Summer With My Sister Read online

  ‘Wotcha,’ she said now. ‘Just ringing to see if you want a hand on Saturday, or are you all set? I don’t mind being your glamorous assistant, or I can have Alex for you, if he can’t stomach the house being invaded by all those screeching girls, or …’

  Clare laughed. Saturday was Leila’s party and she was having seven girls from school round for the afternoon. Leila’s dream party had originally been to invite the whole class to a roller disco at the village hall, but even when Mr Button, who did the hall bookings, had offered it to Clare at half-price and Debbie had put forward Will’s services as DJ, it was still going to cost an arm and a leg, when you added in the hire of disco lights plus food for thirty children. Clare had persuaded Leila to scale things down slightly, so they were now having an ‘Arts and Crafts’ party at home. Clare was going to make bath-bombs with the girls, and had picked up some clear plastic boxes in the pound shop that they could decorate with acrylic paints, then fill with their bath goodies.

  ‘I would love a glamorous assistant,’ she confessed. ‘An extra pair of hands would be fab. I can’t help feeling this birthday is doomed, though.’ And she poured out everything that had gone wrong with the bike, and the cake, and how she wasn’t even sure that Steve was going to remember it was his daughter’s birthday, and whether she should phone him to remind him, or, if he had actually remembered, whether her call would be an insult.

  ‘Oh, mate,’ Debbie said sympathetically. ‘Ring the brainless berk, I would. The worst that can happen is he’ll be narky with you. And so bloody what if he is. It’s a lot better than Leila getting upset because she thinks he’s forgotten her, right?’

  ‘That’s true,’ Clare said. She glanced at her watch. ‘I’d better go. Cheers, Deb. See you tomorrow.’

  She’d text Steve later rather than phone, she decided, ending the call. That way he wouldn’t be able to hear the desperation in her voice. That way she wouldn’t have to hear his voice either and be reminded how happy she’d once been with him. Keep looking forward, she told herself. The future is bright. You just can’t see it yet, that’s all.

  That night when Clare got home, sugar-loaded kids in tow, there were two things waiting for her on the doorstep.

  One was a pastel-pink box that the delivery guy had left tucked behind the dustbin. Clare pulled it out to see ‘Little Miss Luxury’ on the address label and guessed, with a groan, that this was her sister’s birthday present to Leila. Little Miss Luxury indeed. What would it be: another expensive, dry-clean-only dress with hand-stitched beads around the hem? Maybe some over-the-top jewellery that Leila would no doubt swap with one of her mates for a packet of felt-tips. Clare could lay money on the fact that it would be nothing that pony-mad tomboy Leila would be remotely interested in. Oh, well. That was Polly for you.

  The second item on the doorstep was a battered-looking Quality Street tin with a Post-it stuck on the lid. ‘Open when Leila isn’t looking,’ Clare read in Debbie’s handwriting. She carried it into the kitchen and gave Fred a stern look. ‘Keep away from this, if you value your life,’ she warned him, and prised off the lid. Inside was a Victoria sponge with thick buttercream icing, decorated with chocolate buttons and rainbow sprinkles, and sandwiched with jam and whipped cream.

  She felt like running across the field and kissing Debbie. Thank God she had her friends when everything else in her life was going tits-up.

  Chapter Three

  Polly wasn’t quite sure how she managed the walk of shame out of Hugo Warrington’s office, after his life-shattering bombshell. Somehow her legs worked robotically, one foot after the other, to take her back to the sanctuary of her desk.

  Meanwhile her mind was racing with panic. Oh my God. Oh. My. Actual. GOD. She’d lost her job. She’d lost her job. How had Warringon put it again? She was being ‘let go’, that was it. Let go, like an animal released into the wild. Like this would liberate her. Like she should be grateful! The thing was, she didn’t want to be released into the wild. She didn’t want to go anywhere. She wanted to stay in her safe, warm cage – office, rather. Her PC, her phone, her filing cabinet … these were all the cornerstones of her world. These things were her world. What did she have, without this place? She spent more time here than in her actual apartment; she often ate dinner here, she’d even slept here occasionally on the stylish grey sofa when she was up against a deadline. And to have it all taken away from her, pulled out from under her feet …

