It’s half past seven on Monday morning and the office is almost empty. Good, I think to myself calmly as I step out of the lift and take a look around.
Looks like my nemesis hasn't arrived yet, probably because it really is unusually early for an ordinary Monday morning. But it’s not just any Monday to me. This Monday I start working with Ian. God, what a thought.
Tamara appears in front of me out of nowhere, just as I’m about to enter my office.
“Good morning, Jennifer,” she greets me pleasantly. She's always so nice and kind to everyone, it must be her nature. Pity her boss is a total bastard. I hope at least it helps strengthen her character.
“Good morning, Tamara,” I answer in the same pleasant voice, and then realise she’s standing immobile in the doorway, gazing at me with mouth agape and an expression of total shock on her face.
“Is anything wrong?” I ask innocently. I know perfectly well why she's staring at me so intensely.
“No… nothing”, she answers, then goes back to looking me up and down. “It’s just… you look so… different”, she dares in the end.
“You bet I do,” I answer with a smile.
I look totally different, and I'm actually finding it quite enjoyable. Vera did a brilliant job: my hair is now very blonde, slightly wavy and falls down to my shoulders. Quite a difference, as for the last twenty years I’ve always worn it in a ponytail.
Moreover, I’m wearing a black suit, with an audacious slit up the side of the skirt and high heels. And I’ve always been the woman in trousers and flat shoes.
“It's a… radical change—” she continues, before hastily clarifying, “But you look great.”
“Thank you.” I know she’s right.
In theory, this change in my appearance should also represent a spiritual one. Let’s hope that's the case. Let’s hope I’m done with the losers and the deadbeats.
A few second later, George arrives and makes no efforts to hide his approval.
“What the hell happened to you?” he asks. “I’m not saying I don’t like it, but bloody hell, it's a pretty drastic change.”
“I broke up with Charles,” is all I say. No point beating about the bush.
He nods. “I'm genuinely glad to hear that. I mean, come on, Jenny – where the hell did you even manage to find a philosophy professor nowadays?” he teases.
I admit he’s right and his question makes me laugh. “What can I say, I've got a gift for it—”
“Try and choose somebody with a bit more backbone next time. Not as much backbone as you, that would be tough – but someone with maybe half as much?” he suggests.
“To be honest, I don’t want to see anyone for a bit. I want to catch my breath and concentrate on work. And anyway, I'll have Beverly to keep me busy for the next few weeks.”
“Ian's put his name in the agenda,” says a perplexed Tamara.
“I know,” I confirm, as though I didn’t care about it. God, I wish I didn’t, but to be honest, I find the whole thing unnerving. That man will give me an ulcer before I’m forty.
“We're going to be working on it together, since that's what the client has requested,” I explain.
And they both open their mouths like fish trying to breathe outside an aquarium.
“You two are going to… work together?” asks George. “I mean… I heard about it last Friday, but I thought you’d have figured out a way to get round it—”
“Yes, that was the initial plan, but it proved impossible to put into practice,” I admit.
George and Tamara look at me in astonishment. Usually, nothing's impossible for people like us two.
“Break a leg”, says George, with a laugh.
“You’ve been saying that a lot lately. Well, thanks, I'll need all the good luck I can get.”
*
A few hours later, Colin shows up at my office door, and I see immediately that he too is stunned by my new look.
“Good morning, Jenny,” he greets me without taking his eyes off of my head. As if it was strange for a woman to change the colour of her hair. His secretary does it once a month and nobody makes a big deal out of it.
“Good morning,” I answer, without moving my eyes from my monitor.
“The meeting room's free for you,” he informs me, and I know that when he says “you” he doesn’t mean just me.
“Thank you, that was a good idea. Better off meeting on neutral ground.”
Colin smiles with satisfaction. “That's what I thought, so I booked it for two hours. But remember, it's not soundproofed.”
“I know, I know – I've got years of experience behind me, remember?”
My boss raises his eyes to the ceiling. “Let’s just say that in the past you two used to put on quite a show in there. The secretaries have been complaining that everything's got a bit too quiet and predictable since you stopped working together.”
