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‘Yeah, right.’ Ben stabbed the diary with his finger before turning the page. Apparently she wasn’t the only one with problems. He was talking to a magazine.
Could retrain. Teaching is tempting. Salary is not. But increasingly feel would like to make a difference, however small.
Need gym session. Not sure fast walking in semi-heels to Bloomingdales and back counts as exercise. Now Richard has suggested exercising corporate Amex over cocktails with clients in Bemelmans Bar at 6.30. Could just be a little late. Woman’s prerogative. Then again, probably not quite future partner prerogative. At least have new classic cocktail dress. Makes me feel fabulous, especially now upper arms are more toned. On the whole these NY boys are more attractive than their British counterparts, but sadly they rarely have any substance, any real spirit. As if their strength has been sapped by their sand-coloured Chinos.
Ben shook his head and looked down at his black round-neck jumper and Diesel jeans, irritated by her descent into cliché. Yup, all American men were dull and without style, and all British women only had sex in the missionary position. Maybe if she stepped out of the executive gene pool she’d have a bit more fun.
I think Bill likes me, though. Should make evening slightly less painful. And with a bit of a power flirt I imagine ‘just call me Harvey’ will be happy to agree to the fee proposal and recommended deal structure, just as long as Richard doesn’t interfere. Cocktails not such bad idea after all. Bugger. Just seen time. Instead of scribbling could at least have done a session on the stepper.
Never had American man. Maybe this is where I’ve been going wrong…
He wasn’t surprised there wasn’t a queue. Like she knew anything about the real world, locked away in her ivory office block. Smug, supercilious…and single.
‘Well, what do you think?’ Ali strutted over in an all black outfit, a bundle of tags swinging from her belt loops.
‘Hmm?’ Ben gave his sister the once-over and, still fuming, must have accidentally frowned.
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’ Ben did his utmost to minimise the machinations of a lawyer in crisis and focus on his sister as she sashayed along an imaginary catwalk in front of him before coming to an abrupt, less glamorous halt.
‘Well, come on—spit it out. I didn’t bring you along to be polite.’
‘It’s all lovely.’
‘Fence-sitter. Now, let’s start again. Trousers?’
Ben refocused. ‘Aren’t they the same as the ones you tried in the last place?’
Ali’s subsequent sigh was tinged with exasperation. ‘No, the waistband is totally different and there are no back pockets on these.’
‘Of course.’ Amateur error. How could he have missed the waistband/pocket detail?
‘Well?’
‘They’re very nice. Great. Get them. How much?’
‘Flattering?’ Ali ignored the last question. How could you put a price on the perfect pair of black trousers?
‘Yup. Very.’ Ben tried not to stare at his sister’s bottom. ‘Seriously, I like the cut. Simple lines and, um, great fabric—classic.’ Ali’s eyes lit up. Ben knew he’d hit the jackpot. ‘Yup, definitely classic.’ Silently he thanked his anonymous tipster. When it came to women’s fashion, she was good.
‘Great. Thanks. Right, just a few more things to try and then we’ll stop for a coffee.’
‘What else do you need?’
‘A couple of sweaters, maybe a spring coat, a bag, a belt…’
Ali paused. Ben was getting the idea.
‘It’s not like I’ve got a list…’
Of course. The hunter-gatherer try-it-all-before-deciding approach to a new wardrobe.
‘…but I’ll know them when I see them.’
‘Whatever.’
‘Thanks for being so patient.’
‘No problem. Look, we’re here now—take your time, try anything you like…’
Ali cocked her head and studied her brother for a moment before strutting back to her cubicle. What about the ‘they do have shops in London’ line he usually came out with? She’d get to the bottom of it just as soon as she’d found the perfect pair of jeans, and maybe a couple of sweaters…
Suddenly, clearing her social plate for her first night home was seeming less sensible. EJ was out, Sophie was with a prospective client, and Gemma was as likely to be home on a Friday night as Cherie Blair was to have a number one single. Yet Sam was lingering in the office, afraid to face up to both her conscience and her empty fridge.
For the twenty-first consecutive minute Sam stared out of her window, mesmerised by the moon rising over London. Perfectly round and almost whitely luminescent against an increasingly deep blue sky, it was the sort of scene you expected Elliot to cycle across with ET in his basket. And a timely reminder of the fact that the world was still doing its spinning thing while she remained powerless.
Sam swivelled back to face her desk and reached for another file-shaped dose of reality. Give her a complicated deal any day over the emotional stuff.
The writing was much messier now. And in a different pen.
Richard Blakely is a wanker.
Richard Blakely is an arrogant wanker.
Richard Blakely is an arrogant, misogynist wanker.
Richard Blakely is an arrogant, misogynist wanker who wields his (not exactly enormous) sexuality like some sort of power tool.
Richard Blakely is a tool, an egomaniac, and my boss. Fucking marvellous.
A smudge. Her hand? A tear? Neat vodka?
How can this be happening? Tired of being an adult. Want someone else to take responsibility for me. To help. Am so tired.
‘You’re making me feel guilty, just sitting there. Why don’t I meet you in that enormous shop you love and I hate?’ Ali’s voice came sailing out of the changing area.
‘What?’ Grumpy at the interruption, Ben tuned back in to his life just as Ali appeared with an armful of rejects and further requests for the assistant.
