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‘Oh!’ Alexa’s mother gave a nervous laugh, clearly impressed and a little overwhelmed. ‘Gosh.’
‘I was lucky,’ he explained modestly. ‘We had a bumper year for deals last year.’
‘Yes. Right.’ Alexa’s mother nodded, raising her eyebrows at her husband, who was trying to look through two sets of windows to catch a glimpse of the car.
More questions followed. Where had Matt grown up? What had he studied? Did he have brothers or sisters? Which area of law was his focus? Matt passed with flying colours. He kept up with the questions, laughed at Alexa’s mother’s jokes and masterfully down-played his lifetime achievements, even managing to weave in a reference to his time doing pro-bono work for a local children’s charity. The only slight hiccup came when Matt had pulled out his phone to check the name of his old scout group and noticed the lack of message alerts.
‘Oh. Don’t you have any reception around here?’
‘No,’ replied Alexa’s mother, suddenly caustic.
‘Amazing.’ Matt shook his head, clearly not picking up on the vibe. ‘I didn’t think there were places like that left . . .’
‘I hope you’re not addicted, as well?’
Alexa took it upon herself to step in. She hadn’t warned Matt about this. ‘It’s not an addiction, Mum; it’s communication. It’s the way things work these days. ’
Her mother leaned over to Matt, speaking directly to him.
‘She’s addicted,’ she said softly. ‘Don’t you think? She can’t stop looking at that thing.’
Matt smiled tactfully.
Alexa said nothing. She knew that she ought to move on, to think of a neutral topic of conversation, but she couldn’t. She was so angry with her mother.
It wasn’t simply that she was imposing her old-fashioned views on people who didn’t want to hear, or that she was insulting her guest for doing something as innocent as checking his phone. It was that she was so damned contradictory.
If there was one personality trait that Alexa attributed to her mother, it was her drive to succeed. Where else had it come from, if not the woman who had allowed her only educational toys as a child – the woman who had withheld her evening meal until her homework was done? Alexa could still remember the time her mother had denied her a place on the Year 11 post-exam holiday to Barcelona – could still feel the wrench of disappointment in her gut as she took in her mother’s words. It was all because of the B she had attained in her Geography coursework – and it hadn’t even been her fault. The teacher had slipped up and set an unsuitable piece of work. Nobody in her class had got anything higher than a B grade. It was no wonder Alexa had found herself working her way into a top university, desperately seeking out a top graduate job and flinging herself into every piece of work in a desperate attempt to succeed. It was no wonder that now, ten years later, she was still feeling the same compulsion to achieve, achieve, achieve – yet her mother did wonder. She wondered why Alexa was continually checking her email. It seemed so hypocritical that Alexa wondered whether she might have missed something along the way – whether she had misinterpreted her mother’s words of ‘encouragement’ over the years.
She reached out and topped up her father’s empty glass. Her hands were shaking.
Matt stoked the coals on the barbecue. He had picked up on it now.
‘Nearly time to put the meat on,’ he said, cautiously. ‘Five minutes, I’d say.’
Nobody moved.
Eventually, Alexa could bear it no longer. The pressure inside her was too great. She got up and stormed inside, locking herself into the downstairs bathroom. Flipping down the lid of the toilet, she sat, head in hands, waiting for the rage to pass.
Her mother didn’t say those things to annoy her, she knew that. That was the ironic thing. She said them because she cared. She was worried about her daughter turning into a workaholic and failing to keep hold of Mr Right – risking a life of lonely, work-fuelled celibacy. Like most mothers, she just wanted her daughter to have it all. She couldn’t see, of course, that it was she who had created the workaholic. Alexa was addicted to her BlackBerry. She was wedded to her career. She did have trouble holding down a boyfriend and, frankly, it was unlikely that she would succeed in ‘having it all’. Did anyone, these days? What did that mean, anyway?
She thought about her friend, Kate – the only person she knew who stood a chance of having it all. In a year’s time, barring disasters, she would be a partner at TDS. She would continue to churn through men, keeping an eye out for husband material and then once she decided on ‘the one’, she would engineer a proposal and a year later, they’d be married with their first kid on the way. Knowing Kate, she probably had it all mapped out in an Excel spreadsheet.
It wasn’t so simple for Alexa. At least, it didn’t feel simple. Matt was the only man she had been with for more than a couple of months and every day, she felt privileged to still be with him. She couldn’t pick and choose like Kate. Ironically, from her mother’s perspective, Alexa had become so afraid of failure that she found it almost impossible to focus on anything other than upcoming challenges in the workplace. She tried to loosen up when it came to relationships, but it wasn’t something that came naturally.
Alexa breathed deeply and exhaled, slowly. She felt calmer now; the shaking had subsided. Rising to her feet, she studied her face in the mirror. The sun had brought out the freckles on her cheeks and her eyes looked paler in comparison. She watched as her reflection started to smile back at her. She was ready to face the world again.
