Undercover Alice (2 page)

I tugged my skirt down as far as it could go. It was
too small for me, and I regretted wearing it. I’d found it languishing at the
back of my wardrobe as I frantically tried to find something that screamed ‘I
am an efficient personal assistant.’  I usually stuck to smart tops and
trousers; skirts made me feel self-conscious and like I was playing at
dress-up, and they just seemed a total hassle. I always forgot I was wearing
one, too, and ended up flashing my pants as I clambered ungracefully into a
car.

 I was sitting in the plush reception of Westwall IT
Solutions, waiting for my interview. I’d worked hard on my application, using
my skill at writing to cleverly gloss over the parts of the job description I
was lacking (any kind of experience) and instead sell my personality and
extreme enthusiasm. This carefully crafted masterpiece of deception had clearly
worked, as I had been invited for interview.

When the letter came through, I was slightly
uncomfortable to see that it would be none other than the mysterious Matt
himself who would be interviewing me. It made sense, of course, but it hadn’t
crossed my mind I would meet him so soon. Barry was beside himself with joy, of
course, a stream of ‘fucks’ tumbling from his mouth with reckless abandon.

I wondered what this Matt would be like. Probably a
pretty bright cookie, I thought, being head of such a large company. I’d have
to play it carefully so as not to arouse suspicion. Barry had wanted me to
start poking around right away, if I was offered the job; but I thought it
would probably be wise to at least play the part of dutiful PA for a while,
before rootling around in desk drawers and bribing disgruntled employees with
packs of cigarettes and bottles of whisky.

‘Alice Connelly?’

I was jerked out of my musings by the sound of my
name. A tall, ridiculously good-looking man in a perfectly-fitted suit was
standing beside a doorway to the right of the reception desk. He must have been
in his early 30s, I thought, as I appraised him. Dark hair, big, brown eyes and
a face with  high cheekbones. He had a bit of stubble too – not enough to look
messy, but enough to give him a slightly rugged appearance.

He smiled and crossed over to me as I stood up,
offering out his hand. I took it. It wasn’t sweaty, like most of the people
whose hands I had to shake in the line of work. I hated going to events and
shaking hands with a succession of overweight, greasy men. It was hard to wipe
your hand off on your trousers discreetly. I didn’t have to worry about that
now, though. This man’s hand was slightly cool, and he gripped my own hand
firmly but not painfully.

‘I’m Matt, Matt Westwall.’

His accent was difficult to place. I’d done some
research before my interview, as any prospective job-seeker (and journalist)
should, and saw that he had been born in Devon, but had moved around a lot as a
child. His voice was deep and firm, but I could feel something bubbling just
under the surface of professionalism.

‘Hi Mr Westwall, I’m pleased to meet you.’

 ‘Oh Matt, please. We’re all informal here!’ he
said, smiling at me and beckoning me to follow him.

I found that hard to believe, given that he looked
like he’d walked off the set of a perfume ad, but nodded my head.

‘Matt it is. And you can call me Alice.’

The room we entered had luxurious, thick-pile carpet
and soft lighting. A far cry from the stained, threadbare carpet tiles and
luminous green walls of the newspaper office, I thought. This place oozed
sophistication and I felt somewhat out of place. Even the chair was white, and
I prayed I wouldn’t have some sort of ghastly period leakage.

‘Please, Alice, have a seat. Can I get you a tea or
coffee? Or water, maybe?’

‘No, thank you.’ I was terrified I would spill stuff
on the immaculate floor.

Matt reached over and poured himself a glass of
water, taking a sip before setting it down beside him and smiling broadly at
me.

‘I must say, I, I really liked your CV and covering
letter. As you can imagine, there was a lot of interest in this position,
although I think some applicants just wanted to come and have a nosey at our
offices. Anyway, I was impressed. You’ve got quite a way with words, but then,
that’s no surprise given your history.’

He paused. Obviously it was my turn and I took a
deep breath.

