Girl on the Run (38 page)

The word ‘opportunity’ ignites my memory – and I recall the email to which he refers: the one with the PS that asked if my life was still
highly exciting
. That had been the only part I could concentrate on.

‘That web design and marketing firm we appointed,’ he continues.

‘Vermont Hamilton?’

He nods. ‘They’ve been a disaster.’

This doesn’t surprise me, but I resist the temptation to say so. ‘Really?’

‘You were right about their lack of experience. I don’t deal with them personally – that’s Jim Broadhurst’s job. But he’s fallen out with three of the account executives there. They sound like amateurs.’

‘Sorry to hear that,’ I say.

‘Well, don’t say you didn’t tell us so.’

I shrug. ‘Maybe when the contract’s up again in two years’ time I can re-tender.’

‘That’s the thing,’ he continues. ‘Look, this is confidential now, but Jim’s sacked them. It’s left us in a complete hole. There’s nobody looking after our online stuff at all at the moment, but there really wasn’t any other option.’

My mind starts whirring. ‘Are you going to re-tender?’

‘That’s what I wanted you to phone about. Our Marketing Department’s in limbo, procrastinating wildly while they decide what to do. If you were to get in front of them with another – better – proposal, I think you’d be in with a chance of stepping into the breach.’

‘But how? I mean, they’d know you’d been talking to me about Caro and Company’s internal problems and—’

‘Leave that to me,’ he says dismissively. ‘If I can get you a meeting with David and Jim this week, are you interested?’

My heart is pounding wildly as the implications of the opportunity start to sink in. ‘Yes,’ I bluster. ‘Bloody hell,
YES!
Tom, I think you might just be my fairy godmother!’

He laughs as the door to the café squeaks open.

‘You two can natter, can’t you? I finished my latte ages ago,’ complains Grandad, adjusting his hat.

‘We’re done now. Come on, I’ll walk you home, Grandad. So,’ adds Tom, turning to me, ‘it’s a yes, is it?’

‘Definitely,’ I manage, swollen with emotion.

‘Good. I’ll phone them this afternoon and give you a ring immediately afterwards.’

‘Come on, hurry up, boy.’ Grandad takes Tom’s arm. ‘I think I need to get you out of this cold.’

Tom looks at him in bewilderment. ‘Me? Why?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. You’ve got a funny
glow
about your cheeks,’ he says, flashing me an impish glance.

Tom texts me an hour later to say Jim Broadhurst will see me the following morning at ten. There’s no way I can muck things up: for the sake of my business, my staff, myself . . . and Tom. After he’s stuck his neck out for me, I simply can’t come across as if I have cottage cheese for brains like last time.

I go straight home, have a quick shower and fire up the laptop. Reading through my original pitch is a cringeworthy experience. Not because it’s irredeemably awful – in fact, fundamentally it’s pretty good. But five or six sections leap out, exposing the presentation as off-the-shelf and untailored to Caro & Co. They must have spotted it a mile off.

I spend the evening swotting up on the company: poring over their website, reading press articles and researching their competitors, acquisitions and target markets.

It is gone 2 a.m. before I retire to bed, convinced I won’t sleep, given the statistics somersaulting through my head. In fact, I drop off immediately, but it’s a shallow, disturbed sleep. My thoughts are all over the place: on my parents, my company, the presentation and . . . Tom. Again Tom. Despite the explosion of stress I’m under, my mind keeps wandering to the sweet taste of his breath as we almost kissed in the swimming pool.

I know it’s futile and I know it’s wrong. But the memory of that night is like a drug; an instant hit of pleasure, a guaranteed – albeit pointless – high.

I don’t know whether that’s one of the things keeping my nerves under control as I enter the offices of Caro & Co. at 9.50 the next morning, but I feel strangely calm.

Confidence isn’t fuelling this – I can’t even think about the outcome, only the here and now. Plus, if I stopped to consider the ramifications of failing today, I’d go to pieces. So I put them to the back of my mind and channel my thoughts into a single aim: I want to be so convincing, I could sell garlic to a vampire.

Jim Broadhurst doesn’t arrive until nearly ten past ten, by which time I can feel myself physically shaking. The only upside is that, without a skirt covered in filthy sausage fat, Dusty is completely unmoved by my presence.

‘Jim,’ I smile, holding out my hand as I watch it tremble. ‘How are you?’

