Girl on the Run (3 page)

We spent the rest of the evening laughing, discussing previous jobs and comparing our love-lives (each of which were as dire as the other’s).

And that’s the thing about Heidi. She’s always been full of surprises.

I have no idea whether Heidi’s groundwork had anything to do with how well my presentation goes to Letitia and two company partners. But it proceeds like a dream.

‘Well done, Ms Rogers,’ says the partner called Boris Keppelhammer, whose elaborate moniker is at odds with his distinctly average appearance. ‘My colleagues and I need to discuss your proposal, but you’re the last agency we’re seeing and . . . well, it’s safe to say we’re impressed.’

I smile, making an effort not to overdo it, when what I really want to do is to fall on my poor, grazed knees and smother his feet with kisses.

‘That’s very nice of you, Mr Keppelhammer,’ I reply, shaking his hand as he sees me out. ‘I’ll look forward to hearing from you.’

I’m not even back at the office when I get the call telling me the contract’s ours.

And that, it appears, is how it’s done.

Though, believe me, the fact that I can
do it
is a source of constant wonderment. No matter how dysfunctional other parts of my life are, at work I have an ability to switch to my other persona: to cool, confident and competent Abby. The Abby people want to do business with.

I have to keep reminding myself how many clients I’ve won since I started the business, because if I don’t then I have one of my ‘moments’ – the ones that make me wonder how I could possibly be responsible for all these customers, three staff members and a turnover of about £170,000 per year.

I know this doesn’t make me Alan Sugar, but I’m assured by those in the know that this is good going for a company in year one. Of course, I’m barely making a profit, but the potential – I’m told – is there. Especially since, of the clients I’ve won, there are one or two seriously impressive ones. My crème de la crème includes a national company, a chain of garden centres called Diggles.

God, I love Diggles. I want to have their babies. When we won that contract, I skipped home grinning like a woman who’d inherited a shoe shop on the day she was cast alongside Ashton Kutcher in a film about snogging.

‘Hi, Abby,’ says Priya, my junior designer, as I enter the office.

‘You’re still here? It’s gone six-thirty.’

‘We’re heading to the Cross Keys in a minute,’ she replies.

‘Meeting whatsisname there? Karl?’

‘Whatsisname dumped me.’

‘Oh no. Sorry, Priya,’ I say awkwardly. Though I must admit it’s getting less awkward these days as Priya is dumped at least once a month – sometimes twice – so sympathy is a quality her colleagues and I get to practise a lot.

This baffles me as much as everyone else. Because Priya, my youngest member of staff, is lovely. She’s also enthusiastic, brimming with personality and very attractive, if unconventionally so.

Her hair has been the subject of various outlandish experiments over the years and is currently sporting a shade of neon pink that we discovered, during a recent power cut, glows in the dark. It may not ever feature on the cover of
Vogue
, but it was highly effective at helping us reach the fire exit. And Priya somehow carries it off in a way I can’t imagine anyone else doing.

Others, however, aren’t quite so open-minded – and between that and the nose ring, she was turned down for about six jobs before I took her on. They don’t know what they’re missing. She’s only twenty and one of the best graphic designers I’ve come across: fast, bursting with creativity, and completely original. Of course, her love-life is about as straightforward as the Lisbon Treaty – but that’s another story.

‘Wait until you see the letter we’ve had from Building Services,’ she tells me.

‘Sounds fascinating.’ I slump in my chair.

She clears her throat. ‘It says, and I quote: “It has come to our attention that Certain Businesses located within the immediate environs of the Building have been failing to follow the Official and strictly imposed Building Regulations as per those set down clearly, plainly and for all to see by the Building Services Department . . .”.’

I suppress a smile. ‘It must be serious.’

‘“We have indications and other evidence (including a Witness who happens to simultaneously be a Senior Manager from within the Building Services Department) to believe that the primary culprit is a Certain Business on the fourth floor which shall remain Nameless.”’

‘Do you think we’re the
business that will remain nameless
?’ I ask.

‘I suspect so. But wait – it gets worse.’ Her eyes widen. ‘“That Business, we believe, has been utilising an Unapproved Toaster within the environs of the Office Space itself as opposed to the Approved Toaster in the fourth-floor Food and Beverage Consumption Quarter. This is a Health and Safety Issue, a Breach of Contract and a Grave Haphazard. Please refrain or Action Will Be Taken. Signed, the Building Services Manager.”’

