Changing Perspectives Read online

  Declan was at his desk gazing wistfully at his computer screen. Gordon hadn’t been convinced that computers were necessary in the graphics department, but Dani had overruled him, and they had paid off. There was no sign of the other lad, Gary.

  “Is she in?” he asked.

  Declan looked up, startled to see the other boss. He didn’t often make an appearance in the creative department. “Yes,” he said seriously, “but I don’t think she should be disturbed.”

  “Oh?” said Gordon, waiting for an explanation. What is she doing, masturbating?

  “I mean, this might not be a good time to see her.” Declan was starting to stammer and go red.

  “Oh, I see. Well, it’s never usually a good time, is it?” He walked past Declan and went into Dani’s lair without knocking.

  “Hello, Gordon,” she said calmly.

  So this was what Declan was trying to protect him from. Did he think Gordon and Dani had just met? “Young Declan’s coming along all right,” he said.

  “Oh, do you think so?”

  “Yes, quite promising.”

  “Fine. But I don’t suppose you’ve come in here to discuss my staff.”

  “No, not really.” He walked over to the window and looked out. The pavement was wet, but the rain had stopped.

  “So what is this? A board meeting?”

  “Yes. I suppose so.”

  “Spit it out, Gordon. I’m a grown-up now.”

  “Melissa wants me to buy you out.”

  “Oh.” She put her pencil down. “What do you want, Gordon?”

  “I don’t want to. I think we’re a good team.”

  “But your wife doesn’t think so.”

  “No.”

  “She wouldn’t.” Dani moved over to stand at the window next to Gordon. “I mean she doesn’t approve of me, does she?”

  “No, but—”

  “But what? She’s right. Times have changed. People will look back on this as the neo-puritan era. Back to basics, back to family values—that’s what the government’s preaching now. Which doesn’t include people like me. So, yes, you should ditch me and get a respectable family person instead, only that doesn’t include single mothers, either.”

  “Dani, shut up!” Gordon sighed and shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. “I’m not such a good family man anyway.”

  “Are you kidding? You’ve got a wife, the kids, two mortgages, three cars, and a timeshare in Portugal; you can’t get much more ‘family’ than that. The Prime Minister should be giving you an OBE. Maybe I’ll write in and recommend you for the next New Year Honours list.”

  “Sometimes, I wish….”

  “What?”

  “I wish I could just chuck it all, walk away.”

  “Do a Reggie Perrin, you mean? Shed your clothes on the beach and disappear.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What would you do?”

  “I don’t know. Contemplate my navel.”

  “Ah, back to the ‘summer of love’. When was it for you?”

  “Nineteen seventy-three—I was seventeen. Hitched to the south of France. Spent six glorious weeks busking on the seafront by day, fucking in the woods by night.”

  “And you never dreamt that twenty years later you would be stuck, caught in the same old money-go-round as your parents.”

  “What happened, Dani? It used to be fun. I used to enjoy coming to work.”

  “Yeah. You used to be fun. I blame the yuppies myself. Five years ago it was cool to wear three-piece suits, drive Porsches, be vegetarian, and drink lager. Only now you’re stuck with the image, but not the atmosphere. The party is over, but you’re still dressed for it.”

  “What are you dressed for?” It seemed safe to ask now.

  “The morning after.”

  The phone rang. Gordon picked it up automatically. “Yes.”

  “Dani?” the voice on the other end asked tentatively. Gordon handed the phone over.

  “Hello.”

  “I just wanted to thank you for the flowers.”

  Dani grinned, turning away from Gordon. “Do you like them?”

  “Yes, they’re lovely. Look, I’m sorry I had to rush off on Friday. I was wondering if we could meet for lunch this week.”

  “Sure. Let me check my diary.” Dani looked out the window. “Uh, I’m busy today and tomorrow, but Wednesday would be okay.”

  “Wednesday? Yes, I can do that. Do you know the Trattoria on Dean Street? One o’clock?”

  “Great. See you there.” Dani put the phone down.

  Gordon was looking at her thoughtfully. “Wasn’t that…?”

  “No, no one you know. Now get out. I’ve got work to do.”

  After he left, she stood at her drawing board and thought about their interrupted conversation. She could see Gordon as a longhaired youth strumming his guitar at a seaside café. Getting in touch with his inner Peter Sarstedt, singing ballad-like songs, attracting nubile young women caught up in the romantic idea of free love.

  She had endured the hippy-dippy era through her school days, the touchy-feely, love-is-all-around crowd. The main benefit for her was that girls were willing to experiment and give in to her advances, even if they told her they were only doing it as practice for the real thing. Liberated through the invention of “the pill”, promiscuity was rife.

  The punk style in the ’70s had been much more to her liking, although she had never wanted to stick safety pins through any part of her body. However, the punks’ penchant for leather gear with studded belts meant she could fit in with the fashionably weird, instead of being just weird. Gordon, though, had moved on to idolising Richard Branson with the burning desire to emulate his success in business. Sometimes she wished they had come up with a name like Virgin for the agency, but they were stuck with boring initials.

