Читать книгу It’s A Man’s World - Polly Courtney - Страница 9

Chapter 3

Alexa rounded the corner and waited impatiently to cross the road, squinting in the half-darkness at the lone figure at the top of the marble steps. He looked like a movie star, leaning casually against the floodlit pillar, the glow illuminating his blond hair and casting shadows across his chiselled jaw.

‘Hi,’ she called breathlessly, hitching the black silk dress a little higher as she darted across the road and mounted the steps, two by two. Kate’s kitten heels were wearing holes in her ankles, but she put the pain to the back of her mind. ‘Sorry I’m late.’

Matt didn’t reply immediately. He just pulled away from the pillar and stood for a moment, appraising her heaving chest and flushed cheeks, smiling.

‘It was worth the wait,’ he said eventually, pulling her towards him and kissing her hard on the lips.

Alexa felt something inside her lurch. His suit was a perfect fit across the shoulders and the crisp, white shirt set off his tan. She looped an arm around his and stepped onto the dark red carpet.

‘I think we’re supposed to have gone through to the ballroom,’ he said, ‘but let’s grab a drink on the way.’

He led them into a giant, echoing hallway flanked by two spiral staircases. A solitary waiter stood in the corner, holding a circular tray of champagne flutes – evidently the last remaining member of a troop of serving staff. Alexa cursed her poor time management. If she had just put down her work at six-thirty, as planned, she could have arrived on time and enjoyed her allotted quota of pre-dinner bubbly. There was always just one more feature to work on, one more financial report to check.

‘Shall we?’ Matt paused by the entrance to a vacuous ballroom. It sparkled with chandeliers, expensive watches and diamond earrings. Alexa took a deep breath, glancing down at her own attire. It was probably a good thing that Kate had insisted on taking her shopping, she thought. The dress was racier than anything she would have dared to buy on her own and, out of context, the jewellery had seemed over the top – but judging by what she could see here, it was exactly right for the occasion. Cut from black imitation silk, the dress clung to her waist and hips, its neckline plunging to reveal a cleavage she usually kept hidden away.

Suddenly, Alexa found herself being whisked to the centre of the room at a disconcerting pace. She gripped Matt’s forearm, ignoring the pain in her feet and focusing on keeping her champagne glass upright. Through the blur, she spotted the reason for the urgency. On the stage at the far end of the hall, an ancient-looking man was tapping a microphone, indicating the start of a speech.

‘Ladies . . . and gentlemen!’ The shaky voice was amplified across the room. ‘May I first say how grateful I am . . .’

Alexa crept into her chair and quietly tucked herself in. On her left was a middle-aged man with a ring of greying hair around a largely bald head, who was nodding gently as though enthralled in the speech. Matt took his place on her right, next to Dickie, a friend and colleague at his law firm, Fothergills.

Alexa was nursing her ankle under the table when she caught sight of a frantic waving gesture from three seats along. It was Dickie’s girlfriend, whose name Alexa had already forgotten from the previous black tie event. Clarissa? Loretta? Alexa’s memory was hazy. Conversation had involved skiing, horses, red wine . . . but she couldn’t for the life of her recall the girl’s name.

The speech droned on. Alexa tuned in and out, her heart still recovering from the rushed entrance, her mind still working on Dickie’s girlfriend’s name. She wasn’t entirely clear on the purpose of the evening, but then, she never was. Law must have been one of the few remaining industries in which career progression was partially dependent on attendance at elaborate dinners throughout the year.

She looked around the room. In the far corner, by the speaker, an all-female string quartet sat, looking very bored. Around the edges, waiters stood, staring straight ahead like foot soldiers on parade. The guests, of which there must have been four or five hundred, varied in their composure. Some were pretending to listen, others surreptitiously poured themselves glasses of wine and a small number of people, mainly older gentlemen, were nodding off.

It quickly transpired that Dickie’s girlfriend was very drunk. Her eyes were rolling around in their sockets and every time the speaker paused for breath – sometimes after a joke’s punchline, often not – she would let out a loud, throaty chuckle as though the man had said something exceedingly funny.

‘I always look back to something that someone once told me . . .’

‘Mwahahahaha!’ cried the girl.

‘. . . that if you want to know the difference between a good lawyer and a great lawyer . . .’

‘Mwahahahaha!’ she cried again. People were starting to stare. ‘. . . then it is this. A good lawyer knows the law. A great lawyer knows the judge.’

