Trophy Life (2 page)

Finally he located the file, by which time Amy was clutching the phone cord so tightly she had accidentally dug her nail into another finger, actually breaking the skin.

'We sent the money at 10.46am to account number 46457612.'

'Hold on, it’s supposed to be 7621 not 7612,' Amy said, referring to the notes in front of her.

'Well, we had it as 7612,' Brian intoned, still resolutely calm. 'It’s right here on the form.'

Amy had written that form. Amy had typed it out and taken it downstairs. She checked, looking for the saved file of the form on her computer and saw that the numbers were indeed transposed. Without thinking, she started moving papers around her desk, looking for the note Jackie had left her. She had copied the number from there. Was it possible Jackie had written it wrong? Part of her prayed for this, but despite her desperate scrabbling, she couldn’t find it.

Had she really made such a major error? So much had gone on that morning, yet this seemed unthinkable. But she had been in a rush. She had been inundated with requests and demands. There was no time to think about that now.

'What can we do?' she asked. She needed to sound in control. Jackie was now staring at her unblinkingly. Her face felt cold and her hands were well and truly shaking. 'We can get it back, right?'

They had managed to get it back, but not in time. The 2pm deadline had come and gone and the funds had yet to appear. In fact it took several hours, after much wrangling with the bank, by which time Nisha had confirmed that the deal was off. The land would be sold to the Templetons, an aristocratic family known for their shrewd investments.

The scenes that followed that day were not unlike what Amy imagined it would be like to be a real life participant in an Italian soap opera. Threats were issued, hands gesticulated wildly, tantrums were thrown, all seemingly in slow motion. Jackie had spoken to Finlay, the main property partner, who had shaken his head in disbelief and made them go through everything step by step. Amy and Jackie had turned the office upside down searching for Jackie’s original note, each determined to prove their innocence. When their search had proved futile, Jackie shrugged.

'This is what happens when you’re disorganised, Amy. You’ll just have to face the consequences.'

Amy had been present during the excruciating conference call between Jackie and the clients, in which Binky Hijinx had struggled to understand what had happened, while Kitty, the smarter of the two, had shrieked down the phone when she heard who had bought the land instead.

'Pugsy Templeton? Are you kidding me? We are never going to hear the end of this. How could you let this happen?' she barked.

'So no lovely flats?' Binky asked dazedly, seemingly still confused.

'No Bink, they’ve ball’sed up,' Kitty sighed impatiently. 'You listen here,' she said, clearly addressing Jackie again. 'This is not the end. We are going to sue you for every last penny.' 

Now, standing in the offices of Felicity Braithwaite, the chairman of the firm, Amy just wished she could fast forward. She knew where this was going to end. Certainly she would be fired, that was inevitable, that was bad enough. But right now it was the waiting that she found unbearable. She watched as, gradually, menacingly, the leather chair revolved to face them.

People imagine that any woman who has risen up the corporate ladder must be tough, must look tough. Maybe they picture a larger, stockier woman, or someone from the eighties with shoulder pads and bright red lipstick. Maybe just someone with a hard look in their eyes. But Felicity Braithwaite looked like a porcelain doll: fragile, small. Her designer suits were perfectly tailored, but they still seemed to swamp her. Yet, she had risen to the top to become not just a partner in a top firm, but its chairperson; something which had attracted endless speculation in the professional and national press and earned her the nickname,
'Feisty Fili'
. Stories had always circulated at the firm, legends some might say.

'Never look her in the eye,' one trainee had whispered during orientation drinks.

'I hear she’ll fire you just for giving her tea from a teabag instead of fresh,' another had added excitedly.

Looking at her now, Amy could see, just there under the surface, the hard glint in her eyes hinting at the ruthlessness which was said to have propelled her this far.

'I want to know who did this. Right now.'

