Summer With My Sister (8 page)

Chapter Five

Polly felt as if she had been dumped in a parallel universe. There might be the same anxious face as ever staring back from the bathroom mirror, but Polly wasn’t sure who the person in the reflection was any more.

For so many years her job had defined her, it had completely shaped her life. The long hours, the corporate uniform, the meetings, the number-crunching, the conferences, the kudos, the glamour, the top-whack salary – that was her. She’d always had an office to go to, always had a diary stuffed with appointments for months in advance.

All those things had gone now, in the blink of an eye. What, Polly wondered, was left? London, Paris, New York, Hong Kong . . . the world had suddenly shrunk to the space within her flat.

The first day of her redundancy she’d tried to act as if everything was normal. She’d abandoned the TV when she couldn’t find the remote (that wretched cleaner must have hidden it somewhere) and decided to be proactive instead. Treat this whole incident as a challenge, she’d instructed herself. Jump straight back on that horse before it tramples you into the mud. She’d fired up her computer and unearthed her CV, then spent an hour or so buffing it to perfection, adding every shred of experience and expertise she could think of. During her career she’d had to sift through hundreds of other people’s CVs and application letters over the years. She knew how to make hers utterly killer.

She nodded with satisfaction when she’d got it to her liking. Damn, she was kick-ass on paper. Almost as kick-ass as she was in person. Getting another job was not going to be a problem for Polly Johnson, not with this document in her armoury.

The next task was to hunt for the perfect new employer. The big four were always hiring and firing, and she knew plenty of names in them all, thanks to her years of tireless networking. She’d pull a few strings, milk her contacts and get her CV in to the very best in-trays, just see if she didn’t.

It was only a matter of time.

‘Hi, yeah, could you put me through to Alison Rothman. This is Polly Johnson.’ She perched on the edge of her seat, tapping her pen impatiently as she waited to be connected. ‘Alison, hi, it’s Polly Johnson from W— It’s Polly Johnson here,’ she said, correcting herself at the last second. She wasn’t ‘Polly Johnson from Waterman’s’ any longer. Her name felt odd without the usual addition, as if she’d been abruptly shorn. ‘Just putting the feelers out that I’m looking to take on a new challenge at a different firm,’ she went on breezily, ‘and wondering if . . . Oh.’ The words dried on her tongue. ‘Really? Okay. Do you think . . . Oh. All right then. Thanks, Alison. Let’s hook up soon, yeah? Bye.’

Damn. CVDS weren’t hiring. In fact, Alison said, they were undergoing a similar reshuffle involving redundancies. Not a good time to be jumping ship, babe, Alison had said in her breathy, Sloanesville voice. Polly didn’t think it worth mentioning that she’d already been pushed overboard.

Still, she’d wing her CV to the HR department anyway, mention her old friendship with Larry Truman, the Vice-President of the European Investment Banking division, see if that stirred any sparks. There
was
no old friendship of course, they’d merely sat next to each other at a conference dinner in Zurich about five years ago, but it was better than nothing.

She picked up the phone and dialled again. ‘I’d like to speak to Henry Curtis,’ she said in her most clipped tones. You had to talk to receptionists like that, she’d learned, not wuss about with a simpering ‘please’ and ‘thank you’, otherwise they didn’t take you seriously. ‘It’s Polly Johnson.’

She heard the line buzz and then ring. She had a good feeling about this. She was sure Henry Curtis had wanted to poach her – he’d be delighted that she was a free agent now. She smirked. Show me the money, Henry, she imagined herself ordering him. Show me the goddamn money!

A young female voice answered. ‘Henry Curtis’s office, this is Sasha speaking, how may I—?’

‘Put me through to him, please. Polly Johnson,’ she interrupted.

There was a moment’s hesitation. Polly imagined Little Miss Sasha quivering on her swivel seat. ‘Um . . . ahh,’ she said tentatively. ‘We’ve already had word from Waterman’s about the meeting being rearranged, so . . .’

Polly frowned. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘Mr Curtis is booked in to see . . . ahh . . . Mr Handbury now next week. It’s very nice of you to let us know that the situation has changed, though, thank you.’

Polly opened her mouth, but her powers of speech seemed to have deserted her. ‘Er . . .’ she managed after a moment. ‘If Henry is around for a chat, I could perhaps—’

‘Mr Curtis is
very
busy, I’m afraid,’ Sasha said. Was she actually
typing
while she spoke? So rude. ‘Thanks, anyway. Goodbye.’

‘I . . .’ Polly tried, but there was just a click, and then the dial tone burring in her ear. She sat there smarting for a few moments. That turncoat, Jake! He’d wasted no time in delivering news of Polly’s redundancy to Big Cheese Curtis, then. And the receptionist couldn’t get rid of her quickly enough, either.

Screw them all. She’d send Curtis her CV anyway. He’d probably be mortified if he knew how unprofessional his assistant had just been. In the meantime . . . She pulled up another phone number onscreen and began dialling. Let’s see if Alan March at Ernst & Young had better news for her.

By the end of the day Polly had contacted everyone she could think of, but the story seemed to be the same everywhere. Nobody was hiring. Everybody was firing, or letting staff go’, as Hugo Warrington had so delicately put it. ‘I’d sit tight if I were you, Poll,’ Hilary Armstrong from Andersen had advised plummily. ‘Give it a year before the market settles.’

