Chapter 2
The next morning Ellie was pulled out
of sleep and fitful dreams of being followed around by a family of fluffy ducklings,
who had a nasty habit of falling off kerbstones into the path of oncoming
traffic, by the chirp of her phone.
She opened one eye. It was only six
fifteen, three quarters of an hour before her alarm. The number of the Mayfair
gallery where she worked was flashing on the screen. Her boss had no respect for an
eight- or even a nine- or ten-hour working day. If he was paying your wages and
a hefty sales commission on top, then he owned your arse.
‘Hello? Is there a problem?’ Ellie
hoped she sounded vaguely alert.
‘You have to come in right now. I’m in
a world of trouble.’ It was Piers, her boss’s hapless assistant, so, no, she
didn’t have to come to the gallery right now.
‘Give me one reason why you felt it
necessary to wake me up at such an ungodly hour,’ she demanded, because, contrary
to popular opinion, there were lots and lots of people who Ellie could say ‘no’
to, and Piers was at the top of the list. ‘It had better be a really, really
good reason.’
‘Oh, please, Ellie. I’ve been here all
night trying to fix it and I’ve just made it worse.’ Piers sounded shrill and hysterical.
‘There’s a virus on my computer and somehow it’s spread to all the other
computers.’
That got Ellie’s attention. She sat up.
‘What kind of virus?’
She heard Piers swallow hard. ‘Penises,’
he whispered.
‘There are pop-up penises on all the
computers.’
‘Have you been looking at porn? Again?
You were warned about this.’ She was already throwing back her duvet. ‘I’ll be
there in an hour.’
Piers moaned. ‘It’s an emergency! Just
this once can you not walk to work? I’ll order you a car.’
Ellie always walked into work. She
walked through heatwaves, torrential rainfall and even the occasional blizzard,
and although pop-up penises on the gallery server were serious, they didn’t
warrant extraordinary measures. Besides, since their boss had got married he’d become
boringly fixated about his own work/life balance – not that of his employees –
and his wife got very pouty if he left for the office before eight thirty, so
there was plenty of time.
‘I don’t need a car. But I’m going to
need copious amounts of coffee when I get to work,’ Ellie said, phone clamped
between ear and shoulder as she rifled through her summer work dresses, which
ranged from taupe to white to pale blue to show off her tan, and also because anything
brighter (or, God forbid, with a print) tended to clash with the art. ‘Also, I’m
planning to smack you repeatedly with Davenport’s Art Reference & Price
Guide.’
Fifteen minutes later she was stepping
out onto Delancey Street, showered, dressed and wearing really big sunglasses
because it was an emergency and there wasn’t time for a light I’ll-apply-my-proper-make-up-later
make-up.
Regent’s Park was deserted apart from a
few dog walkers and dedicated runners, but there was no time to appreciate the
almost preternatural stillness of the early morning, as if the trees rustled in
the breeze and the water rippled on the boating lake only when there were
people around to appreciate these selfless acts.
There wasn’t even enough time to pop
into Le PainQuotidien on Marylebone High Street. Ellie crossed Oxford Street,
which was just starting to come to life, and headed for the rarefied
thoroughfares of Mayfair and instantly, the bustle was muted. The hedge fund managers
had been at their desks for at least an hour but it was too soon for the imperious-looking
girls who worked in the luxury stores to start work and it was far, far, far too early for the
ladies who still lunched to be heading for Miu Miu or Moschino or Marc Jacobs
for a quick retail hit before their roast chicken, saffron, almond& parmesan
salad (without the parmesan) and a bottle of sparkling water at Cecconi’s.
Ellie didn’t even dare dawdle for a
little window shopping as she walked past the hip boutiques on Dover Street and
arrived at Thirlestone Mews, a pretty cobbled street just round the corner from
Berkeley Square, at thirty-one minutes past seven. Piers hurried towards her. He
was tall, thin and effete-looking, which made people automatically want to look
after him, which was fortunate as his greatest talent was for getting himself
into serious trouble.
‘I thought you’d never get here,’ he
cried, grabbing Ellie’s hand and tugging her towards number seventeen, which
was identical to all the other stucco-covered houses in the mews, its door wide
open.
‘You must never leave the gallery
unattended,’ Ellie gasped as she was yanked through the door. ‘Someone could
already have had a painting off the wall.’
