The Year of Taking Chances (31 page)

‘Can I have a word please, Saffron?
In my office.’
Charlotte’s voice was so icy it practically etched a pattern of frost across the agency windowpanes.

‘Sure,’ Saffron replied, sweat beading between her shoulder blades.
She put an arm self-consciously across her stomach as she walked across the room.
This didn’t bode well.
Had
Charlotte guessed her secret?
It was a distinct possibility.
Now fifteen weeks pregnant, Saffron was bulging in a way that even the loosest, swingiest tunic tops and blouses couldn’t hide.
But until she had the amnio next week and knew what the future held, she didn’t want to start discussing her condition with her unsympathetic boss.
It was hard enough to get through each day
while the test was hanging over her, let alone have to confide in someone who had all the bedside manner of a viper.

Legally, she cannot sack you for being pregnant,
she reminded herself, taking a deep breath.
Don’t let her push you around.

Charlotte’s office was like a boutique hotel in miniature, with soft lighting, dark textured walls, a huge vase of fragrant white lilies, a leather sofa and a wall of inspirational quotes
in different fonts:

Whenever she saw this wall, Saffron always had the urge to add in some of her own favourite quotes in marker pen, but so far hadn’t quite dared.
IF AT FIRST YOU DON’T SUCCEED, GIN
AND CHOCOLATE’S WHAT YOU NEED.

Maybe not.

‘Have a seat.’
Charlotte waved a hand at the leather sofa and Saffron sat, assuming her boss would join her at the other end.
Instead, Charlotte walked around behind her desk so that
however high Saffron tried to pull herself up, her boss was still a good foot higher.
No doubt this was intentional.
‘So.’
Charlotte steepled her fingers together and gave Saffron an
inscrutable look.
‘You’ve been working hard lately.’

‘Yes,’ Saffron replied guardedly.
‘Yes, I have.’

‘Your phone’s been ringing a lot.
I’ve seen you typing frenziedly over at your desk.’

Saffron had the uneasy feeling she was walking into a trap.
‘Yes,’ she said again.

‘Yet when I took the liberty of checking through the system, I couldn’t find any evidence of what you’ve been doing.’
Her voice was silky smooth.
‘Very few emails
sent from the company account.
Very little saved to the hard drive, in terms of press releases or strategy plans.’
Her pastel-pink lips twitched as if she was dying to smirk at her own
cleverness.
‘Perhaps you can tell me exactly what you
have
been doing lately?’

Saffron quailed.
What she’d been doing, of course, was running around trying to help Gemma with her PR, but she couldn’t fess up as much to Charlotte.
‘Well .
.
.
’

‘You mentioned something about a new client.
Have we signed this person up to our books?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘But I trust you are in the process of drawing up a contract and agreeing terms?’

Saffron faltered, lowering her gaze.
‘N-not yet.’

Triumph flickered across Charlotte’s face and her smile became steely.
Time seemed to elongate as she held Saffron’s gaze, a fox eyeing a rabbit.
‘Make sure you get a contract
out to this client today then, and start billing them at once.
I’ll expect to see the paperwork very soon.
Yes?’

‘Yes,’ mumbled Saffron.
The fox had pounced, jaws open.

Coming home that night from work, Saffron felt utterly fed up.
Of the slow-moving crush of people dawdling through Soho and getting underfoot.
Of the black cab that veered
towards the pavement, sending a spray of muddy water fountaining over her from a kerbside puddle.
Of the man eating a smelly burger and chips next to her on the Tube, the random nutter yelling
expletives in the opposite seat, the teenage girls sassing the guy on the ticket barriers who was old enough to be their grandad.
She was tired of worrying incessantly about the baby and how she
would cope, of what would be revealed at the amnio and how it would make her feel.

Most of all she was ground down by Charlotte, peering over her shoulder and checking up on her work as if she were a two-year-old who needed constant supervision.
Yes, okay, so she
had
been spending quite a lot of time recently on matters that were not strictly company business – but give her a break!
After all the shite she’d put up with from Bunty and all the Z-list
celebrity clients on her books, any other boss would have cut her a large length of slack and turned a blind eye when she wanted to do a favour for a friend.

Not Charlotte, though.
As if.
And they both knew she’d be as good as her word when it came to following up on her coded ultimatum: show me the contract, or face the music.
What should
Saffron do?

The answer came to her as she was slotting the key into her front door:
Leave.
Quit.
Get out before she chucks you out.

Saffron was not by nature a quitter.
She had always been a grafter, slogging through revision for exams, taking her driving test three times rather than admitting defeat, doggedly sticking out
awful temp jobs in the hope of being noticed by the powers-that-be in HR; and, since working at Phoenix, sucking it up when it came to self-obsessed clients, all in the name of being professional.
She’d even hung on to her marriage until it was obvious, even to a complete stranger, that the relationship was in its death-throes.
She had never quit anything in her life.
But this time .
.
.

