Karen spends the following week trying to make up for the whole Chinese embassy disaster. I think she’s still terrified I’ll bust them to Dan, but she also seems desperate to persuade me to extend my stay. Every morning she makes me a disgusting bowl of millet porridge accompanied by a cleansing nettle tea. She even does my washing, despite the fact that such blatant home‐making goes against all her feminist principles. Unfortunately her eco‐friendly washing liquid, combined with her refusal to waste power by using a tumble‐dryer, means I give off a permanent whiff of mildew. Luckily Harry seems quite happy that I use his place as a bolt‐hole, which is giving me a whole new insight into the intricacies of his life. How he likes to read Raymond Carver short stories in the bath, the sneaky roll‐up he smokes on the roof, looking across to the Gherkin, before he goes to bed. Often I find myself simply observing him, drinking in what it is that he adds up to.
But it’s not just me that wants a piece of him. On Tuesday Roger summons me up to Victor’s office, providing me with another heart‐stopping lift journey in which I’m convinced I’m going to be sacked. As the doors open, he’s waiting to pounce on me.
‘Victor’s thrilled about Harry Langham signing up for the photos,’ he hisses. ‘We’ve got to capitalize on it. Do you have a relationship with him?’
I feel myself blush, remembering the feeling of his hands all over my body as I woke up. ‘Yes, in a sense.’
‘Fantastic!’ he says, hurrying me down the corridor. ‘You’ve really come through for us on this one.’
Even Victor summons up something akin to enthusiasm.
‘If we were able to consolidate this relationship, and use it to attract other high profile talent, we’d be able to attract an entirely different calibre of advertiser.’ There’s a deathly pause. ‘Less casual, more chic.’ There’s another pause, and then a wheezy hissing sound, which turns out to be Victor’s own special version of laughter. Roger gives forth with the kind of fake mirth you hear on laughter tracks on seventies’ sitcoms.
‘Quite, Victor, quite.’
Victor fixes him with an icy stare. ‘So what I’m thinking is that we need to undertake a charm offensive.’
Could there be anyone in the world less charming than Victor?
‘I suggest a celebratory dinner, in a suitably stylish venue. Nobu perhaps.’
I feel a stab of anguish in the pit of my stomach. I still haven’t spoken to Polly and I’ve ignored three messages from Adam. I can’t bear that it’s only now, under such hideous circumstances, that we’ve resumed any kind of contact. I know we need to sort out the flat, but right now I’m burying my head under the blanket of my relationship with Harry.
I snap back into focus. ‘So who’d be on the guest list?’
‘Yourself, myself, Roger, Harry and Martha.’
‘Martha?’ I try to keep the shock out of my voice. Martha is the director of the entire publishing stable. I’m so lowly that she doesn’t even deign to make eye contact with me. This could either be a very good career move or a very bad one.
‘Should we ask Jocasta?’ adds Roger nervously. ‘The event was originally her idea, and I know she’s keen to stay involved.’
To my great relief, Victor shoots him down in flames. ‘There’s absolutely no need to dilute this. It’s an intimate supper for a small group of close colleagues.’
I hate this kind of faux friendliness: we all know it’s about profit margins.
‘So,’ continues Victor, standing up dismissively, ‘shall I ask my assistant to contact Langham’s agent?’
‘Um, I could just ask him myself.’
Victor gives me a patronizing smile. ‘I think it’s high time we formalized the relationship, don’t you?’
It’s a bit late for that, I think, backing out of the room as fast as I can. It’s a delicate balancing act, this one. They mustn’t know that Harry’s only taking the shots because we’re shagging, so they need to think that he’s doing it for the love of the work. But I really can’t see him wanting to come back to Casual Chic any time soon. I hope he’s up to this level of deception: I’ve become something of a master these last few months.
When we get downstairs, Jocasta looks up expectantly. But after ten minutes in Roger’s office she returns to her desk looking green. I bet she was longing for face time with Martha, who’s one of those terrifying superwomen types who balance a high‐powered job with rearing a small nation of children. I’m so glad Victor took her out of the equation, but I fear she’ll make me pay for it. I call a horrified Harry and tell him what’s on the agenda.
‘They’re not really expecting me to come back? No offence, Anna, but shooting blue rinses isn’t really what I came into the business for.’
‘Of course, you’ve met Arthur and Hilda now. I know she’s not as glamorous as you’re used to, but she’s a real sweetie.’