Chapter 2

Rifling through her creamy leather bag with its silky interior, Amy could feel the world-weary eyes of the shop assistant assessing her. She was wondering how Amy, with her old Seven jeans and GAP jumper, could possibly be in possession of this season’s Saint Laurent must-have tote. And what was she doing buying a Victoria Beckham satchel worth at least ten times the value of her outfit?

Amy was almost tempted to tell her. She could simply point to the Victoria Beckham and say, 'this is a gift for my picky sister-in-law and this,' she’d continue, clutching her own oversized bag making sure not to betray any signs of mild hysteria, 'this was a gift from my husband’s mother as her way of telling me I don’t dress appropriately to fit into her family, but she would never say that so we all pretend he chose it!'. Yet even if she felt the need to unburden herself to this surly yet stunning 19-year old with impeccable nails and an obvious ambition to pose for
Vogue
, she was too distracted to do so because she simply couldn’t find her purse. Sifting through various detritus and random life furniture which she absent-mindedly threw into the unfortunate vessel on a regular basis, Amy promised herself that she would tidy it as soon as she got home. Just as she was about to give up, her hand grazed the familiar raised numbering of a credit card. She snapped it up and thrust it towards the girl with a triumphal
swoosh
.

'Can I get a gift receipt with that?' Amy had learnt her lesson. Even though Giselle had actually gone to the trouble of telling her what she wanted for her birthday, had shown her a picture of it on the Net-a-Porter website, she would have inevitably made some error that would mean it was unsuitable.  Of course, it had been sold out online, which was why Amy had found herself on Bond Street, entering the kind of boutiques she would otherwise avoid at all costs.

It wasn’t that Amy didn’t like designer clothes. Far from it. She loved the feel of the chunky knits she bought from Joseph, she walked a little straighter in her Jimmy Choo heels and she even enjoyed getting envious looks for her handbag. But she could never feel relaxed when she dressed in those clothes, could never feel like herself. It was almost like wearing a ball gown to the gym.

And when it came to actually buying designer clothes, she much preferred to do it online, far away from the stark surroundings of the immaculate shops and disdainful looks of beautiful assistants.

As she made her way home in her Audi Q7 - a car far too big for the narrow streets of Hampstead where she lived with Harry – her mind started its usual tick list. Present for Giselle, check. Next was her pilates lesson with her instructor, Gayle followed by her weekly hair and a nails appointment with some of the law firm wives in readiness for the weekend. Amy had a daily checklist which she ticked off both mentally and on her iPhone checklist app. There was nothing Amy loved more than checking off an item on her list. As she stopped at a traffic light on the vital North London vein that was the Finchley Road, Amy examined her plain beige nails. They didn’t actually need to be redone, but it was just what she did every Friday.

The media system in the car sprang to life with a ringing, indicating a phone call and pulling her away from thoughts of the navy blue polish her manicurist had suggested last week. Without looking at the caller ID, she clicked the answer button on her steering wheel, knowing exactly who it was without needing to check.

'Hi mum,' Amy said, her eyes fixed on the road.

'Where are you?' Her mum’s tone bore the note of suspicion that always accompanied this question, as if Amy was notorious for being in places she shouldn’t be, doing things she shouldn’t do. In fact, as an experienced corporate litigation barrister, her mother was perpetually and habitually suspicious. It wasn’t just part of her job, it was a vital component of who she was. This was in stark contrast to Amy’s father, a historian of jurisprudence whose book on the efficacy of the Molesworth Commission on Australian Transportation in the 16th century was considered one of the most important on the subject, if not the definitive tome. Professor Harris seemed to dodder through life serenely, taking time to pontificate not so much on the important matters of the day as the less urgent matters of yesteryear. Yet despite their contrasting personalities, there was no disputing the resilience and longevity of her parents’ marriage which, at 32 years and counting, was still going strong.  

'I just bought a present for Giselle’s birthday and I’m heading home. What about you?' Amy tried to pull the focus away from her, to deflect any further questions about her day.