‘Very well, Abby,’ he replies. ‘At least, I’d be better if I hadn’t endured all this hassle with our previous agency. I suppose Tom filled you in?’

I hesitate, unsure of an appropriate response given that this was supposed to be confidential. ‘Well, not really,’ I say. ‘He just said you wanted to revisit the original applications.’

‘Very diplomatic,’ he laughs. ‘Let me tell you what happened.’

Jim spends twenty minutes repeating the story Tom conveyed yesterday and I respond by oooh-ing, ahh-ing and tutting at appropriate moments as if this is news. By the end of the conversation, I’m starting to think I deserve a Golden Globe.

‘The upshot is, I need a new agency, which is why I wanted to see you today. It had been our intention to readvertise,’ he cautions. ‘None of the final three agencies short-listed blew us away – including you. No offence.’

‘None taken,’ I reply. ‘I know what I presented wasn’t up to scratch.’

‘Well, that’s what David and I felt,’ he concedes. ‘Tom tried to convince us that it was a temporary blip, but everyone else only got one stab, so we felt it was only fair to give you the same treatment.’

My eyes widen. ‘Tom tried to convince you to take me on? I thought you’d said your decision was unanimous?’

‘Did I?’ he shrugs, clearly not appreciating the new perspective this puts on everything. ‘Figure of speech. You’ve got a lot to thank Tom for. He might not have been successful in persuading us to take you on in the first place, but he’s been nagging David and me to reconsider since the trouble with the other agency began.’

‘Has he?’ I croak.

Jim nods. ‘So, I’d like you to give another presentation. I know the work that goes into these things, but I do think that if you’d agree to put something together . . .’

‘Yes,’ I interrupt. ‘Absolutely.’

He looks up. ‘You’d like to do another presentation?’

‘Yes,’ I say anxiously. ‘I already have – if you’d let me show you.’

‘What, now?’ He looks at his watch. ‘I’m pressed for time – can we arrange for the week after next?’

Panic sweeps through me. I can hardly tell him that the week after next, River Web Design won’t exist!

I lean forward. ‘It’ll only take ten minutes at most,’ I say urgently, wondering how I’m going to edit my twenty-minute presentation on the spot.

He squirms. Panic-stricken, I realise I’m starting to look like a woman who’d use handcuffs if I had some available.

He sits back in his seat with a ponderous look on his face.

‘When I heard you might be left without any web support, I thought time was of the essence,’ I ramble. ‘There’s no time like the present. Why beat around the bush. A bird in the house is worth three in the thrush . . . I mean four in the . . .’ Oh God!

‘Go on then,’ he concedes. ‘But no longer than ten minutes.’

By the time I leave the office half an hour later, I have entirely mixed feelings. It went well – I think. But I need to have done more than well. I need to have persuaded Jim Broadhurst not only that he needs to hire me, but that he needs to hire me NOW.

Even accounting for how thickly I laid on the argument that they shouldn’t be without web support for more than a week, companies can take months to make a decision like this.

I trudge across town, back to the office, dreading having to face my staff. They know things aren’t good after Diggles went bust, but they don’t appreciate
how
not good. I have my hand on the office door when the phone rings and rifle through my bag to answer.

‘Abby Rogers,’ I say.

‘Abby. Jim Broadhurst.’

My heart almost flips through the ceiling of my ribcage. This is quicker than I ever dared hope.

‘Yes?’ I say, my voice wobbling hysterically.

‘You left your scarf in my office.’

‘Oh.’ I close my eyes dejectedly.

‘But that wasn’t why I was phoning.’

‘Oh?’

‘I’ve made a decision about your proposal.’

When I meet Daniel after work it’s gone 9 p.m. All I really want is to go home and have a hot bath, but I’m aware that if I don’t make more of an effort to get it together, he might think I’m not interested. And I
am
interested.

‘Why on earth have you been at work until this hour?’ he smiles, kissing me on the cheek as I meet him at the bar. ‘I thought
I
was a workaholic.’

‘You know how sometimes you have to pull out all the stops for the sake of the business? It’s one of those times.’

‘Ah. Then you’ll want this.’ He thrusts a wine glass in my hand. ‘Preparing for a big pitch?’

‘No – that was today,’ I tell him. ‘Tomorrow I’ve got a meeting with the bank.’

