Twenties Girl
Page 88
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She put the phone down, shaking. Apparently Janet’s in a vicious mood. I think she’s become a bit obsessed by this short list. So am I. Résumés are swimming in front of my eyes, and the phone feels like it’s welded to my ear.
Yesterday I had a flash of inspiration. At least, it felt like inspiration. Maybe it was just desperation. Tonya! She’s tough and hard and ironlike and all those scary qualities. She’d be a total match for Janet Grady.
So I called up and casually asked if she’d thought about returning to work, now the twins had turned two. Had she thought about moving into marketing, maybe? In sportswear, perhaps? Tonya was quite senior at Shell before she had the boys. I bet her résumé looks really impressive.
“But I’m on a career break,” she objected. “Mag-da! NOT those fish fingers. Look in the bottom drawer of the freezer-”
“You’ve had enough of a break, surely. A woman with your talents-you must be dying to get back to work.”
“Not really.”
“But your brain will go soggy!”
“It won’t go soggy!” She sounded affronted. “You know, I do Suzuki music every week with the boys. It’s stimulating for both children and parents, and I’ve met some other great mums there.”
“You’re telling me you’d rather do Suzuki music and drink cappuccinos than be a top marketing director.” I tried to inject an incredulous note, even though I would a million times rather be doing Suzuki music and drinking cappuccinos right now than dealing with all this.
“Yes,” she said flatly. “I would. Why are you approaching me, anyway, Lara?” Suddenly her voice was more alert. “What’s going on? Have you got a problem? Because you can always talk to me about it, you know, if things are going wrong…”
Oh God. Not the fake-o sympathy.
“Nothing’s going wrong! Just trying to do my big sister a favor.” I left it a moment or two before adding casually, “So, those mums you’ve met at Suzuki music. None of them used to be a top marketing director, did they?”
You’d think out of eight formerly professional mothers there’d have been one marketing director with retail experience who wanted to return to work at once. You’d think.
Anyway. So much for that bright idea. In fact, so much for all my ideas. The only possibility I’ve found is a guy in Birmingham who might move if Leonidas Sports pays for his helicopter commute every week. Which is never going to happen in a million years. I’m doomed. All in all, you’d think now would not be the best time to be glammed up and going to a party.
Nevertheless, here I am in a taxi, glammed up and going to a party.
“We’re here! Park Lane!” Sadie peers out of the window. “Pay the driver! Let’s go!”
Bright flashes from cameras are filling our taxi, and I can hear the hubbub of people greeting one another. I see a group of about ten people in evening dress arriving on the red carpet leading up to the Spencer Hotel, where the Business People dinner is taking place. According to the Financial Times , four hundred of the top business talents in London are going to be gathered here tonight.
As one of those talents, I was all set to cancel, for many, many reasons:
1. I’m back with Josh now and shouldn’t be attending dinners with other men.
2. I’m too stressed out by work.
3. I mean, really stressed out.
4. Janet Grady might be here and yell at me.
5. Clive Hoxton, ditto. Not to mention:
6. Have to talk to Mr. American Frown all night.
But then it hit me. Four hundred businesspeople, all together in one room. Some of them have got to be top-level marketing executives. And some of them have got to want a new job. Surely.
So this is my last-ditch plan. I’m going to find a candidate for Leonidas Sports tonight, at the dinner.
I double-check that my evening bag is well stocked with business cards and glance at my reflection in the window. Needless to say, Sadie took charge of my outfit again. I’m in a black sequined vintage dress with fringed sleeves and beaded Egyptian-style medallions at the shoulders. Over this I’m wearing a cloak. My eyes are heavily kohled, I have a long gold snake bracelet, and even a pair of original stockings, just like Sadie used to wear, apparently. And on my head is a close-fitting diamanté mesh cap, which Sadie found at some antique market.
Tonight I feel a lot more confident, though. For a start, everyone else will be dressed up too. And even though I protested about the cap, I secretly think I look quite cool. I look kind of glam and retro.
Sadie’s dolled up too, in a fringed dress, all turquoise and green, with a peacock feather shawl. She’s wearing about ten necklaces, and on her head is the most ludicrous headdress, with a diamanté waterfall cascading past her ear. She keeps flipping her evening bag open and shut and seems in a manic mood. In fact, she’s been manic ever since she told me that story about her old dead lover. I’ve tried to ask her more about it, but no dice. She just glides away or vanishes or changes the subject. So I’ve given up.
