‘thank you’, otherwise they didn’t take you seriously. ‘It’s Polly Johnson.’
She heard the line buzz and then ring. She had a good feeling about this. She was sure Henry Curtis had wanted to poach her – he’d be delighted that she was a free agent now. She smirked. Show me the money, Henry, she imagined herself ordering him. Show me the goddamn money!
A young female voice answered. ‘Henry Curtis’s office, this is Sasha speaking, how may I—?’
‘Put me through to him, please. Polly Johnson,’ she interrupted.
There was a moment’s hesitation. Polly imagined Little Miss Sasha quivering on her swivel seat. ‘Um . . . ahh,’ she said tentatively. ‘We’ve already had word from Waterman’s about the meeting being rearranged, so . . .’
Polly frowned. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Mr Curtis is booked in to see . . . ahh . . . Mr Handbury now next week. It’s very nice of you to let us know that the situation has changed, though, thank you.’
Polly opened her mouth, but her powers of speech seemed to have deserted her. ‘Er . . .’ she managed after a moment. ‘If Henry is around for a chat, I could perhaps—’
‘Mr Curtis is very busy, I’m afraid,’ Sasha said. Was she actually typing while she spoke? So rude. ‘Thanks, anyway. Goodbye.’
‘I . . .’ Polly tried, but there was just a click, and then the dial tone burring in her ear. She sat there smarting for a few moments. That turncoat, Jake! He’d wasted no time in delivering news of Polly’s redundancy to Big Cheese Curtis, then. And the receptionist couldn’t get rid of her quickly enough, either.
Screw them all. She’d send Curtis her CV anyway. He’d probably be mortified if he knew how unprofessional his assistant had just been. In the meantime . . . She pulled up another phone number onscreen and began dialling. Let’s see if Alan March at Ernst & Young had better news for her.
By the end of the day Polly had contacted everyone she could think of, but the story seemed to be the same everywhere. Nobody was hiring. Everybody was firing, or letting staff go’, as Hugo Warrington had so delicately put it. ‘I’d sit tight if I were you, Poll,’ Hilary Armstrong from Andersen had advised plummily. ‘Give it a year before the market settles.’
But Polly didn’t have a year, she felt like screaming into the mouthpiece. She didn’t even want one week without a job, let alone any longer. Someone had to take her on; she was too good for them not to. She’d been a grafter her whole life – experience like hers was a valuable commodity in the volatile world of banking. More to the point, now that she wasn’t going to get her bonus, she needed some bloody money.
She turned off the PC, her shoulders stiff from where she’d hunched over it for so long, her eyes red and sore. God, it was quiet in here. She suddenly longed to see another human being, to hear the buzz and laughter of conversation around her, to moan about the mutha of a day she’d just had. More to the point, see someone who might be able to point her in the direction of her next career path.
She dialled the number of a cab firm and booked a car to the Red House before she could change her mind.
Walking into the Red House was like walking into a comforting embrace: the smell of perfume and cocktails, the pop of champagne corks, the whoops and cheers of a group of City boys . . . it was exactly what she needed. The opulent red velvet walls were like a womb around her; she was back on her home turf after the disconcerting events of the morning. It made her feel that the rest of the day might possibly have been a hallucination brought on by overwork. For those few short moments, as she strode towards the bar, it was as if the world was still spinning on its rightful axis, and everything was going to be okay.
She waited at the bar, gratified that it was just the same as ever. She knew the faces of the bar staff better than those of her own
She heard the line buzz and then ring. She had a good feeling about this. She was sure Henry Curtis had wanted to poach her – he’d be delighted that she was a free agent now. She smirked. Show me the money, Henry, she imagined herself ordering him. Show me the goddamn money!
A young female voice answered. ‘Henry Curtis’s office, this is Sasha speaking, how may I—?’
‘Put me through to him, please. Polly Johnson,’ she interrupted.
There was a moment’s hesitation. Polly imagined Little Miss Sasha quivering on her swivel seat. ‘Um . . . ahh,’ she said tentatively. ‘We’ve already had word from Waterman’s about the meeting being rearranged, so . . .’
Polly frowned. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Mr Curtis is booked in to see . . . ahh . . . Mr Handbury now next week. It’s very nice of you to let us know that the situation has changed, though, thank you.’
Polly opened her mouth, but her powers of speech seemed to have deserted her. ‘Er . . .’ she managed after a moment. ‘If Henry is around for a chat, I could perhaps—’
‘Mr Curtis is very busy, I’m afraid,’ Sasha said. Was she actually typing while she spoke? So rude. ‘Thanks, anyway. Goodbye.’
‘I . . .’ Polly tried, but there was just a click, and then the dial tone burring in her ear. She sat there smarting for a few moments. That turncoat, Jake! He’d wasted no time in delivering news of Polly’s redundancy to Big Cheese Curtis, then. And the receptionist couldn’t get rid of her quickly enough, either.
Screw them all. She’d send Curtis her CV anyway. He’d probably be mortified if he knew how unprofessional his assistant had just been. In the meantime . . . She pulled up another phone number onscreen and began dialling. Let’s see if Alan March at Ernst & Young had better news for her.
By the end of the day Polly had contacted everyone she could think of, but the story seemed to be the same everywhere. Nobody was hiring. Everybody was firing, or letting staff go’, as Hugo Warrington had so delicately put it. ‘I’d sit tight if I were you, Poll,’ Hilary Armstrong from Andersen had advised plummily. ‘Give it a year before the market settles.’
But Polly didn’t have a year, she felt like screaming into the mouthpiece. She didn’t even want one week without a job, let alone any longer. Someone had to take her on; she was too good for them not to. She’d been a grafter her whole life – experience like hers was a valuable commodity in the volatile world of banking. More to the point, now that she wasn’t going to get her bonus, she needed some bloody money.
She turned off the PC, her shoulders stiff from where she’d hunched over it for so long, her eyes red and sore. God, it was quiet in here. She suddenly longed to see another human being, to hear the buzz and laughter of conversation around her, to moan about the mutha of a day she’d just had. More to the point, see someone who might be able to point her in the direction of her next career path.
She dialled the number of a cab firm and booked a car to the Red House before she could change her mind.
Walking into the Red House was like walking into a comforting embrace: the smell of perfume and cocktails, the pop of champagne corks, the whoops and cheers of a group of City boys . . . it was exactly what she needed. The opulent red velvet walls were like a womb around her; she was back on her home turf after the disconcerting events of the morning. It made her feel that the rest of the day might possibly have been a hallucination brought on by overwork. For those few short moments, as she strode towards the bar, it was as if the world was still spinning on its rightful axis, and everything was going to be okay.
She waited at the bar, gratified that it was just the same as ever. She knew the faces of the bar staff better than those of her own
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