The Go-To Girl Read online

  ‘Vanna—’

  ‘You say you don’t like it, but you always have a great time. And you meet such nice men!’

  Grrr. ‘Give me one of those,’ I hiss, snatching a crystal flute of champagne from her. I would down it in one go but there’s just too many of these people here to get away with that. I have to content myself with a huge gulp.

  ‘Charles,’ Vanna says, as he passes. ‘Come and meet Anna Brown. She’ll be sitting next to you at dinner.’

  I smile faintly at Charles, who is already wearing that harried, hunted look of a man trapped by Vanna’s inexorable will.

  ‘We’re best friends,’ Vanna tells him. ‘And Charles is the brother of Crispin, Rupert’s friend from work. You remember Crispin, Anna?’

  Sure do. A total tosser.

  ‘Hello,’ Charles says, smiling through gritted teeth.

  ‘Charles is a very literary writer,’ says Vanna. ‘And he has a new novel that he’s sending to agents.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Charles, visibly preening. ‘And you’re going to publish it, Vanna! If you’re lucky!’

  ‘Would love to,’ Vanna lies. ‘But unfortunately our house isn’t taking on any literary fiction at the mo’. My hands are tied. Such a shame.’

  ‘Hello,’ I say back, just to remind him that I am still standing here.

  ‘Vanna and Anna,’ Charles says suddenly, as though he’s just got the joke. ‘You practically have the same name. And you look like sisters,’ he says, with a stiff little bow.

  ‘Thank you,’ says Vanna, which is sweet of her.

  ‘Of course, Vanna is Cinderella,’ he adds, with a high-pitched laugh. ‘Ha ha ha, just my little joke, Anna!’

  I glare at my hostess who in turn is glaring at Charles.

  ‘No offence, you look marvellous,’ he says faintly.

  ‘Anna works in the film industry,’ says Vanna determinedly. She will force us to like each other if it kills her.

  ‘Oh?’ says Charles, slightly more interested.

  ‘Come on, everyone!’ Rupert’s bass tones boom. He strikes on his beloved little brass gong, which I detest. ‘Chop chop! Time for dinner!’

  * * *

  I know what hell will be like. An endless dinner party, just like this. We could start with the food. Is it delicious curry and prawn kormas from Vanna’s local, expensive and fantastic Indian, the Star of Bhopal? No, it is not. It is French, from Rupert’s favourite local, expensive and pretentious bistro, Le Coq D’Argent. First course, grilled escargots in sickly garlic butter.

  Everybody is eating them as though they were Pringles. But I haven’t got the taste for slime-trailing garden pests yet.

  ‘Not fond of snails, Anna?’ Rupert says, arching an eyebrow as he sees me pushing them around my plate.

  ‘I’m on a diet,’ I say, ‘though they look divine.’

  ‘Good idea,’ says Charles, supportively. ‘A journey of a thousand miles starts with just one step! Or even of thirty pounds!’

  ‘Have you ever had weight issues, Charles?’ asks Priscilla, Rupert’s banker colleague who is sitting the other side of him, next to her mousy house husband, Justin. Vanna hates Priscilla. She wears tiny little twinsets and Alice bands, and plays little girl lost whilst being an utterly ruthless wheeler-dealer. Vanna is sure she’s after Rupert.

  ‘No,’ says Charles, admiring her tiny waist. ‘I believe in self-discipline. Just like you. Presentation is so important in today’s world, I always think.’

  I can’t take it.

  ‘So when are you going to see someone about your bald patch?’ I inquire pleasantly. ‘It might give you the wrong image, unless you want to be a tonsured monk.’

  Charles’s face flushes, and Vanna winks at me. As well she might, she got me into this.

  ‘Next course!’ Rupert announces, as two uniformed waitresses enter and whisk away our plates. ‘An amuse-guele of smoked salmon and foie gras.’

  This is more like it. I hate most fish but I love smoked salmon. I try a bite of my foie gras and that’s delicious too.

  ‘You may find it a bit too fattening on your diet,’ Charles says to me, in hushed tones. ‘Gras means fatty in French.’

  I want to ask what ‘Fuck off, baldie’ is in French but content myself with spearing an extra-large chunk and eating it right in front of him.