‘Oh definitely, I’m not dissing Hilda. In fact, I think I’ve got a really good concept for their story.’
Listening to him talking about the shoot, I feel completely vindicated. The hags would never have thought in terms of a ‘story’. I wish I’d gone to the initial meeting with him, but I thought that canny old Hilda would suss out our relationship from a mile off. He reluctantly agrees to the dinner and, before I know it, it’s been timetabled for a few days hence.
I miss Polly horribly, but I cannot bring myself to call. The initial shock of cutting off from Adam was bad, but in a way this is just as painful. I didn’t have that intensity of contact with Polly, but the steady heartbeat of our friendship has underpinned all of my adult life. I try for one degree of separation by having lunch with Horst.
‘For me, a house without Anna is less of a home,’ he says sadly, taking an enormous bite out of his salami sandwich. His sausage intake is obviously diversifying.
‘I miss you too, Horst. We had a laugh. But you’ve got Jenny now.’
‘Oh no, Jenny tells me that her feelings for me burn too strong and she must return to a life alone.’
‘Really? I mean, I see.’
‘She says that the ink is still quite moist on her divorce, and until it is dry she is doomed to a lonely life. So again I am solo. And Polly is there very little.’ He stops abruptly. ‘Oh, Anna, so often I choose the wrong words.’
I laugh it off, but my imagination immediately goes into overdrive. Adam’s messages are getting increasingly irritable – the general thrust is that as I asked to divide up the spoils, I can’t now refuse to engage – and of course he’s right. But the idea of having to have cold, practical discussions about finance is almost too much to bear. He hasn’t even mentioned the Polly situation, but judging by how angry he sounds, I don’t think he’s going to have much sympathy for my position.
As Horst walks me back to the office, we run into Ruby on a coffee run. She stops to ask if I want one and I make the introductions.
‘En‐charnted to meet you,’ says Horst, projecting his voice unnervingly.
‘Yeah, you too,’ she replies bemusedly, hurrying on. Ruby’s got that radiant, well‐scrubbed beauty that some girls effortlessly exude, and I’m not surprised to catch Horst casting a longing glance after her. Oh God, he wouldn’t stand a chance.
The event’s only six weeks away now, so she and I are increasingly swamped by the arrangements. My new‐found bravery means that I’m pushing the tenor of it as far as it can go. The décor is dark and moody, the music will be loud and underground. Even the food is as outré as possible. It’s not very Casual Chic, but I’m hoping that that’s the brief.
I’m actually quite grateful for my crushing workload as it makes it easier to blank out Polly and Adam. Susie’s almost as upset as me, as she can’t bear the way our threesome’s been fractured.
‘She should’ve told you, Anna, I know she should’ve, but surely this can’t be it? You two have been friends for forever.’
It’s the night of the dinner, and I’ve called her from outside Harry’s flat. I’m pacing up and down waiting for him to get back. I wish I had keys, but it seems way too presumptuous to ask.
‘I just don’t know if I’d ever be able to trust her again. And the thought of seeing them together…’
‘Poor you!’ says Susie. ‘If me and Martin got divorced and you two suddenly started a passionate affair it would completely destroy me.’
You couldn’t bear it?! I’m paralysed by a disgusting image of a naked Martin wandering out of the bathroom, glistening with post‐coital sweat. His pipe‐cleaner limbs, his funny, pea‐shaped head.
‘I promise you faithfully I will never, ever have sex with Martin.’
‘I’m so sorry, Anna, I can’t believe how badly she’s behaved.’
At that very moment Harry appears, meaning I can hang up and avoid exploring me and Martin’s red hot passion in greater depth. He’s all ruffled and flustered – one of his sexiest looks – and my irritation swiftly melts. But now I’m low on grooming time, so I race around the flat trying to pull it all together. Harry spends the sum total of five minutes changing into one of his beautiful suits, and settles down to wait in front of his Twin Peaks box set. I love how eclectic his viewing habits are: it’s a far cry from Adam’s obsession with Sky Sports. If some cabbage‐eared men were chasing a ball, Adam was happy, but Harry needs something more meaningful. I sit down next to him to pull on my tights, but the fact that I’m rushing means I immediately ladder them. And because I don’t live here, or indeed live anywhere, I don’t even have a spare pair. I’m almost screaming with frustration, trying to stop the run with clear nail varnish. ‘What on earth are you doing?’ says Harry, looking at the loaded brush, wobbling over the nylon. He simply takes my leg in his muscular hand, and very delicately dabs a spot on. I smile at him, struck by the way in which he combines delicacy and masculinity. He’s an artist in the true sense of the word. We hold each other’s gaze.