‘Thank you, I’m grateful for the opportunity. I’ve
always loved words; even when I was a child, I was always writing nonsense
stories or interviewing my parents for pretend newspapers and magazines.’

Matt laughed. It was infectious, and I was surprised
to find myself cracking into a smile along with him. So he wasn’t stuffy,
afterall.

‘I was the same with technology,’ he said.

The energy and enthusiasm that had been lurking
suddenly burst out. His eyes shone as he talked and he waved his hands about to
emphasise his point.

‘I used to drive my parents batty taking apart
remote controls and alarm clocks to see how they worked.’

I smiled – it was impossible not to.

 ‘I guess my passion was a little less destructive’

He grinned and nodded and we sat smiling for a few
seconds.

 ‘Right, I suppose we’d better get down to
business,’ he said, glancing at his watch. ‘I usually have my human resources
manager do the interviews. Angus is, obviously, far better at asking the
important questions, but he said I should do the interviews as I’m going to be
working so closely with the person concerned.’

He shrugged apologetically at me.

‘I’m afraid I’m woefully out of practice with how to
do one of these things,’ he said, waving a hand around the room. ‘You’ll have
to be patient with me.’

He shot me a quick smile and I nodded, smiling back.

After shuffling through some notes that were sitting
on the desk, he began with, ‘I suppose I should ask why you’re leaving your
current job. In case you’ve been fired for stealing the tea money or
something.’

‘Oh no, I much prefer coffee.’ He let out a small
laugh and I continued. ‘I’m looking for a new challenge. I love words, but my
current workplace is a difficult environment and I’m looking for somewhere with
a more caring ethos, and where I’m a valued member of the staff.

‘Ah, say no more.’ Matt winked at me. ‘Your boss is
Dave Barry, isn’t it? I met him a city council event last month. Interesting
character. Says fuck a lot. Oh dear, is it appropriate to say fuck at an
interview?’

‘As long as you’re the interviewer!’ I said,
laughing. He laughed too, and shuffled his notes some more.

‘I did notice you don’t have much experience of
being a PA,’ he said.

Damn, I’d hoped my cunningly written application
would have disguised that. I decided honestly was the best policy.

‘I don’t,’ I said, ‘but I’m a very fast learner, I’m
enthusiastic and I’m dedicated.’

He nodded, seemingly satisfied with my answer.

‘I like to think I’m not that demanding to work for.
I’m not a diva, I won’t be demanding 12 white kittens in my office every
morning or anything like that. And I won’t be calling you at 3am asking you to
bring me a Chinese takeaway. Basically, I’m looking for someone just to keep
things straight around here, keep an eye on my schedule, make sure I’m not in
Portsmouth when I should be in Plymouth, that sort of thing. There’ll be some
booking of flights, hotels, you’ll need to answer my phone to people I don’t
want to talk to and fob them off with some excuse. You seem like a pretty
bright woman, so I don’t imagine you’ll struggle.’

‘That all sounds fine, I’m a pretty organised
person.’ I thought of the row with the chief sub-editor and almost blushed, but
carried on. ‘I’m good at juggling multiple things. And years of being a reporter
have given me a pretty good lesson in how to get rid of people you don’t want
to talk to.’

Matt laughed and then glanced at his papers again.

‘It says here you live on the south side of the
city. That’s quite a trek every day, will you have to take public transport? If
you get the job, of course.’

‘I’ve got a car so it’s not a problem,’ I assured
him.

He looked a bit lost.

‘I don’t really know what else to ask,’ he said,
forlornly. I burst out laughing at the look on his face and he grinned, sheepishly.

‘Maybe ask about salary and tell me a bit about
benefits, that sort of thing?’ I prompted.

‘Ah! Yes, that seems sensible. Now, salary,’ He
shifted awkwardly in his seat. ‘Oh I hate this kind of thing. We’re still a
start-up company, you see, so salaries aren’t huge. I want to change that, but
it’s not possible right now. I’m barely drawing a salary myself.’