“That’s why the news that we’re working together again is creating such a stir—” I say, finishing his sentence for him. “But boring's good in our case, don’t you think?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if someone had bugged the meeting room just to hear you two talking. You have a… what’s the word… intense way of going about things,” my boss declares.
I look at Colin in confusion. “Well, that's not exactly the way I'd put it, but I suppose that's how it might look to some people,” I admit.
Colin is about to leave, but he turns towards me one last time. “Anyway, you make a gorgeous blonde.”
He gives me a wink and leaves.
*
The meeting room furniture is spartan and bare. They say they took everything out back when I used to fight with Ian, because they were worried we'd go for each other with blunt objects. Seeing the way things ended up, they weren't actually that far off the mark.
I walk into the room with a determined step, and notice Ian is already sitting there comfortably, talking on his mobile. If it had been anyone else I'd leave so as not to disturb their privacy, but Ian’s not worth wasting any niceness on, so he can go to hell.
He gives me an inquiring look without interrupting his call. His expression is inscrutable, but he continues to stare at me.
“I have to go,” he says finally. “I really don't know what my plans are for that day. I can’t promise anything, but if I’m around I'll definitely show my face. Bye, mum,” he says, as he hangs up.
He quickly puts his mobile in his pocket and prepares to attack.
“Tamara told me you'd undergone a radical re-styling,” he teases, “but I wouldn't have imagined anything so dramatic.”
I had really been hoping to startle him – to at least have this psychological advantage over him – but his secretary had obviously gone running straight to her boss and told him everything, ruining my surprise.
“Women change their hairstyles all the time, what’s odd about it?”
“You never have,” he answers simply, putting an end to the conversation.
“Well, I have now, and I might even do it again. I was thinking of dying my hair red next time. Is there any law which says I always have to stay the same?” I ask sarcastically.
“Your problem is that even if you change the outside, deep down inside you’re always the same. That's your curse – you can’t escape yourself,” says he, in a know-all voice.
Oh that's a good one.
“And has it ever occurred to you that I have no intention of escaping from myself?” I snap in irritation.
“You might not, but apparently your boyfriends do – big time”, he replies, playing his ace. Before today's over, I'll have Tamara’s decapitated head on my desk, the little snake.
If I punched him on the nose again, who would blame me, tell me that? Aren’t these little verbal attacks equally hurtful?
“Ha! Coming from someone who doesn’t even remember the name of the woman he slept with last night, that sounds like a compliment,” I answer. “But I've got a solution for you: just call them all 'darling', that way you won't run the risk of mixing them up. It'd be so plebby to come out with the wrong name right when things are getting interesting, wouldn't it, and I know that never letting the regal mask slip is a big deal for you!” I provoke him.
Ian’s facial expression suddenly changes, becoming intensely irritated. Bullseye!
We glare at each other for a few seconds until I decide to cut short the pleasantries. “Right, if we're done with the small talk, what do you think about getting down to business?” I ask, sitting down next to him and opening Friday’s presentation folder. I haven't even time to get the papers out of the folder when I feel him moving closer.
“Before we start, there's something I'd like to point out,” he says in a serious tone.
I say nothing, inviting him to continue.
“People like Beverly want to carry out their business in a traditional way. It’s a question of relationships and not of solutions. Your idea might be the most brilliant ever, but the only thing that really counts is how you present it to him. He’s a man who's used to always getting his own way, and he expects to continue getting his own way. If he proposes something, it means that he wants to realise it, and he doesn’t want other suggestions. You must never put the idea that he is the one who comes up with the most efficient solution in doubt.”
I study him, trying to work out if he really believes what he's saying. His deep blue eyes tell me that this time he is serious.
“In that case, I don’t understand what he's paying us for. If he can do everything by himself—” I say quietly, articulating the words calmly.
As usual, Ian loses his calm immediately. “Don’t be silly, you know perfectly how these things work. The secret lies in suggesting things for him to then propose back to us, as if they were his ideas. We just have to put a flea in his ear.”
