Pinstripes (3 page)

“
Go on,” Isabelle had said icily.

“
Well, I really want to get into sales. I was wondering if I could do my exams for a start, then maybe you would let me apply for a junior sales position here, or maybe on another desk ...” The frost in Isabelle’s eyes had made Virginia stop prematurely.

“
But you’re a secretary,” Isabelle had said.

“
Yes, but I don’t want to be a secretary for ever. I have a degree, you know, and I have learnt loads while I’ve been here – and it’s something I’ve always wanted to do.”

Isabelle sat up straighten
“Virginia, do you know how long I’ve worked here?” Virginia had shaken her head. “Fourteen years. Fourteen long years. I have been at SFH as a salesperson for the whole of that time. So, please forgive me when I tell you that I know what makes a good salesperson. I know instinctively, it’s in my gut. And as I have had an extremely successful fourteen years, you’ll be able to trust me when I say that you would not make a good salesperson. You’re all wrong. Virginia, I value you as my secretary, but believe me when I say that that is the only job you will ever have at SFH. Sorry to disappoint, but I feel situations like this need an honest approach.” With that Isabelle turned to face her computer and Virginia was dismissed.

She had not cried in the office, although she felt like it. She had waited until she got home and cried there, sobbed. Big fat tears. Virginia knew that Isabelle was wrong, but how was she ever going to get the chance to prove it?

She turned back to her pile of work, and realised that no one would know if she left the filing for another day, and who cared if her desk was a mess? Virginia no longer felt like playing Miss Efficiency and, with that rather decadent thought, she shut down her computer and left the office.

The drive home was quick and traffic-free. She stopped on the way to buy a bottle of red wine, something she rarely did
, but today had been such hell that she felt she deserved it. She unlocked the door to the studio, picked up a bill and a letter from her parents that lay on the mat. She put them aside and opened the wine.

Her studio had two rooms. One, her living area, housed a small double bed, an armchair and a counter that ran alongside and was her kitchen. She hated having her kitchen in the same room as her bed, but she kept it religiously clean and had learnt to bear it. It had a small stove on top of a small oven, a sink, a small fridge and a cupboard. Virginia cooked herself dinner every night; she kept the food simple. Her room was magnolia, dirty magnolia. The carpet was dark beige and had seen better days, as had the armchair, which had lost half of its stuffing. She had a small bookshelf, which mainly contained books about the City, a small colour television and video. She even had her own phone, but as it never rang she often forgot it was there. She had only one picture on her wall, a print of a country landscape her mother had given her when she moved to London. It was oddly depressing – you could see all of Virginia in that one room. The shower room was just a shower, a basin and a loo, small but clean, which Virginia felt applied to the rest of her life.

As she drank her first glass of wine, she tried hard to think about what she could do. She felt that she was at the end of the line. She had tried everything. After the initial rejection by all investment banks when she applied for the graduate programme, she had wanted single-mindedly only to work at SFH. At her first interview for her current job, she had talked about her ambition. In return, she had been told that SFH had a strong policy for internal promotion but she was also told not to expect it to happen overnight. It hadn’t happened overnight; it hadn’t happened at all. Now that Virginia had learnt that Isabelle had no intention of ever promoting her, she felt she had nothing left.

Virginia drained her glass and went to take the second shower of her day. She tried to scrub off the disappointment; she tried to wash away her despair. Once dry, she poured another glass of wine, put the news on and finally opened the letter from her parents. For as long as she could remember, Virginia had had a pitiful relationship with her parents. They had been fiercely ambitious for her and Virginia had never lived up to their expectations, even at seven when she didn
’t get the most Brownie badges in her pack. They wanted her to be the best, the brightest, the prettiest, and Virginia was none of those things. She was a failure. Her parents had pointed out their disappointment at every stage of her life. First she didn’t win the sack race; then she didn’t have the highest reading age in her class; she didn’t get into the top sets at secondary school; she didn’t get any As at GCSE; she didn’t get any As at A level. Then she went to what they saw as an average university, and, true to form, she didn’t get a first-class degree.

