‘You know all about the bloody Broughton enquiry — and you can read. Everything’s in the file.’ And even you should be able to write a press release by now, I thought.
‘Yes, but Olivia, I’ve got so much to do for the Management Team Report.’
‘Max,’ I said raising my voice. ‘I write that report for you every month, all you need to do is update it — it’s not even my job to do it.’ Then lowering my voice I hissed, ‘Most of the stuff is confidential, I’m not supposed to know that Ian Riley is on his third warning or that David is considering restructuring again.’
‘Yes, but you’re so trustworthy.’ A wheedling tone crept into his voice. ‘I can always rely on you.’
‘Well, you can’t anymore. Not until Fiona gets back.’
‘I get the message,’ he tutted. ‘The power’s gone to your head already. Just remember pride before a fall. Don’t you worry, Uncle Max will hold the fort for you.’
I rolled my eyes. You’d think I was crossing a crocodile-infested river rather than the short expanse of grey carpet to the other side of the office. Mind you, looking at the grim faces of Emily, Cara, Camilla and Helene, it might be as dangerous.
You could almost see the dark cloud hovering above them, for once united in disapproval. I hadn’t dared look at Emily when it was explained that I was taking over for the next few weeks. If looks could kill, Fiona would have spontaneously combusted.
Sensibly, she made a speedy getaway before any of the team could utter a word. Sweeping everything on the top of her desk into her capacious handbag, she thrust a purple folder at me with a hasty, ‘You’ll need this’ and scuttled out of the office.
Dazed, I sank into her chair and opened the folder to find ten pages of colour-coded notes. They made scary reading. Big Sister had been watching them. Helene always took five minutes extra at lunchtime, Camilla was not to be trusted with the petty cash, Cara was too generous with the samples and as for Emily, two pages were devoted to her.
My heart sank. It didn’t sound like the happiest of working environments. I cast a regretful glance at Max. His feet were propped up on the desk, surrounded by piles of paper as hechatted distractedly into the phone, the handset tucked into his shoulder while he polished his glasses. He wouldn’t know what day of the week it was, let alone whether I’d taken a lunch hour.
Reluctantly I put down the purple folder, wondering whether I should take Emily to one side for a private chat. From the scowl on her face and her hunched position at the computer, cooperation was going to be in short supply.
My first meeting with the team later that morning went relatively well, compared to a train wreck. The ‘I’m on your side; I don’t want to tread on your toes’ speech which I’d rehearsed in the ladies, went down like contraception at the Vatican. The coven, as I’d renamed them, weren’t having any of it.
Only Cara showed signs of breaking ranks, which wasn’t wholly surprising. She had an Arsenal screensaver on her computer and team stickers all around her desk. Not a typical PR girly. She wanted advice on handling a difficult journalist. This particular beauty assistant who worked for one of the most important magazines was insisting she receive a second sample of a new age-defying moisturiser. At £250 a throw, this miracle cream was like gold dust and samples had been strictly rationed. I suggested a call was put into the Beauty Editor to ask if she minded the assistant getting her sample. Cara grinned gratefully.
The other three were stony faced. It wasn’t hard to picture them revving up their broomsticks as they left the meeting room.
* * *
‘What’s this?’ I asked sharply.
Emily feigned innocence. ‘It’s a purchase order.’
‘I know that. What’s it for?’ It was now my job to sign off the triplicate form, which had to be filled out for every piece of expenditure.
‘For the Luscious Lips launch.’
It was for £200 and made out to an Otto Omar.
‘I realise that but what exactly is it for?’
She looked down at her hand, defiantly admiring her polished nails. If she wound me up any more, I’d take the nail clippers to them.
‘He’s the Reiki man for Miranda,’ she muttered.
I looked at her in exasperation. ‘Emily, Fiona specifically said, “No Reiki”. No massage, faith healers or whatever else Miranda’s after. I’ve been through the contract. She can have a make-up artist and a stylist — that’s it. There’s no budget for anything else.’
‘Miranda went on and on about it...’ she trailed off weakly.
‘Miranda can go on and on about it. She knows full well what she can and can’t have. Talk about trying it on! Don’t forget we’re also paying her a wheelbarrow full of gold bullion.’ God only knew what Luscious Lips put in their lipstick to make it so profitable. ‘Ring Otto and tell him his services aren’t required.’
Emily stared at me reproachfully. ‘I can’t do that,’ she said horrified. ‘I’ve only just booked him.’
‘Well, you’ll just have to unbook him, won’t you?’ This was scary, I was turning into Fiona.
‘What, now?’ she queried, still looking all wide-eyed.
