Single in the City Page 9

  ‘No, thank you. Actually, I have to get back. Excuse me, everyone.’

  I’m definitely not paranoid. She hates me. This isn’t doing my new career any favours.

  ‘Should I go too?’ I ask Sam, who’s wearing the expression of a man recalling a very funny joke. He’s familiar to me, especially that grin, though that could be because he looks like everyone’s neighbour: the guy who’ll cheerfully help dig your car out of the snow or come over to kill a spider threatening your mental stability.

  ‘Nah, you may as well stay. Mark’s the boss after all.’

  ‘I don’t think Felicity likes me.’

  ‘Don’t take it personally. She doesn’t like anyone. Except herself.’

  ‘You sound pretty bitter. How come you’re working here if you hate it so much?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t hate it. I don’t hate anything really. That’s an awfully strong word. Besides, it keeps us in drinks at lunchtime. Another bottle?’

  I think I’m going to love this job.

  It’s only when we stand up to leave three rounds later that I realize there’s no lunch in our lunchtime. So strictly speaking, Felicity isn’t a liar. ‘Come on.’ Siobhan grasps my arm as we walk blinking back into the light. ‘We can get a sandwich at Pret.’

  I’m grateful for her guidance. Technically, I only drank a few glasses of wine, as long as fishbowls are technically glasses.

  ‘So how’s your first day?’

  Given that I just drank away half of it, it hasn’t been bad. Except that my boss doesn’t speak to me or let me do anything…‘Felicity doesn’t trust me to arrange the paperclips. Helping you mop up tea was the biggest challenge of my day.’

  ‘At least you get to go to the parties. Be glad you’re working for her. I never get to go.’

  ‘Well, I suppose if I plan them one day, then I’ll get to go.’

  ‘What?! You get to go to all the parties she plans. She always takes her assistant. That’s so she has someone to pin all the blame on.’

  ‘Really? She didn’t mention anything about it.’

  ‘Well, your predecessors all got to go. And you get your choice of the clothes.’

  ‘What clothes?’

  ‘Feckin’ hell, didn’t anyone show you around?’

  ‘Felicity showed me where the kitchen was.’

  ‘Who cares about the kitchen? Come with me. You’ve got to see this.’

  She unlocks what I assumed was a supply closet. We’ve stepped through the back of the wardrobe into a magical place, even better than Narnia! The walls are lined with shelves and rails, which are stuffed with the most gorgeous clothes I’ve ever seen. ‘What is this?’

  ‘The designers send them to us for our clients. It’s good PR if they’re snapped wearing them at the parties. Of course, most of the stuff never gets sent back, so Felicity uses this as her own private dressing room. And she lets the other planners do the same thing.’

  ‘Oh my god, this is so worth the boredom!’

  ‘Yeah, you don’t know how bloody lucky you are. I’m run off my feet with yer man, and I never get to go to the parties.’

  My man? She knows. I was right. That’s why Felicity is being so weird. I’m torn between dread and a strange sense of pride that my boyfriend–I think I can call him that under the circumstances–has already declared his love for me to his nearest and dearest. Or at least to his secretary.

  ‘Do me a favour, Siobhan. Keep that to yourself, okay?’

  ‘Sure, whatever.’

  Obviously I need to talk to Felicity. Now that I’ve had a few days to ‘settle in’ (and sober up–I’ve gently declined Siobhan’s daily liquid lunch invitations), it’s clear that my first day was indeed an accurate reflection of my career path at M&G. By which I mean that in six months I’ll be perfectly trained to sit at a desk and do nothing. I deserve the chance to prove myself. More importantly, I deserve the chance to wear the clothes in that closet! It shouldn’t matter how I got the job, the important thing is that I’m going to be an excellent party planner some day. I just need to let her know clearly what I expect from this job, and what she can expect from me. Simple as that. I’ll be eloquent and confident. We’ll have more of a chat, really. She’ll assure me that she has big plans for my career and that she liked me from the moment we met. She’ll confess that we even wear the same size, a proud twelve, which means we can share each other’s clothes and be best friends, except at the sample sales, where it’s every woman for herself. Then she’ll tell me to take the rest of the day off and give me her manicure appointment at the best place in town.

