The Perfect Retreat

CHAPTER SIX




Eliza slammed down the phone and screamed from her white wood and glass desk. ‘Lucy! Lucy!’

A harassed girl with thick ankles and premature worry lines ran into Eliza’s office. ‘Yes Mrs Wimple-Jones?’ Lucy felt ridiculous calling her boss by her surname. The last place she had worked at, she had known all three of the directors by their first names.

When Eliza had personally headhunted her and wooed her Lucy had felt flattered. Eliza made all the noises of a woman who wanted to share her vision with Lucy, dangling the possibility of a partnership with her in the new PR firm she was setting up, and speaking at length about her belief in a well-run business that didn’t require the crazy hours Lucy was putting in as an account manager at her current firm. Lucy had taken the job with Eliza even though her old bosses had pleaded with her to stay and offered her a higher salary. Times were tight; they’d already let go of all the juniors and Lucy was scared that she might end up as one of the unemployed if she stayed there, however much they liked her. She had been heady on Eliza’s dream.

It didn’t take long for the dream to turn into a nightmare. Every night, Lucy dreamed of walking into the office and stabbing Eliza with her silver Asprey letter-opener. Instead she sucked up Eliza’s demands and her constant bitching and dreamed of a day when she would open her own place.

Lucy imagined a PR company where people rang and had their queries answered. Where they were billed for actual work, not for Eliza’s dry cleaning and lunch bills, which padded out clients’ invoices as ‘project disbursements’. Eliza had forced Lucy to include the costs of her most recent art installation on a client’s bill, much to Lucy’s horror.

Eliza had come from the most successful modern art gallery in London, and through her network she had turned herself into a PR maven. Her clients in the art industry and her marriage to Johnny Wimple-Jones meant she had in her BlackBerry some of London’s best-known people, whom Eliza always referred to as friends. She always said to anyone who would listen that her agency wasn’t a job, it was just catching up with friends every night of the week.

Lucy groaned internally whenever she heard this catchphrase. True, it wasn’t work for Eliza; it was left up to Lucy to ensure the guests had drinks and the photo shoot was set up and the reputation of the latest art enfant terrible was saved.

Eliza had the network, but Lucy had the smarts. She was sure that one day karma would assert itself and she would be at the top of the PR game.

The truth was that most of Eliza’s clients only stayed at EWJ Agency because of Lucy. Her calmness and sensible advice had saved the day on many an occasion. Whether she was talking down a waiter high on coke and threatening to set fire to the hostess’s hairpiece with the chef’s blowtorch, or consoling a WAG whose husband’s philandering had just been made public, Lucy was in control.

Eliza was looking at Lucy shrewdly. ‘You’ve lost me the Piper Esprit Champagne account.’

Lucy looked at her boss confused. ‘I don’t think we ever had that account,’ she said.

‘Well we could have, but now I’ve just found out that they are launching with Karin Burchill.’ Eliza spat out the name of her biggest competition, as though it left a bitter taste in her mouth just to speak it.

‘I didn’t know they were looking,’ said Lucy.

‘You should have known. That’s your job,’ snapped Eliza.

Lucy felt a myriad of things rise to the surface that threatened to fall out of her mouth, so she closed it firmly, thinking of her small flat in Islington that she was paying off.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said instead.

‘You should be,’ snapped Eliza.

Lucy looked down at the diary in her hands.

‘You have two appointments back to back. Willow Carruthers first. She’ll be here in ten minutes,’ placated Lucy.

If there was one thing Eliza loved more than herself, it was celebrity. Eliza raised her eyebrows as if in disdain, but she was wondering if what she was wearing was impressive enough for the most stylish woman in the world. When she had got ready that morning, Eliza hadn’t known Willow would be coming; if she had she would have pulled out all the stops. Instead she looked down at her black silk Burberry dress, worn with the double strand of Wimple-Jones family pearls and her towering black patent leather Jimmy Choos, and figured it would have to do.

Eliza had decided that she would only dress in black and white once she started the agency. ‘Like the news,’ she told people when they asked. Lucy was always tempted to remind her that more and more people were reading their news online and that perhaps she should wear a Google logo dress, but she knew to keep her mouth shut.

Lucy left Eliza’s office and went back to her small desk, where she also acted as a receptionist and did whatever else Eliza decided to throw her way.

Sitting down, she opened JobSearch on her computer, typed in ‘PR’ and started to trawl through the results. She was either overqualified or underqualified for everything. No middle-entry positions, she thought. So f*cking depressing.