“You’re kidding, right? I have no intention of pandering to some ridiculous old snob’s delusions of grandeur!” I exclaim with annoyance.
Ian snorts accusingly. “Always the same old story with you, isn’t it? It's all about class, as far as you're concerned!”
I violently flick away a rebellious curl which keeps falling onto my face.
“It’s nothing to do with class, it’s to do with logic: if you pay an expert, it’s because you want their opinion. If you can solve the problem yourself, you don’t go looking for help!” I explain vehemently.
“Ok, here's what we’ll do. I propose observing him for a while before taking any decisions. We'll carefully evaluate Beverly and his way of thinking for a certain period of time, after which we'll discuss this fundamental issue again. Because no solution we come up with will have any value if we can’t present it to him in the most attractive way possible.”
“I hope you're not suggesting that I don't know how to do my job!” I warn him.
“I’m not suggesting anything, but the fact is that you’re about as sensitive as a bloody rhino!”
“Me? And what about you? The personification of sensitivity and perspicacity!” I reply as I lean towards him threateningly.
“Well I'm nowhere near as bad as you! It's as though you weren’t born, you were carved out of granite!”
“Envious of my character, Ian? You could have just admitted it—”
And we'd have gone on happily insulting each other forever, if Colin hadn't entered the meeting room. Just in time.
“For the record, I did knock before coming in. But then, how could you have heard me if you were shouting like that?”
Colin is livid – you can tell by the way his nostrils are trembling. There’s electricity in the air, and it's not just coming from Ian and me.
“You've got two minutes to calm down and come to my office. I want to see you both looking happy and smiling. And by ‘smiling’ I mean I want to be able to see your bloody wisdom teeth as you walk down the corridor,” he says in a menacing voice.
That said he walks out and slams the door behind him.
“Oops—” This time we’re in trouble.
“Yes—” nods Ian. We gather our stuff quickly and follow him as fast as we can.
Everybody is hanging about the corridor waiting for us. They've obviously been eavesdropping and have heard everything. We try and smile as we walk quickly towards Colin’s office. Ian opens the door and gestures for me to enter first, and for once I obey without arguing. He follows me in.
Silently, we sit down on two chairs in front of Colin, who, still fuming, is writing something on his computer. After a minute of deadly silence, he finally decides to look up at us.
“I thought I was working with grown ups, but apparently we’re in a kindergarten, so I will have to treat you like children. From now on, you will meet after work. You will go out at six and will have an after work drink somewhere, a long, long way from this office. A very long way, got it? Where nobody can see you! I suggest choosing somewhere with a bad reputation, and I suggest going there incognito. I would suggest meeting at one of your homes, but leaving you two alone without witnesses might end with a 999 call, so we'll forget anything like that for the moment.”
I am about to reply, when Colin motions me to stop with his hand.
“I've run out of patience with you two. After that ridiculous year, I thought you'd have been able to behave like adults and find a way round your problems, but I realise I was kidding myself. You're a couple of idiots, and believe me when I say that I’m being nice. Anyway, you’re free to ruin your own careers, but you're not going to ruin mine as well. Is that clear?”
I’ve never heard Colin say anything like this. I’m hugely, enormously ashamed.
“Yes, very clear,” I answer with a red face. “Perfectly clear,” confirms Ian in a gloomy voice. “Right, so decide where the hell you're going to meet tomorrow evening and hammer away at each other as much as you like – outside this office. And when you’re done, I'd like you to start talking about work. In a serious, productive way. Because on Saturday morning, Beverly will be waiting for you and you will be spending a fabulous weekend at his Scottish property, since you’re his favourite tax consultants. And frankly I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes.”
That said, he goes back to his keyboard and begins writing again.
It only took a minute, but it was a painful lesson. Once we get out of Colin’s office, our expressions are not relieved at all. It’s no surprise that we both go back to our own offices without saying another word.
*
The following day, Laura and Vera seem almost scared when they hear me opening the front door. With good reason – it’s only 6 p.m. and I haven't been back from work this early since the day I was taken on.
“Everything ok?” asks Laura worriedly, as I greet her.
