‘No, no, not recreational, I don't mean that, just aspirin really, oh, and the odd paracetamol or two,' I nodded sagely, ‘nothing to worry about really.'

‘Ah.' Thankfully his eyebrows were coming down from orbit and it seemed his alarm had turned to mere surprise.

I was desperate to change the subject and get away from my fictitious junkie sister. I slapped my thigh in true jolly-hockey-stick style. ‘But don't you worry, I'll be back in my own wardrobe tomorrow.'

‘Ah good, so tomorrow we can expect to see something a little more, er, restrained?'

‘Back to the tweeds and the brogues!' I grinned. And so, I seem to remember, did he, which must have been a first and only.

It wasn't that I didn't like Nick, it was just that he was so bloody difficult to get to know. He was always so incredibly busy, and when I did manage to speak to him, he was invariably abrupt, off-hand, and sometimes downright rude. He would nod his thank-yous and bark out his orders.

A normal opening gambit of a Monday morning would be, ‘There's a meeting in half an hour, I'd like tea, coffee and an agenda,' not, ‘Good morning, Polly, how was your weekend? If you've got a moment could you possibly find time to make some coffee and then maybe type a little agenda if it's not too much trouble,' to which I would have smiled sweetly and acquiesced. As it was, I barged around in the kitchen slamming cups on to saucers and invariably breaking something.

He was still pretty young to be in his position – about thirty-three or thirty-four – and I had to admit quite good-looking, if you liked that sort of thing. Of course, I didn't. He was tall and slim but with broad shoulders, very dark hair and dark bushy eyebrows. His eyes were dark brown and deep-set and he had very striking angular features, including a rather hooked nose which somehow suited his face. Unfortunately he spoiled the effect by looking continually tired and harassed which he probably was since he was the only one in the agency who appeared to do any work.

As far as sharing conspiratorial lunches in groovy restaurants was concerned, the only thing I'd ever seen him eat was a hastily grabbed sandwich at his desk in between meetings. By all accounts he was screamingly intelligent, or so Pippa – whose brother had been up at Cambridge with him – told me, so he naturally despised the rest of us who survived on one brain cell between us.

As I inanely filled in the D of Dempster with Tipp-Ex and yawned with boredom, in he swept with a face like reinforced concrete. His old tweed coat streamed out behind him like Batman as he flew past at speed, his black eyebrows knitted together in fury.

‘Good presentation?' I ventured, closing the paper and trying to look intelligent.

‘Bloody client didn't pitch up!' he bawled as he charged into his office slamming the door behind him.

‘Oh dear,' I said lamely.

‘Happy days,' murmured Pippa, grimacing.

I was just about to grab my notebook and take his messages in, when the door opened again and he poked his head round. ‘By the way, Polly, there's a chap downstairs waiting to see you.'

‘A chap?' I said in surprise. ‘Downstairs?'

It's a bit of a habit of mine to repeat what people say, especially when I'm nonplussed. It obviously irritated the hell out of Nick. He ground his teeth together and shut the door without replying.

Who on earth could it be? No one ever came to see me at work. Suddenly my heart leaped into my oesophagus. Of course! Harry! Harry had come to see me. He knew Pippa had spotted him last night and he'd come to explain
himself, to ask my forgiveness and implore me to go out with him tonight, that was it! But why hadn't he telephoned? Why had he come all the way from his computer screen in the City just to see me? Love? Impulse? Even I was clued-up enough to realize he didn't know the meaning of either word. All the same, I jumped up from my chair with joy in my heart and a kiss ready and waiting on my lips. Just in case.

‘How extraordinary, Pippa, a man downstairs to see me! Who on earth d'you think it could be?' I babbled excitedly as I brushed my hair and scrabbled around in my drawer for my lipstick.

‘I don't know. But I'll tell you one thing, it's not who you think it is,' she said caustically, eyeing my preparations with suspicion.

‘Oh God, you're such a killjoy, how do you know?'

‘Take it from me. I just know.'

I sighed. Why couldn't any of my friends share my enthusiasm for the man I loved? Never mind. Wouldn't it just show her if it were Harry? I snapped my make-up mirror shut and bounced off down the corridor.

I leaned over the banisters and peered down to the marble hallway below. Whoever it was was sitting on the sofa, most of which was obscured from my view by the stairwell, so all I could make out was a pair of long slim male legs clad in beige trousers with a pair of Docksiders at the end of them. Not Harry's, definitely not Harry's; his Docksiders were brown, not blue; but funnily enough I thought I recognized them. I craned my neck, but couldn't see any more of the body without doing myself a serious injury.

I shrugged. Oh well, it wasn't Harry, but the legs didn't look too bad, so I bounced down the stairs in what I hoped was an attractive, skippy manner, with my blonde hair bobbing around behind me.

‘Can I help you?' I inquired in my most imperious, up-market, I-just-bash-a-word-processor-for-a-lark, I-don't-need-the-money, voice.

At that moment the beige trousers uncrossed, the Docksiders hit the deck, and the legs straightened. As he stood up and turned to face me, I realized why the trousers had looked familiar. I'd seen them less than half an hour ago; sat opposite them, in fact. I gasped and my hand shot to my mouth. Good God, it was Ginger!

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