Kitabı oku: «A Very Accidental Love Story», sayfa 3
‘Eloise?’ says Seth Coleman from directly across the table, de-latticing his fingers, slicking back the lank, greasy hair and giving me one of his unblinking, lizard-like stares. Very disconcerting, if you’re not used to him. ‘We really do need to wrap this up. Tempus fugit.’
I hide my irritation and point out that we haven’t heard from our finance editor yet, throwing the floor open to Jack Dundon, a bespectacled, grey-haired, grey-skinned, softly spoken guy with a background as an award-winning economist; someone who rarely shines at these meetings, but who’ll consistently come up trumps and turn out impeccably researched stories written in language readers can grasp, unlike those on some of our rivals’ finance pages, that you’d nearly need a Harvard master’s in finance to get your head around.
He draws the air of experience deep into his lungs and addresses the now silent room. The European Central Bank have announced an interest rate hike of half a per cent, is his calm opener, which mightn’t exactly be the sexiest lead story at the table, but it’ll affect hundreds of thousands of mortgage holders and so therefore it has massive bite. On and on he goes, giving me the freedom to let my thoughts take me back to my more pressing concerns and back to about noon today, when in sauntered a slightly more promising candidate for the job of nanny/lifesaver.
But when I say ‘slightly more promising’, all I mean is she was young, reasonably well groomed and at least had the courtesy to turn up for the interview appropriately dressed, even if her eye make-up did happen to be the exact colour of bright yellow hazardous waste. Trouble was, she had precious little experience in childcare and when I asked her why her CV only had one reference on it, her answer was that she was really an out-of-work actress and thought this would be a nice little earner until her big break arrived.
‘I mean, it’s only minding a kid, isn’t it? Besides, I’ve loads of nieces and nephews and I know I’m well able to handle it,’ she coolly informs me. ‘And the reference I have is good, my auntie went to load of trouble to write it for me. Oh, but by the way,’ she added, hammering a further nail into her own coffin, ‘if my agent rings about an audition, then I’ll need time off. Plus I don’t work evenings after seven p.m. or weekends. And I should probably tell you that I already have my holidays booked for the first two weeks in June, I’m going to Spain with my boyfriend, so that’s out as well. I assume that’s all OK with you?’
It’s not often I’m at a loss for words, but on this occasion I was. I didn’t answer, couldn’t. Just sat there staring at her in disbelief thinking, ‘next!’
And the piece de resistance? Just after lunch (which in my case is rarely more than a cereal bar wolfed down at my desk between phone calls, and that’s if I’m very lucky), Rachel buzzes into my office to say the final candidate the agency have available to start work is now waiting patiently at reception. I stride out of my office to greet her, praying, just praying that this one will look not unlike Julie Andrews in Mary Poppins, act like a firm but kindly Angela Lansbury in Bedknobs and Broomsticks and keep perfect law and order in my house when I’m not there as strictly as Emma Thompson in Nanny McPhee.
Initial reaction was positive and for once, my stomach didn’t sink at the sight of what was waiting beside Rachel’s desk for me. Mrs. Adele Patterson was sixty-something, with a grey perm so tight it looked like someone had accidentally poured a tin of baked beans over her head, wearing a coat that looked like it was made out of the same upholstery they use on bus seats and laden down with two Marks and Spencers grocery bags. But she was the only candidate who actually looked like an actual proper nanny, wise and calm and experienced, someone you’d unhesitatingly trust your child with. Plus she at least looked me unflinchingly straight in the eye, doing me the courtesy of coming straight to the point.
‘I don’t work in other people’s houses,’ she told me straight up in a no-nonsense style that I at least respected, even if what she’d just said made me break out in an anxiety sweat. ‘You’re welcome to leave your daughter, Lily isn’t it? Well, you can drop her to my house at nine in the morning, no earlier, and I’m strict about collection time too, no later than six o’clock in the evening please. That’s quite a long enough day for any child, believe me. And for me too, I might add. I’m not getting any younger, you know.’
‘Mrs. Patterson, I’m afraid … Well, the thing is that’s going to be a problem. What I need, you see is … Well, let’s just say that there might be the odd evening – just the occasional one, that’s all … when I could possibly get delayed getting home from work, so I really am looking for someone who’s prepared to live in, at my house, which is very comfortable, by the way … It’s in Rathgar,’ I tack on hopefully, like this’ll make a difference.