He must have picked up on my raised eyebrows as I
looked round the office and at his suit, and he laughed.

‘All style, no substance! I’m faking it till I make
it. No one wants to do big-money business with a guy in a t-shirt and holey
jeans sitting in a cubicle. So I’ve invested heavily in looking professional.
Now I’m just hoping it pays off.’ A momentary flash of worry crossed his face,
but was gone in a second and he smiled at me. ‘I think the salary I had
discussed with the finance department was around £17,000 a year. I know it
doesn’t sound much, but we’re really on the rise here and-’

‘That’s fine,’ I said. And it was.

‘Oh, that’s great! Holidays are the usual deal, four
weeks paid and public holidays. Oh, you also get your birthday off too, and
once a year the whole office shuts and we go for a picnic. That’s happening
next week, actually.’ He said the last part proudly, and I could tell that this
picnic had been his own idea.

‘That sounds great,’ I said, truthfully. I couldn’t
imagine everyone at my actual work sitting down for a picnic together. Barry
would end up ramming a plastic fork up someone’s nose before the ants had even
noticed we’d arrived.

‘Is there anything you would like to ask me?’

‘No, I think you’ve covered most things,’ I said,
with only a slightly teasing smile playing about my lips. He spotted it and
roared with laughter.

‘I’m better with machines,’ he admitted, as he got
to his feet. I followed suit and we went out of the door and into the reception
area.

‘I’ll be in touch in the next few days,’ he said,
taking my hand again. ‘There are a couple more interviews to do. It was truly
lovely to meet you, Alice.’

For a second, his eyes lingered on mine, and then he
was gone, and I headed out of the building and to my car. I felt a twinge of
unease at what I’d been sent there to do. He had seemed so pleasant and
friendly. But then I remembered that he had apparently had a lengthy spell in
prison. He couldn’t be Mr Nice Guy after all, I reassured myself as I drove
off.

Barry had decided that we shouldn’t risk me being spotted
near the newspaper office during my stint undercover, so I had a couple of days
off to tackle the mound of washing that was threatening to take over my small
flat. On Friday morning, as I browsed through a magazine that I’d bought three
months ago and hadn’t got round to reading, my phone rang and I answered to
find it was Matt Westwall.

‘Hi, Alice? It’s Matt here, Matt Westwall. From
Westwall IT.’ It didn’t sound like phone conversation was his strong point, and
I understood now his comment at the interview about fobbing off callers.

‘Oh, hi, Matt. How are things?’

‘Oh, fine thanks. Listen I just wanted to tell you
that I’d like to offer you the job as my personal assistant. I was very
impressed by you at our interview and I think we’ll work well together.’

‘Oh that’s great!’ I said, surprisingly myself by actually
believing it myself. I’d half been hoping I’d be rejected, and then maybe Barry
would take his idea and bury it, along with the dozens of other ideas that
hadn’t worked out. No such luck, but I was actually looking forward to starting
work there. And, I thought of the potential scoop that awaited, and the chance
of an award and of a job with a proper, big paper.

‘When can you start? I’m in desperate need, I’ve had
some bloke on the phone three times this morning already, and no one to tell
him I’m currently indisposed or washing my hair or whatever the right excuse is.’

I laughed. ‘I can start on Monday.’

‘Oh that’s brilliant.' Come to the front reception
for 9am and I’ll meet you and get you settled in. I think you’ll need to bring
your passport, or something, HR did tell me but I wasn’t listening.’ I could
almost hear his apologetic shrug over the phone.

‘Roger that,’ I said, smiling. ‘See you on Monday’

I hung up and stood in my living room for a few
moments, digesting the news. Then I picked up my phone and texted, Jen.

‘Need to meet you for drinks tonight. Have a tale to
tell.’

A few minutes later, my phone buzzed.

‘It better be full of romance, intrigue, and
possibly murder. I’ve had a shit week, and I need drama that isn’t mine.
Felix’s at 8? I’ll be wearing an anorak and carrying an axe.’

