Marsha is shaking her head. ‘I’m sorry, we seem to be talking at cross-purposes. You are my twelve-thirty, aren’t you?’
‘Yes! I think so. Am I?’
‘The nanny? You are here for the job of nanny?’
‘I have a reputation?’
‘A little bit. In the industry.’
‘As what?’
‘Just a bit . . . unreliable, that’s all.’
‘Unreliable?’
‘Unprofessional.’
‘In what way?’
‘In a drunk way. In an off-your-face-on-camera kind of way.’
‘Hey, I have never been—’
‘—and arrogant. People think you’re arrogant.’
‘Arrogant? I’m confident, not arrogant.’
‘Hey I’m just telling you what people say, Dex.’
‘“People”! Who are these “people”?’
‘People you’ve worked with—’
‘Really? Good God—’
‘I’m just saying, if you feel you’ve got a problem—’
‘Which I haven’t.’
‘—now might be the time to address it.’
‘I haven’t though.’
‘Well then we’re fine. In the meantime, I think you might also want to watch what you’re spending. For a couple of months at least.’
‘Emma, I am so sorry . . .’
She walks towards the lifts, hot-eyed and embarrassed, Marsha walking close behind, Stephanie following behind her. Heads pop up from cubicles as they pass in procession. That’ll teach her, they must think, for getting big ideas.
‘I’m so sorry about wasting your time,’ says Marsha, ingratiatingly. ‘Someone was meant to call and cancel—’
‘S’alright, not your fault—’ Emma mumbles.
‘Needless to say my assistant and I will be having words. Are you sure you didn’t get the message? I hate to cancel meetings, but I simply hadn’t got round to reading the material. I’d give it a quick read now, but poor old Helga is waiting in the boardroom apparently—’
‘I quite understand.’
‘Stephanie here assures me that you’re extremely talented. I’m so looking forward to reading your work . . .’
Arriving at the lifts, Emma jabs the call button. ‘Yes, well . . .’
‘At least, if anything you’ll have an amusing story.’
An amusing story? She jabs the call button as if poking an eye. She doesn’t want an amusing story, she wants change, a break, not anecdotes. Her life has been stuffed with anecdotes, an endless string of the bastards, now she wants something to go right for once. She wants success, or at least the hope of it.
‘I’m afraid next week is no good, then I’m on holiday, so it may be some time. But before the summer’s out, I promise.’
Before the summer’s out? Month after month slipping by with nothing changing. She jabs once more at the lift button and says nothing, a surly teenager, making them suffer. They wait. Marsha, seemingly unflustered, examines her with sharp blue eyes. ‘Tell me, Emma, what are you doing at the moment?’
‘I teach English. A secondary school in Leytonstone.’
‘That must be very demanding. When do you find the time to actually write?’
‘At night. Weekends. Early mornings sometimes.’
Marsha narrows her eyes. ‘You must be very passionate about it.’
‘It’s the only thing I really want to do now.’ Emma surprises herself, not just at how earnest she must sound but also with the realisation that the remark is true. The lift opens behind her, and she glances over her shoulder, almost wishing now that she could stay.
Marsha is holding out her hand. ‘Well, goodbye, Miss Morley. I look forward to talking to you further.’
Emma takes hold of her long fingers. ‘And I hope you find your nanny.’
‘I hope so too. The last one was a complete psychopath. I don’t suppose you want the job anyway, do you? I imagine you’d be rather good.’ Marsha smiles, and Emma smiles back, and behind Marsha, Stephanie bites her bottom lip, mouths sorry-sorry-sorry and mimes a little phone. ‘Call me!’
The lift doors close and Emma slumps against the wall as the lift plummets thirty floors and she feels the excitement in her stomach curdle into sour disappointment. At three a.m. that morning, unable to sleep, she had fantasised an impromptu lunch with her new editor. She had pictured herself drinking crisp white wine in the Oxo Tower, beguiling her companion with engaging stories of school life, and now here she is, spat out onto the South Bank in less than twenty-five minutes.
In May she had celebrated the election result here, but there’s none of that euphoria now. Having declared herself suffering from gastric flu, she can’t even go to the staff meeting. She feels another argument brewing there too, recriminations, sly remarks. To clear her head she decides to go for a walk, and heads off in the direction of Tower Bridge.
But even the Thames fails to lift her spirits. This stretch of the South Bank is in the process of renovation, a mess of scaffolding and tarpaulin, Bankside Power Station looming derelict and oppressive on this midsummer day. She is hungry, but there’s nowhere to eat, no-one to eat with. Her phone rings, and she scrabbles for it in her bag, keen to vent some of her frustration and realising only too late who will be calling.
‘So – gastric flu is it?’ says the headmaster.
She sighs. ‘That’s right.’
‘In bed with it, are you? Because it doesn’t sound like you’re in bed. It sounds to me like you’re out enjoying the sun.’
‘Phil, please – don’t give me a hard time.’
‘Oh, no, Miss Morley, you can’t have it both ways. You can’t end our relationship and then expect some kind of special dispensation—’ It’s the voice he has used for months now, officious, sing-song and spiteful and she feels a fresh burst of anger at the traps she lays for herself. ‘If you want it to be purely professional, then we have to keep it purely professional! So! If you don’t mind, could you tell me why you’re not at this very import ant meeting today?’