Seductive Viennese Whirl (7 page)

"Damn right it isn't. We just bust it."

"No. I mean, this isn't working between us."

He bashed the machine a bit. Then kicked it. Then turned to me and said, "You dumping me?"

"Well you've got to admit, we don't exactly do much talking, do we? And all this sneaking around, it was fun at the beginning but I think we've come to the end of the road."

I thought he'd accepted our parting of the ways with some maturity, although I now realize that assumption was totally incorrect. Now my letters arrive with the marks of Ricky's battered pride all over them i.e. mangled or torn. Ho hum, you live and learn. It still doesn't stop me hoping, knowing there's someone out there who will complete me.

Early this morning I was woken by a man doing an awful rendition of '
Lady In Red
' beneath my first floor window, open because of the unseasonably hot weather. We often get people singing down our street as they head home after a night on the sauce, so, thinking nothing of it, I close my eyes and try to ignore it. Mercifully the singing stops and I'm almost asleep when I hear the scrape of a key being inserted into the front door. We live on the top floor of a converted Victorian house, and now this person, this intruder is stumbling up the stairs that lead up to the flat. THUD THUD THUD. His steps get louder and now he's unlocking the our front door. I sit bolt upright and the hairs on my arms stand to attention.

I'm perplexed at who could have a key and be trying to get in. In fact I'm a little bit scared. Taking a deep breath I walk into the kitchen, to be confronted by McManus, his back against the kitchen counter, sporting a kilt and white knee socks. He's got a green Barbour zipped up to his Adam's apple, with a mysterious looking bulge at the chest.

"Oh God, I'm so glad it's you." I run up and give him a hug. "Eva never told me you had a key."

"I was just passing," he slurs, rubbing his eyes. "And wondered if you girls might like a nightcap."

"It's ten past four. Thanks for the offer, but …"

"Aye, aye, I know. I had a meeting that ran on longer than expected, so I checked into a grotty hotel in Victoria."

"Why didn't you just come here?"

"I phoned but no one answered. I figured you were out on the town. And then I started imagining all sorts of things. That Eva was with another guy."

"That's ridiculous."

"Anyway, there I was, tossing and turning. I was all itchy, I swear that place had bed bugs. In the end I went downstairs. No one was manning the bar so I helped myself to a few whiskeys, thinking they might knock me out and put me to sleep, but the night porter found me and started having a fit. Kept going on about me stealing drink. I told him I wasn't stealing, that I was happy to pay, but he didn't speak very good English and kicked me out. After I'd settled my bill of course. He was so worked up he didn't even notice when I swiped a bottle of malt from under his nose," he says, unzipping himself and pulling out the whiskey. "So I was wondering..." He shuffles over to the kitchen table and flings himself down on a chair. "Whether I could stay the night?"

"Sure. Good luck waking Eva. As you probably know she could sleep through an earthquake," I say and move toward the door.

"I really love that girl, you know that, don't you?" I turn around to look at him.

"I know."

"I never met a girl like her before." He takes a swig of whisky. "I'm gonna marry her, you see if I don't. She's the salt of the earth." When he starts repeating the whole litany again I start to move towards my bedroom.

When I wake up later there is no sign of McManus, but the whole kitchen is full of red roses. Just heaps and heaps of them, carpeting the whole kitchen. The scent is so overwhelming, I almost burst into tears. I think of McManus drunkenly stumbling about a flower market, then carrying armfuls of roses to a taxi.

I can't help it. I just start crying. Why doesn't anyone ever do something like that for me. Why Egg?

"What's going on?" Eva says, coming up behind me.

"Did McManus manage to wake you?" I ask. "He was here last night."

"No." She looks perplexed.

"Well, he left one hell of a calling card."

You've really got to love that big sentimental Scottish oaf, haven't you?

Love,

Gherkin

The Canter Agency

28 - 32 Greek Street

London W1 5UJ

England

25 July 2011

Dear Egg,

No news from you for simply aeons. Everything's all right isn't it? I expect you're just busy. Today I'm trying to sneak out of work early get to a launch party for McManus' pies, when Sparky tells me the Haddock's just called an important meeting for all copywriters. Eva's already been at the launch for hours and I'm keen to catch up with her on the drinking front. Instead, I grit my teeth and take the lift up to the fourth floor.

