The Fat And The Thin Of It Page 5
her own ideas.
“I actually have contacts with some large companies that I use when trying to get funds for some of the work I do… did at Catwalk by promoting their products during the shows.” The cells were shifting up to second gear pretty quickly.
“There you go!” what a relief she was reacting! “They aren’t exactly clients of Catwalk, are they?”
“No,” she gave a tiny shake of her head.
“Well, there you go! You can contact them and see if you can collaborate on something to get you started.”
I smiled with relief but tried to make it encouraging while I watched her mind ticking things over. After a long wait, she mumbled, “Right.”
Oh, I loved that word! “Right.” I aped.
Jill mouthed something silently, bobbing her head to a tune only she could hear, and I worriedly thought something had snapped. Suddenly, she began to sing;
Jack and Jill went on the pill
To see if they’d get laid,
Jackie’s fat and Jill’s a prat,
They’ll never make the grade.
“Good Lord! Whatever made you think of that?” it was a silly chant some bitches at school had made up about us, and although it had bothered me as a kid, I’d forgotten all about it.
“I’ve never forgotten it, and when we had that reunion a few years back, I fretted that those cows would be there.” She said in a small voice.
That was a surprise. She’d always shrugged it off and behaved as if it hadn’t bothered her, and both of us usually waggled our middle fingers at the group in rhythm to the chant. “Well, I can assure you that you are not, nor ever have been, a prat.”
“And I can assure you that you’re not, nor ever have been, fat, you skinny bitch. You make me sick.” She smiled at me.
I gave her a half-hug, half-strangle hold. “You make me sick too, fat cow.”
Jill
When I got back home from Jackie’s on the day I got fired, I sat on the sofa reading through my trusty agenda and comparing it to the file of clients on my laptop, and it was only then I realised that there was a lot that didn’t coincide. The names of the people running the companies with whom I traded had changed in the majority of cases. They’d probably retired, or left, or had been fired… like me.
I couldn’t help myself and smoked a couple of cigarettes in the living room while looking through the file. I usually went into the conservatory for a smoke, but the radiator in there was still not working. It was so bloody cold in there and I couldn’t be bothered with wrapping myself up in the snuggie and huddling on the wicker chair. Terry would not approve of the smell, but once he knew what had happened today I was sure he’d understand.
I couldn’t believe it when I looked at the clock and saw it was nearly five: time for a glass of wine and to work out what to cook for dinner. I thought it a good idea to do something housewife-ish before telling Terry what had happened, and headed for the kitchen and rummaged about in the freezer.
Terry was a wonderful guy, but he had a somewhat ‘special’ attitude about my work. I got the impression that he wasn’t that interested, even though I’d used his car hire/ chauffeur company for Catwalk, but if I tried to talk about my day at the office, the people I worked with or clients’ moods and ridiculous demands, he’d simply nod without really listening. That would make me mad, of course, and I’d end up on the defensive and point out that if it wasn’t for my job, we wouldn’t be living in this house or have been able to send Penny to private school and through med school and blah-blah-blah and he’d sulk off and I’d kick myself for being so gobby. On the other hand, he never actually complained about my hectic schedule, especially when the fashion seasons were in full swing, and had always taken care of Penny and Mum and Dad if I couldn’t get round to see them.
Oh, Christ. Mum and Dad.
Losing my job will mean a lot to Mum in particular: will I still be able to afford her home care? Will it mean they’ll both have to go into a home? I suppose, now I’m not working, I could move them here with us, but how the hell would I cope with Mum’s dementia and Dad’s chronic arthritis?
I couldn’t do it; I couldn’t look after them as they needed. I’ll have to work something out with Terry, but what in fuck’s name that would be…
‘Stop it, Jill, first things first.’
Right.
I pulled out a pack of sausages from the freezer and placed them on the defrosting tray. Sausages, egg, baked beans and chips sounded rather nice. Not very healthy and packed with calories, but I fancied a little comfort food. I could work it off tomorrow on the elliptic machine, probably get in an hour instead of the usual thirty minutes I crammed in before heading to work. I had no work, so I could do what I felt like as from tomorrow.