  That’s how it should go. In real life, I’ve just stormed into her office in time to hear her say ‘I’ve got this itching…’ This is not a good start. I can’t back out of the room now. She’s seen me. Worse, she knows I know about her itching.

  ‘Yes, Friday at one is fine. What is it, Hannah?’

  From her tone, you’d think I was responsible for her urinary complaint. ‘Felicity, I’d like to talk to you.’ That sets the tone straight. Pure professionalism.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I don’t feel that you’re using me to my full potential.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And, uh, well, I’d like you to.’ This would sound more convincing if my heart wasn’t thumping on my voice box, strangling my words into a squeak.

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘You don’t?’

  ‘No.’

  How do I recover from a flat-out ‘no’? Beg? Accuse? Cry?…Pretend I didn’t hear her and leave the room?…‘May I ask why?’ I can’t believe how cool I’m being. Get me, Miss Fancy-pants Grown-up.

  …‘I’m not certain about your abilities.’

  ‘But you hired me!’

  ‘There were extenuating circumstances involved…and I’m sorry, but I’m not sure how long you’ll be around.’

  Ah. Extenuating circumstances named Mark. So my boss thinks I’m a fly-by-night whore who won’t last longer than the milk in the kitchen refrigerator. This isn’t a total disaster. ‘But you’ve seen my résumé. I can do this job. I can do it well.’

  I should end it there, case made, and let her realize my value. Don’t say anything, don’t say anything. She’s not saying anything. She’s just staring at me…Still staring. ‘Please give me a chance? I promise I’ll impress you if you give me the chance. Please?’

  ‘There’s a lot of confidential information here. I can’t be expected to trust just anyone.’

  Like I’m some party-planning spy intent on committing corporate espionage. ‘There must be something I can do to help you out. Anything.’ Come on, lady, this is my unsluttiest, most competent smile.

  ‘Fine.’ Her deep sigh says she’s made better decisions in her life. ‘Go get the Hermione Withers and Chastity Bates files. Learn them. They’re important clients and their events are live.’

  I’m going to be a party planner! The long file boxes are heavy in my hands, much heavier than a few boxes of paper should be. That’s because they’re metaphysically taking on the weight of this momentous event, the day that I launch my spectacular new career. They say, ‘These events mark the start of a whole new life for you, new beginnings, new adventures.’ They’re pregnant with the importance of the task ahead, carrying my entire future in their corrugated confines…Oh!…There’re ashtrays and napkin rings in here.

  Nevertheless, it’s still a big moment.

  ‘Hey, do you want to grab some lunch?’

  ‘Hi, Sam.’ I enjoy sitting here, a modern-day Constantinople, at the crossroads of the great Lavatory Route. ‘Um, no thanks. I’d like to get through these files.’

  ‘What’ve you got there?’

  ‘They’re party folders!’ I can still hardly believe it myself.

  ‘Well. It looks like you’re on your way, then. Do you want me to pick something up for you?’

  ‘Thanks, yeah, if you could. Some soup, please. Creamy. And some bread. With butter.’

 
; ‘Not watching your weight?’

  ‘That’s not polite to ask a lady.’

  ‘I don’t usually have to ask. Everyone around here is on a diet. Glad you’re normal.’

  Hah! He obviously doesn’t know me yet. ‘They probably have access to the closet.’ They need to eat dust to squeeze into the sample sizes. I’m not sacrificing the buttery joys in life till I get in there.

  ‘Ah, yes, the closet. Is that your Holy Grail too?’

  ‘Of course. Just imagine getting access to those clothes. And shoes.’

  ‘Sorry, as a straight man, I’m afraid I just can’t appreciate the allure.’

  And once again, how thankful I am to be a woman.

  My soup is long cold when Henry, the accountant (in very unaccountant-like orange and brown suede sneakers), materializes. ‘All right?’

  Has he heard about my talk with Felicity? So much for British discretion. ‘Fine, thanks.’

  ‘Staying late?’

