Summer With My Sister (2 page)

Polly waved a hand. ‘Just . . . something pretty,’ she said carelessly. She wasn’t certain exactly how old Clare’s daughter, Leila, was now (ten, perhaps?), but Jake was good at choosing presents. He’d picked out an amazing couture dress for Clare’s birthday last month, and the most stylish Paul Smith cufflinks for her dad’s retirement gift. He was sure to find something appropriate. He had time to browse around after all, unlike Polly herself.

‘That’s everything then, thank you,’ Jake said, bowing his head a little as he left the office.

‘Not a problem,’ Polly said automatically. Those three words had become her personal mantra over the years. Nothing was a problem to her – one merely had to apply logic or determination (or hire the right staff with the necessary skills) and anything could be resolved. Jake, for instance, obliterated many of Polly’s problems. He arranged her dry-cleaning, her diary, her bill-paying, he sent flowers and birthday cards to people on her behalf, he booked in her car to be valeted . . . How did anyone manage without a Jake in their life?

‘Cheers!’

‘Cheers!’

Twelve hours later Polly was in the Red House, a private members’ club near Liverpool Street, full of other City types talking shop over cocktails and criminally expensive wines. She was in the fifth-floor bar, as she so often was these evenings, finding it impossible to go straight home after the relentless hustle of a long, hectic day without a drink or three first.

Clinking champagne glasses that night with Polly were the two Sophies, Richenda, Josh, Matt and Johnny. She wouldn’t go so far as to say that any of them were friends, but they were all useful contacts. Like her, they were regulars in the Red House, high-fliers in the banking world who shuffled billions of pounds around without a second thought. Like her, they’d set their smartphones down on the table in front of them with almost religious solemnity, pouncing whenever emails buzzed through as if the financial industry depended on their cheetah-like reaction times. Polly had worked with the blonde Sophie at HSBC, and knew Richenda from a hot and dreary training week in Singapore that they’d both sweated through early on in their respective careers.

‘Down the hatch,’ said Johnny, with a lascivious wink at the brunette Sophie, ‘and up the sn—’

‘Oh,
Johnny
!’ she hooted, elbowing him so hard he almost spilled his drink.

Ugh. Johnny was a pig. He’d tried it on with Polly once, had lunged at her and stuck his horrible, meaty tongue down her throat after one too many at a drinks party. If his thinning hair and ruddy, salami-like complexion hadn’t already seen him struck off her list, his atrocious manners and that disgusting, thrusting tongue would have made him a goner in a heartbeat. Repulsive as he was though, he was also head of communications for a huge rival corporation, and thus someone she needed to keep onside. She forced a laugh, as did everyone else around the table. Nobody wanted Johnny to think they’d had a sense-of-humour bypass.

The other Sophie, who had ice-blonde hair, a sour-puss mouth and a caved-in face as if someone had accidentally deflated it, began to talk about the Risk Management Solutions conference and how she’d been asked to give the keynote speech.

‘I got a call from them too, about speaking there,’ Polly felt obliged to put in. ‘Turned it down, unfortunately. Too busy.’

Sophie coolly raised an over-plucked eyebrow. ‘Yes, I heard they were trying to fill a space,’ she said. ‘Julian Leighton was in that slot, had to pull out. So they’ve been in touch with you, have they?’

Polly flinched. Sophie was making it sound as if she’d been contacted as a last resort. ‘Well,
ages
ago,’ she lied. ‘Almost forgotten about it, to be honest. I find it so hard to keep track of all these requests.’

‘Oh, I
know
’ Richenda put in, her dark corkscrew curls bobbing like springs as she nodded. ‘I’ve been
besieged
since my team won the Financial Bridging Award.’

‘Did you win an
award
?’ Mean Sophie muttered sarcastically under her breath. ‘You should have said.’

‘My PA has to run two diaries for me now, it’s
crazy
,’ Richenda went on, not seeming to hear the jibe. ‘But what can you do?’

What could you do indeed? Everyone looked sage at the question, although they all knew they wouldn’t have it any other way. The thrill of the chase, the adrenalin rush, the clammy hands and pumping heart when the market was on the rise – it was addictive, and worth any amount of stress.

A BlackBerry beeped and all eyes returned to the table immediately, everyone on constant high alert for business news from the American offices. Same old, same old, thought Polly with a smile to herself. Just how she liked it.

Later – two in the morning later – Polly stumbled into her flat, kicking off her shoes and rubbing her aching calves. She really must catch up on her sleep at the weekend, she vowed, feeling battered with exhaustion after another gruelling day. The thing was, with a job like hers, you could never clock off at five and go home. Just as important was being a player, being seen out in such places, pressing the flesh, staying in the loop. And it had been worth going along tonight. Matt had had some interesting news about GlobalGo, the sportswear company that had scaled the heights of success at high speed, only to be freefalling now. He predicted they were going to be wound up any day, which could have repercussions for some of Polly’s clients. ‘Another one bites the dust,’ Johnny had said knowingly. Business was business.