  ‘Now this,’ says Rupert, waving his bone-handled silver fork at the dish in front of us, ‘is the real stuff. None of this modern diluted foie for me. They get it from a special place that makes it the old-fashioned way.’

  ‘And what’s that?’ asks somebody from his end of the table.

  ‘You know, get the goose, hold it steady, force-feed it until the liver bursts,’ Rupert says.

  I stop chewing. I feel ill.

  ‘You know, Charles,’ says Vanna, seeing me turn pale, ‘Anna reads scripts for Winning Productions.’

  ‘Never heard of them,’ Charles says dismissively.

  ‘Oh, but you must have heard of their movies,’ Vanna insists. ‘They did Twickenham last year, the rugby comedy, and that adaptation of Bleak House that won all the Baftas.’

  Charles has heard of these. He deigns to turn to me properly.

  ‘So you are interested in quality material?’ he asks.

  ‘Certainly,’ I say, though our last two movies had nothing to do with me. Kitty claims part credit for Bleak House, but Kitty likes to claim part credit for everything.

  ‘That’s very commendable,’ he says, ‘because these days the studios are only interested in commercial crap, aren’t they?’

  ‘They do like films to sell tickets,’ I concur.

  ‘Crap!’ he declaims. ‘And the so-called British cinema – double crap!’

  ‘I do agree,’ purrs Priscilla.

  Vanna gives me a pleading look, so I swallow hard and merely say politely that perhaps Charles’s book could be adapted for the screen.

  ‘Well,’ he says, as though considering it. ‘It could only be done by a company with real taste, and delicate sensitivity. The executive in charge would need to be cultured, and understanding of a great work. Too many people ignore subtle tones and shades of emotion.’ He looks at me suspiciously. ‘Do you have a refined sensibility, Anna? Would you be capable of handling true literature?’

  ‘I just evaluate scripts and source material.’

  ‘Oh.’ He immediately loses interest in me. ‘You don’t have the power to green-light? Perhaps I should be talking to your boss. Who is he? I think I’ll go straight to him.’

  ‘Her name’s Kitty,’ I say, smiling sweetly, ‘but she doesn’t accept unrecommended projects.’

  ‘This has literary merit to recommend it,’ he counters. ‘What else does it need? Plus, of course, I can use your name.’

  ‘I’d need to know something about it first,’ I say, ‘other than its great literary merit.’

  ‘I don’t see why,’ he sniffs.

  I look round the table for help, but Vanna, having secured her aim in getting the two of us to talk, is busy in conversation with somebody else, and Rupert is drooling over Priscilla. In fact there is a low hum of conversation everywhere. Nobody seems fascinated by Charles’s masterpiece. I am trapped.

  ‘Well,’ I say slowly, ‘films have different needs from books. Sometimes what makes a good book doesn’t do well on screen … especially literature.’

  ‘I see,’ Charles sniffs.

  ‘We look for a great idea. Something that people will come to see just based on the idea alone. For example Jurassic Park or Fatal Attraction.’

  ‘Junk!’ he says.

  ‘Great books can make lousy box office,’ I tell him. ‘The Les Miserables film was a bomb.’

  ‘A travesty!’ he sneers. ‘The viewing public are too dumb to know what’s good for them!’

  Wow. I should really introduce Prince Charming here to John. They’d get on like a house on fire. Not that John would ever recommend his book. John would hate to see somebody else be successful.


  ‘Sounds like the kind of trash Trish writes,’ he says, upper lip curling in disgust.

  ‘Who’s Trish?’ I ask.

  ‘Trish Evans,’ he says. ‘My sister’s nanny. She writes scripts. Always telling me about her ridiculous ideas.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘The last one was about a wedding that goes wrong.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say, losing interest myself. Done to death.

  ‘Yes, inane. It’s called Mother of the Bride,’ he snorts. ‘She’s jealous of her daughter and trying to interfere and control the wedding, and then she falls in love with the groom’s uncle.’

  I laugh. ‘Actually it sounds like fun.’ And perfect for Greta Gordon! Mother of the Bride. I love it!

  ‘Fun?’ he demands crossly. ‘It’s totally forgettable.’

  ‘You remembered it.’

  ‘My novel—’ he begins.

  ‘Charles,’ I say, ‘what might be a good way to get in touch with your sister’s nanny?’

