Summer With My Sister (9 page)

Polly waved as she saw the two Sophies, Johnny and Richenda sauntering in, loaded with laptops and briefcases. It was weird being there without hers. She had missed her BlackBerry’s bleeps and vibrations all day, had stretched out a hand to check it countless times already before remembering it had been taken away from her. Note to self, she thought: first thing tomorrow, buy a new one. Got to keep in the loop, still be seen as a player. How was she going to explain the fact that she didn’t have hers with her now, in fact? Surely they’d notice that her phone was missing from its usual place on the table. It made her feel underdressed, as if she’d come out without make-up on, or any shoes.

‘Hi,’ she called out. ‘Come and join me.’

In the next instant, she regretted her words. Seeing their faces en masse gripped her with panic. Could she tell them she’d lost her job? Could she actually bear the looks of pity, the smug glee that might sparkle in blonde Sophie’s eyes? They’d bombard her with questions and it would be horrendous trying to keep her cool throughout, maintain some kind of confident composure, especially when she still didn’t have a clue what lay ahead. If she pretended nothing had happened, everything would go on as normal. Wouldn’t it?

Then she remembered her fruitless phoning around earlier that day, the increasing despair with which she’d sent off email after email with her CV and a polite covering letter. On the other hand, she needed all the contacts she could get.

She flicked her gaze sideways to the bigshot table. They were deep in conversation now, laughter muted, all expressions serious as they leaned in towards each other. She had to embark on her schmoozing mission with them before too long, she reminded herself.
Hi, may I introduce myself
? Adrenalin surged through her at the thought. She would do it. It was fate. And oh, how she’d laugh about it later.
Well, I lost my job out of the blue – yes, I
was
shocked – but by close of play I’d already lined up something even better. You know me!

‘Hi Polly, you got here early today,’ blonde Sophie said, sitting next to her, sharp eyes scanning the half-drunk champagne bottle, as if already suspicious of Polly’s reasons. ‘Don’t tell me you’re slacking off now, because I won’t believe a word of it.’

Polly smiled, a fixed fake smile. ‘Delegation is the new black,’ she said, tapping her nose. The others laughed. Sophie didn’t, but then she was a humourless robot and never did. Polly reckoned she might have got away with that one. Turn the focus on everyone else, she decided. She’d always been an expert tactician. ‘So, how are you guys?’ she asked lightly. ‘Richenda, how did your presentation go today?’

Richenda looked pleased to be asked and started describing in full Technicolor detail her pitch and presentation to an important new client she’d been chasing for the last few weeks. Not wanting to be outdone, Johnny soon weighed in with the awe-inspiring deal-making he’d worked his magic on that day, and the nicer Sophie told everyone some gossip she’d heard about Santander. Yack, yack, yack. Lucky for Polly that they all loved the sound of their own voices. Lucky for Polly that they were arrogant enough not to think of asking her anything in return.

It was all going okay, she thought, draining the last of her champagne. (Christ, had she finished that bottle already? She felt as if she’d barely started.) Perhaps now would be a good time to wander across and mingle with the big
fromages
. There was nothing to lose, and her friends would be well impressed if she just moseyed on over to them and started chatting. She could already imagine their raised eyebrows, their astonishment.
Is that really Elliot McCarthy Polly’s talking to? I didn’t know she knew
him.

She stood up suddenly, but her movement was clumsy and she managed to knock over her empty glass. ‘Oops,’ she giggled, picking it up again. Her hand felt as if it was made entirely of thumbs. Shit, everything was swaying. She clutched the table for support, trying to right herself.

‘Everything all right, Polly?’ asked Nice Sophie, tilting her head on one side. (What was Nice Sophie
doing
in the business world? Polly had wondered before. She was far too . . . well,
nice
, frankly.)

Polly was about to reply, yes, of course, never better, when her eyes locked with those of Marcus Handbury who’d just walked into the room, and she froze. She didn’t seem able to drag her gaze away for a horribly long few seconds. Her insides turned cold and the bar seemed to list sideways as if she was on board a ship. Marcus-effing-Handbury. The last person in the world that she wanted to see.

He was coming over. Shit, he was actually coming over, his gaze still firmly on hers. She felt trapped amidst the others, the table blocking her from running away. Aargh. What should she say? How should she act? Panic bubbled up inside her and her knees felt uncharacteristically weak.

‘Polly, hi.’ He’d reached the table now, and the conversation halted abruptly. Everyone swung round to gawp at him.

A scarlet stain of embarrassment crept up Polly’s throat and into her face. ‘Hi,’ she said coldly.

‘I just wanted to say, I’m sorry about how things have panned out,’ he said. He was one of those tall, solid rugby types, Marcus. The sort of person you could cannon into and they’d barely twitch. He had a plain, fleshy face and sandy hair, slightly thinning, she noted spitefully. ‘Really gutted for you, but no hard feelings, yeah?’

No hard feelings. He’d just shafted her for her job and he had the nerve to say ‘No hard feelings’? What did he think she was, some kind of cyborg?

She swallowed the lump of anger that had risen in her throat.
Don’t lose your cool
. ‘Whatever,’ she said, affecting a disdainful shrug and staring past him.

