Trophy Life (10 page)

It took an effort of epic proportions for Amy not to roll her eyes at this comment, but then she chided herself. She knew how much Harry hated her making jokes about people from the firm. He always said it made it hard for him to look at them later. She tried to steer the conversation in a different direction.

'I just wish Lucy would finally settle down. She’s done all this work to make herself look good, but doesn’t seem to want to meet anyone. Maybe I’ll have a chat with her,' she mused.

Now finally in bed, Harry said more gently, 'I’m sure she’ll meet someone. I don’t think we need to worry about her.'

But, as she rolled over to turn off her beside light, Amy made a mental note to say something to her friend.

***

The next morning, Amy was desperately calling catering companies for Saturday night. Nobody was willing to help at this late stage. One woman had actually laughed down the phone when she had told her the date. Another had informed her in clipped tones that, 'Even Waitrose require five working days and that’s for sandwiches.'

Amy felt her pulse starting to race. She simple couldn’t imagine trying to put this all together by herself in the next two days and there seemed to be a decreasing number of options at her disposal. She was looking around the room despondently wondering if she could pass off a Chinese takeaway as her own work when her glance alighted on the papers for the Society dinner. At the top was the brochure for Guillermo Guillermo Catering.

Before she could over analyse or start questioning her decision, she heard his voice down the line.

'I need your help,' she blurted and told him about the dinner.

'Meet me in an hour at the Electric Diner, Portobello Road,' Freddie said decisively.

Once they were seated in a plush booth, Amy leaned forward, waiting for him to start making suggestions, to ask her questions or for at least a semblance of urgency. Instead, he was casually perusing the menu and when the waitress came and ordered a Coke, a cheeseburger and sides.

'Come on,' he urged, 'You must be hungry, and I love this place.' Completely focussed on the food she needed for Saturday and not on her currently rumbling stomach, she simply asked for the same as him and waited for the waitress to saunter away.

'Well, can you help me?' she asked, not caring that her desperation was clearly evident in her voice.

He grinned. 'Of course I can, don’t worry about it. You said six people right?'

'Eight!' she practically shouted. 'But will it have a wow factor? Because Harry is up for partner and everything he does – or I do – is important at the moment.'

'Seriously, don’t worry. Tell me what else has been going on.' He was sitting back in his seat, eyes playfully watching her. His relaxed attitude had always seemed charming, but right now it was infuriating.

'First you tell me what you can do. Can you manage three courses? And wine? What about coffees and things? How will it all be delivered?'

He paused for an interminable time, seemingly studying her face before sitting up and leaning forward on the table. When he spoke, the sound contrasted her own shrill voice with calm and control.

'I was thinking about a Japanese themed evening. A friend of mine is a sushi chef and owes me one. I’ve already confirmed he can prepare everything. He thought you could start with black cod in a Miso sauce followed by a selection of sushi and sashimi prepared at your home. As a desert, we can offer a fruit platter alongside individual chocolate soufflés. Of course there’s a wine to complement every course as well as sake and if you need dinnerware, that’s not a problem, we’ll provide everything from chop sticks to coffee cups.' He leaned back, a triumphant grin spread across his face.

'Now, tell me, what else have you been up to?'

While he had been talking their drinks had arrived and his amused smile was visible even as he took a sip of his.

'You’re really good at this, aren’t you?' Amy asked, impressed. 'That sounds incredible. I don’t know what to say, thank you.'

'Don’t sound so surprised,' he chided her jokingly. 'I didn’t get this job because of my staggering good looks.' Amy could feel herself blush at the mention of his looks.

'More like in spite of them then I suppose?' she parried, surprised at how quickly they fell back into their old banter. 'Actually, I still have no idea what we’ll be doing for the Society dinner and there’s a lot of pressure. Andrea won’t forgive me if it goes wrong and you’re right. I want to raise money for The Children’s Fund.'

'Look,' he began. 'I’ve got some ideas and they’re quite similar to a wedding that’s happening on Sunday. If the dinner on Saturday isn’t a complete flop and you don’t lose every ounce of respect for me, come with me and I can show you some options.'