  He stiffens. ‘I really don’t think you should be bothering her,’ he says. ‘Now, about my book—’

  ‘Here’s the thing,’ I say, determinedly. ‘I need to present a mix of ideas to Kitty. If I had something low-brow, something pulp—’

  ‘Commercial and crass,’ he adds.

  ‘Exactly. Then I could manage to get her to also consider a literary work.’

  He muses. ‘So you need to get Trish’s work in to smooth the way for mine?’

  ‘Exactly,’ I agree.

  ‘I see.’ He pulls a thick, gold-embossed business card out of his pocket and writes a number down on it. ‘My sister is Lady Cartwright. Wife of the eminent podiatrist Sir Richard Cartwright.’

  ‘Very impressive,’ I say.

  ‘And does this Kitty actually listen to you?’ he asks suspiciously.

  ‘I’m her go-to girl,’ I tell him.

  Charles lifts his red wine glass to me in a toast. ‘To Anna,’ he says, ‘whose ship has just come in!’

  I chink glasses with him and wonder what Trish is like.

  ‘I certainly hope so,’ I tell him.

  The rest of the evening passes in a dull blur of conversation and vile food, and by the time the coffee comes I can’t wait to get away.

  ‘Wasn’t it wonderful?’ Vanna insists, pressing my arm. She looks so hopeful I think it would be cruel to tell her the truth. ‘You and Charles! You two were engrossed!’

  ‘He’s very nice,’ I fib weakly.

  ‘I hope you two see each other again. He’s very suitable. The book’s dire, of course, but he’s got pots of money,’ Vanna promises. ‘Trust fund. Flat in Eaton Square with a sixty-year lease.’

  ‘He’s a real catch,’ I agree.

  ‘Charles, darling,’ says Vanna, grabbing his arm and threading it through mine. ‘See Anna into a taxi, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course,’ he says graciously. ‘One can’t trust a dear lady on the streets by herself.’

  ‘I can get the tube,’ I say, trying to wrestle myself free.

  ‘Allow me to take you,’ he says, bowing low and practically kissing my hand.

  In the taxi on the way home I wonder what I must have done in a previous life to deserve this. On the one hand, Charles is an improvement on Brian. He does not, for example, suggest the cab fare should be my treat, nor does his breath reek of bad fish marinated in old beer. On the other, Charles does not even pretend to be interested in me. He is endlessly entertained by discussing, in no particular order, his own book, his brilliance, and his attractiveness. I soon learn that the quickest way out of it is to say ‘Uh-huh’ and ‘Mmm’ and nod as though I am equally enthralled.

  ‘Of course,’ he says, as we turn by Leicester Square (almost home, thank God), ‘women just don’t understand me, Anna.’

  ‘Don’t they? That’s a shame.’

  ‘Would you believe I haven’t had a steady girlfriend for three years?’

  Yes. ‘No.’

  ‘It’s true,’ he says, bitterly. ‘They can’t cope with the rigours of living with a creative genius. All they ever say is perhaps I should get a “real” job. But what is more real than Art?’

  ‘What indeed?’ I ask.

  ‘Of course, they don’t object to spending my money,’ he says. ‘And staying in my flat uninvited, then claiming to have headaches and so-called woman’s trouble.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ I say, struggling for composure.

  ‘Woman’s trouble doesn’t last for two weeks every month, does it?’ he demands.

  ‘Not typically,’ I say.

  ‘Because I looked it up on the internet,’ he adds.

  My building is coming up. Hoorah!

  ‘I have so much to offer,’ he says, dramatically. ‘Yet nobody is prepared to see the real me!’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll find somebody soon,’ I tell him.

  ‘Are you seeing anybody?’ he asks.

  ‘Not right now.’

  ‘No, of course not,’ he agrees.

  Hey, thanks. ‘Well, this is me,’ I say gratefully. ‘Thanks very much for the lift. And I’ll be waiting for your book.’

  ‘Anna,’ he says, as I step out of the taxi. ‘I like you. You have a wonderful way of listening. Very feminine, so many women want to talk all the time, banging on about themselves.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I murmur.

  ‘So maybe I’ll give you a call and we can go out?’ he asks. ‘After all, you are a friend of Vanna and Rupert’s. We must have something in common.’

  ‘Ahm…’ Help. How do I get out of this? Why did I say I wasn’t seeing someone?