  She clutched at the table, dizzy and light-headed. Shit. She hadn’t seen that one coming. She’d had absolutely no idea. Usually you got a premonition of bad news at the firm: call it the inner radar, call it the twitching feelers, but generally you heard the whispers being passed along the grapevine. This time – nothing. Not even a knowing look. Twelve years of her life she’d given this place and they were just opening the door and pushing her out again, without a second thought. Bastards. Was she even going to get her bonus now? Christ! She needed that money; had already accounted for most of it. They’d better bloody cough up, or …

  She grimaced. Or what? She wasn’t sure she had many options all of a sudden.

  She buzzed through to Jake. ‘Get me a coffee,’ she said crisply. ‘And make it a strong one.’

  Damn. What was she going to do? Warrington had told her she had an hour to gather her things and leave the office. One measly hour. She’d wasted ten minutes already just staring around wide-eyed in horror, frozen to the spot as if rigor mortis had set in.

  Her door opened and a burly guy from security appeared with an empty box. ‘This for you, darling?’ he asked. ‘Need a hand clearing your stuff?’

  Polly drew herself up to her full height, which, on these particular heels, was an impressive five foot ten. ‘No,’ she said frostily.

  He shrugged and dumped the box on the desk. ‘Your call. Personal stuff only, all right? Everything else belongs to the company. We’ll check it on the way out.’

  He’d check it on the way out. Polly flushed. Like she was a common criminal, sneaking off with company secrets and juicy dossiers. The nerve of the man. She felt like throwing his wretched box in his porky-pink face. That would show him.

  The door closed and Polly eyed the box. That was it? She was meant to fit twelve years’ worth of belongings into that? He had to be joking. Did he not realize just how long she’d worked here? She could fill it five times over without breaking a sweat. She shut her eyes for a few seconds, fists clenched at her sides. Then she took a deep breath. She’d better get on with it.

  When Jake came in with her coffee, he stopped and stared. ‘What … what’s going on?’

  Polly paused from unhooking a framed certificate on the wall. She’d already taken down the outfits that hung on the back of her door in case of an emergency meeting or a last-minute-invitation to a do. The wine-coloured dress, sparkly black shrug and slate-grey bouclé jacket were now slumped over her desk like dead bodies. ‘I’ve got the boot,’ she replied with a hollow laugh. ‘Been made redundant.’

  Jake looked from Polly to the box and then back at Polly. ‘Really?’

  She nodded, feeling small. Worse than small, actually – insignificant. Just one little cog that was being removed from the machine after spinning diligently as part of its mechanism for what felt like forever. ‘Yep. Got to leave by eleven, Warrington said.’

  ‘Bloody hell. So … so what happens now?’

  ‘Well …’ She paused and shook back her hair. She mustn’t let him see how rattled she was. ‘Well, I’ll get something else, of course. With all my contacts, there’s bound to be—’

  ‘I didn’t mean you,’ he said, talking over her. Was that scorn she could detect in his voice? ‘I meant, what’s going to happen in the department? What does this mean for me, for the rest of us?’

  ‘For you?’ She stared at him, taken aback. Of all the self-centred things to ask. ‘Well, I don’t know. I’m afraid I hadn’t thought about you,’ she said, sarcasm biting into her words. ‘I dare say they’ll
find something for you to do.’

  He wasn’t listening, though. His face was still and pensive, as if he were tuning into some telepathic thought-wave beamed to him from elsewhere in the building. Then his expression cleared. He smiled. ‘Ah, okay, I get it. Marcus was dropping hints the other day about me and him being a good team. Said something about a new position opening up for him. I bet he’ll be moving up the ladder, with you going.’

  Polly stiffened. ‘Marcus Handbury?’

  ‘Yeah. He’s been acting mysterious for a few days. Reckon Warrington must have lined him up to take over your work once you’ve gone.’

  ‘But he can’t just have my job if I’ve been made redundant!’ she cried. ‘It’s not meant to work like that.’

  He shrugged. ‘Well, they’ll call the position something different then, won’t they? That’s what they usually do.’