“Relax, girls, I’m absolutely fine, but I have a work meeting in half an hour and I need to change into something casual,” I say, as I walk past them and enter my room to find something suitable to wear. God, what should you wear for something like this?
Ian e-mailed me in the afternoon to tell me the time and place. A place I've never been to but which I've heard mentioned. When I say its name to Laura, who has followed me into my room, she opens her eyes wide.
“And who exactly are you meeting somewhere that posh?” she asks suspiciously.
“It’s just for work—” I say vaguely as I grab a pair of jeans and a black top.
“That's a pretty low-necked top,” points out Vera, as she walks in to join us. “Don’t try and avoid the question: who are you meeting?”
I stop for a moment before answering. “If you promise you won’t jump to any weird conclusions—”
Faces quizzical, they both nod.
“Ok then – I have to meet Ian. But it’s only work. We argue too much in the office, so our boss suggested that we… no, actually he ordered us to find a neutral zone.”
“So after almost killing each other at the office, you've decided to finish the job somewhere else? Haven't I taught you anything, Jenny? No witnesses!” Vera teases me.
“It's just work!” I say in exasperation.
“Yeah, of course it is, 'it's just work'—” mimics Laura “That's why you're so nervous, because it’s 'just work'—”
“I’m not nervous!” I snap.
But the truth is that I am nervous – extremely nervous! All this fighting with Ian is exhausting me, mentally and physically.
A few seconds later, I’m ready. I don’t want to let my hair down or fix my make-up. Today I've gone back to my ponytail, hoping it might restore some normality. I really don’t want to risk Ian getting any funny ideas.
Flat shoes, as flat as possible. I'm not out to impress anyone.
I say goodbye to the girls and soon I’m in the tube. Yes, Ian certainly chose somewhere quiet, I think sarcastically. But I'd imagine that the poor boy probably doesn’t know anywhere that hasn't been in the Tatler, because everything about him is just so posh, right from his long, flowing, perfectly styled hair to those ridiculously expensive tailored suits.
It's pretty easy to find the place, and it’s packed with cool people. Just the kind of snobs I hate. A waitress notices my confused expression and tries to help me.
“Are you looking for someone?” she asks, as I'm casting an eye over the clientele.
“Erm, yeah. I’m looking for a tall guy, black hair, blue eyes—” I try to describe him vaguely.
“Oh, right!” she chirps immediately, “you must be Jennifer!”
I look at her in astonishment. “Follow me. There’s a quieter room at the back.” I have no choice but to do as she says and trail behind her while she makes her way between the tables. She leads me to a room which is indeed much more intimate, and much less crowded. Ian is sitting at a table in a dimly lit corner, presumably reading one of the hundreds of e-mails our BlackBerries are always receiving. He still hasn’t noticed me.
“Is that him?” the girl asks.
“It is, unfortunately” I confirm, and she seems to smile, as though she knows what I’m talking about.
I thank her and walk over to the table. Ian is wearing the same clothes he had on at work: he's taken off his jacket and tie and rolled up his shirt sleeves, but nothing else has changed. He puts down his phone and looks at me with a surprised expression.
“You’re looking very casual, I see.”
“Laid-back and incognito,” I explain.
“No little black dress?” he says, sounding almost astonished.
“Me? Little black dress? Have you started on the drink already, Ian?” I ask worriedly, while I take a seat.
“Haven't had a drop,” he answers promptly. “Slows down the reflexes, and I can’t really risk that with you around.”
“Thanks, I’ll take that as a compliment,” I mumble, and silence falls for a while as we sit scowling at each other.
“We really need to move forward,” he says suddenly, unexpectedly and unenthusiastically.
“I know,” I answer in the same flat tone, as though I were talking to my dentist.
“Yesterday things took a turn for the worse. Again.”
“I know,” I nod. I was there too.
“This could seriously mess up our careers—”
“Ian, can we skip the platitudes? If we're here, it's because we obviously both want a change. I get it, really I do.”
“And are you ready to commit to it?” he asks, lifting his eyes and looking at me. I stare into them.
“Only if you are.”