'I’m in the office. Where else would I be?' Of course she was. As far back as Amy could remember, her parents had prided themselves on being borderline workaholics. It was a source of great disappointment to her mother in particular that both of her daughters had not shone in the careers department. Her older sister, Julia, was a devoted stay-at-home mother of three, a fact that led to the kind of arguments that ended with her mother asking in desperation, 'But what about using your mind, Julia? Surely a university graduate can’t be happy singing Incy Wincey Spider all day long? But what do I know? I just raised you both while holding down a full time job.' At that point Julia would roll her eyes like a sulky teen and return to feeding or clothing or cleaning someone or something.

'How’s dad?'

'Oh fine, yes. Writing a new thesis. And his roses are doing well apparently.' Her tone was softer now talking about her husband, fond, even indulgent. But then her manner switched, still loving, still caring, but definitely all business.

'What about you?' her mother asked. 'Are you thinking about going back to work?'

'Hmm? Oh yes, sure.' Amy had just pulled up outside her house and was shocked to find a parking space directly outside the door, a rarity in Hampstead, an area originally built for horses and carriages but now populated by giant SUVs.

'You know, at least Julia has children as an excuse for staying at home all day. What on earth do you do?' Amy could feel the conversation getting out of control. She had to reign it back in.

'Oh Mum, I’m just parking. Can I call you back?'

'I just wanted to know if you’d seen that piece on Harry in the
Daily Mail
?' The question was like a hand reaching to pull a falling person back from the brink of a cliff. This was typical of her mother. She strung out the conversation as long as she could and then when it looked like it was coming to an end she would open up an entirely new line of inquiry. She would find some way to stop you from ending the call, from falling off the edge. In any event, before Amy could answer, her mum began reading from the article.

'It says
"Hijinx at the High Court as Binky Splits from Rocker Beau"
.' She paused and Amy could sense her eyes going from the headline to the body of the article before she started up again.

'"The tumultuous relationship between heiress, Binky Hijinx and indie rocker, Miles Slater came to an official end today at London’s High Court, where the two finalised the division of their financial assets. The split has seen both parties engage in some very public mudslinging, particularly on Twitter, which was also where the two of them originally hooked up."' Her mum paused again. 'Is this really how they write news articles nowadays? Anyway, there’s a photo of Harry and they do a little side box on him. It says, "It’s no surprise that Binky won legal ownership of all her husband’s guitars when her legal team was headed up by Sir Split-A-Lot. When the rich and famous head for splitsville, he’s the lawyer to call. Real name Harry Green, he has been famous as the divorce lawyer of choice ever since he successfully argued that super chef Guillermo Hullier was not responsible for cheating on his wife as his thinking had been compromised by fumes from a rare form of chilli. This in no doubt spared the celebrity chef from splitting his fortune – rumoured to be in the region of £15 million – down the middle with his ex."'

'Mmhm.' Amy cradled the phone between her ear and shoulder as she locked the car and carried her purchase down the black and white checked pathway which led to her and Harry’s pretty terraced home, unlocking the glossy white front door. Placing her bag down by the pristine white console table in the entranceway, Amy looked into the mirror above it and took her phone back into her hand. She surveyed the scene around her. It didn’t matter how many times she had crossed the threshold, she could never quite believe this was her home. A muted yet warm Farrow and Ball grey covered the walls of her hallway and living room to her right, which both shared the same light wooden floors and glossy white borders. From the entrance, she could see through to the high gloss white of her kitchen and floor-to-ceiling bi-fold glass doors leading onto the garden beyond, a glass table with creamy white chairs standing before it.

She and Harry had bought the house, then a rundown set of flats, when they had become engaged. The work of turning the house into what Amy always thought of as their magazine-ready home was mostly down to Harry and the Green family’s ‘home stylist’, Gerber Groll. Amy had had very little – if anything – to do with it. Whenever friends or family or anyone else complimented her on the house she was never sure what to say. It didn’t feel right accepting praise for something she hadn’t done, even if she loved it and was in fact in awe of it. It was the kind of look that spoke of understated style, something Amy was certain she didn’t possess.