The bell sounding Willow’s arrival startled Lucy from her gloom. She pressed the buzzer to let Willow into the upstairs office.

Eliza had made the EWJ offices look like a small gallery. Modern art covered the walls, changing constantly as Eliza rotated her sizeable collection between her three houses in London, the country estate and the house in Ibiza.

Today Willow was greeted by a giant installation of latex fried eggs hanging at different heights up the stairs. She pushed open the heavy glass doors. Lucy walked forward to greet her, but Eliza had pushed past and stretched out her long thin hand towards Willow before Lucy had had time to even open her mouth.

‘Hello, I’m Eliza Wimple-Jones,’ she said, with her most welcoming smile plastered on her face. ‘Please come in and we’ll have a chat, OK?’ She guided Willow to the small boardroom and tossed a look at Lucy over her shoulder. ’Coffee and mineral water please, Lucy.’

Willow smiled at Lucy almost apologetically and Lucy smiled back. Lucy was used to Eliza’s rudeness and dismissive tone. She knew that eventually Eliza would tire of her new client and then all the work would fall to her. She took a tray into the boardroom, notebook and pencil under her arm, and placed it down quietly on the glass table. A giant sculpture of a woman in pieces was strung above their heads. While it was ugly, it was better than the baby in utero talking on a mobile phone that had hung there a few months ago.

Willow sat nervously as Eliza talked about her boutique agency. ‘I don’t publicise. My job is to ensure you are in the media for the right reasons, and seen with the right brands and the right people. Your comeback, if you want to call it that, needs to be carefully orchestrated; by not only me but also your agent and manager, both here in London and back in LA.’

Willow nodded.

Eliza went on, liking the sound of her own voice. She was great at the pitch and she knew it; this was where she did well. She just wasn’t so great at doing the work.

‘This could take several months actually, so we need to be careful about how quickly we push you out into the marketplace. Slowly, slowly is the key.’

Willow thought about her dwindling current account and felt sick. ‘Actually I was hoping to move faster than that.’

Eliza nodded, ‘I understand. Want to show the world you’re fierce and fabulous, huh?’ She smiled conspiratorially. ‘I get it, I did the same after my first marriage went down the gurgler. OK, well then to launch you sooner – that’s a different plan altogether.’

Willow smiled her most winning celebrity smile. ‘Great. So what’s the plan?’

Eliza preened under the gaze of Willow and looked at Lucy. ‘This is Lucy Faulkner; she’s my assistant and planner. She has fabulous ideas, and she’s already run a few past me this morning after Simon called telling us of your interest in our agency.’

Willow looked at the pale girl, who seemed about twenty-five years old. She was wearing a brown cashmere sweater that made her bust look like a single bolster pillow and a horrible black skirt that sat at an unflattering length on her thick legs.

Lucy panicked. She hadn’t run any ideas past Eliza at all. This was typical Eliza form: all icing, no cake. Lucy took a breath and looked at Willow. She was going to have to wing it and hope it was enough for her to sign them on.

‘I think that if you want to relaunch yourself quickly the best way is to get you a cosmetics contract. It’s a great way for people to see you in a different light and for the industry to see you’re ready to work again. You don’t have any projects lined up yet?’ asked Lucy briskly.

Willow sat back. She had underestimated the smart tweedy-looking girl. ‘No. I have a meeting this afternoon for a film though,’ she said.

‘OK, so I suggest we start shopping for a contract. Anyone would be happy to have you, either in fashion or in cosmetics as I said. Then I think we do a big interview: a tell-all with a magazine of substance. Vogue, Vanity Fair, nothing less than that, otherwise it cheapens the whole thing. I suggest you make no comment in public about your husband or your children either. Take the high road.’

The buzzer went in the office and Eliza looked at Lucy, expecting her to stop mid pitch and answer the door. Willow looked at Eliza, and then back at Lucy. ‘Perhaps you can get it. I’m interested in what Lucy is saying,’ she said almost imperiously. Eliza smiled graciously but was fuming inside. How dare that washed-up bitch tell me to answer my own door, she thought.

As the door to the boardroom shut Lucy looked directly at Willow. There was a fragility about her that she found interesting, as though there existed something more behind the brittle veneer she used to mask her feelings.

‘Listen, can I be straight with you?’ she asked suddenly and not even believing she was saying it.

‘I guess,’ said Willow warily.