  His tactlessness made Polly reel. ‘Jake … I’ve lost my job,’ she said tartly. ‘You could at least show some sympathy.’

  His face hardened. ‘Sympathy?’ he echoed. ‘Sympathy? You’re joking, aren’t you?’ His lip curled. ‘This is the best news I’ve had all year.’

  She took a step back, bewildered. She never usually felt bewildered. It was an unfamiliar and distinctly unsettling experience. Why was Jake being so rude? ‘I … I …’ she croaked, eyes bulging. ‘I don’t understand.’

  He gave her a tight, flinty smile. ‘I have bust a gut for you over the last few years,’ he said, his voice loaded with contempt. ‘I’ve not just been your PA, I’ve been your shit-shoveller too, doing all your dirty work: your dry-fucking-cleaning, your bloody bill-paying, buying presents for your sodding niece and nephew and Uncle-Tom-fucking-Cobley …’ He shook his head, his gaze never leaving hers. ‘It’s not been the most fun job, you know, but I’ve done it without complaining. I’ve done it even though these things have not been in my remit. And yet you’ve never said please. You’ve never said thank you. You’ve never even asked anything about me, about how I’m doing. You’re like a fucking replicant. So no, I’m not sorry you’re leaving. Good-fucking-riddance, that’s what I say.’

  He stormed out, leaving Polly staring after him. She swallowed hard. ‘Th-th-thanks for the coffee,’ she stammered, but the words fell uselessly into the silence of the room.

  Thirty minutes later Polly had finished packing. It hadn’t taken as long as she’d anticipated. It turned out she had surprisingly little that belonged to her. A few mugs. A spare pair of tights. A half-eaten bag of Haribos. Gum. A packet of paracetamol. Clothes. Certificates. A couple of personal cards sent by satisfied clients. That was the sum total of her twelve years in the place. The collection of items had barely filled the box, after all.

  Once she’d collected everything together, she gazed around at the filing cabinets full of documents she’d lovingly written, reports she’d painstakingly compiled, letters she’d dictated, contracts she’d signed … All for nothing, now. Those files and folders would be inherited by Marcus-effing-Handbury within hours, by the sound of it.

  She was gripped by a surge of vengeful feeling. How easy it would be to steal a wedge of sensitive documents, she thought, a memory stick with the juiciest negotiations, a folder of incriminating emails, passwords to different accounts … She could do it. She could stitch up Waterman’s good and proper, and why the hell not, after the appalling way they’d treated her?

  Then she drooped, remembering the security guard’s warning about how he was going to check her belongings on the way out. That was why.

  Still, a memory stick was small enough to conceal somewhere about her body, wasn’t it? She could hide it under a tissue in her pocket, or down in her shoe. Hell, she could tuck it in her knickers, even; they were hardly going to strip-search her. Were they?

  She hesitated. Polly was used to taking risks throughout her career, calculated risks, which usually resulted in a lot of money. So the big question was: did she have the balls to attempt to rip off her own company?

  Yes, she did, actually. She most certainly did. Polly Johnson wasn’t going to be made to look a fool by anyone. She’d have the last laugh, she thought, clicking the mouse to awaken her PC from standby. She’d forward a whole bunch of stuff to her personal email account and then …

  Oh. That was strange. She couldn’t get into the company email system any more. A box with ‘Unauthorized user’ had appeared onscreen. Unauthorized user … had they locked her out of the email network already? They had. The bastards!

  Sod it, if they were going to play hardball, then so would she. She’d go the whole hog and put some stuff on a memory stick, she decided. In for a penny, in for the whole redundancy package. She tried to open a document, but again, the words ‘Unauthorized user’ appeared. Her courage shrivelled away inside her and she leaned back in her chair, feeling defeated. They’d locked her out of the whole system, she realized. It was as if she were pressing her nose up against the window of the building, no longer allowed to see inside. God, that hurt. How could they be so mistrustful, so defensive? It wasn’t as if she’d been about to bring them down, steal all their secrets, attack from the inside, was it?