  A glance at the Piaget watch my parents got me for graduation tells me it’s 7.30. Being a steadfast clock-watcher, and someone who is happiest feeding at two-hour intervals, this is unprecedented. The entire afternoon flew by while I’ve been getting to grips with two of London’s It girls. Based on the clippings, they’re singlehandedly keeping several tabloids in business.

  ‘Just going through some files.’

  Eventually he says, ‘Plans tonight?’

  ‘Uh-uh.’

  …

  ‘Aren’t you tired?’

  ‘Henry, do you want me to leave?’

  ‘It’s just that I have to lock up, and my girlfriend and I have tickets to the theatre tonight.’

  ‘What time?’

  ‘Seven-thirty.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say something?’

  ‘I did!’

  Poor guy, he has no way to know that jingling his keys like an OCD patient cannot speed my progress. In heels this high, I only operate in first gear. ‘Can you make the second act?’

  ‘Dunno,’ he murmurs over his shoulder as he shrugs into his coat. ‘See you tomorrow.’

  ‘See you. I hope your girlfriend’s not going to be mad.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  His girlfriend is definitely going to be mad.

  8

  ‘Sorry I’m late. Are you mad?’ I say, peeling off my coat.

  ‘Nah,’ says Siobhan, ‘I just got here myself. All right?’

  ‘Yes, fine.’ Why does everyone keep asking me that? Maybe I should start using under-eye concealer. ‘Why does everyone keep asking me that?’

  ‘Sorry, it’s just being polite.’

  So it’s another figure of speech they use, like I found out ‘yer man’ is. Apparently that doesn’t mean my man, it means some token random stranger. It’s the Irish equivalent of what’s-his-name. So it’s a good thing I didn’t blurt out anything stupid about Mark when Siobhan said it in the office the other day.

  I’m really taking to Siobhan. Not only did she show me the magic closet, she has invited me here, to speed-date with her. Some people may view this as an act of Gen Y21 desperation, but I prefer to think of it as a free-market sexual economy for the twenty-first century. Besides, why shouldn’t I? Keeping up the appearance of singledom has proven easier than I’d anticipated. Mark is the epitome of professionalism… Such a shame, considering the desk-clearing fantasies I’ve had all week. Even so, I am a little ambivalent about being here tonight. It’s not like we’re exclusive. We haven’t had ‘the talk’ or anything, but there’s no denying the connection and I’d hate to think he’d be jealous. Okay, that’s a lie. I’d love to think he’d be jealous. I just don’t want him to find out and dump me. The old Hannah would have put her life on hold waiting for him to declare his intentions. Actually, the old Hannah would’ve cornered him in the kitchen by now and been led away by security. The new Hannah, the one who moved halfway round the world to seek her fame and fortune, is an altogether different animal. She’s calm, cool and collected. And she’s a free agent. So I told Siobhan that I’d go, but I asked her to keep it quiet in the office. Just in case the old Hannah needs a fall-back plan.

  She swears these nights are restricted to professional twenty-and thirty-somethings who aren’t a) indigent, b) married or c) pervy, ugly or boring (not really, but wouldn’t that be an unbeatable business model?).

  The pub is packed with girls in their twenties who look like they meant to go dancing but accidentally walked in here. Siobhan says most people come to these things straight from work. If that’s true, then I can faithfully report that British women dress like hookers in the office. Their fashion sense is strangely immune to things like the season, which explains why little blue toes are poking out from strappy sandals on half the women in the room. We Americans obviously aren’t suffering enough for fashion. I’m now recalling with mortification the entire winter season that I wore snow boots with my business suits to the office. My face burns at the very thought. Given fashion statements like these, is it really such a surprise that I’m single?

  This creeping inferiority complex isn’t just because I’m wearing socks tonight. The fact is I’m intimidated by British women’s nipples. They’re everywhere, which is very disconcerting for an American. Look at 99 per cent of the bras in Victoria’s Secret.22 They are modestly reinforced against spontaneous nipple erections. Even in that bastion of sexual enticement, they sell sticky breast ‘petals’ as a second line of defence. This just proves that we did indeed descend from Puritan stock. I bet when the Mayflower sailed the English women onshore cheered as they shimmied out of their underthings. I’m steadfastly in the nipple-free camp on this one, which I fear puts me at a disadvantage among Great Britain’s perky bosoms.

