There was a chuckle. “Now don’t be like that. I’m just giving you some friendly advice, that’s all. For old times sake.”
Kate clenched her jaw.
“Kate? You still there?”
“You’ve not changed, Paul. You always were a prick.”
She regretted the words immediately. The amused laugh came down the line again, this time unmistakably pleased with itself. “And didn’t you just love it? But I can see I’m wasting my time trying to talk sense to you. Poor little Kate’s got to do things her way, even if it means getting her fingers burned. Just try not to be too disappointed.”
The line went dead. Her knuckles were white as she banged down the receiver. The bastard. Kate fumbled in her bag, came up with a disposable lighter and a battered packet of Camels. Her hand shook as she put one in her mouth. She flicked a flame from the lighter and held it close to the cigarette without lighting it. The taste of stale tobacco was cold on her tongue when she inhaled. The flame quivered, but did not quite touch the cigarette. She held it there and counted to ten, then to ten again.
The second time it was easier. Grimacing, she clicked off the lighter and dropped the unlit cigarette into the bin. The packet and lighter went back in her bag. She put a sugar-free mint into her mouth to take away the taste. The shakes had gone, but her headache was back, fingering its way across her scalp. Kate wished she’d not tied her hair back so tightly that morning. She kneaded her temples, gently. Is it worth it?
When the invitation to tender for the Parker Trust account had landed on her desk six weeks earlier, she had gone into the pitch without any real expectation. The Trust specialised in the low-profile handling of investments for wealthy clients, funding just enough Worthy Causes (the words had been capitalised in their brief) to qualify as a charity. She had been surprised that they had even heard of Powell PR, let alone were prepared to consider them for a long-term, expensive campaign.
Then, amazingly, she had been short-listed. The shock of that still hadn’t worn off when she discovered who the other short-listed company was, and who she would be pitching against.
From then on, the pitch had ballooned until it filled her entire horizon. Clive joked that she might as well install a bed at the office, to save going home at all. You’re not happy unless you’re working, he’d said. She had smiled, but behind it had been a dark stirring of panic. Happy? That night at the gym she had strained until her muscles screamed, trying to burn off her restlessness like calories.
Now the waiting had concertinaed into the final hours. Redwood, the chairman of the board of trustees, had told her he would let her know the Trust’s decision before noon.
Winning would mean financial security, perhaps eventually bigger premises. It would establish the agency’s reputation, opening the way to bigger and better accounts. Kate didn’t let herself consider what losing would be like.
She found she was clicking her ball-point pen aimlessly in and out. She stopped, put it down, and determinedly reached for the file she had opened earlier. She began to read it and make notes, haltingly at first, then more fluidly.
But every few minutes her eyes would stray to the clock on the wall. The morning passed slowly. Each time a call came through she stiffened, expecting it to be from the Trust. None were. At five to twelve she gave up even the pretence of trying to work. She sat in the silence of her office, looking at the clock and waiting for the phone to ring. The second hand crept round the dial, bringing the noon deadline closer. She watched as it converged with the other two. The three formed a single, vertical finger, poised for a moment, and then the second hand ticked indifferently into its downward sweep.
Kate felt the anticipation leak out of her. In its wake was a heavy residue of disappointment. The Parker Trust were almost obsessively punctual. If she’d won the pitch she would have heard by now. She didn’t move as the fact of failure sank in, no longer a possibility but a reality to be faced. Abruptly, she shook herself. So you didn’t get it. It’s only a pitch. There’ll be others. She sat straighter in her chair, doggedly re-opened the file she’d been working on.
The phone beeped. Kate started. It beeped again. She picked it up. “Yes?”
Caroline answered. “It’s Mr Redwood from the Parker Trust.”
Even though she knew what he was going to say, Kate felt her heart bump. She cleared her throat. “Put him through.”
There seemed to be more clicks than usual as the transfer was made. The line hummed, hollowly. “Miss Powell?”
“Good afternoon, Mr Redwood.” She allowed a faint emphasis to creep into the “afternoon”.
“I apologise for the tardiness of the call. I realise you would have been expecting to hear sooner.” The voice gave an accurate picture of the man. Scottish. Thin, dry and humourless. Clive had called him anal, and Kate hadn’t been able to argue.
“Yes,” she said, simply.
“Yes, I’m sorry about that.” He didn’t sound it. Kate felt a flash of antagonism. “It’s our policy to inform the unsuccessful tender first,” he went on, “to put them out of their misery, as it were, and it took a little longer than we anticipated.”
It took a moment for the implication to register. Suddenly confused, Kate floundered. “I’m sorry … You’ve spoken to CNB?”
She heard Redwood give an exasperated sigh. “Perhaps I’d better start again. I’m pleased to tell you that your tender has been successful. The board of trustees has decided to invite your agency to handle our campaign.”
Kate felt an almost out-of-body detachment. Outside, a siren Dopplered in and out of existence.
“Miss Powell? Is there a problem?”
“No! No, I …” She made an effort. “I’m delighted. Thank you.”
“Again, I apologise for the delay.” His voice became tinged with disapproval. “I’m afraid CNB were reluctant to accept our decision. The person we were dealing with became quite … insistent.” Redwood brought himself up short. “Well. Congratulations, Miss Powell. We look forward to working with your agency.”
Kate said something, she wasn’t sure what. They agreed to meet later in the week. He rang off. She listened to the purr of the dialling tone before setting the receiver back in its cradle. From downstairs she could hear the drone of a photocopier, the peal of someone’s laughter. She stared blankly out of the window. For a moment she thought the patch of darkness outside was a raincloud. Then she remembered. After a while she got up to tell the others.
The bus stopped outside the shops near her flat in Fulham. As Kate stepped off, it occurred to her, belatedly, that she could probably afford to get a taxi from the tube station now. Old habits died hard. She went into the Asian supermarket and bought a pint of milk and a packet of rice. After a moment of indecision she added a bottle of white Rioja to the wire basket.
There was a chill in the air as Kate left the shop, a reminder that spring had yet to reach further than the calendar. A drizzle had started, and she began walking faster, hoping to get home before it grew heavy enough to merit an umbrella. She almost trod on the child’s mitten lying at the edge of a puddle. It formed a vivid splash of red against the dirty brown pavement, and couldn’t have been there long because it still looked new and clean.
Kate picked it up, glancing up and down the street for the pram or buggy it must have dropped from. No one was in sight, so she cast around for a wall or window-ledge to put it on. There was nowhere, except back on the muddy pavement. Reluctant simply to discard it, she looked at the forlorn little object in her hand. The mitten was no bigger than her palm, and suddenly the memory of the warehouse fire came back to her. Kate felt her throat constrict, and before she knew what she was doing she had tucked the mitten into her pocket and walked on.