‘I see. So when will you hear about your pitch?’

‘I already heard.’ I sip my wine.

He looks surprised. ‘And?’

‘And I won it.’

He shakes his head, laughing. ‘You’re
very
cool about it, I must say. When I started out, I’d run round the office like a lunatic every time I won some business. I’d be puffed out after a couple of seconds, mind you. You don’t get a belly like this for nothing.’ He rubs his very average – and very nice – stomach as I stifle my giggles.

‘Well, I’ve done a bit of running round,’ I confess. ‘But I’ve still got a couple of hurdles this week before I can relax.’

Clearly, I’m playing the situation down. The fact that I’m now in possession of a letter from Jim Broadhurst committing to a contract worth thousands of pounds from next month feels like a miracle. But we’re not out of the woods.

After the economy’s difficult past few years, banks still aren’t over-keen on lending extra money to businesses – including mine. While I know it isn’t going to be easy, it’s our last hope. And I’m determined to make it work.

I had warned Daniel this would only be a quick drink and, with tomorrow’s meeting playing on my mind, I’m true to my word. As he walks me to my car, I’m warmed by his presence. The sensation is nothing like the racing pulse I experience when thinking about Tom but I’m determined
not
to think about Tom.

Instead, I think about this lovely, funny, engaging guy. Who is single. Who I perhaps arrogantly but strongly suspect is mine if I want him.

We get to the car and when I open my door I turn to say goodbye. A whisper of uncertainty appears on his face as he looks into my eyes. It strikes me what a pleasant face he has: smooth-skinned and soft-featured. All of a sudden this confident, super-successful man has the air of someone much younger.

What I really feel like doing is giving him a kiss on the head and a hug, but instead I do what I know he wants. I lean forward slowly and kiss him on the lips.

Encouraged by my approach, he pulls me closer and I can sense his anxiety. Conversely, I don’t feel at all nervous – not in the slightest. Part of me wishes I did: that I could recreate the intense and desperate and magical feeling I get when Tom even looks at me. That doesn’t mean it’s not nice, because it is. It’s warm, comforting and sweet. It’s everything a kiss should be.

And Daniel is growing on me. By the minute.

Courtesy of the fact that Gary, my ‘Business Banking Manager’, fancies himself as a panellist on
Dragons’ De
n, the meeting is impossible to read.

Worse, it appears that the good old days, when a Bank Manager could make a decision there and then, are over; so Egor and I know that our efforts to persuade them to lend us more cash won’t be rewarded with an instantaneous yes or no.

We present the case together with as much conviction as possible – which in Egor’s case means stressing the fundamental soundness of my business and in my case means flirting exuberantly at any opportunity.

Without the Caro & Co. contract I’d have been sunk – of that there’s no doubt. And while Egor and I present our little hearts out, Gary aims to convey an air of mystery about our likelihood of success that’s unparalleled outside the inner sanctum of Opus Dei.

‘Well, I will have to consult with our Head Office before we make a decision,’ he smiles self-importantly as I stand to leave.

‘Oh, thank you, Gary!’ I gush, shaking his hand. ‘You don’t mind if I call you Gary, do you?’

‘Not at all,’ he grins. ‘Though I’m sure I said that at the start of the meeting.’

‘Did you?
Sorry
!’ Bloody pedant. ‘Do you know when we might hear?’

He sucks his teeth in the manner of those unscrupulous builders on ITV3. ‘Well, I’m on a staff training day on Friday, otherwise it’d be the end of the week. As it is, you’re probably looking at early next week. Though I have got a dental appointment first thing Monday. Root canal stuff. You wouldn’t
believe
how long it takes.’

I feel my blood run cold. ‘Any way someone else might be able to give me a ring?’ I smile brightly. ‘I’m
very
anxious to know what the decision will be, that’s all.’

‘I’ll see what I can do.’ He gives a protracted wink as if attempting to emulate Anne Robinson. ‘No promises though!’

So there we are. He’ll see what he can do. No promises.

Bloody
hell
.

As Egor and I cross Water Street, I turn to him numbly. ‘I’m in limbo.’

‘I know, Abby,’ He nods sympathetically. ‘I’m going to phone the Inland Revenue when I get back to the office to tell them that the bank have indicated that they’re very likely to extend your overdraft. Hopefully, they’ll give you a couple of days’ grace.’