‘Mwahahahahahahaha!’ yelled the girl, this time accompanied by a polite murmur of appreciation from around the room.

Alexa sipped her champagne, trying not to catch the girl’s eye in case the hysterics became contagious. Fenella. That was it. Fenella’s interjections were clearly not winning her any favour with the balding man on her left. Dickie was making a halfhearted attempt to shut her up, but short of physically restraining or removing her, there was little he could do.

Eventually, the speaker stepped down, amid a trickle of light applause. Predictably, Fenella clapped and whooped like a winner at the races. Alexa smiled as Dickie tried to explain that wolf-whistling was not an appropriate form of celebration.

Matt laid a hand on Alexa’s thigh under the table, pressing his lips to her ear. ‘The guy next to you is Dickie’s boss,’ he whispered.

‘Oh dear,’ replied Alexa, softly.

‘He’s also my boss,’ added Matt, with a meaningful look.

‘Right.’ Alexa nodded, understanding what was expected of her. Matt didn’t want a Fenella on his hands tonight.

Matt smiled, leaning back as a waiter swooped over to pour the wine. ‘Oh,’ he said, his mouth returning to her ear. ‘There’s one thing you should know about David Wint—’

‘DAVID WINTERBOTTOM,’ boomed the voice on her left.

Alexa jumped. The balding man was offering his hand.

‘Nice to meet you,’ she said, wondering what Matt had been about to say.

‘The pleasure,’ he declared theatrically, ‘is all mine.’

Alexa smiled politely as he grasped her hand in his and drew it slowly to his lips. He spoke in a way that might have been appropriate for very young children or foreigners: slowly and very loudly. She nudged Matt with her knee under the table, but he was already embroiled in a conversation about litigation with Dickie. Fenella, she noticed, was mumbling incoherently into her glass.

The starters were placed on the table with military precision by the waiting staff, offering Alexa a brief but welcome reprieve from Winterbottom’s ogling stare. He seemed to be looking at her as though she were some form of exquisite art, not a conscious person.

‘So!’ The stare returned as Alexa tucked into her caramelised onion tart. She didn’t actually like onion, but she decided that tasting small quantities was preferable to making conversation with Matt’s lecherous boss. ‘What do you do, then?’

‘I . . .’ Alexa avoided the man’s gaze, which was now firmly focused on her breasts. ‘I work in media.’

‘Ah.’ Winterbottom nodded knowingly. ‘I could have guessed.’

‘Could you?’

‘Yuh.’ He nodded again, glancing appraisingly at the silk dress as though sizing her up. ‘Yuh, definitely a creative type. What d’you do? Graphics?’

Alexa frowned. She wondered whether her role could be classified as ‘creative’. Some of her financial forecasts could probably qualify as such, but strictly speaking her profession was management or business. ‘No, I look at new markets for magazines.’

‘New markets, eh? Farmers’ markets? Are you a communities journalist?’

Alexa pushed away the remains of her tart. ‘No,’ she replied, through gritted teeth. Had Winterbottom not been Matt’s boss, she would have put him straight in no uncertain terms.

‘Let me guess,’ said Winterbottom. ‘Are you . . . oh, I know. Is it a local magazine?’

‘No.’ Alexa heard the resentment in her voice and reined herself in again. ‘No. I’m not a journalist.’

‘Then why did you say you were?’

Alexa kept calm, watching as he scooped out the filling from his starter and stuffed it into his mouth in one go. A small strand of onion flicked up from the fork, leaving a trail of chutney across his left cheek.

‘I said I worked in media. I look at new markets for magazines – new revenue streams.’

‘Oh.’ The man looked confused. ‘So, you work in finance?’

‘Sort of.’ Alexa nodded. It was probably the closest they were going to get to her actual job description.

The waiters whisked away their plates, topping up glasses as they went. Alexa took a large gulp of red wine, leaning sideways and trying to catch Matt’s attention.

‘No, no, no,’ insisted Dickie, apparently oblivious to his girl-friend’s sleepy head on his shoulder. ‘Regulation works better than litigation, every time. Prevention is better than cure!’

‘I disagree,’ argued Matt, launching into a complicated explanation for why.

Alexa turned back to her wine. It was always the same. Matt promised not to talk shop with his colleagues, then when the time came, the word ‘litigation’ reared its head and they were off. It was no wonder Fenella had drunk herself into a stupor.

‘So!’ It was the same slow, booming tone that had rung out before.