I laughed. We’d been best friends for years, and
anyone who read our texts would think we were crazy. Sometimes it even felt
like we had our own language.

I texted back: ‘Sure. I’ll be the one with fake
moustache and big glasses – will explain tonight xx’.

***

I arrived before Jen
and ordered us both a round of drinks, pushing my way through the throng at the
bar to the quieter seating area at the back. I found an empty booth and quickly
sent her a text: ‘I’m a booth babe’.

She arrived a few minutes later, immaculately
turned-out as usual, but oblivious to the impressed stares she drew from the
men in the bar (and the angry ones from their girlfriends).

‘Sorry I’m late, it’s been manic. One of our clients
decided it would be a good idea to tweet a sexist joke last night, I’ve spent
the whole day firefighting.’ She grabbed her cocktail and took a long draught.

Jen spent most of her time trying to extricate
overpaid men in suits from sticky situations they had gotten themselves into.

‘So, what’s this tantalising tale you have to
share?’

I took a sip of my cocktail and told her about
Barry’s idea, my interview, and subsequent job offer.

‘He’s crazed, that man.’ Jen shook her head. She
knew Barry through work; he was often on the phone yelling at her for
information, and she was not a fan. ‘It’s quite exciting though, isn’t it?
Undercover? I get the moustache and glasses reference now.’

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat.

‘It’s a great opportunity.’ I said. ‘If there’s a
good story here, I could win scoop of the year or something, it would be
amazing for my career and I could leave that shitty paper and go somewhere
proper.’

‘But?’ Jen prompted, hearing the hesitation in my
voice and knowing me so incredibly well.

‘But, he was so nice, Jen. Matt, I mean. He was so
keen and friendly and it just feels awful.’

Jen nodded, and sipped her drink. ‘But he’s been in
prison, right?’

‘Well, according to Des from Spain. Apparently he
has it on good authority.’

‘Well then. He can’t be that nice a person, surely?
Nice people don’t go to prison.’

She had a point. ‘I guess. How can someone seem so
nice, though, and be a criminal?’

Jen laughed. ‘Come on, Alice, you’ve been a
journalist long enough to know that people can appear to be something they’re
not, surely?’

She was right, of course. I’d let myself be utterly
blinded by a sharp suit, a good handshake, and a pleasant manner.

‘See, this is why I like you, Jen. You see right
through me.’

Jen raised her glass in a mock cheers. ‘Right back
atcha, chick. So when do you start?’

‘Monday.’ I groaned. ‘I’ll need to get some new
clothes, appropriate for a personal secretary. I wore a skirt to interview so
he’s probably expecting that all the time now.’

‘So go shopping and charge it to that idiot Barry,”
Jen smirked at me across the table. ‘I’ve seen some simply gorgeous things in
Prada that would be ideal.’

Despite Jen’s tempting suggestion, I spent Saturday
trawling high street stores for some cheap and cheerful options. I got a couple
of skirts and tops, and some fabulous knee-high boots that were on special
offer.

Barry had been overjoyed by my news, although not so
far as to pay for any of my work things. He’d also managed to wheedle out of
paying my salary, saying only that they would make up any shortfall between my
‘new’ salary and my ‘old one.’ Generosity personified, I thought, bitterly, as
I laid out my new clothes on the dresser ready for my first day.

I curled up in bed with my notebook and outlined a
brief strategy for my undercover investigation. It felt a bit ridiculous
calling it that; I was hardly infiltrating the Mafia, or becoming part of a
drug ring. I jotted down some ideas – I felt that getting close to Matt
Westwall would be key. If I could make myself useful, even indispensable, he’d
start to trust me and maybe let slip something I could investigate further. I
drew the line, though, at snooping around desks in the dead of night. Of
course, if I just happened to
see
something that maybe, just maybe, had
some interesting information on it, that was another matter entirely…

I eventually laid my notebook and pen to the side
and turned off the light, after checking my alarm was properly set for the
morning.