Busy Woman Seeks Wife (17 page)

“Can you clear some space, please?” Ella interrupted, slightly irritated to see the table cluttered up with glasses. Saff
and Max obliged, moving them onto side tables and, although Saff seemed to be having that choking problem again, she’d have
to sort it out for herself this time. The next thing on the list had been “phone me,” so Ella hurried back to the kitchen
and picked up her mobile. Frankie answered on the first ring.

“Well?”

“Well, what? I just served up the green things. They’re yummy.”

Frankie sounded suspicious. “How many did you eat?”

“Oh, only a couple. There were plenty left for everyone else.” She opened the kitchen door a crack and peeped through, then
shut it quickly. “They’re eating them now. That Todd’s a real pig. He’s taken a handful!”

“What’s he like?” Frankie’s voice sounded urgent.

“What do you mean? What’s he like? You know what he’s like. You’re the one who told me he was appalling, remember? You’re
absolutely right, of course. He looks like Gaston from Disney’s
Beauty and the Beast
, don’t you think? All kind of pumped-up and clean-cut with a really corny cleft chin. Bet he irons his underpants. Bet he’s
hopeless in bed.”

Frankie roared. “Ella Ward! What a disgusting thing to say!” He paused. “Do you really think so? What makes you say that?”

Ella shrugged and sipped the glass of Pimm’s she’d poured herself earlier. “Women’s intuition? Dunno really, you can just
tell. I bet he keeps trying to catch a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Poor Alex! She wants her head looked at.” She glanced
idly at the list. “Oh shit! I haven’t turned the oven up to red yet.”

At the end of the phone she could hear Frankie moan softly. “Hurry up then. Do it now. You did put those chicken parsley things
in earlier, didn’t you? Don’t take the foil off them yet though.”

“Oh shit, wasn’t I supposed to take it off?” Ella smiled as Frankie started to yell frantic instructions, and held the phone
away from her ear, peeping in the oven at the foil-wrapped parcels. She could never resist winding him up!

Twenty minutes later she was red-faced and sweating, and her good mood had evaporated. With the phone tucked under her chin,
she was trying to shake carrots free from the bottom of a saucepan without any of the burned bits coming away. The carefully
reduced glaze of sugar, lemon juice, butter and stock had frazzled to a bubbling, tar-colored sludge, which was so unfair
because she’d only been distracted for a few minutes while trying to break the frozen peas into small enough chunks to fit
in a little saucepan. The medium-size saucepan was already being occupied by her personal supply of Pimm’s in the absence
of another jug. Now the carrots looked and smelled rank. And Frankie was barking instructions down her ear so she could hardly
think!

“Well, how brown are they? Twenty percent? Thirty? Are some of the carrots still stuck? I suppose you could make a salad .
. .”

“Frankie, shut up! Stop wittering. This is me you’re talking to. Of course I can’t make a salad. I’d probably burn that as
well.”

“Look, there’s some cucumber in the fridge. Get that out. Let’s see. Avocados and tomatoes too. Just cut them into rough chunks,
like dice, and stick them in a bowl. There’s an earthenware one in a cupboard in the corner. And I left some dressing in the
fridge in a jam jar with a screw-top lid. But make sure it is really dressing you use, not the jam.”

Ella threw open the fridge door. She’d seen that jam jar when she first arrived and Frankie had talked her through all the
stages of preparing the meal. If only he could have stayed there, hidden in the broom cupboard as she’d suggested! She pulled
out packages and containers, careful not to dislodge the tiramisu he’d proudly shown her. She’d have to remember to put tiny
servings of that out, so she could polish it off herself later. It was hungry work, feeding other people. Ah! There it was.

“How are you doing?” the Bean stuck her head around the door and whispered theatrically. “All fine out here. Terribly boring
conversation though. How lucky to have that clever brother of yours down the phone!” And she disappeared.

With the bowl, the dressing and the ingredients, she was set. She turned off the oven and left the chicken to “rest” as Frankie
had instructed. “Bloody hell, it’s me that needs the rest not the chicken.” And got busy.