She wandered up the stairs to her flat, undeniably tempted by the prospect of sticking up two fingers at Charlotte.
Just imagine the glee, the sheer up-yours joy.
She’d have dignity and
freedom again, a new source of self-respect.
Unfortunately, dignity and freedom didn’t pay the rent, did they?
Nor did they cover a maternity leave.

Tipping half a carton of tomato soup into a pan, Saffron lit the gas ring, still thinking.
Her job had been a millstone rather than a joy for some time now.
When had she last leapt out of bed,
eager to get to her desk and start work?
She couldn’t remember the last project for which she’d felt genuine enthusiasm, the last client for whom she’d really rooted.
Well, apart
from Gemma, of course, who wasn’t a real client at all.

She cut two thick wedges of granary bread and put them under the grill to toast, still mulling it over.
Her whim about quitting was becoming more appealing by the minute.
Why not?
She could do
it.
She had some rainy-day money stashed away in an account, enough to keep her going for a while if she was careful.

But .
.
.
hold on.
She wasn’t thinking clearly.
The baby wouldn’t be here for months yet.
She couldn’t blow all her money before she’d even given birth.
Anyway, what was
she going to do with herself all day long?
The thought of her phone going silent, her diary becoming a wasteland with no meetings or client lunches or product launches to juggle .
.
.
It felt alien
and frightening, scarily empty.
And there were actually some clients she would miss if she never saw them again.
Well, one anyway.
In a surprising kind of a way.

She buttered the toast, wondering what would become of Bunty if she left the agency.
Then she remembered how Bunty had shaken her head at the prospect of dealing with Charlotte.
‘But I
don’t like Charlotte,’ she had said in alarm.
‘She looks down her nose at me, like I’m not good enough for her.’

On impulse Saffron picked up her phone, forgetting all about her soup and toast as she dialled.
Sometimes you just had to take a chance in life, roll the dice and have a bit of faith.
‘Bunty?’
she said when her client answered.
‘It’s me.
Listen, I’ve had an idea .
.
.
’

The next morning as Saffron walked from the bus stop to the office she felt herself noticing everything about the journey and mentally wishing it goodbye.
Tourists clustered
around an A–Z, blocking the pavement .
.
.
farewell, you inconsiderate sods.
The X-rated ‘private bookshop’ from whose doors you occasionally saw red-faced men stumbling .
.
.
good riddance, dirty old bastards.
The lift that took forever to arrive and whose doors sometimes jammed unnervingly for a few seconds .
.
.
thank God I’m leaving you behind.
Kayla on
reception, slurping coffee out of her Benedict Cumberbatch mug .
.
.
Fifty-something David, with his wife and three children, who was known as ‘Shagger’ for his bad behaviour with
female clients .
.
.
Mel, who always stank of fags and had the hardest face of anyone Saffron had ever met .
.
.
Goodbye, all of you.
This is me, signing out, right here, right now.

In her office Charlotte was reading the
Daily Mail
online, dipping a hand absent-mindedly into the bag of watercress that was a permanent fixture on her desk.
(She was fooling no one with
her saintly display of health; they all knew she’d be tucking into a blood-oozing steak and chips later, washed down with red wine.)

‘You’re doing
what
?’
she yelped, when Saffron coolly delivered her news.
Charlotte swung round abruptly on her chair, nostrils flaring like a spooked horse.

‘I’m leaving,’ Saffron repeated, a wild dancing feeling starting up inside.
She stood there – higher than Charlotte now, having decided not to sit on the leather sofa
this time – and felt a thrill of satisfaction as she looked down on her boss.
How she’d dreamed about this, never once imagining she’d actually have the guts to go through with
it.
‘I’ve decided to go freelance and move out of London.’

One life-change after another.
It made sense for practical reasons, though.
Eloise had been right – the flat was too small for an extra person, however tiny they might be for the first
year.
And renting any place outside London would be about a million times cheaper.
But the decision wasn’t purely a sensible one – it had come from her heart, too.
She had been yearning
for wide skies and fresh air for months now.
London had long since lost its lustre.

‘But .
.
.
’ Charlotte’s eyes suddenly became slit-like.
‘You’re not taking any clients with you.
I absolutely forbid it.’

Saffron smiled.
Most of the agency clients she’d be more than happy never to see again.
‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ she replied politely.
‘But obviously if they
decide to come with me, that’s their choice.’

She decided not to let on just yet that she’d already spoken to Bunty, and Bunty had immediately agreed to become her first client.
Why pour petrol on the fire?

Charlotte glared at her with genuine dislike.
‘You’d better clear your desk and go,’ she said.
‘We’ll pay you until the end of the month, and you’re lucky to
be getting that much.
Just remember that your contacts book is the property of this agency.
I want it left on your desk, along with your smartphone and key-card.
No funny business.’