The Other Woman(2)

The man, from an obscure agency in Leigh-on-Sea, made a half-hearted attempt at pulling me into the throng. No one introduced themselves, preferring instead to eye me up and down, as if seeing a woman for the first time. One of them even shook his head from side to side, and let out a slow whistle. I looked at him with disdain, before realizing it was Ivor, the bald, overweight director of a one-office concern in Balham, who I’d had the misfortune of partnering in the role-play exercise just before lunch. His breath had smelt of last night’s curry that I’d imagined he’d scoffed impatiently from a silver-foil container on his lap.

‘Sell me this pen,’ he’d barked, during our ‘How to Sell Snow to an Eskimo’ task. A cloud of stale turmeric permeated the air and I wrinkled my nose in distaste. I’d taken a very normal-looking Bic biro from him and had begun to relay its redeeming qualities: the superior plastic case, the smooth nib, the flow of the ink. I’d wondered, not for the first time, what the point was in all this. My boss, Nathan, insisted that these conferences were good for us: that they kept us on our toes.

If he was hoping that I’d be motivated and captivated by new and exciting ways to do business, he’d booked the wrong day. And I’d certainly been paired with the wrong man.

I’d continued to enthuse about the pen’s attributes, but as I’d looked up, Ivor’s eyes hadn’t even been attempting to look at the tool in my hand, preferring instead to fixate on the hint of cleavage beyond.

‘Ahem,’ I’d coughed, in an attempt to bring his attention back to the task in hand, but he’d merely smiled, as if relishing in his own fantasy. I’d instinctively pulled my blouse together, regretting the decision to wear anything other than a polo neck.

His beady little eyes were still on me now. ‘It’s Emma, isn’t it?’ he said, stepping forward. I looked down at the name badge secured to my left bosom, just to check for myself.

‘Em-i-ly,’ I said, as if speaking to a toddler. ‘It’s Em-i-ly.’

‘Emma, Emily, it’s all the same.’

‘It’s not really, no.’

‘We were paired up this morning,’ he said proudly to the other men in the group. ‘We had a good time, didn’t we, Em?’

I’m sure I felt my skin crawl.

‘It’s Em-i-ly, not Em,’ I said, exasperated. ‘And I didn’t think we worked particularly well together at all.’

‘Oh, come on,’ he said, looking around, his face betraying the confidence in his voice. ‘We were a good team. You must have felt it.’ I stared emptily back at him. There were no words of recourse, and, even if there were, I wouldn’t have wasted my breath. I shook my head as the rest of the group looked awkwardly to the floor. No doubt as soon as I turned on my heels, they’d be patting him on the back for a job well done.

I took myself and my half-drunk wine to the space at the end of the crowded bar. I’d only been there two minutes before I realized that the reason no one else was standing there was because, every few seconds, I was getting hit in the back by a bony elbow or shouldered out of the way by the waiting staff, as they busily collected drinks and returned glasses. ‘This is our area,’ barked a young girl, her face all pinched and pointed. ‘Keep it clear.’

‘Please,’ I said, under my breath, but she was far too important to stand still long enough to hear it. Still, I edged up a little to remove myself from ‘her area’ and rummaged around in my bag for my phone. I only had three more sips, or one big gulp, of wine left. Four minutes max and I’d be on my way.

I surreptitiously ran through my emails, in the hope that a) I wouldn’t be bothered by anybody and b) it’d look like I was waiting for someone. I wondered what we’d done before mobiles and their far-reaching information trails. Would I be standing here perusing the Financial Times or, better yet, feel inclined to strike up a conversation with someone who might prove to be interesting? Either way, I’d most definitely be better informed as a result, so why, then, do I log on to Twitter to see what Kim Kardashian’s up to?

I groaned inwardly as I heard someone shout, ‘Emily, fancy another drink?’ Really? Did he not get the hint? I looked over at Ivor, but he was engrossed in conversation. I had a furtive glance around, embarrassed to know that the person who had said it would be watching my confusion. My eyes fleetingly settled on Mr Peroni, who was grinning broadly, revealing straight white teeth. I smiled to myself as I remembered Mum’s erstwhile advice. ‘It’s all in the teeth, Emily,’ she’d said after she met my last boyfriend, Tom. ‘You can always trust a man with nice teeth.’ Yeah – and look how that turned out.

I put more importance on whether someone’s smile reaches their eyes, and this guy’s, I noticed, definitely did. I mentally undressed him, without even realizing I was doing it, and registered that his dark suit, white shirt, and slightly loosened tie were hanging from a well-built body. I imagined his wide shoulders sitting either side of a strong back that descended into a narrower waist. Triangular shaped. Or maybe not. It’s difficult to tell what a suit is disguising; it could be hiding a multitude of sins. But I hoped I was right.

Heat rose up my neck as he stared intently at me, his hand pushing his hair to one side. I offered a watery smile, before turning my head a full 360 degrees, looking for the voice.