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Chapter Seven

‘Appetite for Western brands is undiminished, and contrary to early-recession reports, China’s millionaires were largely unscathed by the global downturn. The overall economy and the diversification of wealth will continue to grow—’

I clear my throat. I loathe presenting. Whenever I stand up in front of all these men (and yep, apart from me, today they are all men) I think ‘firing squad’.

I actually find the subject – luxury in China – fascinating. Through this project, and others like it, I’ve learnt all about the political and economic history of China, particularly the cultural changes of the last 20 years, and what companies are succeeding (or failing) and why. But it’s just another report to them. They’ll go and buy and sell shares and make recommendations based on it, and make or lose money. And then I’ll come back in a few weeks and do it again about something else. It is never-ending.

I start talking about the new generation of millionaires in China, the people that the luxury brands need to be aiming for. Out of the corner of my eye, I see one of the traders, a young American jock-type, send a text. The other takes out his phone, looks at it, glances quickly at me and grins. I start stammering ‘Um, ah, ummm . . .’ for a few seconds before I find my place in my notes again. Stay in control, Abigail. In. Control.

Finally, it’s question time. One of the senior traders asks about LVMH, and I talk for a few minutes about numbers and expectations. ‘Louis Vuitton, the company’s fashion and high-end leather goods brand,’ (out of the corner of my eye, I see the same trader make a tiny whip-cracking motion to his friend, and they both stifle grins), ‘is leading the growth. This year alone they’re opening new stores in Beijing, Shanghai, Guangdong, Chengdu, Wenzhou and Beihai. Exactly where the millionaires are.’

Flushing with relief to have it over and done with, I look up the table to the whip-cracking guy. I’ve seen him before. He catches my eye and grins. I ignore him.

As we’re walking out of the room, I feel a tug on my hair and turn around. It’s the trader.

‘I just wanted to follow up on the leather and saddlery division of Louis Vuitton,’ he says, grinning. ‘So, demand for bridles and whips are up?’ I hear the traders behind him explode with stifled laughter.

All of a sudden, I don’t feel intimidated. Just irritated.

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘But if you’re looking for something kinky, try Ann Summers. It’s more your league.’

What a fucknuckle. At least I got through my presentation with only one mistake, I reflect, as I get in the lift. Today seemed easier than usual . . . a knock-on effect of the fake-it-till-you-feel-it I’m-so-confident attitude, I guess. Thanks, Robert.

When I get back to my desk, Alistair is comforting Charlotte. She’s – what? – crying.

‘Are you OK?’ I ask, slightly redundantly.

She looks up, her face swollen and pink, hiccuping with sobs. Gosh. She’s never shown any emotion, in all the time I’ve known her.

‘Abigail, thank God you’re back,’ says Alistair, relieved.

‘Let’s get a coffee,’ I say. There is nothing worse than being upset in our office. People can smell the scandal, and walk past super-slowly to get a good look.

Charlotte nods and gets up to put on her poncho.

‘I need to talk to you today, too,’ says Alistair, as we go.

‘Yep, no problem,’ I say. ‘Everything OK?’

‘Yes, m’lady,’ he says, grinning and spinning in his chair. ‘Very much so.’

We walk to a tiny Italian coffee shop that I’m pretty sure has been here since the 1950s. One guy to make coffee, one guy to make sandwiches, and a linoleum counter at the window to sit and watch people go past. It makes me happy, somehow, to be here where they’ve been serving coffee for 60 years, rather than at a big Pret-A-Costabucks chain. And the coffee is amazing.

I order for us, and sit down. Charlotte hasn’t spoken a word. She has been crying so hard, and so silently, that she’s having trouble breathing.

‘Do you want to tell me what happened?’ I say.

Charlotte starts to hiccup out the words: ‘Last night—’

‘Deep breaths,’ I say. ‘Just relax. Everything will be fine.’ Wow, cliché after cliché from me.

‘My boyfriend Phil broke up with me last night,’ she finally says.

‘Shit,’ I say, and without thinking about it, reach forward and give her a hug. I don’t think I’ve spontaneously hugged anyone except my family or very closest friends, possibly ever. It’s nice.

Charlotte starts to cry again and a large gob of spittle swings out of her mouth and splats on my trousers. Ew.

Over the next half an hour, between semi-hysterical tears from her and gentle questions punctuated with reminders to breathe from me, it emerges that after nine years together – from the age of 17 to 26 – she’s been with the same guy. And he’s just broken up with her, saying ‘I love you, but not enough’.

‘I don’t know what . . . to do, I don’t know what to do,’ she says, when she’s calmed down and cried out. ‘All through school and university and work, we were together, our parents play bridge, we were saving to buy a house, we share a car, we had a 10-year-plan that was going to end next year with us getting eng – eng – eng . . .’

‘Engaged?’ I suggest.