‘You are lovely,’ I tell him, suffused with a sudden rush of affection. These last few weeks would have been so much more perilous without him to catch my fall. I force myself to look away, aware of how moon‐faced and dappy I must look.
‘I love you too,’ he says, grinning. Now that was unexpected. Did he think that was what I was trying to say, or was he just looking for an excuse to drop it in? Or is he just being ironic? ‘Good,’ I say, simply, and lean in for a kiss. I’m not going to expose the useless, relentless whirring of my fevered brain. I’m sure his meaning will become clear. And I do love him, I think, scary though it is to contemplate. After a bit more ardent snogging we head out in search of a cab. I feel as if I’m in a bubble, like I’m floating above us. I’m trying to inhabit the idea of us being in love. I’m so excited, so gratified, but also overwhelmed.
The immediate priority is concealing that we have any feelings for each other whatsoever. We decide to arrive separately, so I leave Harry to take the cab once round the block. When I get to the table, Roger’s sweating like a pig, snuffling around at the far end while Martha and Victor talk amongst themselves. Martha’s extremely gracious, but there’s a slight sense of noblesse oblige. It’s as though she’s decided to descend from her ivory tower to give the little people a chance to learn from her. However, the moment Harry arrives, I feel her reserve start to slip. And who can blame her? His navy blue suit sets his eyes off to perfection, and his self‐deprecation about being late immediately puts the table at its ease.
Martha ensures that he sits next to her, leaving me trapped between Victor and Roger. It’s a pretty ropey social sandwich, but I’m feeling too proud to care. No heads turned when Adam crossed this dining room: Polly’s welcome to his paunchy form.
‘So what made you decide to get involved?’ says Martha, one hundred per cent focused on Harry.
‘Oh, it’s all down to Anna,’ he replies, momentarily casting his gaze my way. He laughs. ‘She wouldn’t stop chasing me.’
He gives me a half smile, but I look away. I hope that’s not really what he thinks. The self‐help witches hate nothing more than a woman who pursues her man. He loves you, I remind myself, and then fight to control the enormous grin that creeps across my face.
‘Good work, Anna!’ says Roger uselessly.
‘Let’s hope this is the foundation for a long and fruitful association,’ drones Victor, mechanically raising his glass.
Harry refuses to take the bait, turning back to Martha in order to sidestep the issue. At least I hope that’s why. They’re getting on rather too well for my liking, and she’s got definite Mrs Robinson‐ocity. When she excuses herself to go to the bathroom I find myself wondering if she employed a surrogate to pop out her multitude of offspring. She’s wearing a diaphanous green shift dress which clings to every curve. Her buttocks are high and toned, and her breasts remain firm and pert. God, I’ve got to stop thinking like a murderous lesbian.
Dinner’s divine, but my anxiety means I end up drinking far more than I intended. I’m trying so hard not to betray our relationship that I’ve lost any vestige of charm. As I chomp away monosyllabically, Martha hurls herself into the gap, controlling the table with her effortless confidence. The only gratifying moment is when Harry inadvertently tries to play footsie with Victor.
‘So it sounds like Anna’s very much your key contact on the project,’ says Martha, casting an unimpressed look in my direction.
‘Yeah, she’s my girl Friday,’ replies Harry, looking over. ‘It’s all going rather well, isn’t it?’ he adds with a secret smile.
‘Indeed it is,’ I say, sounding like Paul Daniels. Then I dry up.
‘But now you’ve met the senior team I’m hopeful you’ll also feel able to come direct to me with any concerns.’ And with that, she lays a jewel‐encrusted hand on his arm.
He doesn’t make any move to pull away. ‘I’d love that,’ he says, looking straight at her and treating her to one of his most heart‐melting smiles.
‘It’s a deal,’ says Martha, a flirtatious smile playing around her perfectly painted lips. Harry holds her gaze, topping up her wine glass without being asked. He’s basking in the sunshine of her admiration like a well‐fed tom cat.
I can’t watch any more. I spend the rest of the evening forcing myself to engage in gay banter with Victor and Roger. I’m so doggedly upbeat that I actually succeed in making Victor laugh twice. It’s like there’s a line down the centre of the table and Harry and I are on separate halves. Eventually the whole sorry affair draws to a close and we’re back in a cab.
