apart, and it won’t just be you that’s out of a job. We’ll all be out on the streets!’
So no pressure then.
Remembering, Clara put her head in her hands. ‘There must be some way of persuading Simon to take part. He won’t talk on the phone or respond to emails … I need to talk to him face to face. But how?’
‘Can’t you get contrive to bump into him at a party?’ Ted suggested.
Clara lifted her head to jab a finger at the screen. ‘Does he look like a party animal to you? He doesn’t do anything but work, as far as I can see. They even do those interviews in his office, so I can’t even throw myself at him in the lift at the BBC.’
‘He must go home some time. Hang around outside his office and then follow him.’
‘Excellent idea. I could get myself arrested as a stalker. Although it might come to that. Anyway, he drives to work. It’s very un-ecological of him,’ said Clara disapprovingly.
They brooded on the problem for a while. Ted took the other chair and spun thoughtfully round and round, while Clara Googled in a desultory fashion.
‘We could send a surprise cake to the office,’ Ted suggested at last.
‘And I could deliver it.’ Clara paused with her fingers on the keyboard and considered the idea, her head on one side. ‘I’d be lucky to get past reception, though.’
‘I was thinking more of you jumping out of it,’ said Ted, and she flattened her eyes at him.
‘Oh, yes, he’s bound to take me seriously if I jump out of a cake! Why don’t I turn myself into a call girl and be done with it? And don’t even think about mentioning that idea to Roland!’ she warned, spotting the speculative gleam in Ted’s eyes. ‘He’ll just make me do it.’
She turned back to the computer. ‘Shame he doesn’t appear to have any children. I could inveigle my way in as a governess and charm him into agreeing with my heart-warming song and dance routines.’
‘You’d be better off pretending that you’re setting up a weaving cooperative somewhere in the Third World,’ said Ted, who was used to Clara drifting into Sound of Music fantasies. ‘He’s very hot on credit systems for small organisations that are struggling.’
‘We’re a small organisation that’s struggling,’ Clara pointed out. ‘Or we will be if he doesn’t agree to take part!’ She scrolled down the screen, looking for something, anything, that might help her. ‘Pity he isn’t hotter on self-promotion, but it’s always the same story. It’s about the projects, not about him—oh …’
Ted sat up straighter as she broke off. ‘What?’
‘It says here that Simon Valentine is giving a lecture at the International Institute for Trade and Developing Economies tomorrow night.’ Clara’s eyes skimmed over the announcement. ‘There’s bound to be drinks or something afterwards. If I can blag my way in, I might be able to corner him for a while. I’d have to miss my Zumba class, mind.’
‘Better than losing your job.’ Ted sprang up, newly invigorated. ‘It’s a brilliant idea, Clara. Wear your shortest skirt and show off your legs. Times are too desperate to be PC.’
Clara sniffed. ‘I thought I’d dazzle him with my intellect,’ she said, and Ted grinned as he patted her on the shoulder.
‘I’d stick to my legs if I were you. I think they’re more likely to impress Simon Valentine.’
Clara tugged surreptitiously at her skirt. She wished now that she had worn something a little more demure. Surrounded by a sea of suits in varying shades of black and grey, she felt like a streetlamp left on during the day in a fuchsia-pink mini-dress and purple suede killer heels. The other members of the audience had eyed her askance as she edged along the row and collapsed into a spare seat at the back of the room. On one side of her a brisk-looking woman in a daringly beige trouser suit bristled with disapproval. On the other, a corpulent executive leered at her legs until Simon Valentine began to speak.
There had been no problem about talking her way in without a ticket—Clara suspected the mini-dress had helped there, at least—but once inside it was clear that she was totally out of place. She fixed her attention on Simon, who was standing behind a lectern and explaining some complicated-looking PowerPoint presentation in a crisp, erudite way that appeared to have the audience absorbed.
It was all way over Clara’s head. She recognised the odd word, but that was about it. Every now and then a ripple of laughter passed over the room, although Clara had no idea what had been so funny. She picked up the occasional word: percentages and forecasts, public sector debt and private equity. Something called quantitative easing.
Hilarious.
Abandoning her attempt to follow the lecture, Clara planned her strategy for afterwards instead. Somehow she would have to manoeuvre him into a quiet corner and dazzle him with her wit and charm before casually slipping the programme into the conversation.
Or she could go with Ted’s suggestion and flash her legs at him.
Clara wasn’t mad about that idea. On the other hand, it might be more effective than relying on wit and charm, and it would be worth it if she could stroll into the office the next day. Oh, yeah, she would say casually to Roland. Simon’s on board.
Roland would be over the moon. He would offer her an assistant producer role straight away, and then, after a few thought-provoking documentaries, she could make the move into drama. Clara hugged the thought to herself. She would spend the rest of her career making spell-binding programmes and everyone would take her seriously at last.
A storm of applause woke Clara out of her dream.
OK, maybe an entire high-flying career was a lot to get out of one conversation, but she was an optimist. Climb every mountain, and all that. It could happen and, at the very least, convincing Simon Valentine to take part would save her job and mean that Ted could stay in his flat.
There was the usual scrum to get out of the room to the drinks reception afterwards. The International Institute for Trade and Developing Economies was as stuffy as its name suggested. It was an imposing enough building, if you liked that kind of thing, with elaborately carved plaster ceilings, portraits of stern Edwardian economists lining the walls, and a grand staircase that Clara longed to dance down. It was just begging for a sparkly dress and a Ginger Rogers impersonation.
The reception was held in the library and by the time Clara got in there the glittering chandeliers were ringing with the rising babble of conversation. Grabbing a glass of white wine, she skulked around the edges of the crowd, trying to look as if she understood what everyone was talking about. She recognized several famous journalists and politicians, and the air was thick with talk of monetary policy frameworks, asset bubbles and exchange rate policies.
Oh, dear, if only she was a bit more knowledgeable. She would never be able to dazzle Simon Valentine at this rate. Clara was careful to avoid eye contact with anyone in case they asked her what she thought about the credit crisis or interest rate cuts. She didn’t want to be exposed as the imposter that she was.
The atmosphere was so intimidating that Clara was tempted to turn tail and go home before she was outed as utterly ignorant, but this might be her only chance to talk to Simon Valentine face to face. She couldn’t go until she had at least tried. It would be too shaming to go into work the next day and admit that she’d lost her nerve.
Humming under her breath to bolster her confidence, Clara scanned the crowds for her quarry and spotted him at last, looking so austere in a grey suit that everyone else seemed positively jolly in comparison. Several women in monochrome suits of various shades were clustered around him, nodding fervently at everything he said. Those must be his groupies, thought Clara disparagingly, unable to see what it was about Simon Valentine that made obviously intelligent women fawn over him.
Not that he seemed to be enjoying the experience,