Once we're all assembled in the boardroom the Haddock keeps us waiting for twenty minutes, by which time I'm climbing the walls with impatience, and promising myself that I'll get a hit man to do away with her if it's the last thing I do.

I'm looking around at all the bored faces when I notice that weirdo Brandy, I think she's called, isn't here. Maybe the Haddock doesn't think she's been with the agency long enough to merit being included in the meeting. Since I made the mistake of talking to her back in February she's always hanging around my desk, offering to make me coffee, or to run errands. I thought I'd enjoy having a worshipper at the office, but actually, it's quite irritating. For a while I was always getting her to run out for slabs of cake. She took this as a sign that I wanted to befriend her and started trailing me around the office like a lost dog. So now I just keep my head down and ignore her if she comes up to my desk. I think she's getting the message.

The lights dim and the chattering around me ceases as the door flies open to reveal the Haddock. She looks like a masochist's dream , hair slicked back, mouth a gash of red lipstick. She strides in wearing high heeled black leather boots under a long velvet jacket. There's a spotlight trained on her head as she walks to the head of the table and slams it with her palm.

"It's come to my attention that there's a crisis in the copywriting department, characterized by a lack of focus, a tendency to be slapdash." She seems to be staring directly at me, although I can't be sure, since her eyes are in shadow. "This agency once had a reputation for some of the tightest writing in the business. Now, I can hear people whispering, "What's going on at the Canter Agency? They're not as good as they used to be." Oh Jesus, I think, now the Haddock's hearing voices. Maybe she should check herself into a psychiatric ward.

All around me people are shifting in their seats. We all know the Haddock's a sandwich short of a picnic but none of us wants to be out of a job. I once saw a Moonie wedding on TV, where hundreds of couples were wed in unison. For a second I wonder if the Haddock's taken inspiration from the Moonies and is going to dismiss us all in one mass sacking.

"There's only one member of staff who has the right attitude," she says. "A person who works at their craft like a stonemason, chipping off layers of stone, until they're left with a perfect sculpture." Her eyes catch the spotlight and this time I'm sure she's staring at me. She's really beginning to freak me out. What the hell is going on?

Now Brandy, head down, lank hair swishing about her face, wheels in the slide projector and switches it on. Okay, I think impatiently, who is this super duper copywriter the Haddock's waffling on about? The Haddock clicks her fingers and the spotlight starts whizzing around the room.

"Many of you will know Briony McGregor." Of course, that's her name. Briony, Briony, Briony. Why can't I ever remember it? The spotlight has stopped moving and is shining onto Briony's head. She looks up, eyes huge behind thick glasses. She blinks in the glare and lifts her hand to shield her face.
Briony?
Is this the Haddock's idea of a joke? But the Haddock doesn't make jokes. "Although she's only been with us for eight months, she already has the makings of a truly superb copywriter. She's put together a presentation which I'm sure will give you all much food for thought."

There's murmuring all around me. No one can believe what's going on. All of us are united by the fact that we hate the Haddock and wish she were dead. But for someone in our ranks to start siding with her, to become her lap dog, well, it leaves a bad taste in the mouth. It's downright creepy.

Briony flicks on the first slide, which reads,
The Methodology of Copyrighting – a scientific approach.
She begins to drone, sucking me into a deep dreamless sleep. When I wake up my head is cradled in my arms and a pool of drool has dribbled from my lips onto the table. I jerk upright. Moon like faces are looking at me, chuckling. Briony's biting her lip to stop herself laughing.

"That's enough," says the Haddock, thumping her fist on the table. The room goes silent. The Haddock gives a wide smile. "Thank you Briony. That was wonderful." I've never seen the Haddock look so ecstatic, it's like she just discovered religion or something. "I look forward to seeing a marked improvement in everyone's work." She throws me a withering look before stomping off.