‘How did I do?’ he says, grinning away.
‘Oh great, Harry, really great,’ I snarl sarcastically. ‘You made me feel like such a fucking idiot.’
‘What are you talking about?’ he snaps back angrily.
‘Oh, Martha, you’re so powerful. Oh, Martha, I’d love to shoot for you all the time. I might as well have stayed at home. It was like I wasn’t even there.’
‘What more do you want from me, Anna? I’m doing all of this for you, and it’s still not good enough.’
I can’t believe we’re having our first row on the night we’ve declared love to one another. And I hate how his words echo Adam’s. Will I never be satisfied with what I have? I should back off before I say something I can’t withdraw.
‘I’m sorry, I’m being a total psycho. Ignore me.’ Maybe the sense of exclusion I feel from Polly and Adam’s two‐man canoe is making me ultra sensitive.
‘I gave her what she wanted, Anna, I told her what she needed to hear. And look at how happy she was.’ He smirks to himself. ‘Do you think she’ll be dreaming about me next time her fat old husband’s pounding away on top of her?’
I laugh uncertainly and decide to let it go. It’s a long time since I felt that kind of visceral sexual jealousy, and all I want is for it to retreat back into the darker reaches of my mind. Besides, I seem to be the only one who found our evening wanting. The next day Martha goes so far as to send me flowers, and Victor writes an email that borders on effusive. I’m not sure they’ll be quite as happy when Harry turns their work offers down flat, but at least it’ll keep me in good odour for the event. Jocasta comes over to inspect the bouquet’s card, and then proceeds to presumptuously beat the stems with a pair of scissors. I bet she’s wishing they were my head.
‘It’s been quite a while since you’ve had flowers at work, hasn’t it, Anna?’ she says, busily replacing them in the vase.
‘It has, yes,’ I say, pointedly turning back to my computer.
‘How’s the recovery process progressing? I can imagine the scars of Adam’s betrayal will take quite some time to heal.’
Why today, of all days? I can’t bear to have to think about Adam, and all that it entails. He sent me yet another email this morning, demanding a response. I can feel my voice starting to crack as I hurry out in search of coffee.
‘I’m trying my best, Jocasta, that’s all I can do.’
For once I’m telling her the truth. The murky chaos of my break‐up with Adam is slyly encroaching on the springy freshness of my relationship with Harry. Of course we’ll row, but the fact that the cycle’s begun reminds me just how hard you have to work. That love‐struck idolization can only ever be a mirage: you just have to hope that what grows in its place is worth tending to. I drink my latte in the scrubby square round the back of the office, trying to force myself to snap out of my morose mood. Harry loves me, for God’s sake! And I love him. Why am I such a lazy cow? If love wasn’t such hard graft it wouldn’t be worth it. I’m suddenly reminded of how I only ever got one badge at the Brownies because I was too damn inert for all that pointless sewing and orienteering. But picturing my naked brown smock just brings to mind Polly’s badge‐laden version. She’s always been so determined to be good, to apply herself. She concentrated as hard on the self‐help books as she did on the Brownie handbook, nearly driving herself mad in the process. No wonder she’s finally given up and abandoned herself to an outrageous short cut.
I waste half an hour I don’t have before reluctantly forcing myself back upstairs. As the lift ascends, I feel a flutter in my stomach from the moths of doom, but I dismiss it. I’m golden girl today after all.
Oh. There’s Jocasta, gesticulating at Adam, who’s somehow managed to bypass security and pitch up at my desk. For one insane moment I’m transfixed, filled with crazy pleasure that he’s right there in front of me. By the time I’ve remembered that it’s a total disaster I’ve lost vital seconds.
‘Will you just tell me where Anna is? She’s refusing to speak to me.’
Jocasta’s in her melodramatic element. She raises herself up to her full height, puffed up with indignation like an angry swan.
‘It’s hardly surprising, considering your despicable behaviour. If she’s left on the shelf, it will be entirely down to your unspeakable betrayal.’
‘My betrayal?’
By the time I’ve crossed the room, Adam’s made it absolutely clear who did the dumping. He turns to me, eyes flashing.
‘You’re unbelievable, you know that? You’re the one who started shagging that photographer. You get a solicitor, you sort out the flat and then you email me. I never want to speak to you again.’