'Won’t the bride and groom mind me gate crashing their do?'

'There will be four hundred guests and anyway, you’ll be with the staff Lady Split-A-Lot. One of the serfs,' he joked.

She mock gasped and they laughed.

'Ok, it’s a deal.'

When Amy said goodbye to Freddie, she found that she was smiling as she walked to her car and replaying the meeting, everything she had said. She was even analysing the things he had said and done. Had he meant to brush past her hand when reaching for his drink? She recalled how he had laughed at a comment she had made. It took her right back to something he had told her all those years ago.

'I’m funnier when I’m with you,' he had mused one day as she was driving them on a shopping trip. She had taken to giving him lifts for various errands as he didn’t have a car and she did. The words had caused warmth to surge through her, finally finding an outlet at her cheeks where she was sure she felt a blush.

Amy shook her head, as if trying to set the memory free. To shake it so hard it fell out of her head and her mind. This had to stop.

Chapter 8

Amy wondered what it said about her life that, at 23, she was on the phone to her mother for the second time in a day and it was only 10am. Not just that, but she had seen her mother at breakfast that morning before she had gone to work.

Living at home, in the last days of her training contract and without a job to go to at the end of it. Hardly the hallmarks of success.

Indeed, Amy had just a week left of her training contract at Drakers. They hadn’t, as she had expected, fired her after the disastrous Hijinx fiasco. They hadn’t wanted the bad publicity. And in any event, the review of the situation had concluded that she should have been better supervised. They had never found the note that Jackie had written that morning with the account details. Never proved whether it was that note or Amy’s fault that the account number had been provided incorrectly and the deal lost. It almost didn’t matter by the end. It was Jackie’s word against hers and Jackie was considered more reliable. 

Nevertheless, it was considered bad form to evict a trainee mid-contract unless they had done something spectacularly, deliberately malicious. Added to that the fact that several firms in the City had recently been the subject of successful unfair dismissal claims and Amy found herself still in a job. Just.

However, within the firm she was widely considered a pariah and was thus shunted to and fro between departments like a potato of lava-like temperature. She was never given responsibility for anything more onerous than making coffees or copies and even then people would sip with the care and suspicion of a medieval king whose taster was on annual leave.

For her part, Amy was happy to be left mostly to her own devices. Deflated and completely lacking confidence after the whole debacle, she had wanted to leave, but her parents had given her no choice.

'What else are you going to do?' they had asked; a question to which she didn’t have an immediate answer. 'Are you going to waste a law degree, law school and a year training all for the sake of one more year in a slightly awkward work environment? We thought you were smarter than that.' And she could see their point. If she left without her qualification, it would be a waste. A qualification as a solicitor was something she would always have and it was just a year. It was just that every day of that year since had felt like a lifetime. One of perpetual humiliation, boredom and fear.

She couldn’t wait for this week to be over and to finally be free. Not to have to walk those glass corridors anymore. But, with this relief came the reality that she had nowhere to go.

Seven trainees in her year had been offered jobs at the firm. One had a job at a rival firm and another was still to make a decision, having been made three offers. The last trainee besides herself – Graham - had joined a commune in Peru, but that was a completely different story and one on which Amy was still unclear. Apparently he had simply cracked under the pressure.

Despite applying for several jobs, Amy had been made no such offers. The firm had managed to keep the story away from the national press thanks to a hefty pay out to the Hijinxes and some clever PR, but the incident was an open secret in the upper echelons of the legal world. Other firms knew a trainee had been involved and didn’t want to take even the smallest chance of hiring the culprit. As such she was solicitor non grata. Not that she had wanted a job as a lawyer, but her mother had insisted she try. Her mum had even phoned round herself, trying everything from mild intimidation to friendly favour swapping and finally begging to get her a place in a firm, but to no avail. Amy felt sick at the thought of it.

Now, over the line, her mum was admitting defeat, something she had never heard her do.

