Twenties Girl 68

I stare back, frozen.

It’s not an office. It’s a conference room. I’m standing in a company I don’t belong to, in a great big meeting I don’t belong to, and everyone’s waiting for me to speak.

“Sorry,” I stammer at last. “I don’t want to interrupt. Carry on.”

Out of the corner of my eye I’ve noticed a couple of empty seats. Barely knowing what I’m doing, I pull a chair out and sit down. The woman next to me eyes me uncertainly for a moment, then pushes along a pad of paper and pen.

“Thanks,” I murmur back.

I don’t quite believe this. No one’s told me to leave. Don’t they realize I don’t belong here? The guy at the front has resumed his speech, and a few people are scribbling notes. Surreptitiously, I look around the table. There are about fifteen men in this room. Sadie’s guy could be any of them. There’s a sandy-haired guy across the table who looks cute. The man giving the presentation is quite good-looking too. He has wavy dark hair and pale blue eyes and the same tie I bought Josh for his birthday. He’s gesturing at a graph and talking with an animated voice.

“… and client satisfaction ratings have increased, year-on-year-”

“Stop right there.” A man standing at the window, whom I hadn’t even noticed before, turns around. He has an American accent, a dark suit, and chestnut-colored hair brushed straight back. There’s a deep V-shaped frown between his eyebrows, and he’s looking at the wavy-haired guy as though he represents some great personal disappointment to him. “Client satisfaction ratings aren’t what we’re about. I don’t want to perform work that a client rates as an A. I want to perform work that I rate as an A.”

The man with wavy hair looks wrong-footed, and I feel a stab of sympathy for him.

“Of course,” he mumbles.

“The emphasis in this room is all wrong.” The American guy frowns around the table. “We’re not here to perform tactical quick fixes. We should be influencing strategy. Innovating. Since I’ve been over here…”

I tune out as I notice Sadie sliding into the chair next to me. I scribble WHICH MAN? and push my pad across.

“The one who looks like Rudolph Valentino,” she says, as though surprised I even need to ask.

For God’s sake.

HOW WOULD I KNOW WHAT BLOODY RUDOLPH VALENTINO LOOKS LIKE? I scribble. WHICH ONE?

I’m betting on the wavy-haired man. Unless it’s the blond guy sitting right at the front; he looks quite nice. Or maybe that chap with the goatee?

“Him, of course!” Sadie points to the other side of the room.

THE MAN GIVING THE PRESENTATION? I write, just to confirm it.

“No, silly!” She giggles. “Him!” She appears in front of the American man with the frown, and gazes at him longingly. “Isn’t he a dove?”

“Him?”

Oops. I spoke out loud. Everyone turns to look at me, and I hastily try to sound as though I’m clearing my throat: “Hmrrrm hrrrmm.”

SERIOUSLY, HIM? I write on my pad of paper as she returns to my side.

“He’s delicious!” she says in my ear, sounding affronted.

I survey the American guy dubiously, trying to be fair. I suppose he is quite good-looking in that classic preppy way. His hair springs up from a broad, square brow, he has the hint of a tan, and dark wrist hair is visible inside his immaculate white cuffs. And his eyes are penetrating. He’s got that magnetic quality that leaders always seem to have. Strong hands and gestures. As he speaks, he commands attention.

But honestly. He’s so totally not my sort. Too intense. Too frowny. And everyone else in the room seems terrified of him.

“Speaking of which.” He picks up a plastic folder and skims it deftly across the table toward the goatee-beard guy. “Last night I put together some points with regard to the Morris Farquhar consultation. Just a memo. Might help.”

“Oh.” Goatee-beard guy looks utterly taken aback. “Well… thanks. I appreciate it.” He flips through wonderingly. “Can I use this?”

“That’s the general idea,” says the American guy, with a smile so wry and brief you’d miss it if you blinked. “So, regarding the final point…”

From my place at the back, I can see goatee-beard guy leafing through the typed pages, agog. “When the hell did he have time to do this?” he mutters to his neighbor, who shrugs.

“I have to go.” The American guy suddenly consults his watch. “My apologies for hijacking the meeting. Simon, please continue.”

“I have just one question.” The sandy-haired man hurriedly raises his hand. “When you’re talking about innovating procedure, do you mean-”