But Polly didn’t have a year, she felt like screaming into the mouthpiece. She didn’t even want one week without a job, let alone any longer. Someone
had
to take her on; she was too good for them not to. She’d been a grafter her whole life – experience like hers was a valuable commodity in the volatile world of banking. More to the point, now that she wasn’t going to get her bonus, she needed some bloody money.

She turned off the PC, her shoulders stiff from where she’d hunched over it for so long, her eyes red and sore. God, it was quiet in here. She suddenly longed to see another human being, to hear the buzz and laughter of conversation around her, to moan about the mutha of a day she’d just had. More to the point, see someone who might be able to point her in the direction of her next career path.

She dialled the number of a cab firm and booked a car to the Red House before she could change her mind.

Walking into the Red House was like walking into a comforting embrace: the smell of perfume and cocktails, the pop of champagne corks, the whoops and cheers of a group of City boys . . . it was exactly what she needed. The opulent red velvet walls were like a womb around her; she was back on her home turf after the disconcerting events of the morning. It made her feel that the rest of the day might possibly have been a hallucination brought on by overwork. For those few short moments, as she strode towards the bar, it was as if the world was still spinning on its rightful axis, and everything was going to be okay.

She waited at the bar, gratified that it was just the same as ever. She knew the faces of the bar staff better than those of her own family, could recite the bar menu backwards if you asked her to. She knew exactly what she was going to order too: a bottle of the vintage Taittinger, a chicken-Caesar salad and some of the house-special spicy potato wedges. She would fill her glass with the best kind of bubbly and celebrate a new start. A new chapter. Okay, so she had no idea what this new start was going to
be
, but it was worth celebrating, Polly reckoned. Change was good, wasn’t it? She tried not to think about the phrase ‘drowning one’s sorrows’ while she waited to be served.

Who was in tonight then; anyone she knew? She scanned the room beadily. There was a group of male banky types, none of them familiar to Polly, discussing something earnestly around a champagne bucket. A hatchet-faced silver-haired woman and her tweedy male companion – they looked a bit scary and unapproachable. Ah, there were a couple of people she vaguely recognized from the business pages: brick-cheeked Charles Quarry, who was obscenely rich and very well connected; helmet-haired Selina Constable, the formidable CEO at the London office of Hartson International; and Elliot McCarthy, the rangy, dynamic New York banking mogul, currently stirring things up at Drake & Foreman.

A plan appeared in Polly’s mind in the very next second. It was simple. She’d go over there and introduce herself, press a business card into each of their palms and persuade one of them – all of them – that they’d met their new company star. Jackpot!

She’d just have a swift drink first, she decided as the barmaid laid out a slim champagne glass and a silver ice bucket, and uncorked the Taittinger. She’d bolster her nerve, run through a few killer lines in her head, then seize the moment. Oh yes.

Polly took herself over to a table near Charles Quarry and his cohorts and sipped her champagne thoughtfully. Damn, that first mouthful was good: cold and dry and fizzing on her tongue.

Hi, I’d like to introduce myself
, she rehearsed mentally.
I’m Polly Johnson and have been working as a senior investment banker at Waterman’s Financial for twelve years. I’d love the chance to discuss employment opportunities with you some time, may I give you my card
?

Ugh. It was too vague, too undirected. Maybe it was better to target just one of them, zero in on a single member of the group rather than throw herself randomly at them all. Elliot McCarthy would probably be the most interesting of the three to work for: he was a maverick, a true entrepreneur who played hard and took risks, yet always came up smelling of roses. And money. Lots and lots of money.

Perhaps she should go in with some flattery first; soften him up.
I’ve always admired your work ethics –
actually no, better not. She seemed to remember some dodgy ethical practices that had been swept under the carpet by his people, now she thought about it.

I’ve always admired your drive and ambition; it’s so great to have you in the UK. I love what you did with the Hudson Link account
. Slightly creepy, but in her experience millionaires liked that kind of gushing. The detail was good too; showed that she did actually know what she was talking about, that she hadn’t just pulled the compliment from thin air. Flattery
and
depth – good. Okay, that was her intro sorted. What next?

‘Chicken Caesar and wedges?’

She lifted her gaze to see a waitress setting her food in front of her. Polly’s stomach rumbled violently as she smelled the hot spicy wedges and the Caesar dressing ribboning the salad, and she realized she hadn’t actually eaten anything since breakfast that morning. She’d been too pumped, too adrenalin-fuelled to think about food until this moment, and now her tastebuds were about to go into overdrive. Right, okay. So she’d just eat this lot,
then
she’d approach the bigshots at the table nearby. She glanced over to see Elliot McCarthy pouring more champagne into their glasses and all of them laughing at something. Good. They were in high spirits at least. Hopefully that would mean they’d be receptive to a spot of ingratiation.

She hungrily forked her food in, barely tasting it as she thought hard about what, exactly, she should say to Elliot. It would be amazing, landing a job with him. A-
mazing
. That would show Hugo Warrington that she was a player. Imagine if she could persuade Elliot to somehow buy out Waterman’s, and then she could –
would
, more like – suggest a few redundancies of her own. Oh, yes. Redundancy number one: Warrington, that was a given. Out on his big wealthy ear, and good riddance to him. Redundancy number two: Marcus-frigging-Handbury, who had no doubt spent the afternoon arranging his personal belongings in her office, with an annoying smirk on his posh pink face. As for the traitor Jake, maybe she’d spare him the chop, but humiliate him by giving him the most dire, dreary, menial tasks possible. She’d crush him beneath her Ferragamos – just watch her.