God that felt scary: no work. What in hell’s name was I going to do all day? I just couldn’t see myself flicking a feather duster and baking bloody cakes. Jackie was really good at all that. She had her routine for housework and shopping and managed to squeeze in a pottery class once a week and a tai chi class somewhere in the middle. She was quite content to potter about and go for a coffee with a mum of one of Mark’s friends, but I’m not like that. I didn’t fit in with the WI-type woman whose only conversation was the husband and the kids, how to make your Yorkshire rise and the best way to get the chocolate stains out of the little one’s best party frock. I’d hardly ever taken Penny to school or picked her up and it was Terry and my parents who’d gone to the school concerts and plays as I’d never finished work on time to get there. I’d never got to know any of Penny’s friends’ mums: actually, come to think of it, I didn’t really have ‘friends’, only colleagues, clients and models, and I couldn’t see me giving any of them a bell and going for a coffee. The only friend I’d carried with me through the years was Jackie, and I’d have been lost without her, even though we were poles apart in character and lifestyle.
I poured a good, long glass of Pinot and went back to the living room, lit another cigarette and fretted.
God, did I hate that cow of a woman! Harriet was a lazy-arsed witch who got everybody running around for her in the office because she was so frightening. Although, I did have to admit that she was effective at smooth-talking and getting people to believe they were doing all her work because it had been their idea. And, she had a way with the clients, I had to admit that, too, or she wouldn’t have been offered the post at Catwalk. The irony was that we’d both joined Catwalk within a few months of each other; she’d been enticed from Fanfare and made director of the new London Catwalk office, and I’d been invited to join – along with my agenda – to help kick-start the new branch. It wasn’t that I’d been a threat to them, as my events agency offered the service of organising the fashion shows, presentations and advertisements; I wasn’t a model agency. What my sought-after agenda held were the best venues, caterers, photographers, make-up artists, lighting and sound companies you could work with in London, not to mention Terry’s company with his fleet of limos to ferry everyone about, and they would always put my offers before anyone else’s because I was the one the important agencies contacted because I was bloody good at my job, and I say that with no false modesty. With me in Catwalk they had a ready-made package of models and organisation all rolled into one, and the fashion houses and advertising companies knew that.
With hindsight, I should have stayed as I was. I was doing very well, with my own office just off Oxford Street and my assistant Helen and I managed just fine, thank you. But, I have to admit I freaked a little when I heard Catwalk was opening up a branch in London. It was a huge agency in New York and my instinct told me that they’d swallow up all the London fashion and advertising business in one gulp. I also have to admit that I was extremely flattered when they offered me the position, but most importantly I felt that, if I didn’t join forces, I could find myself out in the cold. As it was, my instinct had told me right, as quite a few agencies had had to close, including the Hairy-it’s old Fanfare.
‘No use regretting the past, girl. You did bloody well to sleep with the enemy at the time, but now you have to wake up, crawl quietly out of the cave and think about the future.’
That was all very well, girl, but after spending the afternoon comparing my leather agenda with the current file, I could only find two names that coincided; one who ran a lighting company and an old gay make-up artist who must be in his sixties by now. It just hadn’t registered when I’d spoken to these people that their names were different. God, I could have kicked myself for being so bloody lax! I should have kept more abreast of things, stupid fat cow! How on earth was I going to get myself back on my feet?
‘…’
Haven’t got an answer for that, have you, girl?
‘…’
Just as I thought.
Two glasses of Pinot and another three cigarettes later, I heard Terry’s car pull into the drive. He would wrinkle his nose disapprovingly at the smoky smell, but wouldn’t say anything about it. He wouldn’t have to, really, as I knew he disliked me smoking. He’d had his sights set on becoming Britain’s answer to R&B when I’d met him, and had never touched a cigarette in his life. I’d had to smoke at a distance from him ever since we started going out together, in case the smoke affected his voice.
And he did have a beautiful voice, both when he sang and