Where There's Smoke

Her office was on the first floor. Kate closed the door and batted the grey specks from her navy blue skirt and jacket. She knew she wouldn’t feel comfortable in the suit again until she’d had it cleaned. Hanging her jacket behind the door, she went to the room’s single window. Her reflection showed faintly in the glass as she looked out. Beyond it, the smoke was a spreading stain on the sky, against which her dark hair was invisible. Only her face was clear; a pale oval hanging in space. She turned away and went to her desk. Downstairs, she could hear voices as the others arrived. The front office was too small for Clive and the two girls, but the only other spare room needed redecorating and a new ceiling before anyone could work in it. It wouldn’t be cheap. Kate sighed and reached for a file. As she opened it there was a tap on her door. “Come in.”

A girl entered, carrying a Cellophane-wrapped bunch of red roses. Her plump face was openly curious as she handed them to Kate. “These have just been delivered.”

A small envelope was tucked into the stems. Kate opened it and slid out the plain white card. A short note was written on it in swooping, forward-slanting script. She read it, then replaced the card in the envelope. She handed the roses back to the girl. “Thanks, Caroline. Take these outside and give them to the first old lady you see, will you?”

The girl’s eyes widened. “What shall I say?”

“Anything. Just say they’re with our compliments.” Kate gave a tight smile. “And the nearer to ninety she is, the better.”

She stopped smiling as soon as the door closed. She took out the card and read it again. “Commiserations in advance. Love, Paul.”

Carefully, Kate tore it in half, then in half again before throwing it into her waste bin. Her entire body had tensed. She forced herself to relax. She turned to the file again, but the sudden beep of her telephone stopped her. She picked it up. “Yes?”

It was Clive. “Paul Sutherland from CNB Marketing’s on the line.” His tone was neutral. “Do you want me to tell him you’re busy?”

Kate hesitated. “No, it’s okay. I’ll take it.”

There was a series of clicks. She closed her eyes, briefly. A second later she heard the familiar voice. “Hi, Kate. Thought I’d ring and see if you’d got the flowers.”

“Yes. A little bit premature, though, I think.” She was pleased to hear her voice was steady.

“Oh, come on. You don’t seriously think you’re still in with a chance, do you?”

“Let’s just wait and see what happens, shall we?”

She heard him sigh. “Kate, Kate, Kate. You know what’s going to happen. You’ve done well to get this far, but don’t kid yourself.”

“Is that all you wanted to say? Because if it is, I’ve got work to do.”

There was a chuckle. “Now don’t be like that. I’m just giving you some friendly advice, that’s all. For old times sake.”

Kate clenched her jaw.

“Kate? You still there?”

“You’ve not changed, Paul. You always were a prick.”

She regretted the words immediately. The amused laugh came down the line again, this time unmistakably pleased with itself. “And didn’t you just love it? But I can see I’m wasting my time trying to talk sense to you. Poor little Kate’s got to do things her way, even if it means getting her fingers burned. Just try not to be too disappointed.”

The line went dead. Her knuckles were white as she banged down the receiver. The bastard. Kate fumbled in her bag, came up with a disposable lighter and a battered packet of Camels. Her hand shook as she put one in her mouth. She flicked a flame from the lighter and held it close to the cigarette without lighting it. The taste of stale tobacco was cold on her tongue when she inhaled. The flame quivered, but did not quite touch the cigarette. She held it there and counted to ten, then to ten again.

The second time it was easier. Grimacing, she clicked off the lighter and dropped the unlit cigarette into the bin. The packet and lighter went back in her bag. She put a sugar-free mint into her mouth to take away the taste. The shakes had gone, but her headache was back, fingering its way across her scalp. Kate wished she’d not tied her hair back so tightly that morning. She kneaded her temples, gently. Is it worth it?

When the invitation to tender for the Parker Trust account had landed on her desk six weeks earlier, she had gone into the pitch without any real expectation. The Trust specialised in the low-profile handling of investments for wealthy clients, funding just enough Worthy Causes (the words had been capitalised in their brief) to qualify as a charity. She had been surprised that they had even heard of Powell PR, let alone were prepared to consider them for a long-term, expensive campaign.

Then, amazingly, she had been short-listed. The shock of that still hadn’t worn off when she discovered who the other short-listed company was, and who she would be pitching against.