  Well, all right, she had been tempted. So much for that, though. It clearly wasn’t going to happen. Just for a second she was seized by the mad impulse to grab some of the folders from the filing cabinets and chuck them out of the window, watch them flutter down to Bishopsgate, pages fluttering in the breeze, like doves released by a magician. Then she could hurry downstairs and retrieve them from the pavement, and—

  ‘Ready for the off?’

  The security guard had appeared in her office again; had walked straight in without knocking. She was about to reprimand him for his lack of courtesy, but then remembered. She no longer had that sort of right around here.

  ‘Just about,’ she said, hoping he hadn’t noticed the deranged way she’d been eyeballing the filing cabinet.

  ‘Right, let’s be having you then.’

  She rolled her eyes, seething as she picked up the box and followed him out. He was actually going to escort her off the premises. Worse, he was using phrases like ‘Let’s be having you’, as if he thought he was some kind of hot-shot cop, when he was just a jumped-up security guard, getting a kick out of someone else’s misfortune. How pathetic.

  Still, at least he had a job.

  The walk through the open-plan area of the department to the lifts felt like the longest journey Polly had ever made. Everyone was staring. ‘Oh my God, are you leaving? Have they sacked you?’ cried Gloria, an ageing secretary who seemed to have been with the company since it had been established in the nineteenth century.

  ‘Redundant,’ was all Polly could get out through gritted teeth.

  Gasps went from assistant to assistant like a breathy breeze around the room. Redundant? Did she just say redundant?

  Jake was at the photocopier as she approached the lift. She’d have to walk right past him. Should she stick her nose in the air and flounce by, or stop and thank him for his work, say goodbye?

  She hesitated and then, at the last moment, he looked up at her with what seemed to be gloating in his eyes. ‘Bye Polly,’ he said, his lip puckering in a smirk.

  Any words of thanks she might have spoken vanished instantly from her tongue; any olive branch was immediately smashed into bits. He could whistle for thanks now. She completely ignored him and strode on towards the lift, her heart pounding.

  ‘Bitch,’ she heard him mutter, and the blood throbbed hard beneath her skin.

  She had never been more relieved to see the lift doors part before her. She stepped into the waiting metal box and kept herself rigid and upright until the silver doors closed and they plunged to the ground.

  ‘Going down,’ the disembodied voice announced.

  Goodbye, seventh floor, Polly thought in a daze. Goodbye, Jake and Gloria and all those assistants whose names I never bothered learning. Goodbye, corner office; goodbye, fabulous view over London. I’ll never
see you again.

  ‘Ground floor,’ came the voice from the lift’s speakers, and the doors shuddered apart once more.

  Polly felt wobbly on her heels as she stepped numbly into the reception area, where the security guard led her to a small side-office. Goodbye, life, she thought. I’m going to miss you.

  Once the contents of her box had been examined (talk about humiliating), she had to hand over her security pass, her laptop, her company credit card and, worst of all, her BlackBerry. It felt like having a limb removed. Goodbye, BlackBerry. I really loved you.

  ‘Sign here please, Miss Johnson,’ the security guard said, passing her a pen and showing her the dotted line. ‘Thank you,’ he went on, as she shakily scrawled her signature. ‘That’s it, then.’

  That was it? Polly blinked. She’d been removed from her office, had her possessions – okay, the company’s possessions – stripped from her, and she was now being shown the door, all in the space of a few hours? Where was the humanity in these people? How could they dismiss her so quickly, as if she were nothing to them?

  She remembered with a lurch the last round of redundancies two years ago. She’d gazed on dispassionately as a middle manager, a junior analyst and a couple of assistants had lost their jobs in the same morning. An uneasy silence had skulked around the department while they weepily packed up and left. The sombre atmosphere lasted several hours, and then afterwards it was as if the remaining staff were demob happy – laughing too loudly at the smallest of jokes, relief painted in broad strokes across every face, that it wasn’t them who’d just been binned. As for Polly, she hadn’t paid the whole thing much attention, other than to put on a grave face when the job losses had been discussed in board meetings earlier. Shit happened. Hell, in her job she’d advised numerous companies to make countless redundancies over the years. Privately she hadn’t cared. They had been numbers on a page.