'Amy? Are you still there?' Her mother’s sharp tone jabbed her from her thoughts. 

'Yes mum, sorry, just getting back into the house.'

'I was just asking if he was going to be doing any press or TV appearances,' her mum persisted. She always prided herself on asking the right questions, finding all the facts. Amy could remember as a child, coming home from school to a barrage of enquiries about her day and her friends’ lives, none of which she had the answers to. And her mother would shake her head in disbelief and ask her what she had been doing all day. In this instance, her mum was referring to the fact that, as Sir Split-A-Lot, Harry was always being asked to join TV discussion panels, sometimes on news shows, but more often daytime shows, to comment on issues relating to families and marriage laws. One enthusiastic producer, at whose home Amy and Harry had had dinner after one such show, had gushed about how he was perfect for the daytime circuit.

'Just look at that chiselled jawline,' she had marvelled in a booming twang as though Harry wasn’t in the room. 'And that hair and those teeth. He looks like Superman!' It had actually been quite cringe worthy, but Amy could see her point. There was something of the storybook character about Harry’s looks, but she couldn’t help but feel that her husband was more super villain than super hero. To her he looked like the kind of guy who might have banned Rose from seeing Jack on the Titanic before stealing away on a scarce lifeboat, leaving her to her icy death. But what did she know? Amy had hoped the producer would stop there, but the frank assessment had continued. 'Mums in particular, love him. They just love him.' At this point, her bright red bob had been shaking along with her enthusiastic hand and head movements, punctuating her points.

'He can’t answer any questions directly about the case. The firm doesn’t like it. But I’ll ask him.'

'Right, I’d better go, things to do. Speak to you later.' Amy was barely able to say goodbye before she heard the line disconnect. That was another thing about her mother. She liked to ask questions, but wasn’t always that interested in the answers. Moreover, like any good lawyer, her day was split into units of six minutes at a time. Clearly Amy’s allotted units had expired.

Amy felt the silence surround her. Her mum’s presence always filled a room, even over the phone. Without it, Amy was able to focus back on her to do list. She looked at her watch. 12:15. She had 15 minutes to get ready for her pilates lesson. Placing Giselle’s gift in the hall cupboard, she climbed the stairs to the first floor and crossed the landing to their bedroom.

Locating a pair of Sweaty Betty black yoga ‘pants’ and a purple and black double-layered vest, she began undressing. She surveyed herself in the mirror. For all the pilates and running around she did, the defined undulations of her hips and breasts definitely meant she wasn’t what her friend Lucy called 'rich girl skinny'.

Harry always said she was his perfect body type. She remembered the first time after they had slept together, they had lain in his bed and he had languidly run his fingers along the side of her body, complementing her 'perfect curves' and 'tiny waist'. Now tying her straight brown hair into a messy top knot, she recalled how she had enjoyed the ease with which he had taken possession of her. Claimed her as his own.   

She assessed the final result. Tendrils of loose hair fell down around her delicately square shaped face, while her large almond-shaped brown eyes were framed with a touch of mascara, the only bit of makeup she could ever be bothered to apply on a weekday. Luckily for her, her skin, although paler than she liked, was usually clear enough to leave bare.

Ten minutes later, the doorbell sounded its familiar chime and Gayle bounced into the house, her cheerful smile creating a mirror effect that Amy couldn’t help but reflect. Gayle was the best thing about pilates. In fact, before Gayle, Amy had only ever had one experience at a gym and that involved an unsuccessful orientation which saw her practically catapulted from a running machine. Yet, even though she still hated the very idea of exercise, it never seemed too bad whilst chattering with Gayle. With her tight, tiny frame and determinedly blond hair, Gayle’s life was always so eventful that it kept Amy entertained as she puffed and strained her way through pelvic floor exercises and the like.