‘Don’t even joke about things like
that,’ Piers snapped, as they both turned and looked across the reception area into
the main gallery to make sure there were still fourteen paintings by an obscure
yet collectable British Pop artist. There were.
‘See? Things could be worse,’ Ellie
said brightly, though she didn’t feel bright and Piers didn’t seem to have delivered
on the coffee front. ‘Now shall we sort out this penis infestation?’
It was just as well that Ellie hadn’t
had breakfast because the sight of so many angry red, tumescent cocks multiplying
every time she pressed a key on any of the gallery’s computers made her feel
bilious.
Piers twitched behind her. ‘Oh my days!
I never want to see an erect penis again.’
‘If you hadn’t been trawling the
internet for erect penises in the first place this would never have happened,’
Ellie told him sternly, though she knew
they’d laugh about this, probably in a few short
hours. Right now, it was Penis Apocalypse. ‘I don’t know what you’ve done. I can’t
fix it. We have to call IT.’
‘You can’t! They’ll log it and he’ll
know. He’ll fire me for absolute certain this time.’
Ellie doubted that. Anyway, it wasn’t
as if Piers needed to work when he had a private income and trust funds. This
wasn’t even as bad as the time he’d put his foot through a painting when he’d
been mucking about in the packing room, though that time he’d go this
long-suffering mother to buy the painting. So Ellie ignored Piers and dialled
their IT service’s emergency number.
She was put straight through to Danny,
her ex, who happened to be on-call. Ellie always prided herself on remaining on
good terms with her exes, but now having to speak to Danny after last night’s
conversation with Tess and Lola made her feel raw and exposed. Maybe staying on
speakers with all the men who’d done her wrong, hurt her heart and made her cry
was just another example of her total pushoverdom.
‘Ellie? How are you?’ At least Danny
sounded pleased to hear from her, which was nice, even if there was the sound
of a baby squalling in the background.
‘I’m good, except we have a porn virus
on the computer system,’ Ellie said, deciding it was best to get straight down
to business, because Piers was now huffing on his asthma inhaler.
Danny chatted away as he took control
of their servers by remote access and painstakingly removed each and every
penis from the system. He and Sophie had just got back from their first weekend
away without the twins, who’d been left with her parents, and were teething and
refusing to sleep through the night.
‘Anyway, enough about me,’ Danny said
when the last penis had magically melted away and he was doing something with
their firewall to make it penis-repellent in future. ‘What’s your news?’
Now that the crisis had been averted,
Piers, inevitably, was nowhere to be found. ‘Oh, nothing much. Work is busy and
I’m going to Glastonbury this weekend. You know how my mum feels about
Glastonbury.’
‘It’s like her Christmas, birthday and
all other major holidays rolled into one,’ Danny said, and he chuckled and then
suggested that they should get together for lunch or, even better, she should
come round for dinner and some twin-cuddling time because Sophie was saying
only the other day that they hadn’t seen her in ages.
Ellie finished the call in much better
spirits. She’d also come to a new conclusion about her past relationships. Yes,
she’d been involved with men who’d been challenging, and yes, they’d become a
lot less challenging thanks to her support and guidance, but that was what she
brought to a relationship. The fact that they stayed in touch proved that she
was a person worth having in their lives. How could that be bad?
She was only twenty-six. Of course she
was going to rack up a few failed relationships. It didn’t mean she was addicted
to lame ducks. What it meant was that every time her heart got broken, it
healed and was stronger than it had been before. Like her grandfather said, ‘Brokenhearts
make the best vessels.’
Ellie wasn’t ready to write off Richey
because of half an hour on Saturday night. Richey liked a good time, and there
wasn’t anything wrong with that, but he also liked talking quietly for hours
over pizza and beer about everything from French New Wave cinema to climate
change to how they could both see themselves buying a dilapidated house near
Deauville and doing it up on long weekends, as the restaurant staff pointedly
kept wiping their table down because it was well past closing time. Ellie and Richey
had a connection and Ellie wasn’t sure how deep it went but she owed it to
herself – to them – to get Richey’s side of the story before she walked away. Anyway,
nobody was perfect. Not Tess, who was always jumping to conclusions, and
especially not Lola, so they could get off her case.
‘So . . . is everything all right? Is
my nightmare over?’