Yesterday I had a flash of inspiration. At least, it felt like inspiration. Maybe it was just desperation. Tonya! She’s tough and hard and ironlike and all those scary qualities. She’d be a total match for Janet Grady.
So I called up and casually asked if she’d thought about returning to work, now the twins had turned two. Had she thought about moving into marketing, maybe? In sportswear, perhaps? Tonya was quite senior at Shell before she had the boys. I bet her résumé looks really impressive.
“But I’m on a career break,” she objected. “Mag-da! NOT those fish fingers. Look in the bottom drawer of the freezer-”
“You’ve had enough of a break, surely. A woman with your talents-you must be dying to get back to work.”
“Not really.”
“But your brain will go soggy!”
“It won’t go soggy!” She sounded affronted. “You know, I do Suzuki music every week with the boys. It’s stimulating for both children and parents, and I’ve met some other great mums there.”
“You’re telling me you’d rather do Suzuki music and drink cappuccinos than be a top marketing director.” I tried to inject an incredulous note, even though I would a million times rather be doing Suzuki music and drinking cappuccinos right now than dealing with all this.
“Yes,” she said flatly. “I would. Why are you approaching me, anyway, Lara?” Suddenly her voice was more alert. “What’s going on? Have you got a problem? Because you can always talk to me about it, you know, if things are going wrong…”
Oh God. Not the fake-o sympathy.
“Nothing’s going wrong! Just trying to do my big sister a favor.” I left it a moment or two before adding casually, “So, those mums you’ve met at Suzuki music. None of them used to be a top marketing director, did they?”
You’d think out of eight formerly professional mothers there’d have been one marketing director with retail experience who wanted to return to work at once. You’d think.
Anyway. So much for that bright idea. In fact, so much for all my ideas. The only possibility I’ve found is a guy in Birmingham who might move if Leonidas Sports pays for his helicopter commute every week. Which is never going to happen in a million years. I’m doomed. All in all, you’d think now would not be the best time to be glammed up and going to a party.
Nevertheless, here I am in a taxi, glammed up and going to a party.
“We’re here! Park Lane!” Sadie peers out of the window. “Pay the driver! Let’s go!”
Bright flashes from cameras are filling our taxi, and I can hear the hubbub of people greeting one another. I see a group of about ten people in evening dress arriving on the red carpet leading up to the Spencer Hotel, where the Business People dinner is taking place. According to the Financial Times , four hundred of the top business talents in London are going to be gathered here tonight.
As one of those talents, I was all set to cancel, for many, many reasons:
1. I’m back with Josh now and shouldn’t be attending dinners with other men.
2. I’m too stressed out by work.
3. I mean, really stressed out.
4. Janet Grady might be here and yell at me.
5. Clive Hoxton, ditto. Not to mention:
6. Have to talk to Mr. American Frown all night.
But then it hit me. Four hundred businesspeople, all together in one room. Some of them have got to be top-level marketing executives. And some of them have got to want a new job. Surely.
So this is my last-ditch plan. I’m going to find a candidate for Leonidas Sports tonight, at the dinner.
I double-check that my evening bag is well stocked with business cards and glance at my reflection in the window. Needless to say, Sadie took charge of my outfit again. I’m in a black sequined vintage dress with fringed sleeves and beaded Egyptian-style medallions at the shoulders. Over this I’m wearing a cloak. My eyes are heavily kohled, I have a long gold snake bracelet, and even a pair of original stockings, just like Sadie used to wear, apparently. And on my head is a close-fitting diamanté mesh cap, which Sadie found at some antique market.
Tonight I feel a lot more confident, though. For a start, everyone else will be dressed up too. And even though I protested about the cap, I secretly think I look quite cool. I look kind of glam and retro.
Sadie’s dolled up too, in a fringed dress, all turquoise and green, with a peacock feather shawl. She’s wearing about ten necklaces, and on her head is the most ludicrous headdress, with a diamanté waterfall cascading past her ear. She keeps flipping her evening bag open and shut and seems in a manic mood. In fact, she’s been manic ever since she told me that story about her old dead lover. I’ve tried to ask her more about it, but no dice. She just glides away or vanishes or changes the subject. So I’ve given up.