‘Makes no difference to me if you live in the penthouse suite of the Four Seasons, love,’ she snapped back, sounding shell-shocked at the very suggestion and getting pinker in the face by the minute.
‘Well, I would be paying premium rates, of course, and we can always negotiate a day off for you …’ I exaggerated, astonished at the sheer brazenness of my lie.
Day off? I think. Elka got one day off in the past year and that was on Christmas Day. And even at that, she still had to take Lily for a few hours in the afternoon while I dashed into the office to check the layout for the Stephen’s Day edition of the Post.
But my back is to the wall here, and short of Mrs. Patterson producing references that implicate her in the massacre of a school full of small children, she’s hired.
‘Then I’m very sorry to waste your time, Miss Elliot, but I’m afraid this is just not going to work out, simple as that. You see, I take care of my two grandchildren at home as well, so either your little girl can stay with me daytimes only, with collection strictly no later than six p.m., or that’s it. I’m not here to bargain with you or to offer you any other alternative. And what’s more, I’m going to have to leave now: as it is, I had to ask a neighbour to look after the other children for me so I could get into town to meet you.’
OK, it was at this point that I got desperate, not even able to conceal the pleading in my tone. This woman was my last hope and I couldn’t, just couldn’t let her walk out the door.
‘Mrs. Patterson, as you can see, my job here doesn’t exactly allow me to work regular nine to five hours, but if you’ll just hear me out about moving into my home, only for a short time you understand, I’d be happy to pay you far, far more than the agency rates.’
I look at her pleadingly, silently begging her to say yes.
‘Lily’s such a good girl,’ I tack on for good measure, ‘she’s very well behaved, everyone says so and minding her really is a doddle …’
‘It’s a no, I’m afraid,’ Mrs. Patterson replied crisply. ‘There’s no way that I’d just abandon my own husband and grandchildren to move into a stranger’s house, no matter what you paid me. You must understand that there are some things in life that are far, far more important than any job or any amount of money, like family, for one,’ she said, looking pointedly at me.
Then, picking up her handbag and groceries and tossing me a curt nod, she showed herself out of my office and back towards reception. Leaving me feeling like I’d just been cut and dried and left to hang out for dead on a line.
Back to the meeting and it seems Seth Coleman, with his barracuda-like instincts, is onto me.
‘Earth to Eloise? Are you with us or what?’ he says, rapping a pen with bony fingers impatiently off a pile of folders in front of him. ‘We really need to move on this. Some of us have work to do, you know.’
I’m suddenly aware that all eyes are locked on me and that I’m in danger of losing control of the room. It’s gone quiet, scarily quiet; people are coughing and looking in my direction, anxious to get out of here. Which means it’s now over to me and I’m going to have to make it at least look like I’m on the ball.
‘Fine, thank you Seth,’ I manage to say, crisply as I can. ‘In that case, the mock-up of tomorrow’s front page is this. Firstly, we lead with the ECB interest rate hike.’
Cut to groans and moans from the rest of the table, which I have no choice but to swat aside.
‘Jack, you’re on the story and I’ll need hard copy on my desk by four p.m. at the latest. Second lead is Northern, Ruth, but no more than five hundred words on page one, with an opinion piece in domestic, on page four.’
‘Page FOUR? That is so unfair!’ Ruth yells disappointedly, but again, I override her.
Sorry, but in this gig you learn very quickly how to prioritise.
‘As for the US primaries, they’ll stay in Foreign on pages four and five until one month before the election proper and that’s final,’ I say to frosty looks from Robbie Turner, which I instantly tune out.
‘This story may be front page in the States Robbie, but we’re not living in Washington, now are we? The lead US story we go with on page three is Obama’s statement that he’s not ruling out seeking to overthrow rebels in Afghanistan, in spite of the phased withdrawal. There’s a press conference on the situation from the White House at five o’clock Eastern time, which is going to mean a late night for you Robbie; that’ll be eleven tonight our time and I’ll need full copy for the night editor before the late edition hits the presses.’