Never once had Virginia
’s parents congratulated her or told her they were proud of her. They had done the opposite and, consequently, she had never had any confidence. Now, of course, they reminded her, every time they wrote, that she was just a secretary, and wasn’t it a shame that a girl with all her opportunities had never managed to make the most of any of them?

The letter started as usual. How are you, how
’s work, have you managed to get anywhere yet? Then it spoke of the wonderful achievement of her cousins: Mary-Ann was going to Oxford University; Sally was getting married to a computer programmer no less. What a shame, it said, that Virginia had neither their talent nor their luck with men. She screwed up the letter and threw it on the floor. It sat there, a solitary blimp on an otherwise spotless carpet. ‘damn, I can’t even make a mess properly,” Virginia hissed, and went to pick it up.

She tried to remember where she had gone wrong. How had she, the girl from Coventry, managed to go through life with no friends, no one to love, and no happiness? She was twenty-four years old with a job she hated, not one friend – unless she counted Susie her penpal from Canada
– a poky bedsit in London, and a reputation for being odd.

And she
was
odd. When she started working at SFH, the other secretaries had socialised together and invited Virginia to join them. However, she had always declined, preferring to stay at home reading books about the City. She had learnt about the markets, she’d read every bit of research she could get her hands on, she read the newspapers and watched the City news. Virginia figured that her education was more important than her social life. Inevitably, the girls stopped asking Virginia to go with them, Virginia ran out of books to read, and lost the conviction that her education was even remotely important.

Now, every evening stretched before her, empty and dull. She had tried to tag along with the secretaries a couple of times
recently, but they ignored her. They felt that because she had snubbed them before, she thought herself better than them, and Virginia’s defence against that charge was weak. She had put herself in Lonely Land and the only social life she had was her French classes – so she had something else to put on her CV – which were mainly full of people much older than her. Virginia had spent the last three years of her life trying desperately to better herself and her prospects, and she had failed.

The nights spent reading, weekends visiting galleries, exhibitions, watching movies had resulted in loneliness, immense loneliness.

With the third glass of wine came tears, with the fourth came nausea, and with the last drip of the bottle, sleep.

***

As Clara made her way across the floor to her desk, she noticed the manic activity that was already under way. A number of salespeople were on their feet with phones glued to their ears, shouting across to the traders. “Am I done?” seemed a popular chant. As she approached her desk she noticed that Sarah, the most senior member of their team, excluding Tim, was also on her feet. “Is it filled?” she was shrieking at Liam, a trader.

Liam was barely visible: his head was low on his desk, a phone at his ear, and he screamed, red-faced,
“Hit the bid in fifty.
Now
! You fucking useless broker wanker.” His voice rose above the other noise in the office. Silence ensued.

Liam stood up with his telephone handset still attached to his ear.
“No! Fucking useless bastard missed it. We sold half a point lower.”

“S
hit!” Sarah screamed at him, but he shrugged and moved on to his next call. Sarah took her client off hold and attempted to pacify him.

Although Clara loved scenes like this, she did not have the first idea what any of it meant. Therefore, when her first client of the day called she wrote everything down.

Clara smiled sweetly at her neighbour. “Toby, I have this client who wants to buy some stuff and, well, I’m just not sure what to do.” When Clara wanted anything, she fixed her eyes so intently on the person who could give it to her that they buckled.

“
Sure, give me the information, I’d be glad to do it.” Toby blushed.

“
You’re such a darling. I insist you let me take you out for a drink tonight to say thank you.” Toby thought he’d died and gone to heaven. He readily agreed, still blushing.