The scene to which she returned was unexpected. It was as though she had turned up at somebody else’s party. Matt and her father were chatting happily by the barbecue, her father threading kebab meat onto skewers while Matt turned the slabs of steak, and her mother was flitting from kitchen to garden, humming as she arranged the salads.
‘Can I help?’ Alexa asked lamely.
The men were lost in conversation and didn’t reply. Her mother stood for a moment, appraising her handiwork on the table. Then she turned, as if suddenly remembering something.
‘Yes – yes, you can. Come and fetch a couple of things from the kitchen, will you?’
Alexa was familiar enough with her mother’s tricks to know that there was no urgent barbecue-related mission awaiting her in the kitchen. She trampled inside, wondering which of her mother’s lectures she was about to hear. On the plus side, she thought, at least by being alone together in the kitchen, there might be an opportunity to tell her mother about the job.
‘So!’ Alexa’s mother pressed the kitchen door shut behind them ‘Oh, Alexa, you’re stooping.’
Alexa straightened up, pushing a wisp of fringe out of her eyes. It was a criticism she had heard so many times, over the years. She tried so hard to be proud of her looks – all five foot ten of them – but too often, it just felt more comfortable to be at eye level with others. Not that that was an argument worth having with her mother.
‘I just wanted to say,’ her mother began, in a whisper that equated to anyone else’s normal speaking volume, ‘I think Matthew is wonderful. So does your father. He gave me the nod, just now.’
‘Good. I’m glad you think so.’ Alexa smiled hesitantly. The nod. It was as though Matt had come under scrutiny by virtue of his association with her. ‘I think he is, too.’
She waited with trepidation as her mother continued to wring her hands.
‘And . . . well, I just want to say . . . try to make time for him, won’t you? I know what you’re like, always rushing around, working all hours . . .’
Alexa frowned. She couldn’t quite believe these words were coming out of her mother’s mouth. Make time? Time? Coming from the person who believed that productivity was the ultimate goal, that life was all about using time efficiently?
Alexa found herself nodding, too stunned to object. ‘He seems like a perfect match,’ her mother went on. ‘Obviously very ambitious.’
Alexa nodded again. The hypocrisy was astounding. What did they want from her? Was ambition seen as a good thing or not? Throughout all of her life so far, Alexa had been working on the assumption that ambition was good – that it was an essential ingredient of a fulfilling life. Matt’s ambition was being lauded and yet, here was her mother, effectively telling Alexa to take her foot off the gas and to ‘make time’. Making time meant borrowing it from other activities, of course. There was only a finite number of hours in the day and Alexa’s waking ones were already filled – her mother had made sure of that. So what exactly was her mother trying to say?
‘You’re coming to the end of your contract at the magazine now, aren’t you? Perhaps you can take it a bit easier for a few months?’
Through the blur of confusion, Alexa spotted an opportunity.
‘Actually, my contract has—’
‘Have we got any more peppers?’ Her father appeared in the doorway. ‘Just need a half or so for the last kebab.’
‘Try the bottom of the fridge.’ Alexa’s mum moved over to the sink and started scrubbing a burnt pan – a good use of six seconds, thought Alexa, watching in annoyance.
‘Alexa, don’t leave your guest out there on his own. Go on – you go and entertain Matthew. We’ll sort out the food.’
Alexa toyed with the idea of telling them now, both at once, but it didn’t feel right. Her mother would overreact, she would get angry again and her dad wouldn’t know how to respond, and all the while Matt would be outside on his own.
‘Oh, Alexa?’ Her mother called out as she made her escape. ‘I meant to ask. You remember Lara Fielding, don’t you? The little girl you used to babysit, from the village?’
‘You mean the spoilt brat who would only eat food that was pink?’
‘Well, yes. I’m sure she’s grown out of that now. I was talking to Janice the other day and she mentioned that Lara has just finished a Media Studies degree and is looking for work! So, naturally, I said that you might be able to put in a good word with the ladies at Hers.’
Alexa sighed. She wouldn’t inflict Lara Fielding on anyone – especially not her friends on the third floor.
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
Matt raised an eyebrow as she re-emerged.
She shook her head. ‘Got interrupted.’
He looked unimpressed.
‘I will tell them,’ she said, ‘just—’
‘Tell who what?’ her mother asked breezily, reappearing with a bowl of chopped peppers.
‘Oh.’ Alexa panicked. ‘Just . . .’ She couldn’t say it. Not yet.
‘Alexa has some news,’ Matt said, unhelpfully.
‘I . . .’ Alexa said the line in her head, but she kept getting stuck on the word Banter. ‘I have a new job,’ she managed.
‘Do you?’ cooed her mother.
‘Do you?’ her dad echoed.
‘Yes.’ She pressed on. ‘It’s a managing director role, a bit like my last one, but for a men’s title.’
‘Oh! Congratulations!’