‘There are rumours that you and Kerr are in the shit financially, big time. I don’t know if that’s true – and unless you’re my client it’s none of my business – but if it is true then Eliza’s not the agent you want. She’s indiscreet and a social climber. Your sorrows are her gains and she will use it against you. I suggest you look for another agency if it’s true. It’s not me, I could solve this for you – but don’t trust Eliza.’

Willow looked at the sensible, plain girl with the golden advice and nodded.

Eliza came back into the room. ‘Sorry, bloody couriers,’ she said and sat down again. ‘Now where were we?’

Willow stood up. ‘I’m sorry to waste your time. I’m afraid this isn’t really the agency for me; perhaps it’s a little premature,’ she said, smiling at Eliza.

Eliza glared at Lucy. What had she said to her? The stupid dumb clodhopper of a girl was useless. ‘Are you sure? I think we could work well together,’ pleaded Eliza.

‘No, I’m afraid not; but thank you for your time, I really appreciate it,’ said Willow. She backed out of the room, ignoring Lucy, ran down the stairs under the giant hanging eggs, and didn’t stop to take her first breath until she was on the street outside. A few people passed her, doing double takes at the glamorous star looking as though she had seen a ghost. Willow pulled herself together and thought about her options. If word got out about her financial woes then she would never be taken seriously. No one could know about this, she thought; she needed to act as though she hadn’t a care in the world except for her beloved children. The last thing she wanted was to do cheap media for money; she might as well light some hoops in Trafalgar Square and jump through them for small change.

Eliza was horrible, she thought: so instantly see-through and a definite social climber. Willow shuddered. She would never associate with someone like Eliza; why on earth had Simon recommended her? Lucy, on the other hand … Well, she had definitely underestimated the girl, who reminded her of Mrs Tiggy-Winkle from the story that Poppy liked so much. Round, comforting, sensible. That’s what I need more of in my life: sense. And dollars, she thought as she pulled out her phone.

After Willow left EWJ, Eliza screamed at Lucy for ten minutes, demanding she tell her what she had said when she left the room, but Lucy played dumb. The truth was she had found out about Willow and Kerr’s finances from her friend who worked in PR at Kerr’s record label. As soon as Lucy overheard Eliza taking the call about Willow, she had rung around her mates in PR to get the lowdown.

Eliza’s tirade only stopped when the phone rang and she stomped off to her office, slamming the door. Lucy picked up the phone. ‘EWJ Agency, Lucy speaking,’ she said efficiently, although she felt like crying after Eliza’s onslaught.

‘Hi Lucy, it’s Willow again.’

‘Hello,’ said Lucy, surprised.

‘I just wanted to thank you for your honesty and advice. Suffice it to say there are a few things happening in my world at the moment which are less than appealing,’ said Willow wryly.

‘I figured,’ said Lucy.

‘Listen, this may seem odd, but is there any chance you would consider working for me as my private PR person? I don’t have any money yet but I think I can get back in front, and I really need people I can trust at the moment,’ said Willow down the phone.

Lucy was silent, thinking.

Willow continued, ‘I know it’s a big risk for you but you were amazing in that room, and I honestly think you could help me. And I could help you, I hope.’

‘I would need to think about it,’ she said quietly, looking down at her desk.

‘No private calls!’ hissed Eliza and Lucy looked up to see Eliza’s reptilian face peering at her.

At that moment Lucy realised she had had enough of Eliza and her bullshit and she smiled down the phone. ‘Actually that sounds lovely. I’ll text you from my mobile and we can meet in a minute,’ she said.

Eliza looked at her as she hung up the phone. ‘You’ve had lunch; you don’t get time off to meet people. I need you here,’ she barked.

‘Actually Eliza, I’m leaving.’

Lucy stood up and took her handbag from the filing cabinet.

‘When will you be back?’ asked Eliza, unnerved by Lucy’s calmness.

‘On the first of never, Eliza. I can’t work for you any longer and I was too well raised to tell you what I think of you, so please consider my notice immediate and final,’ she said, and with that she walked out of the door.

Eliza started to follow her down the stairs, screaming her name. ‘Lucy, Lucy! Come back here!’ she called, and then the phone rang and Eliza turned on the stairs to go and answer it and lost her balance and reached out to grab something. The only thing her desperate arms could find was one of the hanging fried eggs. She yanked it and fell down the stairs to land on her bony bottom, a giant latex egg on top of her.

And that was Lucy’s last vision of her ex-boss: at the bottom on her bottom with egg on her face. Perhaps karma did exist after all, she thought.