'We’ll have to find something else,' she barked. Her mother always turned brusque when she was nervous. 'Ideas?'

Slumped on the sofa at her parents’ house, Amy was absent-mindedly flicking through the free local newspaper with its stories about local burglaries and charity events. She thought about how she had wanted to become a journalist. Was this her chance?

'Mum, let me get back to you.' As she put the phone down, she googled the phrase 'Journalism internships London'. To her surprise almost 500,000 entries came up, many of them listing some of the biggest names in the news industry. As she read, she started to feel excited. Could she really fulfil her long-time dream of writing? Why not? It was out there for anyone to apply and, as a former editor of her university paper surely she was more than qualified.

That afternoon, she downloaded several application forms and researched her options, in the end choosing five places to which to apply. Her mother was circumspect, cautious.

'Are you sure you want to start at the bottom like this again?'

'What choice do I have? I really want to try and I think this is the only way.'

'Ok, well, can I suggest you go and speak to Miriam?' she asked, naming an old friend of hers. 'She writes a blog and used to be a journalist. She might have some good tips.'

Amy wasn’t sure. Miriam with her chain smoking and dull expression had always made her nervous, but her mum had a point. It was a good idea to talk to someone who had been in the industry. She arranged to meet her at Miriam’s house, a maisonette in Notting Hill. She carried with her all of her completed application forms and samples of her work, eager to get an expert view of them.

Miriam’s house was located in a quiet set of mews off one of Notting Hill’s most fashionable streets. It was certainly an exclusive and fashionable address befitting a thrusting journalist. Although this was perhaps more due to Miriam’s husband’s job in the City rather than her own work.

Amy rang the bell and waited. A dog yapped as she did so. Having not seen Miriam in a long time, Amy had to stop herself from recoiling from the vision that greeted her as the door opened.

Miriam had never been beautiful, with a large nose and pinched pale features with eyes that were so sunken they seemed to be drowning into quick sand, but she had, presumably with the help of a surgeon, become a somewhat stretched version of herself. Perhaps what Dali would have drawn if asked to paint a portrait of Miriam in her thirties. A small Pug dog was yapping angrily at her feet.

'Amy,' she said smilingly in her drawling nasal tone. 'Gigi! Heal,' Miriam snapped before the smile returned to her face. 'Come in.'

She led Amy through a hall filled with large prints of Miriam in various glamorous locations as well as canvases showing her dog, Gigi, who was padding along beside her. They went to sit on a cow print sofa in a jarringly glossy white living room. As they sat down, Miriam lit a long slim cigarette.

It soon became clear that Miriam was more than happy to unburden herself of all the possible information she had about the world of journalism and anything else in fact so long as she could listen to the sound of her own voice.

'So, I understand you want to become a journalist.' Miriam blew out a plume of smoke. 'My own blog – Pooches' Paradise – is a travel guide for small dogs. Gigi here is very discerning when it comes to thread count for example and simply won’t stay anywhere that doesn’t have a doggy masseur. You have to find an angle you see. Angles are very important.'

'You worked for a newspaper before, didn’t you?' Amy interrupted, hoping to gain some insider information outside the world of canine bloggery.

'Yes,
The Mirror
,' Miriam’s smile revealed some seriously bleached, seriously pointy teeth. 'Fascinating world, just fascinating.'

'Any advice on how to get started?' Amy asked. She started pulling out her applications for internships. 'I was hoping maybe to get an internship?' She proffered the forms.

'Oh do you know someone at
CNN
?' Miriam asked brightly, looking at the name of the company emblazoned on the top form.

'Well, no, but-,'

'Were you at Oxbridge?' she barrelled on.

'Birmingham, but I edited the university paper.'

'Who didn’t?' Miriam’s tone was world weary. 'Where’s your USP?' She asked. When Amy looked confused, Miriam went on. 'Hundreds of graduates just like you apply for these things. Graduates with firsts from Oxford or an uncle in the news production team or seven languages. By all means apply, but I wouldn’t get your hopes up if you know what I mean.'