‘Which title, darling?’
‘Um . . . it’s . . . well,’ Alexa looked at the patio. Matt was looking at her, eyebrows raised. ‘It’s . . .’ She tried again to push the word out, but she just couldn’t do it. ‘A niche magazine,’ she said, eventually. ‘You won’t have heard of it.’
‘Well!’ cried her mother, clearly perplexed that the news wasn’t more significant, given the build-up. ‘That’s . . . fabulous!’
She didn’t look as disappointed as she might have done, thought Alexa – presumably because she saw the role as offering more potential for her daughter to make time for Matt. Within seconds, she was popping the cork on a bottle of champagne.
‘Well done, Alexa!’ she cried, filling the glasses.
‘Hear hear!’ said her dad. ‘Well done.’
‘Yes,’ Matt added woodenly. ‘Well done.’
Alexa held up her glass as the toast was made, feeling shaky and slightly sick.
Chapter 6
‘Pig Out?’
‘Hogwarts?’
‘Pig Headed?’ Derek sniggered and scratched his goatee, clearly finding the whole thing hilarious. ‘No, hang on, how about Pigs Might Fly? Ha!’
Alexa sighed. They were nearly two hours into the weekly editorial meeting and they’d barely scratched the surface of features. For the last ten minutes, conversation had revolved around possible funny headlines for Paddy’s first editorial assignment – a trip to a Suffolk pig farm. Alexa suspected that the location had been carefully chosen by the other members of the team to ensure maximum ridicule for the junior writer.
‘How about Pig Tales!’ roared Derek, looking around the table for a response.
Marcus, the ginger-haired news editor, guffawed appropriately and Sienna let out a girly squeal, rearranging her blouse to display a little more cleavage.
Alexa cleared her throat. ‘Shall we move on? I’m sure the features team will come up with something suitably funny.’ She looked at the balding, energetic features editor who nodded back at her. ‘Neil? What else?’
Before Neil could speak, Derek leaned forward, his head cocked aggressively to one side.
‘How about,’ he said, in a slow, condescending tone, ‘we carry on going round the table, like we’ve been doing, shall we? That’s tends to be how we do it, see.’ He smiled patronisingly at her.
Alexa managed to nod, despite the burning rage inside her. There were so many things she wanted to say. They weren’t going round the table; they were going through the magazine, section by section, as was customary in such meetings. She had looked to Neil because, as features editor, he was best placed to summarise the next topic of discussion. And to use that disdainful tone in front of the entire staff was not just unprofessional; it was pathetic. Alexa remained silent.
‘Er . . . same as,’ said the scruffy young man next to Paddy, who, for reasons unknown to Alexa, was known as Biscuit. She remembered him from her first day; he’d been the one brandishing the voice-distorting megaphone. He was responsible for the jokes pages of Banter.
‘Any news on the Guy Thomas thing?’ asked someone.
Biscuit screwed up his face. ‘He’s threatening to sue.’
‘Bastard.’
‘Fucker.’
Alexa looked around, perturbed. ‘Sorry . . . could someone explain the Guy Thomasthing?’
Derek sighed, loudly. ‘Could someone please explain the Guy Thomas thing, for the benefit of our managing director,’ he said, in a tired monotone.
‘We, um, printed a “fun fact” about him in the Celebrity Banter section,’ said Biscuit, not meeting Alexa’s eye. ‘Said he had a phobia of peas. He’s claiming it’s not a phobia, it’s an aversion.’
‘He’s going to court over an aversion to peas?’ Alexa frowned.
‘He always threatens.’
Derek leaned forward again. He had the same look on his face as before.
‘Round here, you see, lawsuits come with the territory. Not a lot you can do about them.’
Alexa disagreed, but said nothing.
‘Anyway! Good news,’ said Neil, tactfully changing the subject. ‘We’ve had Ricky Lewis confirmed as our lead feature next week. Got the green light for a “Love Rat Tells All” piece.’
‘Fan-fuckin’-tastic,’ said Derek, shaking his fist in what Alexa could only interpret as a display of jubilation. There were nods of respect from all round the room. A couple of men punched the air.
Alexa said nothing. She didn’t share their enthusiasm. Ricky Lewis was a premiership footballer whose exploits, as far as she knew, included: drink-driving, speeding, cheating on his girlfriend with a teenage prostitute and then walking out on said girlfriend, who had taken him back and was five months pregnant with his child. Was it right, she wondered, to splash heroic images of such a man across the pages of a magazine aimed at impressionable young lads?
‘Love the angle, too,’ added Derek. ‘Really get him to talk – you might get some juicy tit-bits.’
‘Some sordid truths about the wife, maybe?’ someone else suggested.
Neil nodded and jotted it down. Alexa nearly spoke out, but stopped herself. She was new to this market. There was clearly a lot for her to learn about what worked and what didn’t. If this was a feature that pulled in the readers, she could hardly speak out against it.
