I’m sitting in the bedroom of Michelle’s flat in Maida Vale, watching while she gets ready for her first post-Patrick date. She looks gorgeous. The drawn, wan look has gone and been replaced by something more like her old self. The past week or so she’s actually started to look happy. Happier at least. On the road to happiness.
Next week she’ll complete on her new place – a one bedroom, one and a half bath, flat near St John’s Wood High Street. She – with me and/or Adam in tow most of the time – looked at about thirty apartments, from the big and beautiful in a scary area to postage-stamp-sized studios in chi chi postcodes. This one is a compromise. It’s on one of the not-so-desirable streets mere metres from high-end loveliness. The block is well cared for and safe, but with none of the added extras, like concierges and twenty-four-hour gyms, that would push the price over the edge. With the help of her share of the profit from the house – which sold in a matter of days to a cash buyer once Patrick got it into his head that there really was no happy ending on the horizon and buying Michelle out was out of the question given how dodgy his career prospects had suddenly started looking – and a large mortgage, she managed to charm the elderly home owner into accepting her offer.
Meanwhile she has been staying here since the week after it all blew up. Somehow she’s managed to make it feel like home, despite the dodgy décor and utilitarian furniture.
‘Too much?’ she says now, blotting her pale pink lipstick with a tissue.
‘You look gorgeous. And besides, it’s not like he doesn’t know what you look like.’
‘I’m actually nervous, how dumb is that?’
‘Just forget it’s meant to be a date. Don’t get all self-conscious.’
‘Is this a really stupid thing to be doing?’ She turns to face me.
‘Not at all. I think it’s great.’
The last couple of weeks working with Bea were what you might call interesting. Even though I knew she was feeling guilty, it was too little too late. I couldn’t shake the thought that she would still have been with Patrick if she’d thought he was really interested. But I couldn’t be bothered to punish her either. After all the hysteria and excitement, all I wanted was a peaceful life.
To be fair, she kept her head down and got on with her work. I’m not entirely sure what it was she was doing, because it seemed far preferable now to ask Ashley when I needed something, or to do it myself, than to have more contact with Bea than was necessary.
She went for several interviews while she was still with us, and I happily gave her the time off. I’m not even sure what they were for. I didn’t ask.
On her last day Ian and Anne Marie made a fuss of her, as indeed they should have. She’d done nothing wrong professionally, only personally. I hovered in reception as they toasted her with fizzy wine and cake, and handed her a gift voucher and a card. She came into my office just as I was putting my coat on. I’d been hoping to avoid any kind of a goodbye. I didn’t know what to say.
She shut the door behind her, which immediately made me nervous.
‘I just wanted to say,’ she said before I could ask her what she wanted. It all came out in a rush, as if she’d been rehearsing and wanted to get it out there before she forgot her lines. ‘I don’t want you to think I would ever go round spreading gossip, or telling anyone anything about what happened. I didn’t want you to think I’d go to a new job and be bad mouthing you or talking about … you know what …’
She paused. I have to be honest, it was a bit of a weight off my mind. Even though Bea wasn’t prone to bitching, I had wondered whether she might not be able to resist smearing my name a bit. Not that I thought people would believe her – they would most probably just assume it was sour grapes – but since when did people have to believe gossip to spread it?
‘Thank you. And the same goes for me. I’ll give you your reference and that’ll be the end of it.’
‘I’m sorry I fucked up. It’s not something I’m proud of.’
‘I know. You’ll be fine. Someone will snap you up.’
She stood there awkwardly for a moment, as if she didn’t know what to do or say next. I felt a lump in my throat. Willed myself not to cry.
‘Right. Well … I should go … Thanks, Tamsin. I mean it …’
I felt a ridiculous urge to hug her. I stopped myself, though. It was a positive thing that we were moving on like two adults, but I didn’t want her to think all was forgiven, because it wasn’t.
‘Good luck with finding something,’ I said. ‘If I hear of anything …’
She flashed me a wary smile. ‘Thank you.’
Two weeks later I had a request for a reference from one of the big independents, who were looking for a production secretary for one of their shows that was about to be re-commissioned. A long-form home-makeover programme. One of those ones where it’s all about the big personalitied builders. It’s been running for years. Probably on its last legs, but they wanted to offer her a nine-month contract, which is about as good as it gets in the freelance world. I recommended her highly, said she would be a great asset to their team.