The others were looking from Marcus to Polly in confusion, not following. ‘What’s this all about?’ Richenda asked. ‘What’s happened?’

Blonde Sophie leaned in closer, sensing blood was about to be shed. ‘Yeah, what’s happened?’ she asked in faux concern, as sincere as a politician.

Marcus looked taken-aback. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Well, Polly’s redundancy. I’ve been moved up as a result, so, you know, kind of awkward, really . . .’

To be fair, he did look genuinely pained at the situation. Not half as pained as Polly felt, though. She was trembling with the sheer awfulness of it all. ‘Kind of awkward’ was the understatement of the flaming year.

‘Shit, you’ve been made
redundant
?’ Richenda asked in horror. Her voice seemed to echo around the room – redundant-redundant-redundant – and Polly cringed. ‘When did this happen?’

‘Why didn’t you
say
?’ Nice Sophie asked, her blue eyes boggling. ‘Bloody hell, Polly. What a nightmare!’

‘It’s not a big deal,’ Polly replied, waving a hand in what she hoped seemed a casual fashion. Richenda made a grab for her glass just before that got knocked over too. ‘To be honest, I’ve got something way more exciting lined up,’ she lied, tapping her nose once more. It was becoming her signature gesture tonight. Any minute now she’d go to tap her nose again and she’d find that it had shot out twenty centimetres like Pinocchio’s.

‘Oh yeah? What’s that, then?’

Polly wished Mean Sophie didn’t have to sound quite so disbelieving. She tipped her head right to indicate Elliot McCarthy’s table. ‘I’ve got an in with Elliot,’ she said loftily. ‘I was just about to go and discuss things with him when you lot arrived actually, so if you’ll excuse me a minute . . .’

‘What, now?’ Nice Sophie looked concerned. ‘With Elliot McCarthy? Polly, don’t you think you’re a bit’ – she hesitated, clearly agonizing over whether to offend Polly or potentially save her – ‘you know . . . a bit
pissed
for a discussion with him right now?’

‘Of course not,’ Polly said, trying to disentangle herself from the table. She stuck her nose in the air, not making eye contact with any of them. Sod ’em. They were nothing to her.
Watch this, losers
, she commanded in her head as she stumbled towards Elliot McCarthy. Watch and learn. This is how Polly Johnson likes to operate – she scents blood and goes straight in for the kill.

‘Hi,’ she said, and then her mind went horrifyingly blank as the bigshots turned their impassive, who-the-hell-are-you? faces on her. Shit. What was his name again? ‘Emily McCartney?’ she blurted out before she could stop herself. ‘May I introduce myself as your biggest fan, Polly Johnson. Hi there.’ And then, with exquisite timing, she swayed on her heels and toppled clumsily into his lap.

Some hours later Polly opened her eyes and then immediately clamped them shut again, as blazing sunlight scorched her eyeballs. Ow.
OW
.

Her head throbbed in agony. Her mouth felt as if someone had hoovered out all of the saliva and coated its lining with fur. Her stomach was churning as if she was about to—

Oh God. Polly staggered off her bed and just managed to make it to the bathroom before spewing violently into the toilet. Ugh. She heaved again and dry-retched a few times, trying to spit out all the bits of sick that were trapped behind her teeth. Disgusting.

She lay on the bathroom floor whimpering, the stone floor cold against her hot cheek, not even having the energy to reach up and flush the loo or get some water to rinse her mouth. She felt as if she might die, right there on the tiles. Help. How had this happened?

She paged blearily back through what she could remember of the night before, cringing as a series of dreadful images flashed into her head. Marcus humiliating her in front of her friends. Humiliating herself in front of Elliot McCarthy and his companions, who just happened to be pretty much the most influential people in the City. Being asked to leave the Red House by the management, after Elliot McCarthy had complained to the staff about her.

She winced, remembering how they’d tried to manhandle her out of the building when she’d refused. Hell, she’d never be able to show her face in there again. And then what? She vaguely remembered being in another bar, somewhere (where?), drinking gin after gin and pouring her heart out to someone (the barman? complete strangers?), but the details were fuzzy – she couldn’t make out her surroundings, other people’s faces. As for how she’d got home again, it was a complete mystery. Shit.

She lay there for some time on her bathroom floor, not sure whether she was going to throw up again or not, but oddly comforted by the tiles beneath her face, as if there was no further to fall. This is what rock bottom feels like, she said to herself, and shut her eyes.

The whole day was a write-off. So much for continuing the bombardment of HR directors with her epic CV and bullet-pointed letter; it was all she could do to drag herself onto the sofa with the duvet without dying of hangover pain. She lay there for a few hours feeling mortified. How would she ever be able to go back to the Red House, after making such a spectacle of herself? And how would she ever be able to look the Sophies, Richenda and Johnny in the eye, without crying with embarrassment? She might as well face facts: her career was down the toilet, along with gallons of her alcoholic puke.

The only good thing that happened all day was when she found the TV remote, placed neatly in the wooden drawer of the coffee table. This at least meant that she could lie there watching Phil and Holly on
This Morning
, followed by
Loose Women
and Paul O’Grady. After several hours she found the strength to make herself a cup of tea. Other than that, she only bothered moving to change channels. What else was there left for her to do?