Over the past three years Spud has become the companymascot. He’s even included on the website, sitting at the head of the table in the boardroom.
I’ll never have a boss like Jeremy again. He’s one in a million. When my grandmother did die, thankfully peacefully in her sleep two years ago, he took me into his arms and hugged me until my crying had stopped.
Feet aching, I take my glass and sit down at the only free table in the corner of the room to go over my notes. I was surprised when Jeremy asked me to give the speech, but he’d asked especially, so how could I refuse? I’m so anxious to do Jeremy justice that I don’t even notice Spencer Hunt, off-the-scale handsome, who works at our major rival firm, Barker & Goulding, entering the bar. He surprises me with a kiss on the cheek, eyes playful as he clocks my crumpled notes.
‘You’re looking beautiful, Jan, love the red dress.’ He drops his mobile on to the table and sits down opposite me. I look at him, in his white shirt, suit and tie – tall, fit, broad; blond hair and blue eyes framing chiselled features – wishing he didn’t reduce me to a simpering schoolgirl. ‘But I love what’s underneath even more,’ he carries on.
‘Spencer. No, not tonight.’
‘How about you and me go somewhere private when this party’s finished?’ he says, raising an eyebrow.
‘Can’t. Busy,’ I reply, promising myself to be strong.
I’ve known Spencer for about eighteen months. Before he secured a job at Barker & Goulding he was based in New York working for a commercial property firm. Often Jeremy and Spencer have joined forces as double agents, and while Jeremy likes him he did once warn me that if I ever succumbed to Spencer’s advances he’d never forgive me. Which is why Jeremy must never know that I have already succumbed. Not once, not twice, but three times. First time was at the Christmas party. I was a fresh audience for Spencer. We sat at the bar laughing, downing shots, laughing some more, me unable to believe my luck at being the centre of his attention. Isla was on a sleepover so I was determined to let my hair down, even though I knew it wasn’t wise to sleep with someone who worked in our rival firm. But wisdom flew out the window that night. It almost returned the following morning, me insisting to Spencer it was a one-off.
‘Why?’ he’d asked, watching me get dressed before grabbing my arm and pulling me back into bed, his fingers deftly unbuttoning my top.
‘I have to collect Isla,’ I murmured.
‘Call the mother, say you’re stuck in traffic,’ he was saying, his lips pressed against my neck, my body melting into his.
Second (well, technically, third) time was when Jeremy had treated our office to a day out at Wimbledon to watch the tennis, and who should I happen to bump into queuing up for champagne? It had been six months since we’d slept together, but Spencer was always calling, texting, asking me to meet him after work for just one drink. I knew he was trouble and that it was leading nowhere. I reminded him I was a single mum, but each time I said no his attention went up another notch. ‘Screw the tennis,’ he’d whispered in my ear, his hand against my back, making me weak with longing. After the best sex I’ve ever had I began to think that maybe Spencer and I did have this amazing connection and chemistry, so why was I always turning him down? Over the next few days I began to fantasise that I was special, that maybe I could be ‘the one’ who stopped him from being the notorious playboy. I almost convinced myself until I saw him one evening, heading towards the tube, his wandering hands all over another woman. I was angry, but not with Spencer: with myself.
Third time, well third time was recently. I was feeling down, exhausted. I love Isla with all my heart, but I’d been having a hard week with her, nothing was going right and I wasn’t coping. I needed to be touched… it’s damaging not to be touched, isn’t it? But that’s no excuse.
‘Spence, I can’t do this.’ I shake my notes in front of him.
‘Sure you can. Trick of a good speech is don’t go on for too long.’ He leans towards me with that seductive hint of a smile. ‘Seven minutes is the max before guests nod off, their head in a plate of canapés.’
I scan the room once more. Everyone will arrive soon, including my new boss-to-be, Ward Metcalfe. All our team met him briefly last week. According to Jeremy, Ward had sold his own property company six months ago, wanting a new challenge instead. Well, he’s got that inSherwoods. We’ve been underperforming this past year; there’s no doubt we’ve lost our way. After Jeremy’s rave reports of Ward being driven, passionate and a natural born leader, I didn’t warm to him as much as I’d hoped. He appeared cold and distant, as if his mind were on something far more important than meeting us. Spencer knows him well because he used to work for his old company. Sadly Spencer’s opinion of him isn’t glowing either. His mobile rings and I see the name ‘Alicia’ lighting up the screen. Only last week it was Jemima. You see, that’s why I turn him down. Who wants to be another name?
‘Gotta go,’ he says with a wink, before glancing, if you can believe it, at the blonde sitting at the next table.
I stare at my notes again, rereading the bit about Emma being in such a bad mood with Jeremy one morning that she’d sent him off to work with a chicken and gravy dogmeat sandwich, only to call me at twelve to say she was getting cold feet about the whole idea and could I make sure he didn’t eat it. I knocked on the door, only to find Jeremy sitting behind his desk polishing off the last bite, exclaiming how delicious it was, and that he must ask his wife where she boughtle pâté.
I must have laughed out loud as the woman Spencer had noticed is now looking at me curiously. She’s alone, drinking a glass of white wine,a delicate gold chain sliding up and down her slender wrist.
I can’t begin to tell her about the dog-meat sandwich, so instead I confide it’s nervous laughter, that’s all, ignore me. But she doesn’t look away, her gaze questioning.
‘I’m meeting my new boss tonight,’ I say, noticing how good-looking she is in that English rose kind of way. Her fair hair is cut in a stylish bob, not a single strand out of place.
‘Oh, right. What do you do?’
That dreaded question. ‘I’m an estate agent,’ I reply in an apologetic tone. ‘Well, I’m not really one. I work for one, in the country house and estate department. Sounds so much more glamorous than it is! Anyway, it doesn’t help that I’ve heard nothing good about the new boss.’ I take another sip of champagne. ‘Heard he’s a bit of a shit actually. According to Spencer, the guy who was here a minute ago.’
She nods. Clearly she’d noticed him.
‘Well, he says Ward is a real slave driver with no sense of humour.’ I take another swig of champagne, already feeling light-headed. That’s what happens when you have a child and rarely go out. ‘Spencer says he’s a real womaniser too, even though I think he’s married.’
‘Bastard.’ Carefully she circles the rim of her glass, without taking her eyes off mine.
‘Exactly. Although Spencer is a fine one to talk! Anyway, Ward,’ I continue, enjoying the distraction. ‘Ward? I mean, what kind of name is that?’
‘I’d sue the parents.’
Her stare is disarming, making me babble on. ‘Mind you, I’m January. You should hear some of the surnames people come up with. Sales. JanuarySales!’
She stands up, eyes now glazed over. ‘Excuse me,’ she says, walking away, dressed in elegant cream trousers and a gold waterfall cardigan. She has the figure of a ballerina and I notice many men at the bar looking over their shoulders to admire her.