I get out of the room as quick as I can and rush to the toilet to fix my face and put my hair up into a chignon. I rush out of the office and walk down to Leicester Square Tube. When I get on the Underground I'm still seething with resentment against the Haddock and Briony. But by the time I've reached my stop I'm feeling all tingly with expectation.

Running out of Knightsbridge station I notice it's started to rain. Which wouldn't be so bad, since Harvey Nichols is right by the station, but today there's an unruly bunch of people hanging about outside, waving banners and generally causing a nuisance. The frock-coated doorman is doing his best to keep them from getting in, but it looks like he's losing the battle.

With the rain hammering down on me, I try to elbow my way through this tattered bunch, who are dressed in long coats and scarves. After I'm winded by a sharp nudge in the ribs from one of them I briefly consider going home. But then the thought of McManus' new range of pies (game simmered in red wine with pearl onions), gives me the impetus I need to push myself forward until I'm almost at the edge of the group.

"Can I come in, please?" I shout at the doorman.

"You got an invite?"

"No, but I'm a friend of McManus'."

"How do I know you're not one of these nutters?"

"Do I look like one?"

A man in a red scarf steps out in front of me and, thrusting his face close to mine, hisses, "Do you realize you're supporting animal cruelty? Wild animals died to go in those pies you know."

Since I've never felt strongly about anything enough to protest about it, I've always found it difficult to relate to people who are passionate about issues. But frankly, I'm a live and let live kind of girl. They can protest the night away for all I care, as long as I get in before my chignon turns to mush.

The guy wedges a placard, bearing the slogan
Boycott McManus' Pies
, in front of me. I stare at him incredulously.

"Would you let me pass, please," I say. The guy grimaces.

"Why should I?" The crowd are pushing into me from behind and I become entangled in a throng of banners. A wooden pole pokes into my back and I'm thrust forward into the damp wool of the man's scarf.

He thrusts a copy of
Hello!
into my face. "Seen this have you?" he asks aggressively.

"Thanks, but I've already read that issue," I say. Sparky and I had a good thumb through only this morning. It features a ten page spread of a celebrity hunt McManus had recently up in Glynverstowe. Among the guests were the fashion designer Paula Pilot, Lola Hemmings, and of course Eva.

"McManus," he says, spraying my face with spit, "is one sick bastard. When he's not blasting the brains out of deer to fill his pies he's shooting at innocent little foxes."

Actually, the proceeds of the hunt went to Cancer Research, but Spit Boy evidently doesn't know or care about that little detail. And McManus doesn't shoot the deer he farms, they're killed in abattoirs. But before I can raise these points, I'm mercifully saved by a security guard who pushes Spit Boy aside to let me through.

"Thank you," I say, pleased to have left the rabble behind me. I swish past the cosmetic counters, which are devoid of salesgirls since the store is closed, and walk over to the lifts. The lift has mirrored walls and as I look at my reflection I realize that wearing a low cut Calvin Klein shift dress with navy and cream vertical stripes (the thing for this season according to Eva's
Vogue
) just makes me look like a stick of rock. My chignon is looking none too attractive either. Tendrils of frizzy hair are standing up like springs out of a holey mattress.

But before I can worry about my appearance any further the door pings open and I'm ejected onto the fifth floor. Above the din of the chatter, the whine of bagpipes assails my ears. I stand stunned for a moment, looking at the restaurant area, which has been utterly transformed. A big mural of the Scottish Highlands serves as a backdrop to a tastefully rustic scene featuring old farm gates, bales of hay and numerous stuffed deer.

I walk across to the food and wine store which is crammed with circular stand up bars covered in red and green tartan. Here the more corpulent guests are already busy shovelling down great hunks of pie and piles of neeps and tatties, with haggis on the side.

All about me are girls in high heels and tartan mini skirts, their bum length red wigs held in place with heather wreaths, handing out food. I quickly grab a plate and head for the nearest available table and, head down, start hoovering up the pie, which is divine, all melt in that mouth pasty and tender venison. Getting the distinct impression I'm being scrutinized, I look up and see the Smuckbecker twins, setting down their loaded plates and beaming at me.