This was C
lara’s work theory. When she started as a secretary, she hadn’t been expected to do much. Most of the men in the office were too in awe of her to ask her for anything, and her boss, Tim, flirted with her rather than showering her with work. In the rare instances that anyone wanted anything, Clara would asked one of the other secretaries to do it, and bought them handmade chocolates as a thank-you. Now that she had become a salesperson things were a little different. Although not exactly overworked, she now had a number of clients for whom she was responsible, and when they called to asked her to buy or sell stock for them, she didn’t know what to do. She knew in principle that you got a trader, wrote a ticket, put something in the computer, but it didn’t sound like fun, so she didn’t bother learning how to do it. She loved talking to her clients and they loved her. She often went for lunch or dinner with them and they were all big fans. Although she did not have a clue how to do her job and everyone on the desk thought she was useless, her sales figures we’re good. This was because Toby or Francine made sure the orders went through after Clara had taken them, and Clara rewarded them with a smile, chocolates, or a much-coveted after-work drink.

She flicked through her e-mails, sent a couple of jokes to her brother then went to see Tim.

Clara took perverse pleasure in visiting Tim’s office. She would knock on the door, enter, sit facing him and make him squirm. The office was glass-fronted and looked out on to the trading floor. He had to talk to her as if he was talking about business, but they weren’t talking about business.

“
Timmy, what time did you leave me last night?” Clara pouted.

“
About one. You were fast asleep.”

“
I know, and nothing can wake me when I pass out. So, when I am going to have the pleasure of your cock again?”

“
Clara, please.”

“
Please what, Timmy? Do you want to do it right now?”

Tim went red and turned his back to the trading floor. He knew that most of the men would be staring at Clara and he didn
’t want anyone to see his discomfort. He adored Clara; lately he had even been thinking about leaving his wife and family for her. Although it had started as a lust-filled fling, he thought of how great it would be for Clara and he to be together all the time. His wife was OK but dull, his children, well, they would be at boarding-school soon, and with Clara he would be able to indulge in his favourite pastimes, cocaine and sex. And not just sex with Clara either: sex with prostitutes, his ‘special treat’ girls he called them. His prudish missionary-position wife would probably die if she found out, but he told Clara all about them and he was sure she found the idea quite a turn-on. He was a lucky man. He was beginning to think he would like to be lucky all the time. The trouble was, they both sometimes forgot who was boss. He needed to bring her back in line.

“
Stop it. Now, baby, I know you’re gagging for me, but you have to be a patient girl. I won’t be seeing you tonight because I’m visiting one of my hookers. Probably the tall one with long red hair and boobs bigger than both of yours put together. I shall be screwing the fuck out of her, and when I’ve finished, I’ll go home and have sex with my wife. You see, you don’t deserve me tonight, so you’re not going to have me.” Tim smiled at Clara, his whole face lit by a confident grin. Oh, yes, he thought, she’s putty in my hands.

Clara smiled back at him sweetly, wishing he wasn
’t such a prick. She didn’t find the way he behaved remotely sexy, although he thought he was. She often felt sick about the prostitutes, and she hated him having to convince himself that he was in control. Clara knew he was thinking of leaving his wife, he’d told her. Of course, he had made it sound like a huge privilege, (“you lucky, lucky girl”), but the idea filled Clara with dread. An affair was one thing, but full-time Tim was another. That was not what she wanted.

All the signs pointed to it. First, he had been with her last night and it had been Sunday: rule one in affairs was that you never saw your mistress on a Sunday. Also, in a moment of extreme ecstasy (or weakness, as Clara saw it), he had told her he loved her. Rule two broken. All that
was left was to never leave your wife, and never ask your mistress to wash your underwear. Clara prayed that he wouldn’t break the last two rules. She would mind horribly if he left his wife, and she would mind if he wanted her to wash his underwear. Clara hated it, but she knew that Tim was all she deserved. She had been through an amazing number of men in her life, and she had only ever wanted one, but he had not wanted her. Tim was retribution, punishment, for the way she had discarded men carelessly.