'How did you get your start?' Amy asked. Hope wasn’t lost.

'My first husband,' Miriam said deadpan, 'He was the editor.' She looked at Amy for a second. 'That is another option for a pretty little thing like you. Sleeping your way to the top. Go for it.'

Amy practically choked on her coffee. 'I don’t think I-,'

'Oh Amy,' Miriam sighed. 'You’ll never get anywhere if you’re that squeamish.'

By the end of her meeting with Miriam, Amy’s optimism and hope had, to say the least, gone up in smoke. Was Miriam right? Was journalism a nest of nepotism? She refused to bow down and just accept this. As soon as she got home, she posted her applications with a grim determination. She would prove Miriam wrong.

The next morning brought with it a sense of optimism and wellbeing. She had sent off her applications and could now relax and wait for the replies. The ball was well and truly in someone else’s court. She felt this gave her licence to enjoy herself. To relax. Best to have a good time before she was sucked into the high pressure, thrusting world of journalism.

Amy made herself a coffee and sat down with the paper and the
BBC News
morning show in the background. She was just floating into a daydream about how she could be one of those researchers busily tapping away at their computers behind Sian and Bill when she heard the post clatter through the letter box. Usually she would have left it there, telling herself that she would get it later and in fact leaving it for her mum to pick up when she returned home from work. But today she was feeling particularly proactive. Bouncing up from her seat she cheerfully and purposefully strode to the front door. A scattered pile of white and brown envelopes mingled with leaflets for takeaways and local builders at the foot of her parents’ imposing white door.

Before she had even leaned over to pick them up, she saw her name on two of the envelopes: '
Amy Harris'
. Both were white, small and didn’t have any of the tell-tale marks of a circular or invitation to take up a new credit card. Brimming with curiosity, Amy sat on the floor and tore at the first one, just managing not to rip the paper inside. As she began to read, her smile disintegrated.

'Dear Ms Harris

Further to your recent application for the above mentioned post, I regret to inform you that on this occasion you have not been shortlisted for interview.

Thank you for the interest you have shown in the above post and we wish you success in your future endeavours.'

Stunned, Amy only realised she was slack jawed when she finally closed her mouth with a clash of her teeth. How was this even possible? She had only emailed the forms yesterday. This belied the rules of postage, of time, of gravity. How on earth had they managed to receive, review and reject her application so fast?

Opening the second envelope, this time more in dread than curiosity, she found a virtually identical missive. She sat rooted to the spot on the hallway floor, staring at the replies. She still had three more places to hear from, but judging by this she didn’t stand a chance. What if they all rejected her? Yet Amy consoled herself. Her sister always told her off for being too pessimistic. There were bound to be some rejections after all. She would wait before writing off her whole career.

She didn’t have to wait for long.

A further rejection was sitting patiently in her email inbox when she logged in and another arrived just a day later. She gave up on the last place when she hadn’t heard back in over a fortnight. She supposed she wasn’t even worth them bothering to reject her when everyone else had done such an outstanding job of doing so.

'You’ve only applied to five places? You need to try at least twenty before you give up,' her sister assured her. Meanwhile her mother wasn’t as supportive.

'Journalism is a very competitive field,' she had said without looking up from reading a brief for work. 'Perhaps you should try something a bit more… realistic.' Yet when Amy had asked her to name a viable alternative, her mother had been lost for words.  

Should she go back to university and retrain? That felt like a very long route and one that would leave her reliant on her parents for a good few years to come. She thought of her sister and the fact that she was already married with two children. She may not work, but she was out of the house and not a burden on their parents.

Amy steeled herself. She would just have to keep applying. To keep going. Her sister was right. Five applications was nothing. She went to the office where the computer buzzed its greeting and sat down at her father’s large leather chair. As the screen lit her face, she began searching for internships in the media. She then widened her search to production companies and news sites. She took down all of the details and made up a spreadsheet of places to which she would apply. A new buzz of resilience coursed through her. She would do this. She would not give up.