‘We have a budgie,’ she says, crying even harder. ‘My mother is so upset, I told her last night and she hung up on me, she’s already bought her outfit for the wedding—’

‘Shh,’ I say, stroking her shoulder in an – I hope – comforting way. This is so different to my break-up. I cried, but I knew it was the right thing to do. I think Peter did too. In fact, the only person who got really hysterical was his brother Joe. He came over as I was moving out of the house and called me a ‘stupid bitch’. God, that was a horrible day, I feel sick about it even now. Oh dear, must think about Charlotte.

‘Breaking up is awful,’ I say unoriginally.

‘I’ve never broken up! I’ve only ever had Phil!’ she says.

‘Do you have a friend you can stay with? Brother? Sister? Parents?’ I know nothing about her, I realise. I’ve simply never asked.

‘My parents – no, no way. But my brother lives in Stoke Newington,’ she says. ‘N16,’ she adds helpfully.

After she’s called her brother, cried some more, established that she can stay in his spare room, and had another coffee, it’s past 9 am.

‘I feel much better,’ she says. ‘Thank you so much, Abigail.’

‘You know, I broke up with someone in July,’ I say. ‘After seven years together. It’s awful, it really is horrible. But you’ll get through it. You will.’

‘Really?’ she says, turning her pale, reddened eyes on me.

‘Yes,’ I say, wondering if now would be an appropriate time to suggest a lash tint. Probably not. ‘Honestly, Charlotte, from now on, every day will get a little bit better and easier . . . You just have to hug yourself tightly and ride through the next few weeks.’

‘But I’ve never been single!’ she exclaims tearfully. ‘I have no idea how to date! None! I’m going to be one of those single women in bars! Desperate!’

‘No, you’re not,’ I say, ignoring the fact that she’s thinking exactly what I thought for years, and that Plum and I are now said single women in bars. But we are not desperate, I think firmly. Not. The d-word. ‘Being single is fun,’ I say. ‘You can do whatever you want, whenever you want, go to sleep early or stay up all night . . .’

Charlotte doesn’t look impressed.

‘You can go out and flirt,’ I say, as enthusiastically as I can. ‘Go on dates. I’ve got a date tonight, actually.’ With a man named Skinny Jeans. I mean Mark. ‘Kiss other men and, you know, all of that,’ I say. This too isn’t impressing her. Guess I won’t actually mention sex, then. ‘It’s so much fun, Charlotte. Honestly. You won’t know yourself in a few weeks.’

She looks at me blankly and wipes a last solitary tear from the corner of her eye.

‘Think about all the things that made him irritating,’ I say, trying another tack. ‘Like, lazy around the house? Bad dresser?’ I realise that Charlotte wouldn’t recognise a bad dresser if he stamped on her foot wearing Crocs and hurried on. ‘Messy drunk? Moody? Bad cook?’

‘Oh, he never cooks,’ she says. ‘I do. Every night. And he won’t try new foods so it’s always chicken and chips. I did an amazing sushi course and he never lets me make it at home because he hates the sight of fish. And seaweed. And rice.’

Wow, I think to myself. What a fucknuckle. ‘Well, there you go,’ I say. ‘Now you can make and eat sushi to your heart’s content.’

Charlotte gazes into the distance and smiles. ‘And he never cleans up after himself. He just expects me to do it for him. And he’s gained quite a lot of weight recently.’ Charlotte’s on a roll now. ‘And he thinks no one is as good as his mum. And he makes me pull his finger when he farts.’

What the devil were you doing with him for nine years, I think to myself. But I refrain from saying it. I am not one to talk about the comfort of habit.

‘Well, you never have to deal with that stuff again,’ I say cheerfully. ‘Now, Charlotte, if you want to, please take today and tomorrow off.’ I have no authority to offer that to her. Oh well. ‘And whenever you mention his name, pretend to spit over your shoulder. It’s very cathartic.’

‘Thank you,’ she says gratefully, looking slightly mystified at the spitting comment.

As we leave the coffee shop, and Charlotte heads off for the tube, I lean over and give her a proper hug.

‘You’ll be fine,’ I say. ‘Feel free to call me if you need anything.’

‘Thank you, Abigail,’ she says. ‘I never thought I’d feel so cheerful about being dumped!’

I walk back in the office, swinging my security tag around in little circles, smiling to myself. How did I become the motivational speaker for single girls? It’s so nice to be able to comfort someone and feel like you’ve made their day a bit better, I’ve never really done it before. And you know, I think I’ve misjudged Charlotte all this time. She’s not blah at all.

When I get back to my desk, Alistair is waiting for me.

‘I need to talk to you,’ he hisses. ‘Can we have a coffee?’

God, I’ve had four coffees already and it’s only 9. 30 am.

‘Of course,’ I say, my heart sinking at the thought of more caffeine. ‘Give me ten minutes to check emails.’