  †

  Camila sat looking at the phone, smiling to herself. The flowers really were lovely. Perhaps Chris was right; she should give herself the chance to feel something, anything, even if it did turn out wrong. But meeting for lunch was safe enough. They would soon know whether or not they had anything in common. If they got through lunch.

  Several people in the office had already asked her who sent the flowers. “An admirer,” she replied, knowing they were desperate for more information. But she was used to keeping her private life private, so they would just have to be satisfied knowing she had a love interest.

  It was after nine when she got home that Monday evening following a board meeting and further discussion about the upcoming conference. She would have to give her presentation about budgets, which she knew bored everyone rigid. But she found the subject interesting. She had drafted her slides on Sunday and given them to James first thing that morning to get produced, along with her handout. The conference was only two weeks away and they would be having the first speaker rehearsals later in the week.

  She put the flowers, a dozen long-stemmed red roses, in a vase. They looked a bit lost on her otherwise bare mantelpiece, but she decided they could stay there while she had a bath.

  The hot water was soothing; Camila lay back and tried to empty her mind of the day’s events. The bubbles from the herbal bath foam had all but disappeared, and the water had cooled to lukewarm as her hand idly fondled her pubic hair. She rarely touched herself, only performing necessary ablutions and inserting or removing tampons. When she had tried masturbating after Allison’s death, it only brought back memories and the aching void that nothing could fill…not even the recommended ten-inch silicone vibrator—a present from a well-meaning friend—which she now sometimes used to massage the soles of her feet…without a condom.

  She had almost nothing left of Allison now—a few holiday snaps, a poem she had written after they met. They hadn’t made wills and Allison’s family took full advantage, removing all traces of their life together. Camila had given up the fight before it started, fearing the publicity. Only she would have liked to arrange the funeral in the way she knew All
ison would have wanted it. They excluded her from that too.

  Chris and Deborah had tried to help by organising a commemorative service with a few other close friends. And what had been the result of that? She had gone to bed with Chris, twice. She thought Chris might feel guilty about cheating on Deborah, but not half as guilty as she felt. It was a betrayal of Allison and her memory.

  Now she wasn’t so sure—about the betrayal. Closing her eyes, she saw Dani’s face close to her own. Her hand, unhampered by her usual stiff control, found its own rhythm. She cried out when she came and found that tears were flowing as well. Was this the release she had sought, and fought, for so long?

  †

  Dani checked her bruises in the mirror before pulling on a clean pair of boxer shorts. They had passed from the livid purple-and-green stage and were yellowing out nicely. A few more days and her butt would just look vaguely striped. God knows how long it would take to get Camila into bed, but it wasn’t likely to be two o’clock today. Still, one could always hope.

  All morning she was on tenterhooks, jumping whenever the phone rang, in case it was Camila crying off. She left the studio at 12:45, telling Declan she would be out for a few hours. He just said, “Yeah, boss,” but she could tell he was puzzled. Dani didn’t “do” lunch. A few hours in a pub maybe, but that was likely to be midafternoon when she thought they needed to lubricate their thought processes for a “creative” meeting.

  Penny was on her way out as well; they walked as far as Soho Square together. She was meeting Astrid for a sandwich. “And a grope in the grass,” Dani said with a leer.

  “I might ask where you’re going, dressed to kill,” Penny countered primly.

  Dani could tell she still hadn’t been forgiven for her transgression, as Penny saw it. But she didn’t feel the need to explain herself. If Penny couldn’t handle it, or rather, the idea of it, that was her problem. “Just meeting an old friend.”

  “Not Trish?”

  “No, not Trish. I’m finished with Trish.”

  “She finished with you, if I remember rightly.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Oh, so getting your head kicked in finally helped you get over her, is that it?”

  “Yeah, I suppose so.” Dani really didn’t want to discuss it, but it was less dangerous ground than the present.

  “You’re seriously weird, you know, Dani. I worry about you.”

  “Get the jargon right, Pen. Well weird, okay. Go and have a nice lunch with your sweetheart. See you later.” Dani strode off towards Dean Street.

  †

  Penny found Astrid right away on a bench near the gate of the square. “I’ll be right back. I promise you it will be worth it.” And she set off again, keeping Dani’s tall figure in sight.

  She watched her go into the Trattoria and debated whether she could get a look in without being spotted by her quarry. Just as she was deciding it wasn’t a good idea, a taxi pulled up and a smartly dressed businesswoman emerged. She didn’t stop to pay the driver; company expense account, thought Penny, watching her go into the restaurant—a real looker, every hair in place.

  Penny seized the moment and followed her inside. The woman in front didn’t wait to be seated; she headed directly to a table in the corner. Holding a menu up to her face, Penny observed the meeting. She needn’t have worried about being seen; they only had eyes for each other. Mumbling an excuse to the approaching maître d’, she replaced the menu on the desk and hurried back to Astrid.

  So there was a new woman! But who was she? Penny knew she had seen her before somewhere. But where? And what was she doing with Dani? She hardly looked her type.

  †

  “Have you been here long?” asked Camila as she sat down on the chair the waiter pulled out for her.

