me in a conspiratorial, in-on-the-joke, pull-the-other-one-it’s-got-bells-on,we’re-not-the-sort-of-people-who-get-down-and-dirty-with-Hollywood-superstars kind of a way.
But of course I didn’t say that. I wasn’t ready to tell such a bare-faced truth. Instead, I said, ‘Yes, Olivia Finch. And, er, what’s his name. The guy who was in, erm, that film …’ I tailed off, aware that every film star reference would provoke another dozen enquiries from Natasha who was far more interested in the celebrity scene than in my role at its margins.
Fortunately, she was already off on a different tack. ‘So what do you say to someone who you’ve actually watched shagging? Isn’t it embarrassing? You’re like one of those awful doggy blokes who stand around looking at people doing it through their car windows!’
‘I didn’t actually watch her doing it’ I protested. ‘She was acting. It’s her job.’ I was digging myself a hole and was relieved when stereo cries of ‘Daddy!’ announced that the uneasy peace that had existed between the children had broken down. They launched themselves at me, both desperate to tell me their version of whatever had happened before the other on the cleverly observed basis that whoever made their case first and loudest usually won my support.
I put on a DVD of one of their favourite animated films and settled them down either side of me on the sofa, glad of the diversion from any further questioning about New York. I closed my eyes and felt myself drifting off to sleep, my arms full of happiness, my head jumbled and confused.
‘You just rest here, my love,’ Olivia Finch whispered in my ear, ‘I’m here to look after you now. You don’t have to worry about a thing.’
I jolted upright, not knowing whether I was at home in London, still in New York, or had died and was languishing in purgatory. As my eyes focused on the TV screen, I saw a white rabbit tending to a bruised and bloodied badger, tenderly placing a damp spotted handkerchief across its brow.
‘That’s right,’ said the rabbit in Olivia Finch’s unmistakeable soft Southern drawl, ‘I’ll look after you now, my brave, brave fellow.’
I was late into work that morning, using the excuse that, after my arduous journey, I needed a little longer to wake up and get myself ready. My desk in those days was in the open-plan part of the office, right next to the small refreshments area with its coffee machine and kettle and brightly coloured tables and chairs where we were supposed to go to be creative but which were rarely used. Although I was entitled to my own small office I had chosen to stay out in the open. I enjoyed the buzz of other people’s conversations, feeling part of the crowd rather than separated off like a manager. It could be distracting at times, especially when a gang assembled for a chat over their cappuccinos, but that was preferable to the oppressive solitude of four glass walls and a standard- issue pot plant.
Bennett, of course, had the Full Executive Monty: large oak desk with leather swivel chair and two designer armchairs for visitors. An enormous TV dominated one corner of the room, on which he was supposed to keep an eye on the world’s stock markets but which was usually tuned to wherever in the world cricket was being played that day. I looked through the open door as I walked past on the way to my own desk. The office was empty but it was clear from the mess of papers and the Styrofoam coffee cup on his desk that he was already in and hard at work. A high flyer like Bennett would never let a little jetlag disrupt his busy schedule.
I took off my jacket and hung it over the back of my chair as I looked at my almost completely empty desk, girding myself for the challenges of the day ahead. My assistant, Polly, had a habit of tidying my desk whenever I went away, meaning that for several days after my return I had no idea where anything was. I heard the click-clack of her shoes on the wooden floor as she approached and, at that precise moment, realised that, distracted as I’d been, I’d forgotten to bring her anything back from New York. It was an unwritten rule that we always bought our assistants a little something to thank them for organising the trip. I shared Polly with two other guys and we competed to outdo each other with our presents – a box of Statue of Liberty-shaped chocolates just wouldn’t cut it anymore, though none of us had yet reached the levels of excess that Bennett displayed when buying presents for his assistant, Amanda. Then again, none of us claimed our gifts back on expenses either.
‘Hiya, Polly,’ I said cheerily, ‘how’s things? Wait till you see what I’ve brought you back from the States.’ I was pretty excited myself about what it was and where the hell it was going to come from. ‘You’ll love it,’ I hoped.
‘Oh, you shouldn’t have, Joe,’ Polly replied in that curious accent that meant she could have grown up anywhere south of a line drawn across the M1 at Newport Pagnell, and east of Swindon. ‘Did you see what Bennett bought Amanda? Latest fuck-off DKNY watch – she’s been flashing it around to everyone. Looks very expensive. I hope you haven’t gone to that much trouble for me.’ Polly smiled. She, along with almost everyone else in the company, knew that Bennett’s relationship with Amanda was more than purely secretarial. ‘So, how was the trip?’
‘Oh, you know,’ I replied. ‘Same old, same old.’
‘And how was the film? And the party? Meet any stars?’
‘Oh, you know, the party was pretty good – a lot better than the movie – but mainly it was just, you know, boring meetings.’ Whenever I spoke to Polly, I seemed to take on the personality and speech patterns of a Second Division football manager.
‘And how was Benny Boy?’ Polly asked.
‘That’s Mr Bennett to you, Ms Nash,’ I said in mock indignation, ‘and, you know, he was the same old, same old …’ I left her to fill in the blanks as she saw fit.
Polly placed a small pile of neatly ordered paperwork in my empty in-tray and walked back to her desk. I switched on my computer and waited for it to splutter into life, drumming my fingers impatiently as it ate up eight, nine or even ten seconds of my precious time before springing into life, and then I checked my e-mails.
I had dealt with most of my electronic correspondence while I was away, so my virtual in-tray wasn’t much fuller than its physical cousin. Most of the backlog of messages was rubbish I hadn’t bothered to open while I was in New York which could now be deleted without another look. I’d just finished wading through all this junk when I heard the familiar ping of incoming mail and scrolled back up to the top of my in-tray to greet the welcome intrusion.
The message was from Bennett. He was one of those modern managers who rarely bothered to make the short journey from his office to my desk, opting instead for the convenience of the impersonal e-mail. The title caught my attention:
From: Joseph Bennett
To: Joseph West
FW: WHAT THE HELL’S GOING ON?
Hey, West, take a look at this. Even madder than before! It’s not from her e-mail address, so I’m pretty sure it must be one of the studio guys having a pop at me.
What do you reckon I should do? I think they’ve gone a bit far now, don’t you? Isn’t there a law against pretending to be someone you’re not? Drop in and see me when you get a chance. I’ll be here all morning catching up on all the crap.
Joseph A. Bennett
Head of Entertainment and Media Division
Then came the apparently deranged ramblings of a Hollywood superstar:
From: [email protected]
WHAT THE HELL’S GOING ON?
Please tell me what’s going on. We had such an amazing time in New York – I swear I have never laughed as much as I did that night doing what we were doing! Seeing you stripped down to just those crazy socks set me off and after that I just couldn’t stop giggling! Believe