She fell into her enormous luxury bathroom, which was at least as big as most people’s main bedroom, and snapped on the spotlights. Eww. Not looking pretty, Polly, she thought, catching a glimpse of her reflection in the vast rectangular mirror that hung above the stone basin. Her skin had somehow taken on a greyish tinge lately. Crow’s feet were appearing beneath her eyes, nestling above the dark rings that never seemed to fade. She tutted, peering closer at the mirror itself. The bloody cleaner had left a smear on the glass again. Shoddy – she’d have to have a word with the agency about that. Polly was convinced the cleaner had been slacking off lately. The bed didn’t seem to have been made quite right, either, the other week, and Polly was sure someone had helped themselves to her Crème de la Mer moisturizer. It wasn’t good enough.

She slipped on her silk pyjamas, dimmed the lights in her bedroom, and climbed into her enormous bed, with its drifts of feather pillows, the softest Egyptian cotton sheets and the luxuriously thick duvet. She set her alarm, pulled on her lavender eye mask and then let herself sink into the bed’s embrace. She was asleep within seconds.

Tuesday started just like any other day, with the six o’clock alarm and a drilling hangover. Into the shower, down with some Nurofen and a kick-arse coffee, clothes on, make-up on, then a takeaway breakfast from the deli on the way to the Tube.

‘You look tired, love,’ the guy behind the deli counter said sympathetically as he made her espresso. ‘Reckon you could do with a holiday.’

Polly gave a hollow laugh. Holidays were for wimps. She smiled mirthlessly as she took her breakfast and walked to the Tube station, mentally running through her day ahead. There was a board meeting at eleven, a client meeting at two, cocktails at five for a PR do, and a dinner function with clients at The Ivy. Oh yes, and Hugo Warrington wanted to see her at ten for a chat. No doubt he was going to congratulate her on the Spelman account she’d netted last week. Maybe he would even jack up her bonus on the back of it. Hugo Warrington was the company chairman, the beating heart of WFC. He was fifty years old, enormously rich, and so ruthless you could practically see a dorsal fin through his Savile Row suit jacket. She liked the idea of a cosy chat with him, just the two of them. It was about time he recognized precisely how much clout Polly Johnson had.

On the Tube, off the Tube, into the office, up in the private lift that only management were allowed to use. Another round of ball-breaking, hustling, schmoozing and million-pound transactions was about to begin. Bring it on.

Hugo Warrington’s office was on the floor above Polly’s. The floor of power. Up there, the carpet was so thick a war could break out and nobody below would notice a thing. Up there, the walls were wood-panelled, as if this was an exclusive members’ club – which frankly it
was
. Up there, Warrington’s team of PAs looked like they’d been mass-produced: chic, lithe women with perfect nails and the steely power that came from being gate-keepers to the fortress.

He’s expecting you,’ said the humourless redhead whose desk was outside Warrington’s office. ‘Go ahead. Can I get you a coffee, or . . . ?’

‘No, thank you,’ Polly replied, striding briskly past the clone. She was hoping she might be treated to something fizzy once she made it over the threshold. Rumour had it Hugo Warrington had a
very
well-stocked private fridge.

She knocked on the door and went inside. Warrington’s inner sanctum had an even more clubbish, intimate feel, with its dark green walls lined with bookshelves and tasteful ornaments, and his beast of a mahogany desk. A golf trophy gleamed ostentatiously behind his head, while a decanter full of ruby-coloured liquid and a collection of cut-glass tumblers sat a discreet distance to his left on a polished silver tray.

He was behind his desk, frowning at a computer screen, piggish eyes screwed up in a flabby face. At Polly’s entrance, he motioned her over. ‘Take a seat.’

‘Thank you,’ Polly said, tucking herself neatly into the black leather chair opposite his. He smelled of cigar smoke, pungent cologne and wealth.

‘Now, Polly, I know you’ve worked hard for us over the years,’ he began without preamble, scratching his jowls with stubby fingers. ‘You’ve built up a solid client base, you’ve shown commitment and professionalism, and you’ve certainly earned your place on the board.’

Polly felt the hairs on her arms stand on end as she listened to him. Oh my goodness. Praise from Hugo Warrington himself. Result! He was going to give her a
massive
bonus, she could almost smell it. Maybe even promotion. Get in!

‘However,’ he went on, and that single word was enough to banish her visions of showering banknotes and luxury treats.
However
? Had she heard that correctly? ‘We find ourselves in difficult times, as you know. The financial world has changed. Stability is at an all-time low, and businesses everywhere are looking to make cuts.’