  “No, I’ve just arrived.” Dani hadn’t expected to feel nervous, but seeing Camila again was overwhelming. Her fantasies had been good, but the real thing was infinitely better. She took a deep breath; Camila was still arranging herself. “What do you want to drink—wine, champagne?” She hoped the answer wouldn’t be water. The three-hour-long business lunches of the ’80s were giving way to the American-style of sandwiches eaten at the desk with a bottle of Perrier.

  Camila’s dark eyes met hers. “The house red is very good here.”

  “Okay. A litre of house red,” Dani said to the waiter. It was incredible. She had been having conversations in her mind for days and now she couldn’t think of a thing to say. They both studied the menu in silence, and when the waiter came with the wine, they ordered separately. Dani wasn’t sure she would be able to eat anything.

  “I’ve been thinking about your T-shirt idea,” said Camila, fiddling with the cutlery.

  “Oh.” As an opening gambit, it wasn’t what Dani had expected.

  “In fact, looking at the figures, I think it would be a good idea to get some produced.”

  Dani sipped her wine. If she wanted to talk shop it was, at least, a start. So she outlined her design ideas for the T-shirts and said she could have them ready by Friday as long as she had no other distractions.

  When they had exhausted that topic, Dani asked what it was like working for Redmond. Camila seemed more relaxed talking about her work. She liked the variety and the opportunities for travel, which she wouldn’t have if she had stayed with an accounting firm. They talked about some of the countries she’d visited, and the time passed more quickly than Dani could have anticipated.

  Camila left the restaurant at exactly 2:15, having asked the waiter to order a taxi five minutes earlier. They had, briefly, haggled over the bill and Dani won. She settled up after Camila left and walked slowly back towards the office, not noticing anything about the fine spring day and the bustle of people, buses, cars, and bicycles. Even through the haze of more than a half bottle of wine, her senses were on fire.

  She couldn’t get Camila out of her head. Everything about her—the way she sat, talked, used her hands—Dani was totally smitten, like a teenager after a first date. Should she have kissed her? Did she want to be kissed? And if she had kissed her, would she have been able to stop there? Unanswerable questions.

  And the worst thing was she really had no idea how Camila felt. The cool mask had been firmly in place. Was she wasting her time? She gave no indication of her sexual preference, as it were. Perhaps she should have given her a form to fill in. Please tick the boxes, yes-or-no answers only: a) are you a lesbian? b) do you have a lover? c) do you have a cat? Very likely, if the answer to a) was yes.

  She couldn’t remember what they had talked about, apart from the T-shirts at the start and her promise to have the artwork ready for Friday.

  Soho Square looked inviting in the sunlight. The office workers had returned to their dreary desks and the grass—which half an hour earlier had been covered with office workers consuming their sandwiches and enjoying the sun during their all too brief lunch break—was now left to the pigeons and the homeless. Dani sat on a bench and closed her eyes.

  She was going to have to work late to do the T-shirts, and what was she going to tell Gordon? “Oh, by the way, Redmond’s financial director rang me and ordered three T-shirt designs.” Best not to tell him anything. Eventually, he would think it had been his idea.

  Melissa McKenzie was coming through Reception as Dani walked in. “Hello, Dani,” she said, smiling.

  Must have been sharpening her claws, thought Dani, “Melissa, darling. What brings you here?” she asked, with what she hoped looked like genuine, wide-eyed candour.

  “Just checking to make sure you’re not corrupting my husband.”

  “I’ve stopped trying. He just won’t wear the frocks, you know.”

  Melissa gave her the kind of look she probably reserved for those less fortunate than herself. “You must come to dinner soon. We haven’t seen you for simply ages.”

  “Yes, doesn’t time fly?” The last time she’d had dinner with the McKenzies was before either of their kids were
born. Melissa probably thought her mere presence would have a corrupting influence, even when they were in her womb.

  “Must be off. Bye. Don’t work too hard.”

  Dani looked at Amanda, the receptionist, who had been watching the encounter avidly. “Exit Lady Macbeth,” said Dani calmly. “Any messages?”

  Amanda giggled and shook her head.

  †

  It was eleven o’clock before Dani left the office. Working seemed the best way to shut out thoughts of Camila. And she succeeded until she got home and into bed. She had hoped for oblivion as soon as her head hit the pillow; instead, she was awake until after two with some very vivid fantasies and a lot of hand work.

  She didn’t get into the office until after ten the next day, Thursday. And then she waited until five to tell Gordon about the T-shirt designs. He had been, predictably, negative.

  “I’m having trouble selling them posters and you want to do T-shirts!”

  “It’s worth a try. I think they might go for it.”

  “Look, Dani, you stick to drawing pretty pictures, I’ll stick to the business.”

  “I can do some brilliant designs.” He didn’t need to know she’d already created a few images that only needed light finishing touches.

  “Jesus, Dani. If you want to get into T-shirts, book a market stall in Rupert Street. And while you’re at it, buy yourself a new one.” He was referring to her faded and ripped Bay City Rollers shirt. She was quite fond of it.