“I am, honestly.” His deeply blue eyes sparkle dangerously.
“In that case, I am too.”
“Good, because Beverly’s secretary just sent me a memo about next weekend, and if we don’t learn to get along we are not going to survive it.”
“I can imagine,” I say. I mean, it was obvious things needed to change.
“Great. Well I’d say that this clearing things up business has gone better than expected,” he says, sounding relieved.
I look at him in annoyance. “Listen, I'm an extremely reasonable person, when I'm dealing with reasonable people.”
“You’re not reasonable at all,” says Ian, flagging down a waiter. “What are you having, Jenny?” he asks, sounding almost gallant. Almost as if he hadn’t just offended me.
“I'll have a cappuccino,” I mumble resentfully.
“Ok, so a cappuccino for the lady and a glass of Pinot Grigio for me,” he says.
“We're supposed to be working. Wine?” I tease him.
“I'd like to relax now. The worst, hopefully, is past.”
“Keep hoping,” I say, taking a very heavy folder out of my bag. It contains everything there is to know about Beverly, his companies and his family. “You'd probably be happier not knowing what you're going up against.”
*
Two hours later we’re still working our way through the folder. I’m even more jittery than before, thanks to all the caffeine in my system, and Ian is more relaxed, since he's had quite a few glasses of white wine. He seems to be more at ease, and sometimes almost smiles and tries to be funny, but the only result is that he gets on my nerves.
I can tell that he’s making an effort, and it un-nerves me, because I can’t really forget everything that's happened so easily. I'd like to, but I just can’t. Being around him is dangerous, I know his tactics: he tries to make you feel safe and then he strikes when you least expect it. He did it so often in the past, when I barely knew him and thought he was an intelligent and brilliant young man, and before I found out how aggressive and vindictive he actually is.
I’d better not forget that or lower my guard.
But all this tension is killing me, so in the end I just give up.
“I think we'd better carry on with this tomorrow. My head's about to burst,” I say, raising my eyes from a securitisation plan for corporate debt.
Ian looks at me carefully. “You're actually not looking too great. Too much stress.”
And he suddenly leans over, puts his thumbs on my temples and starts giving me a massage.
I remain frozen in astonishment for a few moments, then pull back. “What exactly are you doing?” I ask abruptly, probably sounding ruder than I meant to.
“Trying to get rid of your stress,” he answers, as if it was a perfectly normal thing to do.
I push his hands away, as if they were burning. “For God's sake! Don’t get so close, don’t come close to me and most of all don’t touch me! You’re one of the main reasons why I'm so stressed in the first place, so stay out of my personal space,” I growl threateningly.
Ian laughs at my words. He probably thinks I’m crazy, but I don't care.
“Ok, let’s go, then,” he says while he gets to his feet and signals to the waitress that he wants to pay.
“What are you doing?” I ask, as he pulls out his platinum credit card.
“I’m paying?” he answers sarcastically.
“No thanks – I’m paying!” I answer aggressively.
“I don’t think so,” says Ian in a determined tone.
“I am paying, since Beverly is my client,” I point out.
“Beverly is our client, not just yours,” he answers, handing over his card to the waitress.
I snatch it out of his hand and put it down on the table, then take a couple of notes from my wallet and give them to the girl, who looks at us and laughs.
“I don't let girls pay when they’re out with me,” he says, sounding annoyed.
“Yes, but I’m not a 'girl', I’m a colleague. I know all about your wild nights out and since it’s still early you've got plenty of time to hook up with one of your usual bimbos. I’m sure they won’t mind if you foot the bill.”
Ian looks surprised and shocked, as if he has unexpectedly found himself sucking on a slice of lemon. Maybe – just ‘maybe’ – I've gone too far.
The waitress realises immediately what’s going on, takes both Ian’s card and my notes, and a few minutes later she's back with his receipt and my change.
We head towards the entrance, Ian still acting offended. Before going away, I turn towards him and touch his arm to get his attention.