‘All I can say is: Crumbs,’ says Hunky Matt, my other junior designer, grinning at his own joke.

‘Oh God,’ Priya groans, rolling her eyes. ‘Don’t give up your day job.’

Hunky Matt was given his sobriquet by Brenda, a barmaid at the office local who, despite not being in the first flush of youth, isn’t afraid to comment on the perkiness of his bum at every opportunity. The title stuck – something Priya made sure of, arguing that he secretly likes it.

This is despite Matt not being ‘hunky’ in the traditional sense; his biceps don’t bulge and he’s recognisable more by his specs than his pecs. But he’s gorgeous in his own way: tall and softly spoken, fond of skinny jeans, vintage T-shirts and a fashionably edgy fringe with which he perseveres, despite it dangling in his eyes when he’s working on a computer.

‘How did the pitch go?’ asks Priya.

‘It went well,’ I say coolly, checking my emails. ‘Really well.’

‘When will you hear?’

My mouth twitches. I’d have been an abysmal secret agent. ‘I’ve heard.’

‘And?’

‘And we’ve got it!’

‘Whoohoohay!’ Priya leaps up to hug me. ‘Does this mean the drinks are on you tonight?’

‘You don’t miss a trick, do you?’ I tut. ‘I suppose so. Though God knows what my accountant will think. Every time we win a pitch I end up authorising half the first payment in celebratory drinks.’

I open my inbox and, yet again, it’s groaning under the weight of unread emails. I use my only spare five minutes of the day to attack them, even if the limited time-frame means my approach is more cursory than usual.

The door opens and Heidi walks in. She looks particularly chic today in a Jackie O two-piece and gorgeous duck-egg shoes.

‘Heidi, I owe you a drink,’ I declare. ‘I don’t know what you said to the people at Max Crane, but it worked.’

‘Oh – you won the pitch? Well done.’ She smiles vaguely and I note, not for the first time in the last couple of weeks, that this is a more subdued response than I’d expect from Heidi. Her reaction to our wins have never been as hyperactive as Priya’s – no one’s are unless they’ve overdosed on Tartrazine.

But I’ve never doubted that she’s this business’s strongest advocate.

It’s not a big issue, of course, except for the fact that a number of our competitors would snap Heidi up tomorrow. I often wonder whether the salary and career path that a big company could offer might tempt her one day.

‘Everything all right?’ I ask.

She shakes her head, as if breaking from a daze. ‘Sorry, Abby. Yep, fine. Have you put out a press release about your win? I’ll rustle one up if you like.’

‘It wasn’t
my
win, Heidi, it was ours.’

She smiles. ‘If you say so. I’m still quoting you in the press release. Oh, and can I grab five minutes from you at some point to discuss a potential new client? They’re a trendy new Botox clinic. I’ve spoken to the owner briefly and I think you’d be able to twist her arm to come on board.’

Now
that
is the Heidi I’m used to. Someone pro-active, eager and one step ahead – of everyone.

‘I’m free at four,’ I tell her, hammering the Delete button on my emails. ‘Are you joining us for a drink later?’

She scrunches up her nose. ‘Oh, I don’t think so. I need an early night – I’m zonked. Have one for me though.’ She winks. ‘And try to keep Brenda’s hands away from Matt’s hindquarters, won’t you?’

Only one thing will make me feel better about being surrounded by fit, sporty people and that’s a Chunky Kit Kat.

I return from the foyer of the sports centre with my chocolate and Diet Coke, as my best friend Jess tries to control herself at the side of the indoor soccer pitch.

‘Come on, Jamie!’ she whispers as her four-year-old prepares to score. ‘Yayyy!’ she shouts, clapping as he finishes.

As the game resumes, she passes a rattle to nine-month-old Lola, who gurgles contentedly. ‘Do not let me turn into one of those pushy, competitive mums, will you?’ she says.

‘You’re precariously close,’ I tease, taking a bite of Kit Kat.

‘This is nothing,’ she protests, removing an apple from her bag. ‘I sat next to a woman at the nursery sports day who hollered instructions to her toddler as if she was Fabio Capello.’