There are over 50 emails in my inbox, and I can see I’ve got a few phone messages to answer too. Ah well. Fuck it. Alistair wants to talk. That’s more important, surely.

‘I have been offered a job,’ says Alistair, the moment we’re seated. ‘With UBS. On a trading desk. As a desk assistant.’

‘You’ll be a glorified coffee maker,’ I say, aghast. ‘I mean,’ I continue, quickly composing myself, ‘Are you sure? That’s an entry level job.’

‘It’s what I want!’ he says. ‘Look, I’m impatient. I want what I want now. I can’t afford to waste any more time here.’

‘You know, you’re only 23. There’s no rush—’

‘Yes, there is. I’m sorry, Abigail. I know you’ve been doing research for me, but I wanted a job.’

‘We only spoke like, two weeks ago . . .’

He shrugs. ‘I had already been talking to people. I was just asking for your help to be polite, really. And because I wanted to have lunch with you.’

‘Gosh, thanks,’ I say sarcastically, then realise he’s looking at me anxiously, wanting my approval. ‘Of course, I totally understand. And congratulations,’ I add. ‘It’s great, I’m really happy for you.’

‘I’m sorry I’m leaving your team, you know I love working with you. I feel like . . . like I could get stuck here.’

I nod, thinking: I am stuck here.

‘I don’t have a passion for it, like you clearly do,’ he says apologetically, reading my face.

‘I wouldn’t say I have a passion for it,’ I say, tearing my napkin into little shreds. ‘But I do . . . I do know it inside out.’

‘That’s why you’re the best.’

We both take a careful sip of our drinks, and I try to ignore the thought that I am stuck in a job I don’t love.

Now I’m going to have to tell my boss Suzanne. Holy shit.

I dread dealing with Suzanne. She is very short, very blonde and very frightening. She joined six months ago from another bank, replacing my unusually easygoing last boss. (He was either pushed out or jumped, depending on who you believe.)

Suzanne works at least 14 hours a day, and is constantly barking into a headset that’s permanently attached to one ear whilst simultaneously reading reports, checking numbers, pushing sales and sending snappy/terse emails. She spends all her spare time walking around Bluewater and Westfield, taking day trips to Edinburgh or Paris, surveying the stores and the shoppers and the atmosphere. It all goes into forming a detailed picture of the retail market in her head. She’s like a megacomputer for retail analysis.

‘Why is he leaving?’ she snaps.

‘He’s bored.’

Oops. That came out without me thinking about it. There’s a pause and she stares straight at me.

‘Bored?’

‘Research just didn’t, um, stimulate him . . .’ I say helplessly. ‘He wants to be on the floor, making things happen.’

There’s a beat whilst she looks at me. She is nailing the eye contact thing. It would be inspirational if it wasn’t so fucking scary. She wears too much black eyeliner.

‘I’m not seeing enough drive in you, Abigail,’ she says, finally. ‘You have the knowledge and the experience, but you don’t care. Your reports are always bang-on, but you’re totally reactive and you never over deliver, you just . . . deliver.’

I nod, trying to look as composed as I can. Since when was this a critique of me?

‘I’ve been monitoring you since I arrived. You only make two or three calls a day. I expect you to make 15. You’re too passive. I expect you to know the luxury retail market; to eat, breathe, and fucking sleep it.’

I nod. I don’t even know how to respond to a speech like this. Is everyone else really doing this? Is Charlotte doing this? I haven’t noticed, but then again, I’ve been a bit distracted over the past six months.

She sighs. ‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you all morning. Where were you?’

‘Um, Charlotte was upset—’

‘You’re not here to help Charlotte. You’re here to figure out how to make money.’

I bite my lip. She’s right.

‘I need someone who can create volume, stimulate sales. I don’t need someone who just sits back and reads. You’re too passive.’

I flinch.

She isn’t done yet. ‘I expect more. Step. It. Up.’

I am nodding so hard that my neck is starting to hurt. The ‘you’re too passive’ remark particularly stings.

I clear my throat. ‘Yes, thank you, I know, I know.’

Suzanne narrows her eyes. ‘It’s up to you. The question you need to ask yourself is, what do I want?’

I stop nodding and stare at her for a second. It’s that fucking question again. She raises an overplucked eyebrow and looks at me.

‘What do you want, Abigail?’

I open my mouth to speak and shut it again. I have no answer, none at all. What’s wrong with me? For a second I fight the urge to cry. What the fuck do I want?

‘That’s all,’ she dismisses me. I walk out, shaking my head to clear my thoughts. What a day. And it’s not even lunchtime yet.

The last thing I’m in the mood for is my date with that Skinny Jeans guy tonight. But I’m damned if I’m going to miss out on a chance to get the dating experience I need. I’m meant to be meeting him at 8 pm. I think I should have a couple of drinks at home first to get me in the mood.