Ellie swivelled round to see Piers
standing behind her, asthma inhaler poised. She gestured at the computer. ‘Do you
see any penises? Danny is going to log the job as anon-specific virus and
system reboot, so you’re off the hook.’
Piers still looked as if he was about
to burst into tears. ‘Are you really sure that there isn’t some great big
todger that you’ve overlooked that’s going to pop up and it will start all over
again and never end until I’m fired and I’ll have to explain to Mummy why I’ve
been fired and then she’ll tell my grandfather and he’ll—’
‘Piers, shut up,’ Ellie said very
gently, as she levered herself out of the chair. ‘Just stop talking.’
She took hold of his elbows and gave
him a tiny shake. Up close he had the sour smell of someone who’d stayed up all
night awash in his own fear, and his elfin face was puffy and sallow. He was
still gibbering about his grand -father and the very real possibility that he
might get cut off from his trust fund if he couldn’t stay gainfully employed and
prove he was a worthwhile member of society. ‘You need to go home...’
‘I can’t! It’s almost nine and I
promised that I’d have all the customs declarations finished and on his desk
this morning.’ Piers looked at her pleadingly. ‘I don’t suppose you could—’
‘If I were you I’d go home, have a
shower and a shave and change your shirt,’ Ellie said quickly before Piers could
completely take advantage of her good nature. ‘You’ll feel much better, and don’t
worry about the customs declarations. The courier company aren’t coming to pick
up that shipment until the end of the week. It’s only Tuesday. You can do them
when you get back.’
Piers surreptitiously sniffed an
armpit, then agreed to Ellie’s plan of action. After setting the alarm, she
walked out with him as far as the nearest Leon for a triple skimmed latte and
granola with strawberry compote.
By the time she got back to the
gallery, Muffin and Inge were waiting for her. Neither of them was trusted to
have her own keys, because they were just two more posh girls in a long line of
posh girls that Ellie had seen come and go in the five years that she’d worked
at the gallery. As far as she could remember Muffin and Inge were Posh Girl Ten
and Posh Girl Eleven respectively, though after a while all the posh girls
seemed to merge into one posh girl composite of shiny hair, expensive clothes
and strident voice, who lived in Chelsea and was morbidly fascinated by the
fact that Ellie lived in North London, had gone to a state school and didn’t
know anybody called Bunny.
Still, most of the posh girls were
perfectly nice and friendly, and both Muffin and especially Inge looked pleased
to see Ellie as she rocked unsteadily over the cobbles because she hadn’t had
time to swap her toning trainers for the Bloch ballet flats she had stashed in
the bottom drawer of her desk.
‘Oh my, your natural look is looking
very natural today,’ Muffin said by way of a greeting. Inge muttered something
that might have been agreement or dissent but it was hard to tell with Inge
because she never said much of anything, but sat behind the reception desk
dreamily staring into space for most of the day. ‘It’s odd, you really do have quite a good complexion.’
It was a bit of a headspin for Muffin,
who’d been raised in the country on food grown on the home farm and lots of
untainted fresh air, that Ellie, born and bred in Camden, wasn’t riddled with
rickets and tuberculosis.
‘It’s not a natural look, I just haven’t
had time to put any make-up on,’ Ellie said and as she unlocked the door and
they began to go through the morning ritual of turning off the alarm, switching
on the water cooler and sorting through the post, she gave them a brief account
of Piers’s latest mishap.
‘He’s such a silly boy,’ Muffin said,
even though Piers, unlike Muffin, had never mistaken a very famous con - ceptual
artist for the window cleaner. ‘I’d go and put your face on if I were you. Don’t
worry, we can hold the fort.’
Ellie doubted that very much because
Inge had already abandoned the onerous task of opening the post to assume her
usual position behind the reception desk so she could gaze into the middle
distance while Muffin was glued to her iPhone, fingers skating over the screen.
‘Let me know if we have any walk-ins,’
Ellie said, just as she did every morning, because every walk-in was a potential
client and every potential client meant potential commission and she refused to
mount even one stair until she got a verbal commitment from both girls. Then,
and only then, was she able to head upstairs for the sanctuary of her office.
Check back tomorrow for the third chapter!
Click here to get yourself a copy!
Check back tomorrow for the third chapter!
Click here to get yourself a copy!
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