A few days later I received a card from Bea telling me she had got the job. I gave it to Ashley to put up in reception.
Meanwhile we advertised for a new assistant.
‘What are you looking for?’ Anne Marie said to me as we sat shivering outside a local café, cups of coffee in front of us. She had a notebook out. Pen poised.
‘Someone who’s not going to run round shagging the commissioners,’ I said and she gave me a look. Very funny.
I had been thinking hard about this. Did I value efficiency over loyalty? Would I forgive someone a few typos if I knew there was no chance of them sleeping with my friend’s husband? Not that she had one any more, but you know what I mean. Did it matter if we weren’t friends, if we didn’t have a laugh and an occasional drink together? No. Not at all.
‘Assuming I can’t have it all? Someone I can trust.’
‘Well, let’s not assume you can’t have it all yet. There must be hundreds of good candidates out there.’
‘Oh God,’ I groaned. ‘The thought of having to train someone up.’
‘I know you won’t be interested, but Ashley wants to apply.’
My first instinct was to scoff. A few months before and I would probably have said, ‘Ashley who?’ I thought about it for a second, though. For weeks now Ashley had been more or less doing the job anyway. Keeping her head down, getting on with it quietly, manning reception at the same time. She hadn’t fucked up anything yet as far as I had noticed. She hadn’t done anything to piss me off either.
‘Actually, that’s a genius idea.’
Anne Marie looked surprised, as well she might. ‘You’re not just saying that because she’s the devil you know? I’ve never thought you were that keen on her.’
‘I just never really noticed she was there. Which I now realize might be a good thing.’
‘We’ll still have to advertise, so you don’t have to decide now.’
‘Shit, really?’
She nodded. ‘That’s good, though, because then if you went for her you’d know you hadn’t just done so because she’s the easy option.’
‘OK. But unless someone brilliant walks through the door I’m thinking she’s the right choice.’
‘Well, that would make me very happy,’ Anne Marie said, smiling. ‘Now, what do you want to put in the ad?’
Of course you know what I’m going to say. After two days of mind-numbingly dull interviews we gave Ashley the job. She’s an efficient, willing and supportive assistant. I like having her around. We don’t shut ourselves in my office and put the world to rights, but I think that’s a good thing. I don’t tell her about my love life or ask her to go and buy me control underwear. We have proper boss/assistant boundaries. It’s working.
At the beginning I put in the effort to make sure she knew the way I liked things done.
‘Sort them by experience first, but then separate the piles into where they’re based,’ I said, handing her a pile of crew CVs.
‘I know,’ she said, with no edge in her voice. ‘I used to do it for Bea.’
Turns out she used to do a lot of things for Bea. All the time I thought my assistant was the only person I could trust to get things right, it seems she was delegating half of it to an assistant of her own.
When Ashley gets me coffee it still doesn’t taste as good as it did when Bea got it, though, but as flaws go, it’s one I can live with.
Patrick and Michelle have severed all ties now that the house has been sold. To be fair to him he left her alone once he realized there was no hope. And, of course, once he found out she had told her father he probably thought there would be no reason to attempt a reconciliation anyway. I think he did love her, but not that much. She suited him – she was sweet and trusting and uncomplaining – but if she didn’t come with a hefty job title attached she wasn’t worth fighting for.
He’s still clinging on to his position at the Home Improvement Channel, by the way, although I know that Julian has made it clear he would like him to leave. He’s ordered the finance department to go through Patrick’s expenses with a fine-tooth comb. Particularly to double-check the details where any claims for hotel rooms are concerned. There is no promise of a good reference for him. In fact, Julian now seems to relish bad-mouthing him to whoever will listen. So his chances of being snapped up elsewhere are growing slim. I imagine he’ll grasp on where he is until it becomes untenable. And then he’ll probably have to take a step down. Do it the hard way.
He phoned me a few times after it all blew up. The first time I accidentally answered and then quickly cut him off again when he started hurling insults and accusations at me. Since then I’ve been more cautious. There have been messages, too. Always alluding to what happened between us. I’ve ignored them all. I feel as if they’re a trap he’s setting, trying to get me to incriminate myself with my reply.
Lately I haven’t heard anything from him, and I don’t want to. For the time being Castle will not be pitching any new shows to Home Improvement. We’ll live.