Jess and I have been best friends for as long as I can remember. We share all sorts of interests, from a love of reading to a mutual admiration of Italian men. There’s just one thing on which we are poles apart, something that our respective choice of snack demonstrates.

Jess is what my grandma would have termed a ‘fitness fanatic’, for she is sporty to a preposterous level. At school, she captained the netball and rounders teams, ran cross-country for the county, was a junior hurdles champion in 1991 and 1992 – and had a volleyball spike that I’m convinced was capable of beheading spectators.

While others approaching their thirties become distracted by work and social lives, she progressed effortlessly to running marathons and the odd triathlon. Between this and her elfin features, azure eyes and self-effacing charm, technically I should hate her. Fortunately, she’s a brilliant friend and makes me laugh more than anyone else I know, so I can forgive her all the other stuff.

I don’t like to think of myself as unfit exactly. I’m not horribly obese, or plagued with diet-induced acne, or anything glaringly obvious like that. In fact, I rarely fluctuate from a size 14 (or 12 at Wallis – God bless ’em), despite eating like a public health warning on some days, and hardly at all on others. I also drink too much, unable to resist a glass or three of wine at the end of a hard day.

I haven’t always been like this. At school, I too was a member of the rounders team (though I did spend a lot of time hovering behind fourth base hoping the ball never came my way). As recently as last year, I’d go to the odd Step class and rode my bike when the mood took me – though I’ve never been particularly moody, it’s true.

Since I started the business, though, my health has well and truly taken a back seat. If I went to the gym now, my abs would go on strike.

‘Are you going for a run today?’ I ask.

‘Of course,’ Jess replies, smirking because she’s aware of the bewilderment with which I view her membership of a running club.

‘Don’t you ever have a day off?’ I ask, already knowing the answer.

‘Oh, the club doesn’t meet every day – just a few times a week.’

‘But
you
run every day.’

‘Not at Christmas. Though I managed to slip in a Five K last year while Adam was peeling the sprouts.’ She winks. ‘How did you leave things with your motorbike man last week?’

‘Oh, him.’ I roll my eyes. ‘He’s got my email – I’m waiting till he contacts me so I can pass on my insurance details. I’m surprised I haven’t heard, actually. Given how irate he was, I expected to have the bill before the day was out.’

‘Oh dear.’

‘I’m dreading it. It’s going to cost a fortune, Jess. I’ve made myself virtually uninsurable.’

‘Was it definitely your fault?’

‘I’m afraid so. Much as I’d love to blame it on him, grumpy sod.’

‘I thought you said he was gorgeous?’

‘They’re not mutually exclusive,’ I tell her.

‘You did almost kill him, didn’t you?’

I wince. ‘I did not.’

‘
You
told me that.’

‘Did I? Oh. Well, that’s not my official line.’

She giggles, pulling out a baby wipe and attempting to clean Lola’s nose.

‘How are you feeling about starting work again next week?’ I ask, contemplating whether I’ve got enough change for crisps.

‘Good, actually,’ she says, as if almost surprising herself. Jess is returning to her job as a senior manager at a telecommunications company after maternity leave. ‘I’ve got to brush up on a few things first, but then I’ll be away.’

‘Bet you’ll find it strange not having the kids around twenty-four hours a day.’

‘I’m ready for it,’ she confesses. ‘This week I found myself driving to Sainsbury’s on the other side of town instead of the Tesco two minutes away –
just for a change
. If that’s the best a person can do to get their kicks, something’s got to give.’

Lola loses her rattle and starts to whimper. I scoop it up to return it and am rewarded with a beaming smile. I can’t resist unstrapping her for a cuddle.

‘Who’s a cutie?’ I grin, nuzzling my face into her tummy as she giggles with delight.

‘Are you getting broody?’ Jess asks, raising an eyebrow.

‘Give me four or five years, please,’ I reply. ‘I know you managed the husband and kids before you hit thirty – but some of us are a slow burn. Besides, I can’t even manage a work–life balance when there’s only me to worry about.’

‘Once you’ve met the right man there’ll be no stopping you.’

‘Well . . . that’s another matter, isn’t it?’

Jess flashes me a knowing look. ‘Your dry run is over, my friend, I promise. Tonight will be a triumph. I can feel it in my bones.’

I remain unconvinced. ‘You were able to feel it in your bones before all three blind dates you set up – and each one was about as successful as a Malaysian Eurovision entry.’