  ‘Here you go, ladies.’ A young woman is smugly handing out scorecards with her ostentatiously engaged left hand. Nice sales technique. ‘Find seats, please.’

  Siobhan makes a run for a little table near the front. When I plunk down opposite, she whispers, ‘Not here. Find your own table.’

  ‘Fine, suit yourself.’

  ‘I mean we’re meant to sit on one side and the boys rotate through each table. They get three minutes.’

  So it’s a very fast recruitment day with drinks. Hello, my name is…

  My first ‘date’ looks very slick. By this I mean he literally has a sheen: on his shoes, his hair…his face. ‘So,’ he says when we’ve introduced ourselves, ‘I’m twenty-six, I own my flat in Clapham, I’ve been working at Morgan for three years on their equity trading desk; haven’t left because they pay me a wodge of money, I graduated with a first from Cambridge, studied Economics at LSE, my parents live in Wentworth, we have a cottage in Devon, I travel long-haul at least twice a year, my favourite countries are South Africa and China, I’ve been to five of the seven continents, speak three languages, French and Italian are the other two, I lived in Florence during my gap year, I like film, theatre and the symphony, I like to go clubbing, play rugby, scuba dive, I follow Champions League football, cricket and tennis internationally, and drive a five-series Merc.’ He takes a moment to breathe. ‘I like Thai food, Indian, Italian, Spanish, Vietnamese and Ethiopian. I hate crêpes and Belgian beer. I only read spy novels and biographies, and prefer English films to American ones. What do you think?’ The whistle blows.

  I think I’m completely unprepared for this, considering that I don’t know what Clapham, Morgan, equity trading, wodge, a first, LSE, Wentworth, Devon, long-haul, gap year or Champions League are supposed to tell me about this guy. And that’s in three minutes. ‘Uh, I think that’s interesting?’ I’m playing the odds that I’m right.

  ‘Good. I’d like to see you again. What did you say your name was?’

  ‘Hannah.’

  ‘Jerry.’

  Evidently mute incomprehension is a turn-on for the self-absorbed. Nice to meet you, Hard Sell.

  If this is the competition, then Mark has nothing to worry about. I wonder if he is worried. I’d love to th
ink he’s thinking about me (it’s only fair considering the amount of brain power I’ve used up on him this last week). Do men think about women as much as we think about them? I mean with clothes on. Or is it true that when you ask them what they’re thinking their minds are literally blank except for the occasional longing for nachos or sports statistic skittering across?

  Hard Sell hasn’t exactly set the bar high, but even if he had, the guy sitting opposite me would clear it easily. Imagine the lead singer from a very cool band playing at a big outdoor festival. Not technically good-looking (more rough and rumpled than pretty boy), but with the stage presence to nonchalantly hold an audience in thrall.

  ‘Why are you here?’ he wants to know.

  ‘My friend Siobhan brought me.’

  ‘I meant in the broader sense. You’re American, right?’

  ‘Right. I decided to move over when I was made redundant at home.’

  ‘Adventurous. I like that. What else are you adventurous about?’

  ‘Oh, I’m up for anything!’ This isn’t true, of course, but I’m not about to mention my limitations. Caveat emptor.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Sure. I mean, what’s the point of living if you’re not having fun?’

  ‘Exactly my philosophy…’

  He seems to like the fact that I’m American. (I did wonder if the American-in-London thing might give me an exotic edge over these home-grown chippies, but I wasn’t sure how my nationality would play in Europe. To read the papers, you’d think they’ve been burning US flags all over the Champs Elysées.) And he’s also nice, good-looking and employed. I’ve frequently settled for one and a half out of three, so this is a definite step forward.

  The smug fiancée blows her whistle.

  ‘Maybe I’ll see you later.’

  ‘Great!’ If this is speed-dating, I don’t know why everyone doesn’t do it.