Saff had leaned close when Ella had filled up her wineglass. “Delicious starter, Ella.” She smiled broadly and winked. “You
must give me the recipe!”

“Anytime!” With the final two bowls, Ella shouldered her way through the door into the dining room. The conversation was about
work—again. Max and Todd were talking, literally, over Saff’s head about sacking people.

“Well, absolutely,” Todd was droning on in his East Coast drawl. “You’ve gotta keep every single e-mail and piece of correspondence,
so you can make sure you have a watertight case for getting rid of personnel who aren’t pulling their weight in the team.
You’ve gotta be able to get rid of the deadwood. It’s like surgery. You identify them, you isolate them, you discard them.
Simple as that.”

Saff’s face was going red, and her hair was starting to escape from the pretty clips Ella had noticed when she’d first arrived.
She’d hardly spoken for most of the evening, except to the Bean and to thank Ella for things, but she sat up straighter now
and cleared her throat. “Todd, I can’t believe the way you speak about people as if they’re a disease. Did it never occur
to you that the ‘deadwood’ have families, bills to pay, problems of their own? You can’t just ‘discard’ people. It’s inhumane.
It’s callous.” She turned to her husband. “Max, tell me you wouldn’t do that. Just toss people aside as if they were rubbish?”

Max was about to reply but Todd spoke over him, leaning back in his chair now with an amused look on his perfectly chiseled
face. “Let me guess, Sally, you don’t work. Or if you do, it’s some kind of caring role—volunteering or maybe working with
kids or old people. Am I right?”

Saff nodded, looking so furious Ella thought she might explode or worse, burst into tears. She hovered by the kitchen door.

“I knew it.” Todd was nodding complacently. “See, I can always tell. It’s fine for you to have all your liberal principles
intact. And I totally respect that. I do. But they have no place in a competitive environment like ours. Back me up on this,
Alex, Gavin, Max—am I right or am I right? The organization is what matters, Sarah. Not the individual. If people don’t fit
right in—they’re out. Simple as that.”

“Todd, her name’s Saffron,” hissed Alex. “And she does work—she’s the greatest mum ever.”

But despite this, Saff looked all the more crestfallen. Ella moved forward to the table, the dishes still clutched in her
hands. She placed the chicken down carefully, and slammed the salad next to Todd, then leaned down next to Saff and whispered
in her ear, “He’s a dickhead. Just ignore him. I’m going to spit in his tiramisu. And if you make an excuse to come out to
the kitchen, you can as well.” This time, when Saff appeared to be choking, Ella just withdrew quietly to the kitchen and
left her to it.

F
rom her position outside the café, Alex could watch the world go by and still see the doorway of the agent’s office. She’d
never been to Milan before, despite her increasingly encyclopedic knowledge of Europe since starting this job, and it excited
her. Well, Lord knows she’d had enough opportunity to explore it. Keen to get Bettina Gordino the supermodel on board to secure
Donatella, she’d spent what felt like hours on the phone to Bettina’s intractable Milanese agent, Matteo Corniani. He had
finally shown a chink of optimism that his adored client might just deign to do the launch, and she’d pushed harder. That
was why she’d spent three hours so far this morning walking around the Italian city, killing time until the agent decided
finally when he might honor their appointment to discuss “dee possibiliteee.”

She sipped the scalding coffee, and wished she’d brought lighter clothes. London had been unseasonably cold for June and she’d
been in such a hurry that she’d thrown in the first thing that came to hand—her “important meeting” fail-safe navy blue skirt,
a bit of a standing joke at the office. Now she felt sticky and bulky. She sighed, reflecting on how she could have done without
this unscheduled trip. The last thing she needed, with only a few weeks until the launch, was to be away from the office but
when Corniani had given her the amber light, she’d barked at Camilla to book her an early plane ticket, asking that she make
the trip as brief as possible—twelve hours at the most—so she could be back in London for the critical late afternoon press
pre-briefing. She then checked with her mother that she’d be all right on her own.

“Oh, Alex, this stress isn’t good for you,” Camilla had said soothingly. “You look all wrung out.”

