Page 95 of The Dead Ex
‘I’ve tried.’ So are Posh Perdita’s indignant squeals.
‘They have got to be there somewhere in the archives.’
‘Could you have kept them at home?’
‘Maybe. I’ll check. Meanwhile,get rid of that hack in reception.’
‘Are you sure? He’s waiting right now to do an interview with you and that irritating work experience student …’
‘She’s just ambitious. Nothing wrong with that.’
Suddenly David’s door opens. I manage, just in time, to look as though I was walking past. ‘Ah, there you are, Helen.’ His deep voice is detached and professional. His face friendly but not over-familiar.There is no sign to show he’d been up half the night making love to me. ‘Ready for the interview, are you?’
Then his eye takes in the cardigan I am wearing. I’d found it in a wardrobe next to his immaculate line of suits, immediately spotting it as his daughter’s from the picture on his desk. It’s my size. Turquoise with pretty pearl buttons. Soft to touch and smelling of something expensive.
I give him one of my butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-mouth looks, which I’ve been cultivating. ‘Sure. Let’s go for it.’
‘So what have you learned from your week’s experience, Miss Evans?’
I look up through my eyelashes at my boss and then back to the earnest young man with tortoiseshell glasses. ‘You need to be resourceful if you’re going to work in this kind of business.’
David looks distinctly nervous.
The journalist is scribbling. ‘Would you like to define that?’
‘Well, you need to take all the opportunities you are given.’ I am rather enjoying this. ‘I’ve got some great shots as a result, and they’re going to really boost my portfolio.’
My boss smiles, looking more relaxed.
‘Of course, there’s one problem.’
They both look at me. David’s eyes are wary. The journalist’s are keen.
‘What’sthat?’ They speak as one.
‘A week’s work experience is all very well. But it hasn’t led to a paid internship. We’re meant to find one this term. It’s part of our course, and if I don’t, well, I might not get my diploma.’
‘She has a point, Mr Goudman.’
A flash of distinct irritation passes over my boss’s face. ‘It’s not as simple as that.’
‘Really?’ I finger the buttons on my cardigan. ‘I couldbe useful to you, Mr Goudman. Maybe you’d like some photographs showing one of your many homes. I heard you had a loft conversion with a fancy shower that plays music.’
David is rubbing his chin. Not in that relaxed fashion as in over dinner. But fast. Angry. Have I gone too far?
‘I will definitely consider it.’
‘Is that a “yes”?’ persists the journalist.
I undo one of the pearl buttons andthen fasten it as though I am the twitchy one.
‘Like I said, I’ll consider it.’
The journalist is still writing. ‘This is going to make a nice piece on how companies like yours are helping young people get onto the career ladder. Thank you, sir.’
David finds me at the end of the day. I’ve stayed late, hoping for this.
‘What the hell did you think you were playing at?’ There are little dotsof sweat on his forehead. They make me feel pleasurably powerful.