“Listen. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said all that.” He doesn’t reply. “I’m serious, what do I know about models or PR? Maybe in your world stuff like that is totally normal—”
Ian grabs my arm now, to stop me from saying any more. We must look pretty funny. “Don’t make it any worse,” he says. “You're bloody awful at apologising.”
“I don’t have much experience,” I confess, “I’m usually right.”
For some reason, my answer makes him smile.
“I must admit that you’re actually quite funny too, in a peculiar way.”
“Of course I am. It's cutting wit, but it's still wit. Isn’t it?”
Ian ponders. “Well, since we've survived an aperitif, what if we raise the stakes and go out for dinner tomorrow? I really need to eat some proper food.”
And I need to go on a diet. But I can always get a salad.
“We could try. But nowhere trendy, please. And since you don’t know anywhere that isn't, I'll choose the venue.”
“Do I look like someone who likes trendy places?” he asks ironically. My expression is a clear enough answer.
“Ok, fine,” he says, raising his arms in surrender, “you choose the place, pay if you like and if that's not enough, you can choose the wine too.”
“No wine, just water. No offence, but wine has a strange effect on you. And we each pay for what we get, or we split the bill,” I grant him.
“That's quite generous, coming from you,” he says, lifting up his eyebrows.
“Right. I’m off,” I say, gesturing with my head to the nearby tube station.
“I'd offer you a lift, but you'd probably answer that you don’t need a bodyguard and that you’re perfectly able to reach the underground on your own, so I won’t.”
“I appreciate that,” I say.
“Goodnight,” he says.
“I won't say goodnight to you – your night's still young. Bye!” I say, walking away with a wave.
*
Vera and Laura are standing by the door when I get home.
“So?” they ask in unison.
“So what? We didn’t kill each other, if that’s what you’re wondering,” I answer, slightly defensively, and plonk myself down between them on the sofa.
“Spit it out. We’ve been sat here for hours imagining how bad things could have got – you pouring your drink over his head, him throwing nuts at you… You know, that type of stuff,” says Laura, laughing.
“It was a pretty… peculiar night,” I confess, pausing to choose the right word. “I honestly wouldn’t know how else to describe it.”
“In what way, peculiar?” asks Vera immediately.
“Well, I was expecting more animosity. I mean, there was a bit, at the beginning, but then we managed to keep everything under control. And we got a lot of work done, so I’d say it was a success, really.”
“I’m glad to hear it. In that case, I'd suggest a girls' night out tomorrow, so we can celebrate your being newly single. I mean, let’s be honest, you’re way better off without Charles. And that way we can also celebrate me getting back together with David!” says Laura happily.
All the things that have happened lately have at least stopped me from thinking too much about Charles – I haven't had time to mope. Any excuse is usually good enough for me to celebrate, but not this time. “How about the day after tomorrow?” I suggest. “I have to work tomorrow night.”
“With Ian,” Vera says, not asking. She sniggers.
“Yes, with Ian. But it's not what you think—” I say threateningly.
“Who'd have thought it, our friend preferring swanning about with a count to a night out with us,” teases Laura.
“I know! And despite being brought up with certain values by her parents! Look how life in the City's changed her—” Vera chips in.
“Oh, give it a rest, you two!” I say indignantly, but they laugh even more.
“I have to admit it, he is quite interesting, though,” says Laura.
“Have you seen this?” asks Vera, picking up a gossip magazine from the coffee table and quickly flicking through it. “Here he is!” she exclaims with satisfaction, showing us a picture of Ian with one of the usual brainless beauties he always seems to be squiring around town.
“Yeah,” she says after a while, “the guy definitely has potential.”
“No, darling, the guy has already fully developed his potential, together with his arrogance and unpleasantness,” I correct her while I take a furtive look at one of the pictures. He does look good.
“Do you think it's his title that's to blame, or his money? Or is it his looks?” asks Laura seriously.
“I suppose it's a mixture of all three. You know, when you grow up in that kind of world, you think everything's owed you on a silver platter.”
“Shame,” Vera says after a little while. “Yes,” agrees Laura.
I grab the remote control and turn on the TV, though, because I’ve had enough of talking about Ian. It's high time I thought about something else.