Reluctantly, Alexa turned to face Winterbottom.

‘You never told me which title,’ he said, patronisingly.

‘Oh.’ Alexa nodded. She thought for a moment. Part of her wanted to shock him by telling him about Banter, but she didn’t know whether that would reflect badly on Matt. ‘It’s a women’s magazine called Hers.’

‘A women’s magazine,’ he nodded, smiling. ‘Of course.’

Alexa managed to keep her cool. Inside, she wanted to grab the man’s tightly-stretched collar and shake him off his chair, wiping that smug, condescending smile off his face.

‘I trebled its gross revenue and shaved twenty percent off the costs last year,’ she said.

‘Did you?’ He looked at her, wide-eyed, glancing overtly at her breasts. ‘And how much revenue does a women’s magazine bring in, these days?’

Alexa exhaled. The fire was burning inside her. This man was intolerable.

As it happened, just as the collar-grabbing fantasy started to take hold in her mind, Alexa’s thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of her main course. Matt looked over and must have registered her expression because he suddenly wanted to know her opinion on joint liability in American asbestos cases.

Alexa’s shoulders remained tilted towards Dickie and Matt for the entirety of her next two courses: succulent veal followed by peach melba with raspberry coulis. She wasn’t enjoying the conversation exactly, or even following it, but she was doing a reasonable job of saying ‘mmm’ at appropriate intervals and the wine was slipping down nicely. Dickie and Matt didn’t seem to mind; they were lost in a world of corporate constitutions and shareholder rights.

Dessert wine was followed by cheese and port which was followed by a random selection of red and white wine scavenged by Dickie from nearby tables. Alexa was pleased when conversation eventually moved on to random trivia such as the fact that there were apparently more chickens in China than people. At some point in the proceedings, Fenella perked up enough to work her way through a large slab of Brie, but ten minutes later was looking decidedly queasy. It was agreed, through smeary wine glasses, that the time had come to go home.

Leaning against the cold, exterior wall, Alexa watched as Matt helped Dickie ease Fenella into a cab. She lifted her hair off her shoulders, tying it into a knot and enjoying the cool night air on her face.

‘You never told me,’ said a voice, languid and loud, right next to her ear.

She sighed, turning to face Winterbottom and feeling her spirits sink.

‘Told you what?’ she asked, reluctantly. Fenella was refusing to get in the cab. Her limbs were protruding from the open door and she seemed to be yelling something about a club.

‘How much money a women’s magazine makes.’

Alexa drew a lungful of air. She knew exactly what the man was getting at. The implication was that women’s magazines generated such small revenues that they weren’t worth the bother. The implication throughout the whole evening had been that women’s magazines, women’s jobs, women’s efforts in general, were a waste of time.

The rage mixed with the wine and port in her belly and, for a brief moment, Alexa wondered whether she might throw it all up on the obnoxious man. She held it in though, glancing sideways at the cab, where Dickie and Matt were attempting to trap Fenella in a pincer movement.

‘About thirty to forty million,’ she said, pushing away from the wall and feeling instantly dizzy. She steadied herself and looked into Winterbottom’s eyes. ‘The same as the equivalent men’s magazine.’ She started to turn away, but kept her eyes fixed on his face. ‘And by the way,’ she said, ‘that’s irrespective of whether it’s run by a man or a woman.’

She glared at him for a second, watching his jowls flap with the hesitant opening and closing of his jaws, then she turned and marched into the road, where Matt was patting the roof of the cab as it pulled away.

‘Matt?’

He looked up, seemingly perplexed by the speed at which she was tottering towards him.

‘What were you going to say? Before the dinner – about your boss?’

‘Oh.’ Matt nodded apologetically, holding out his hand as another cab pulled up. ‘After you.’

Alexa stumbled inside, falling back against the seat. ‘Tell me,’ she said, feeling her eyes drop shut.

Matt slipped an arm around her shoulder and drew her towards him so that her head was on his lap. ‘I was just going to say that he’s not one for respecting women.’

Alexa managed a laugh. ‘Really?’

‘Sorry.’ Matt started stroking her hair. ‘I would’ve swapped places if there’d been time.’

Alexa let out a quiet sigh. She was exhausted and very drunk, but she recognised the feeling inside her. It felt like fire. She had made up her mind about something.

‘Matt?’ she said again.

He stopped stroking her hair for a second and looked down at her face.

‘I’m going to take the job at Banter.’