“My, thanks,” Alex had snorted, though she knew Camilla was right. Her mother had been telling her almost every evening when
she got home that her hair was lank and her skin was pale, begging Alex to follow her example and take things easy. Over the
past few weeks the Bean had certainly benefited from her diet of fresh air and day trips, but for Alex the opportunity to
relax was laughable. Nor did it help that, despite giving Ella money to take her mother out—a ruse she hoped would keep her
mother’s spending in check—she had found a credit card bill stuffed in her mother’s dressing-gown pocket. She knew from what
she had been wearing at the dinner party that she’d obviously been shopping, but Christ! Did it have to be Sloane Street?
It would have to wait until she was paid before Alex could settle up that one.

“I hope you’ve got yourself a holiday booked for when it’s all over,” Camilla had said during two minutes between meetings.
“You need a break.”

“Haven’t even had time to think about it,” Alex sighed. “Though Todd’s mentioned going over to the States to stay with him,
but frankly I’ve been on so many bloody planes recently I’d just like a week in Clacton. Actually Clapham would do.”

So a morning in searingly hot Milan was a bit unexpected, and she felt displaced from where she ought to be, guilty that she
hadn’t managed to persuade the agent on the phone and concerned that when she did finally get to see him, he’d say no and
it would all have been for nothing.

Two lattes and some expensive peanuts later, her mobile finally rang with the summons across the road to Corniani’s office,
which had leather doors and was blissfully air-conditioned and full of exquisitely beautiful women. They sat behind black
desks and were preserved, like precious flowers, from wilting in the sun by Venetian-blinded windows. All over the taupe-painted
walls were moody fashion photographs of equally moody models, many of them Bettina herself. Five quid
her
hair never went lank, thought Alex sulkily.

Corniani, in shirtsleeves, perfectly cut trousers and shiny loafers, greeted her in a waft of cologne, and with as much warmth
as he probably showed his cleaner. “Okay, she says she’ll do it,” he barked at her in impeccable English once he was back
behind his giant desk. He barely looked at her and certainly didn’t ask her to sit down. “She will arrive the night before
from Rome and you will fly her first class. She can only give you an hour. A few things: she will only ever drink mineral
water from Switzerland, and she also bathes in it. Make sure the hotel knows. She only stays at Claridge’s, of course, and
only the Brook Penthouse suite. It goes without saying. And Irish linen sheets. My people will give your people the itinerary,
including what she eats for breakfast.” He then mentioned the fee.

Bastard. Alex stepped out again into the sunshine. Bloody bastard. He could have told me all that over the sodding telephone,
including the extortionate fee that would see a small African country out of debt. Alex hailed a taxi for the airport, so
angry that she stared resolutely out the window all the way there, ignoring the driver’s attempts to practice his English.

“Alex Hill,” she almost shouted at the check-in desk, and handed over her passport and tapped her fingers on the desk. The
British Airways girl’s eyes scanned the screen in front of her. “No, there’s no one of that name.”

“Flight for London? There must be!” Alex leaned around to look at the screen and the girl put her hand over it protectively
and frowned. “I’m very sorry, madam, I have no one of that name booked onto the flight.”

When someone finally answered the phone on Camilla’s desk it was Peter. “She’s gone out for her lunch break and her mobile
is here on her desk. She said she was off to the dentist. Not another problem surely?” he drawled smugly. “Anything I can
do?” God he was irritating, with his constant desire to catch her out. She wouldn’t ask for his help if she were on fire.

“Well, you could get me out of bloody Italy.”

“Oh dear. Are you stuck?”

Camilla wasn’t back at her desk until after three, by which point Alex was apoplectic. “I did tell you, Alex, but maybe you
weren’t listening. I couldn’t get you on the Heathrow flight from Milan Linate, so I booked you on one from Turin. It’s only
about ninety miles away. There was an airport transfer at eleven.” She paused. “Oh dear, you must have missed that. I did
explain that it was difficult getting the right flights at such short notice.” She paused again. “You could try Milan Malpensa?”