A deep heartfelt sigh from Robbie, who’s worked late pretty much every night for the past few months and who has probably forgotten what his kids even look like by now. I feel a sudden flash of sympathy at the sight of his exhausted, washed-out face, but I rise above it and move on. Because I have to. Yes, I know, he never gets to see his kids, but then I never get to see Lily either, do I? And it’s not like I’m asking him to do anything I’m not doing myself.
So on I steamroll, undeterred.
‘Also, make a note that I want an opinion piece on Irish Life and Permanent and how it may be sold off as a result of bank stress tests. Seth? Get Miriam Douglas onto it, seven hundred words. Regional, I want to lead with that car crash in Kerry that killed three kids over the weekend, plus photos too. Find out their ages, talk to the school friends and if you can, get the families to talk too. That’s our big human interest story and I want it to be gut-wrenching. Also, I need six hundred words on the search for those two missing teenagers, latest updates in one hour, please. We need recent photos of both of them, get Derek Maguire onto it right away. There’s a press release on its way here and as soon as it lands I want to see it. Courts page, I want three hundred words on how in the name of God a convicted drug dealer got out on appeal yesterday, no photos of him looking shifty with a hood over his head though, too clichéd. To similar to what the Independent will run with, so get me a better shot than that. World news, we open with Japan scrapping four of its stricken reactors, and follow up with an update on the Greek situation, six hundred words each, photos for both, quarter page. But I want to see the proofs first, so Seth you need to tell the picture desk that’s non-negotiable. Mock-ups no later than four p.m. sharp and thank you all for your time.’
And there it is, the old familiar buzz I get from doing what I do best. Feeding me like an adrenaline rush.
Filthy looks all round at me, but there you go. Sometimes you need to have a spine of steel in this job.
Class dismissed. And onto the next problem.
It’s coming up to three o’clock in the afternoon, and as usual, I’m multi-tasking. Or triple-tasking, to be more precise. I’m in my office checking through the rough drafts of tomorrow’s advertising pages while at the same time trying to type out a rough draft for tomorrow’s editorial, both of which I might add are now well behind schedule. And on top of all that, I’m simultaneously holding a meeting with Marc Robinson, editor of the paper’s Arts and Culture section, a magazine-formatted supplement which comes with our Saturday issue, but which is put to bed the previous Monday. Which is today. Which is why Marc is in my office now, arguing and bickering with me. The way absolutely everyone seems to argue and bicker with me these days.
‘I’m really putting my foot down on this Eloise,’ he’s saying, pacing up and down while throwing me the odd scorching look for added dramatic effect. ‘You have to trust me. I absolutely, categorically refuse to give the Culture cover to a kids’ Disney movie … not when Wim Wenders has a new art-house film out. It insults our reader and it’s just … just plain degrading. May I remind you, it’s called the Culture section, not the commercial section, you know. We’re trying to be out-there and edgy. And that bloody kids’ film has all the cutting edge appeal of … of Val Doonican sitting in his rocking chair and wearing a woolly jumper.’
Marc, as you see, is a passionate movie lover in his early thirties and even manages to look exactly like a European art-house director should, with a clever, lugubrious face, eccentric hair and let’s just say difficult glasses. It’s also received wisdom round here that he’s official holder of the title Dossiest Job Ever. He’s forever annoying everyone else by pootling off to art-house cinemas in the middle of the day to review obscure, subtitled films badly dubbed from Finnish, then writing three page dossiers on directors I’ve never heard of. Which it’s my job to then edit down and try to make a bit more, let’s just say, reader-friendly.
I, on the other hand, am in a constant push-pull battle with him to reflect cultural choices that our readers might, perish the thought, have actually heard of. Basically, that’s anathema to someone like Marc, who considers a movie seen by more than a dozen people to be an over-hyped, commercialised Hollywood sell-out. But then Marc is someone who regularly claims that Paul McCartney’s Maxwell’s Silver Hammer is the greatest offence ever perpetrated on mankind, in the history of the planet. Even worse than Cromwell.
‘Too bad Marc,’ I tell him firmly, while at the same time tapping out an editorial about the health service on the computer screen in front of me. ‘It’s coming up to the Easter holidays, parents with kids need to know what family movies are opening and the Disney Pixar one will be a blockbuster. Sorry, but you’ll have to swallow your art-house pride and just get commercial once in a while.’
‘Eloise, please don’t take this personally, but what in the name of God would you know about culture? You never go out anywhere.’