  ‘That’s settled then!’ Charles exults. ‘I’ll call you. It’s a date. My, but you have been lucky this evening, Anna. Good night.’

  * * *

  ‘Have you heard the news?’ Sharon asks, as soon as I get to my cubicle. I haven’t even dumped my bag and already she’s hovering like a hawk, which means it must be something really big.

  I speculate. ‘John’s proposed to Kitty.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’ve read the greatest script ever.’

  ‘No,’ says Sharon, shaking her bouncy curls as though to wonder how I can be so stupid. Of course, that would mean she’d actually read a script.

  ‘Kitty’s been fired.’

  ‘Did you hear that?’ she asks, eyes brightening.

  ‘No. I’m just trying to guess your big secret.’

  ‘I’ve got a transfer,’ she says exultantly. ‘I’ve been promoted.’

  My mouth falls open. ‘What?’

  This can’t be true, can it? There are Pet Rocks out there brighter than Sharon. She has only just avoided being fired by the skin of her teeth for the last six months.

  ‘Mike Watson saw my potential,’ she says triumphantly. ‘I’m now officially working for him as a junior development executive.’

  I feel faint. ‘But you work for Kitty.’

  In fact, I am clearly not the only one to be aggrieved. At that moment Kitty storms out of her office, a mini dynamo clad in circulation-killing Azzedine Alaia, hands on her bony hips.

  ‘What the fuck is this?’ she screams, brandishing a memo in Sharon’s face. ‘Is this some kind of a joke?’

  I look round as Mike materializes from nowhere, smiling his big fake smile at Kitty. The two of them square off, pacing around each other like leopards about to fight to the death.

  ‘Is there a prob, Kitty?’ he asks coolly.

  ‘Yes there is,’ she snaps, ‘actually. There’s a memo from Personnel on my desk saying that Sharon reports to you now.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Mike says. ‘I needed somebody else on my team, and you seem well served with these two.’ He indicates John and me dismissively.

  ‘And you didn’t think to ask me?’ Kitty demands.

  ‘You’re so busy, Kitty,’ Mike says smoothly. ‘Preparing for the buyout of the company. Eli Roth and all that.’

  Kitty shoots a look of loathing at Sharon, who tosse
s her curls triumphantly.

  ‘I see you got a promotion, too,’ she says to Sharon. ‘No need to ask what for!’

  ‘For my talent,’ Sharon says blithely. ‘Of course.’

  ‘You do realize,’ Kitty says to Mike, ‘that having sponsored her for that position, your ass is on the line if she fails to deliver? Which she will.’

  ‘My goodness, Kitty,’ says Mike. ‘Maybe you should have some faith in your team.’ But he looks a little less smug. Mike knows that Sharon is about as effective as Cherie Blair’s astrologer.

  ‘Go fuck yourself, Mike,’ snaps Kitty.

  ‘Ladylike as ever,’ says Mike, grinning. ‘Come on, Sharon.’

  ‘You two, in my office,’ says Kitty to us, and John and I proceed into her office, where she slams the door and screams about disloyalty for twenty minutes.

  John spends most of the time agreeing. ‘Of course, Kitty … she isn’t worth it … you can’t let her get to you…’

  I just sit there. Trying to deal with it. Sharon Conrad, Junior Development Executive. Sharon has just got herself the position I have been slaving to achieve for the last six months, Sharon, a girl who has no brains, no drive, and no sense. All she had to do was spill the beans on Kitty’s secret to Mike Watson, and there you go.

  Of course, that wasn’t all of it.

  If I had done that, for example, gone and told Mike about Kitty’s knowledge of our impending buyout, what would have happened? Transfer? Promotion? Not bloody likely. He’d have said, ‘There’s a good girl, Anna,’ and smirked at me. Maybe. And then told me to go and make him some coffee. Whereas Sharon, with her need to please and her bright smile and general cute as a button-ness, Sharon he rescues. He actually promotes.

  It’s all because she’s pretty.

  Well, I’ve had it. From now on I vow never to trust a pretty woman again. I hate them all!

  Except Vanna, obviously.

  Pretty women are proof that God is a man. They do no work and get other people’s promotions. They laze around the flat all day making tons of money just for having their picture taken. Everybody loves them. They get into clubs for free, they float to the head of the queue, men give them their seats on the tube. And for what? A set of perfect features they did absolutely nothing to deserve.