He’s an arsehole. I am counting the days until you’re back. Honestly, he’s going to be very unpopular around here x
I press send on my text as I march across the building towards the lift.
Rose responds immediately.
Does nobody like him then? Not that I’m feeling insecure (much!)
Nobody. You have NOTHING to worry about around here
The lift doors open and I step inside. As I turn and press the button, I spot Zach Russo on the opposite side of the office holding court with several members of senior management, among whom is my boss Andrea. She’s in her early sixties, with a neat figure and dress sense like that of a Tory politician. Today, she’s in a tailored pencil suit, silk scarf knotted at the side of her throat, while her feathered blond bob has the kind of fibreglass lustre that can only be achieved with alotof hairspray. I have no idea what they are discussing, but at one point they all throw back their heads in an explosion of raucous laughter.
The doors are closing when Zach, apparently possessed of a sixth sense, glances up and catches me looking at him. From all the way across the room, we lock eyes. A bolt of adrenalin causes heat to prickle under my arms, yet I’m frozen, a rabbit in headlights. I’m about to look away when I see the corner of his mouth turn up. It’s an almost imperceptible gesture, but if I didn’t know better I’d say it was a smile.
The lift closes.
As it descends, I exhale, feeling so overheated that I have to sniff my blouse to ensure I’m not too fragrant, before pulling myself together to focus on my next meeting. I barely have a gap between them. I don’t know when I’m supposed to go to the loo exactly, let alone eat lunch.
When I was a trainee in the BBC Drama department, there was a certain mystique around the senior executives and what exactly happened when they disappeared into a conference room. I imagined a hotbed of creativity, of fiery debate, of women with heels and swishy hair flinging around ideas and quips as sharp as their suits. Basically, I imagined a scene fromAlly McBeal.
What I discovered when I was senior enough to be invited into those same meetings was that I hadn’t been missing much. No offence to my colleagues, but the world seems to have gone meetings mad, or MotionMax+ has at the very least. Nobody can order new paperclips around here without having a Zoom about it.
The rest of the afternoon is taken up with a finance update that drags on for so long that I’m forced to break it up with a few pelvic floor exercises, followed by two further appointments with companies pitching new ideas for what they hope will be the next big TV hit. The first one wasn’t bad, certainly worthy of a second look, though the second – for a celebrity pigeon-racing show featuring Boris Johnson, Geri Halliwell and somebody who used to be in a boy band (none of whom had confirmed) – didn’t set anyone’s heart alight.
It’s 3.45pm before I get to eat the now soggy Pret sandwich I’d bought for lunch, hunched over my desk as I simultaneously correspond with the fencing coach about a convenient time to come and collect the hamster.
‘How was McDreamy?’ Daisy grins, plonking down at her desk opposite, with a glint behind her glasses.
‘Who?’ I ask.
‘McDreamy,’ she repeats, as if this should mean something to me. ‘Don’t you think the new guy in Scheduling looks like Patrick Dempsey inGrey’s Anatomy?’
‘I’ve never seenGrey’s Anatomy,’ I tell her, though you’d think from the way she gasps afterwards that I’ve just told her I’ve never eaten solid food.
‘You don’t know what you’re missing! I’ve watched all 19 seasons. You need to getrightonto it, Lisa.’
‘Daisy,’ I say, patiently. ‘I don’t have time to watch 19minutesof anything, let alone seasons.’
‘Right,’ she says, not really listening. ‘He’svery handsome, don’t you think?’
‘He’s old enough to be your dad.’
‘He is not!’ she protests before her eyebrows knit together as she rethinks the statement. ‘Hmm. Maybe you’re right. What about you then? You’re not past it, Lisa, despite what you’ve said. Surely you could make an exception?’
I choke on a piece of crust. ‘I don’t think I ever used the term “past it”.’
‘Well,good,’ she says, emphatically. ‘Because you’re still pretty. I hope I look like you when I’m 50.’
‘I’m 47.’
‘Oh, you know what I mean,’ she says, dismissively, as if they amount to the same thing.
Chapter 6
I grew up in the 1980s, the era of strong female icons such as Madonna, Martina Navratilova and Margot Kidder’s Lois Lane. So I’ve never particularly suffered from imposter syndrome and never thought I didn’t deserve a successful career because I wasn’t as clever or capable as any of the men I worked with. There is one intellectual challenge, however, that is guaranteed to fill me with existential self-doubt . . .
‘What on earth is a Carroll Diagram?’ I huff, clicking on the latest maths homework that’s been set for my 10-year-old on the dreaded See Saw app.
It doesn’t help that I’ve only just been able to sit down after spending half an hour cajoling Jacob to get off the game he was playing, trying to throw together his swimming kit for the following day and flogging several more PTA Wine Quiz tickets via WhatsApp. ‘That didn’t even exist when I was at school. Who was it who changed maths andwhy?What was wrong with how it was?’