I look up at him in dull surprise; it’s not often anyone makes comments about my private life and even though it’s true, I don’t particularly like hearing it. Mind you Marc and I go back a long way – we were at college together – so in his defence, he knows he has the liberty to use that kind of shorthand with me.
What he doesn’t know though, is that the board of directors is seriously concerned at the overheads his department are running and that when the axe falls, which it inevitably will, mark my words the Culture section is certain to be in line for a good pruning. And Marc, who’s been here as long as I have and who’s being paid what management consider a highly inflated salary, could well be first for the chop.
Marc’s a good writer, I’ve pleaded with them in the past, with a large and ever-growing cult following. Readers buy our Saturday edition just to read his columns and reviews. Which, frankly, is the main reason he’s lasted as long as he has in the job. But the hard, cold reality is that unless he wises up and stops being such a cultural snob, he could well be in trouble.
And so the only reason I’m being as hard on him as I am, is because I just don’t want him to lose his gig. Not on my watch.
‘Oh, I support the arts alright,’ I smile quickly back at him. ‘I’ll write the cheques, I just haven’t time to see anything. And just on a point of order, you try sneaking off to a movie at the weekends in my job and then see how fast you’re propelled to the back of a dole queue. Disney gets the cover, Marc, and that’s final.’
Then out of the blue, my internal phone rings, sending an ice-cold chill right up my spinal cord. Never, ever a good sign. I tell Marc I have to take it, and he skulks off, knowing he’s been beaten. This time.
Okay, the internal phone ringing usually only means one thing.
Oh Christ alive, no. Please don’t let this be happening … Not today.
But no two ways about it, the nightmare is real. The chairman’s assistant is on the phone, summoning me upstairs to a meeting of the board of directors – the T. Rexes – right this minute. This rarely happens on the spur of the moment like this and it doesn’t take Einstein to figure out why they’ve convened this meeting at such short notice.
The online issue of the Post. Can’t possibly be anything else. I know it’s a matter of huge concern for the board and the last time I bumped into Sir Gavin Hume, our esteemed chairman since the year dot, he as good as told me it was a matter requiring their immediate attention. That it’s costing too much and is effectively losing readers. And here’s me in a severely weakened position, because it was my brainchild and I’ve effectively staked my reputation on it. So I whip out a bulging file of notes I’ve been working on about the online edition and mentally steel myself for the grilling that lies ahead.
Anyway, I’m just clickety-clacking out of my office to get the lift to the boardroom on the top floor, when Rachel, my assistant, stops me in my tracks.
‘Eloise?’ she says standing up behind her desk and looking petrified. ‘Thank God I caught you. There’s a phone call for you. And it’s urgent.’
Odd, it strikes me: Rachel looking so terrified about whoever’s on the phone. Mainly because every single phone call that comes for me is urgent; there’s always some emergency. Frankly, the day that someone leaves a message for me saying, ‘Oh tell her it’s not that important, no rush at all in getting back to me’ is the day hell will freeze over.
Plus, Rachel is normally the epitome of glacial blonde coolness under pressure, which is not only why I hired her, but it’s the main reason why she’s survived so many staff cullings round here. She’s around my own age and the human equivalent of half a Xanax tablet; always chilled, always in control, never loses her head; in short, the perfect assistant for someone like me.
But right now, she’s thrusting a phone at me, looking ghostly pale, ashen-faced and like she needs to be treated for deep shock.
‘Trust me, you need to take this call.’
‘I’m on my way to the boardroom!’ I almost hiss at her impatiently, not meaning to be rude, but come on … surely Rachel of all people knows that when the board of directors calls, you drop everything and go running?
It’s non-negotiable.
‘I’m sorry Rachel, but you’ll just have to tell whoever’s on the phone that they’ll have to wait till I call them back.’
‘Eloise, you have to listen to me. Please try to stay calm, but … it’s about your little girl.’
Chapter Two
And the day from hell rolls relentlessly on.