‘The Virgin Megastore.’
‘The last thing I need now is a virgin.’
‘Benjamin…’ The warning tone. ‘Just go.’
Carefully he closed the magazine. ‘What you still fail to understand is that you can never have too much music. Fashions come and go. The soundtrack of your life is ever-expanding.’
‘Whatever.’
‘It’s true. Certain tracks are like milestones.’
‘Yeah, yeah.’
‘Which song did you have your first French kiss to?’
‘Um, George Michael—“Careless Whisper”.’
‘1984.’
‘You’re a freak, do you know that?’
‘And what were you wearing?’
‘God knows.’
‘See.’
‘Please, be a music anorak with my blessing…just leave me out of it. But really you might as well go on ahead. You must be bored out of your mind.’
‘Bored?’
‘I know what I’m like when I’m on a mission. I’ve still got a few more things I want to try here, and then I need to go to Barnes & Noble and Sephora.’
‘Here you go, miss.’ The assistant had returned with Phase 6 of the try-ons and another pseudo-genuine smile from her collection.
‘Thanks…could you find me a belt too?’
‘Sure.’
Ben rolled his eyes at the girl and she did her best not to reciprocate. Hey, the customer was always right. One belt selection coming right up.
‘Okay, I admit it. There’s no such thing as a selfless good deed.’ Ali headed back behind the curtain. ‘But you know how much I hate it when you insist on walking up and down every aisle, including the Country, World and Extreme Reggae departments. Maybe if we were married I’d find it endearing. Then again…’
‘I’ll go later…or tomorrow.’ Ben tried to focus.
Why is he even here tonight? Why can’t he understand I am not now, nor ever will be, interested in him? Can’t believe he actually suggested we have a fling. Correction, an affair. Jesus. Much worse. OK, I admit have been ignoring some signs, a few glances, a couple of compliments, but I never thought he meant anything until now.
And to think he said it wouldn’t change anything…
‘Ha. Busted. Extreme Reggae. I invented a whole new musical genre and you didn’t even notice.’
…that he actually suggested that fucking the boss, as he so delicately put it, might be exciting. That I’d be the perfect mistress. Mistress. He didn’t even want a one-night stand. What is it with me? What is it that I exude that makes men want to sleep with me, yet date and marry someone else?
‘Yup.’ Ben selected a monosyllabic random response and hoped it fitted in with the general gist of Ali’s conversation.
God, I’m stupid to have let him come up here when he said he just wanted to collect some papers. Honestly didn’t think I was being naïve. I only went to the bathroom for a minute and then there he was, in my bed, his clothes abandoned in a pile on the floor. How can Richard think of me as some sort of emotionally detached sexual predator? Increasingly unsure whether I even have a romantic core any more. Think Paul may have packed it, along with my Crowded House CD, when we split up. Must repurchase.
Nodding sympathetically, he turned the page. Julia had squirrelled away quite a few of his old favourites, but it had seemed a bit petty to bring it up at the time.
Could it be that I’ve only got as far at 3L because Richard…? Know I am being ridiculous. Am bloody good at what I do. But suddenly everything feels sordid. Why does it always have to boil down to sex? Why can’t it be more like school? End-of-year exams. Pointless rules. Regulation hockey socks. Gym knickers. But no sex. Well, not for me at any rate.
Ben’s eyes darted along every line, taking in as much as he could in as short a time as possible. Ali was bound to interrupt again any minute.
At least I kept my cool. Didn’t overreact. He apologised. Questionable sincerity. Claimed too much to drink. Got carried away. Should be carried away. Such a smooth operator. I never want to be a wife if this is what happens. Am adult. Can cope.
Still don’t know how EJ managed to be so laid back (laid back!) about NG thing. If it gets out her life at GB is as good as over, and all for the sake of a few orgasms. Then again, when was the last time I even had one of those? Maybe he wanted her to be his in-house counsel. But now his wife is expecting a third. And he never pretended his marriage was in trouble.
And why would I leave one of London’s top firms when I can almost see my name on the headed paper? Guess it’s just business as usual, then. I can do professional and so can he. I’m not the one with a wife and children. Sometimes the world is so disappointing. Wanted my life to be St Elmo’s Fire, not Carry On Up Against the Filing Cabinet.
Ben laughed before attempting to segue into more of a cough when he realised there were other people listening.
Ali waltzed out in a different outfit.
‘Hey. What about this?’ Ali pulled the back of the top down, tightening it across her chest. ‘Is the sweater too pink? Or not pink enough?’
Startled by her speedy return, Ben had barely enough time to tilt the magazine to his chest.
‘Nice.’
‘What?’
‘The pants. I mean the trousers.’ Twenty years of living in London and he was almost fluent in English.
‘Get with it. They’re the same.’ Ali wasn’t doing a great job of disguising her impatience. ‘It’s the top I want to know about.’
‘Quite tight. Good colour on you.’
‘It’s supposed to be tight.’
‘Then it’s fine.’
‘Fine? Just for the record “fine” and “nice” are not acceptable answers when clothes-shopping.’
‘It’s great. Splendid. Marvellous. Exquisite. Really, it suits you.’
‘Not too tight?’
‘No.’
‘And not too big either?’
‘No. Tight. Definitely tight.’
‘Sexy tight?’
‘I guess.’
‘But not tarty tight?’
