He’s one of them. Your typical serious journalist. They all think they’re God’s gift and about to uncover the next Watergate. What they don’t realise is without,’ he rubbed his fingers and thumbs together, ‘advertising revenue they wouldn’t have a job. So what do you want with him?’
‘I invited him on a press trip. He didn’t fancy it.’
‘I’d go on a press trip with you.’
‘That’s kind but I’m not sure the client would buy it.’
‘Who’s the client?’
‘A new Danish department store opening in London. We’re taking a small group of press to Copenhagen.’
‘Nice work if you can get it. And he turned it down?’
I shrugged. ‘I’m sure he had his reasons.’
I might not like Benedict Johnson, but I didn’t like Andrew Dawkins any better.
Andrew lapsed into thought, his small grey eyes screwed up in concentration. ‘Lot of potential advertisers might be interested in that. I’ll see what I can do.’
I wrestled with my conscience for less than a nano-second and refrained from saying, that would be great but neither did I say, don’t worry I’ve invited someone else now. This was my career we were talking about.
A very formal toast master, in full red-trimmed regalia, called the event to order but there was no reprieve for me. I found myself sitting next to Andrew and his wandering hands. There was nothing for it but to get stuck into the champagne and arm myself with a fork.
The awards, it sounds ungrateful to say, were no different from the other awards I’d worked on. The same anthemic music. The same slick script from a well-known stand-up comedian, on his very best behaviour, and lots of excessively dull and grateful middle-aged men, coming up to collect their glass engraved trophies.
The wine was plentiful and the food not bad considering how many people they had to serve and please. Chicken is always the common denominator on any corporate menu.
An army of well-drilled waiting staff edged the wall nearby and then began to serve the first course during which I noticed Andrew’s foot brushing my calf a few times too many.
By the time the main course plates were being cleared, my patience had run out. When his hand brushed my thigh again, I struck, ramming my fork into it.
‘I’m so sorry I didn’t realise that was you. I thought a tarantula was crawling over my leg. I have a phobia.’
Andrew gave me a tight smile, while wringing his hand to his chest.
A waitress appeared sidling between us with a pretty pink and white dessert.
‘Not for me, thank you,’ I said shaking my head. ‘I must go to the loo,’ I excused myself to Andrew, who rose at the same time like a perfect gentleman, except he put a steadying hand on my hip that was a tad too familiar.
I gave him a cool smile and fled, taking my glass of champagne with me, skirting the white linen covered tables, my skin crawling as I knew he watched me go. I regretted that his last view of me was the dramatic drop of my dress curved in smooth folds to below my waist. The dress might have been very demure at the front but it wasn’t at all at the back.
Climbing the stairs, I moved along the balcony to a quiet spot where I stopped to look out over the impressive sight of the Great Room, with its ranked rows of white clothed tables, in uniform lines, perfectly laid with linen and floral arrangements. I couldn’t look directly downwards as it would have made me dizzy and I stayed an arm’s-length from the brass rail but it was quite safe looking across the room. I crept a little closer to the barrier and took a sip of my champagne, sorry to realise the glass was almost empty and raised it in a small silent toast to the huge chandeliers glittering like extravagant clusters of diamonds. My mum would have been so proud of this. Of me being here. I could hear her voice in my head.
You make something of yourself love. Work hard. Do well. That’s all she wanted for us, to do better than the previous generation. She’d had three jobs, working at a nursery in the mornings, then going on to be a dinner lady at a local school where she was also a cleaner in the evenings. None of them had been particularly well paid and money had been tight.
With one hand safely clinging to the brass rail aware of the hum of voices rising up, I gazed at the tide of well-dressed people and swallowed a lump as I smiled mistily. This was a world away from where I’d grown up. She’d definitely think this was doing well.
‘I’d like to say penny for them, but I think they’re worth a lot more.’ The husky deep timbre of the voice, with a decidedly seductive undertone, held a definite edge of flirtation.
I stiffened for a second wanting to preserve the moment. Of not being disappointed when I turned and not disappointing. My common sense, blurred around the edges by champagne, went AWOL and instead of turning, I answered.
‘I think they probably are.’
There was a brief silence as I carried on looking across the huge room, over the sea of people at the tulip shaped chandeliers.
‘Did you know there are over five hundred thousand crystals in each of the chandeliers?’ I rather liked his opening gambit and the slight lilt in the chatty tone of his voice as if he’d taken up the challenge of trying to impress me enough to get me to turn around.
‘No.’ I smiled to myself and took a tiny sip of champagne, lifting my head so that my hair fell lower down my back, feeling aloof, regal and mysterious, wanting to spin the game out.
‘Or that they weigh a ton each and were designed in the 1960s.’ He stepped closer so that I was aware of him lowering his voice so that only I could hear him.
‘Impressive,’ I purred because the moment seemed to demand it. I was so not a purrer in real life but this was a Cinderella moment with its fabulous setting, complete anonymity and the false confidence of an expensive dress.
‘Did you know … this used to be an ice rink. Queen Elizabeth learned to skate here.’ My skin tingled in silent invitation and almost unaware of it I subtly arched my back.
‘Really,’ I said, smiling even more.
‘Three times Olympic champion, Sonja Henje skated here in the 1930s.’ The cadence of his voice whispered past my ear.
‘Never.’ Silent laughter bubbled in my voice.
‘And they used to play international ice hockey matches here.’
‘Who knew?’
‘A lot of the machinery is still there, under the floor.’
‘Useful to know.’
‘And final fact, The Beatles played here once.’
I leaned away over the balcony imagining the scene.
‘And that is my last fact.’ He said the words rather like a magician with a flourish at the end of his act.
I hesitated, loath to break the interlude. Instead of turning to
