Gemma Townley - When in Rome...

CANDIDA CRANLEY-JONES: Georgie, Mike said he bumped into you and you were looking great—I realized we haven’t seen each other for months and months, let’s catch up soon? I’m having the flat redecorated next week and am going to be at a loose end, so do you fancy doing something nice? I hate all my clothes at the moment, so maybe we could go shopping? Call me!

What is it with blasts from the past? First I see Mike, and now Candy, who I haven’t seen for . . . well, it must be around two years if not more. I’m not sure why we lost touch really, although I think it has something to do with the fact that Candy was always telling me that I should dump Mike and I never did. I would continually cry on her shoulder when he failed to come back from some party or left me in a club while he went on somewhere, and I think she just got frustrated with me. I suppose Mike leaving me was just the final straw. I didn’t know she was still in touch with him, but I guess he was her friend first, so it isn’t that surprising. More to the point, this means that Mike’s been talking to her about me. He’s obviously been thinking about me loads. Maybe I’m looking better than I realize at the moment. I take out my compact to check myself out. One spot, deftly covered with a blob of Touch Eclat. Some faint crow’s-feet appearing under my eyes, but only visible when I smile. No, I’m in okay shape. I’ll need to be if I’m seeing Candy next week—Candy works on a smart fashion magazine and believes very strongly in grooming. She thinks nothing of going to the gym for an hour a day and dedicating Sunday afternoons to polishing her shoes. I’m sure she means well, it’s just that after half an hour with her, I usually feel like Waynetta the Slob. I put a note in my diary to get a manicure early next week.

GUY JACKSON: Georgie, have you finished the questionnaire for Pensions Bulletin? Nigel and I are discussing our strategic plans for this business unit and he tells me that your report will be ready by 3pm. We have an exciting new project I want to discuss with you, so look forward to seeing the questionnaire.

Regards.

Shit. Shit and double shit. I haven’t even started the questionnaire, unless you count my ramblings this morning, which I’ve deleted anyway, and I’ve got exactly ten minutes before Guy’s going to be expecting an amazing in-depth report. I dig out the newsletter for inspiration.

Ping!Another e-mail.

MIKE MARSHALL: Hi gorgeous. Thinking about me?

I hit Reply, type “No,” and send it back. After all, I’m not thinking about him. I may have been thinking about his hand resting on mine and his come-to-bed eyes on my way back to the office, and I may even have planned what I will wear next time I see him (heels, definitely; something quite fitted), but right now I’m thinking about pensions. Honest.

I open up a new document, and purposefully write “Pensions Bulletin—your views” along the top, then center and bold the words for good measure.

Ping!

MIKE MARSHALL: What do you mean “no”? You left just as things were getting interesting.

I’ve certainly been thinking about you . . .

He’s been thinking about me? Mike has been thinking about me? I flush with excitement. It’s worked! My “make him realize what he’s been missing” strategy has worked! He’s obviously realized that success is all very well, but it’s nothing compared with the love of a good woman.

I’m about to type back a flirtatious e-mail when I remember the note Mike left me: “Sorry gorgeous. You’re too good for me. I need some time to get myself sorted out. Please don’t hate me.” If he thinks he’s going to get back into my good books (let alone anything else) with one lunch, he’s got another think coming. Plus, I simply don’t have time for this now. I am a busy executive, and Mike will simply have to deal with that.

GEORGIE BEAUCHAMP: I mean that I am too busy to think about people who should be doing some work and not pestering me.

I turn back to my report:

Your views are of the utmost importance to Leary. Please take a few moments to fill in this questionnaire to ensure that your needs, now and in the future, are met by us.

Ping!

MIKE MARSHALL: So you would be thinking about me if you weren’t so busy?

GEORGIE BEAUCHAMP: Too busy to know. Now leave me alone.

1. How regularly do you refer to Pensions Bulletin? (please tick appropriate box—monthly; weekly; daily)

2. Does Pensions Bulletin cover the subjects on which you need to be informed (always; sometimes; rarely)

Ping!

MIKE MARSHALL: I buy you lunch and this is all the gratitude I get. Anyway, if you’re so busy, why are you e-mailing me back?

He’s got me there. I start on question three, but feel guilty about the lunch. It couldn’t have been cheap.

GEORGIE BEAUCHAMP: Thank you for the lunch. Do not read anything into the returning of e-mails. I’ve just been brought up to be polite, that’s all. Now GO AWAY!

3. Would you prefer to receive Pensions Bulletin more or less frequently?

4. Do you consider Pensions Bulletin to be good value for money?

Ping!

MIKE MARSHALL: Well that’s hardly polite, is it? I’ve got a good mind to talk to your mother about you. How is she, by the way?

Mike and my mother got along famously. He had flirted with her madly on the three occasions they had met and she had flirted right back. As I recall, I got in a bit of a huff.

GEORGIE BEAUCHAMP: She’s busy, too.

Okay, four questions done. I need another sixteen before it will be anywhere near a proper questionnaire.

5. Do you intend to renew your subscription to Pensions Bulletin? Yes/No 6. Please circle your main area of expertise: pensions; finance; HR

7.

My inspiration has gone. I reach for the phone.

“Good afternoon, David Bradley’s office.” I love that. One day I want someone to answer the phone “Georgie Beauchamp’s office.” That would be so cool.

“Hi, it’s Georgie. Is David around?”

“Hello, dear, how are you?” It’s Jane, David’s PA. “I’m afraid David is in a meeting—would you wait for one moment, please?” I hear muffled voices as she tells him I’m on the phone.

“Hi, darling. Look, I’m a bit tied up here at the moment. Is there a chance I can give you a call back a bit later?”

“Yeah, that’s fine. I just need some information on pensions, that’s all.”

“Pensions?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll figure it out myself.”

“Are you okay for tonight?”

Tonight? I can’t remember making any plans for tonight, and quite honestly after all that champagne, all I can think about is slipping into a nice hot bath.

I remember the e-mail. “Oh, what, going out? Yeah, maybe. I’ve got a lot of work on, so it depends what time I get home. I’ll give you a call later.”

I can just hear people talking in hushed voices—presumably they are in David’s office.

“Okay, I’ll talk to you then,” he says. “Bye.”

I look at my watch—it’s five to three. Unless Nigel is very late out of his meeting, I’m in big trouble.

I rack my brains for a good excuse. My computer could have crashed and lost the report, except I used that excuse last week. Maybe I could pretend that something is really badly wrong with me and everyone will be so sympathetic that Nigel won’t dare shout at me. No, can’t do that. I never lie about my health ever since I told a boy I didn’t want to go out with that I had the flu and then came down with the flu the following week. I was only sixteen at the time, but it taught me a valuable lesson: don’t tempt fate. Shit. Nigel’s going to be furious.

Suddenly I have a brain wave.

“Denise,” I hiss.

“What? Why are you whispering?”