I’m now sitting in a poky little waiting room outside the principal’s office at the Embassy PreSchool, where Lily has been a pupil for about three weeks now. The emergency call came through from the principal, one Miss Pettifer, to say I needed to get here urgently – but as soon she’d reassured me that Lily was neither sick nor had been in an accident but was safely at home with her nanny, I calmly told her that I was on my way to a board meeting and it was a bad time for me to talk. Elka, I told her in no uncertain terms, would call her ASAP and troubleshoot whatever storm in a teacup was going on. So I’d just get her to do what she was being paid to do, while I obeyed the royal command to haul my arse up to the T. Rexes in the boardroom above, right away.
But Miss Pettifer was having none of it.
‘I’m terribly sorry if there’s any inconvenience Miss Elliot,’ she told me in no uncertain terms, ‘but I’m afraid this is a matter for the parent and the parent alone, which I can’t simply delegate out to a childminder. I realise that you’re a busy woman but I can assure you, I am too. Now, we close for the day in just under an hour’s time and as this matter is of some significance, I strongly suggest that you come in here immediately. Surely you agree that the welfare of your child is more important than any board meeting?’
No more information forthcoming about what in the name of God could be so pressing anyway, or why the antics of a little girl now had her principal acting like the child had tried to set fire to the place or else gone into her preschool brandishing a shotgun. And if Lily’s okay and not sick or anything, then what in the name of God could it possibly be?
‘Ah, Miss Elliot, please come in; so sorry to have kept you waiting.’
I look up from where I’m impatiently perched in the waiting room and there she is, the famous Miss Pettifer. We’ve never actually met before; a few months ago, when I stuck my head in the door to vet the place and see if I could enrol Lily as a pupil, I was dealing with her assistant and of course, ever since then, Elka brings her to and from preschool. So apart from writing humongously inflated cheques for their services, to my shame I’ve next to nothing to do with the place. Or with Miss Pettifer, who’s now holding out an outstretched hand and beckoning me into her tiny little office, decorated with dozens of kids’ class photos and cute little drawings done in coloured pencil dotted all around the brightly painted walls.
She’s early fifties, I’d say, holding middle age tenuously at bay, with more than a touch of the Aunt Agathas from P.G. Wodehouse about her; grizzly grey hair that looks like it could be used for scouring pans tied back in a no-nonsense bun, clipped speech and dressed like she’s about to referee a hockey match any minute. Stern and stentorian; I instantly get an image of her parading up and down past a line of toddlers inspecting their finger paintings and checking for runny noses. A bit like the Queen doing a meet and greet on a visit to a toilet roll factory.
She invites me to sit down on a coloured plastic chair opposite her desk, which immediately wrongfoots me; normally it’s me on the far side of a desk, the one who’s about to initiate a meeting and take charge.
‘Miss Elliot, may I call you Eloise?’
I nod mutely, thinking, please for the love of God, just cut to the jugular and tell me what this is all about. No time for preambles here. No time for anything.
Mercifully, she’s a woman who seems not to believe in sugar-coating things and comes straight to the point.
‘Eloise, I’m afraid we’ve been having problems with Lily, which I strongly feel you need to be made aware of. And so, it’s my duty as principal here to ask you, let’s just say a few personal questions.’
Okay, now I’m staring dumbly back at her, thinking, ehhh … What exactly can a little girl who’s not even three years old have got up to that merits the bleeding Spanish Inquisition?
‘Fire away,’ I manage to say, calmly as I can, given that the mobile on my knee is switched to silent and hasn’t stopped flashing up missed calls from the office ever since I got here.
Miss Pettifer instantly cuts across my stream of worry.
‘Eloise, I’m afraid I need to be perfectly frank with you here. You’re a single mum, I know, and a very hardworking one at that. You single-handedly carry out an incredibly demanding job. I’m an avid reader of the Post every day, you know, and greatly admire your editorials …’
I nod mechanically, pathetically grateful for the bone she’s just thrown me.
‘But leaving your career aside, being a single parent is probably the toughest job in the whole world. May I ask if you have help of any kind? Apart from your nanny, do you have family support? Your parents, perhaps?’
‘No, I’m afraid not.’
‘Because you know there are any number of wonderful one-parent support groups locally that I’d be more than happy to recommend to you …’
One-parent support groups? I find myself looking at her numbly. What does this one think I am anyway, on welfare?
‘I feel they might help you to cope with a lot of the demands laid on any busy working single mum. They could help. You see, I have some most unwelcome news to tell you, I’m sorry to say. A problem for us, which sadly could represent an even bigger problem for you.’
