I Don't Know How She Does It

Seemed to buy it. God knows why.

Kept popping out of Bengt Bergman boardroom to executive washroom, locking self in cubicle and using mobile to call pet shops in Walthamstow. Up until three days ago, Emily’s letters to Santa made no mention of hamster, now suddenly upgraded to Number One item.

Swedish clients all have names like a bad hand of Scrabble. Sven Sjostrom kept spearing rollmops off my plate at lunch and saying he was a passionate believer in “closer European union.”

Trust me to get only non-PC man in Scandinavia. Yeurk, K8 xxxxx

To: Kate Reddy

From: Candy Stratton

Sven Will I See U Again?

Sven Will We Share Precious Moments?

go for it, hon, it will relax you! luv Cystitis xxx

To: Candy Stratton

From: Kate Reddy

That is not funny. Remember, I am a happily married woman. Well, I’m married anyway.

To: Kate Reddy

From: Debra Richardson

Have just had unspeakable humiliation at hands — or rather mouth — of hateful school secretary at Piper Place (i know, i know, should stop this education madness). Yes, Ruby could be assessed for a place for 2002, “But I must warn you, Mrs. Richardson, that there are over a hundred little girls on our list and we have a strong siblings policy.”

Do you have any Semtex? These smug cows have got to be stopped.

What’s new??

To: Debra Richardson

From: Kate Reddy

Have not put Em down for school yet. By the time I get round to it, will probably have to have sex with the headmaster to have any chance of getting her in….More pressing problem: 2 days to wean Ben off dummy ’cause motherin-law thinks this sucking device is tool of the devil, only used by gypsies or chain-smoking lowlifes who “park children in front of the video.” What else to do with children in Yorkshire?

Have found hamster for Emily. Apparently female hamsters v. bad-tempered and sometimes bite or eat their young. Now why would that be?

2:17 A.M. Blizzard. Flight home delayed. Precious seconds set aside for last-minute shopping in London being eaten up. Scour Stockholm airport shop for Christmas presents. Which would Rich prefer, wind-dried reindeer or seasonal video entitled Swedish Teen Honeys in the Snow? Still refusing to buy Emily vulgar messy Baby Wee-Wee as seen on breakfast TV. Compromise on the local Swedish Barbie-type doll — wholesome individual, probably a Social Democrat, wearing peacekeeper khaki.

CHRISTMAS EVE. OFFICES OF EDWIN MORGAN FORSTER. I should have known where my pay negotiations were going when Rod Task came round the back of my chair, air-patted my shoulder three times like a vet preparing a cat for a jab and described me as “a highly valued member of the team.” It was midafternoon, the dregs of the day, and the sky over Broadgate was the color of tea.

Rod explained that there would be no bonus this year — the bonus I have been counting on to finish the building work on the house and for so much else. Times were tough for everybody, he said, but the really great news was they were giving me a major new challenge.

“We think you’re the person to do client servicing, Katie, ’cause you do it so damn well. Anyways, you got the best legs.”

A burly and curly Aussie, with a voice other guys use to get the attention of a bartender, when Rod first heaved his bulk over from Sydney to join EMF as Director of Marketing three and a half years ago — brought in to put some lead in the English firm’s propelling pencil — I really thought I’d have to leave. His inability to look me in the eye — and not just because I’m two inches taller — the way he would comment on parts of my body as though they were on special offer, his habit of ending every meeting with an injunction to “Get out there and kick the fucking tires!” After a few weeks, when Candy sweetly asked Rod for an English translation of this phrase, he looked perplexed for a few seconds, then gave a broad grin. “Screw the client for every penny you can!”

So I was going to have to leave. But then Emily hit the Terrible Twos and I bought a book called Toddler Taming. It was a revelation. The advice on how to deal with small angry immature people who have no idea of limits and were constantly testing their mother applied perfectly to my boss. Instead of treating him as a superior, I began handling him as though he were a tricky small boy. Whenever he was about to do something naughty, I would do my best to distract him; if I wanted him to do something, I always made it look like it was his idea.

Anyway, Rod says that from today I assume responsibility for the Salinger Foundation. Based in New York, chief executive by the name of Jack Abelhammer, two-hundred-million-dollar business, needs someone of my caliber. I’ll be able to familiarize myself with the portfolio over the holidays, of course, plus I will continue to baby- sit all my old clients while Rod finds the right person to take over from me.

I ask Rod what Abelhammer is like.

“Good swing.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Short game needs work.”

“Oh. Golf.”

“Whatcha think I’m talking about, Katie, sex?”

The holiday doesn’t strictly begin till close of play today, but the office is practically deserted; unofficially, we are now in the limbo between boozy lunch and alcoholic tea. When I get back to my desk, Candy is perched on the heater under the window with her legs stretched out and resting on top of my chair. She is wearing an amazing cantilevered scarlet blouse and purple fishnets and there is gold tinsel in her hair.

“OK, let me guess,” she says. “He took a crap on you and you offered to wipe his ass.”

“Excuse me.” I grab her ankles and spin her feet off the chair. “Actually, things went very well. Rod thinks my client-handling skills are a major asset, so as a vote of confidence they are giving me this big foundation all to myself.”

“Right.” When Candy laughs you get a glimpse of a mouthful of enviable American teeth.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“Kate, a major vote of confidence round here always comes with at least four zeros on the end of it, you know that. What else’d he say?”

I don’t have time to reply because Candy puts a finger to her lips as Chris Bunce, bastard in residence, sways past us on his way to the Gents with a long lunch under his belt. A major cokehead, Bunce manages to look both skinny and bloated. Since I made it clear to him, quite politely, that I wasn’t interested in the contents of his boxers, the sexual tension between us has given way to teasing skirmishes with occasional rounds of live ammunition being fired when I get a deal he wants. (Guys like Bunce see rejection as an insult that must be repaid with compound interest — like the Third World debt.)

Candy tips her head towards his retreating figure. “Lot of dirt getting into EMF one way and another. D’you offer to clean the office for them too?”

“What do you take me for? Rod said no one was getting a bonus.”

“And you believed him?” Candy closes her eyes and sighs a smile. “That’s what I love about you, Kate. Smartest female economist since Maynard Keynes, and you still think when they mug you they’re doing you a favor.”

“Candy, Maynard Keynes was a man.”