Involuntarily, I throw a look of pure panic across the desk at her.
Tell me, just tell me quickly before I pass out with worry …
‘There was a deeply regrettable incident earlier here today, which is why I’ve had to call you in.’
Okay, now I’m on the edge of my seat, palms sweating, breathing jaggedly, bracing myself for what’s coming next. ‘What happened?’
‘Lily, I’m afraid to say, got into a heated row with Tim O’Connor, another little boy here in preschool. There were tears, there was screaming, and worst of all, Lily resorted to smacking him until he cried …’
‘She WHAT? Are you sure?’
‘I wouldn’t have called you in here if I weren’t,’ she says, looking evenly at me.
‘But that’s outrageous! Lily has never behaved like that before!’
I’m on the verge of spluttering indignantly at her that I’d surely know all about it if she did, but then, with a sudden, sharp stab of guilt have to remind myself … How exactly would I know? These days, when do I ever get to see or spend quality time with the poor child anyway, barring our precious Sundays together? The only way I know if there’s trouble at home is if Elka tells me, and lately Elka’s been telling me nothing, just whinging about how late I work and how there are no KitKats in the fridge and how we’re out of Cheerios. And these days I’ve been working so late, even she mostly communicates with me via Post-it notes stuck on the door of the microwave.
So instead of opening my mouth, I sit quiet and listen to the sound of the blood whooshing through my brain while Miss Pettifer relentlessly goes on and on.
‘… Which of course is behaviour we simply can’t put up with. We have a strict policy of zero tolerance, you see, with any kind of unruly behaviour. We expect children to attend having already been taught the rudiments of basic manners and social skills around others.’
‘But … why did Lily smack him? Do you have any idea what the row was about?’
‘Ahh, you see that’s where it becomes delicate and personal. And believe me when I say I hope this doesn’t cause you any offence, but it was over the question of Lily’s father.’
Suddenly, after all my panic and stress and shock … I find myself without a single word to say. And now there’s silence. Horrible, awkward, bum-clenching silence.
‘You’re rearing Lily on your own and believe me, I know how difficult that can be, Eloise,’ Miss Pettifer says to me, sounding almost gentle now, which, in the state I’m in, I’m oddly grateful for, ‘but may I ask you a very personal question?’
I nod mutely.
‘Do you have any contact at all with Lily’s dad?’
Lily’s dad.
Oh shit and double shit. I can’t believe she just asked me that. And worse, is now looking expectantly back at me, waiting on an answer.
‘Well, not exactly …’ is the best I can manage, totally thrown at being caught on the hop like this.
‘It’s just that, in years to come, it’s highly likely that Lily will want to know more about him and to spend time with him too. Which is only right and fair, of course. In an ideal world, children should grow up knowing each of their parents, even if they happen to live in a single parent family. They have a right to know both parents equally well, regardless of circumstances. We have several other children here who all come from wonderful one-parent families and although they may not live with Mum and Dad, they at least have regular contact with each. Unlike Lily, I’m afraid.’
I’ve absolutely no answer to that so I just stare back at her, as calmly as I can.
‘I’m so sorry to have to persist, Eloise, and I appreciate that this is uncomfortable, but it’s your daughter I’m thinking of and so I really do need to ask you these questions. You see, even if you have no dealings whatsoever with this man, he still is the child’s father and as such he does have rights.’
‘Yes … I know that, but you see …’
And the best of luck finishing that sentence, I think to myself.
‘I know you must feel very strongly about not allowing him access to Lily, and undoubtedly you have your own personal reasons for this, but really, I’ve seen all this happen more times than you can possibly imagine in the past and I can assure you it’s inevitable. Remember, if he wants to see her, he can easily go to the family law courts and request visitation rights and no judge in the land would deny that to any father. Trust me, you don’t want to have to deal with Lily when she becomes a teenager accusing you of never allowing her to see her dad. It just wouldn’t be right, not to mention it’s completely unhealthy for her. I know it’s none of my business, but I would beg you to take my advice; build bridges with this man, no matter how difficult it is for you. Because mark my words, if you don’t, the day will come when Lily will.’
‘No she won’t.’
She looks over the desk at me in dull surprise, probably unused to being contradicted.
‘Excuse me?’
