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‘Mandy’s Handbags, not a huge concern, they haven’t got a lot of money to play with but I think we… you can give them some of your valuable insight. Mr Waggy, dog food. Wants to be the bargain-basement version of Pedigree Chum: good luck with that one because their ingredients are floor-sweepings and even the basement is aiming a bit high. And you might remember this one. I gave it to you in error but I think in retrospect maybe it was meant to be yours all along. It’s… tricky and to say they haven’t been happy with our recommendations so far is an understatement, so we do need you to get to grips with it and come up with the goods.’
‘Thank you,’ said Polly, picking them up and standing to go.
‘If you’re putting the kettle on, Polly, I’d appreciate…’ Jeremy started to say, but something in the way she looked down at him made the words wither on his lips. For a second there, she looked like someone else, not Polly Potter at all. How very odd.
‘I’ll ring Brock for that, shall I?’ he said, strained smile on his face.
‘Good idea,’ she said and continued on her way. Because it was the old Polly who put the kettles on for everyone; this shiny new version of herself definitely didn’t.
She found the place in the canteen where she presumed she always sat. Muscle memory was an odd thing, bypassing the conscious mind, taking the reins.So much information must be stored in my neurons, she thought. That’s why her ability to perform her job wasn’t affected, why she instinctively knew that George’s pizza oven should be moved into the main kitchen, that the hatch should be made wider, that Ciaoissimo had way too many offerings on their menu.
But her heart was a muscle too and yet there was nomemory for the man she had supposedly loved for eight years lingering there, no reflex to open her arms to Chris, no longing to feel his lips upon hers.
She leaned forward, suddenly weary and steps away from tears. She was trying hard to be Polly Potter again, but it wasn’t working. It felt as if she was trying to be a stranger, not herself, even though itwasherself. It weighed down her brain like the worst sort of puzzle.
She breathed in deeply, dragged over the first folder and opened it. Mandy’s Handbags. The vibe she got was that they were a small firm but energetic and they’d be on board with whatever they were advised to do. They weren’t expecting to be the new Lulu Guinness, but a bigger share of the market would be a great start. They’d be good to work with; they should aim at primarily young people, she thought.
Mr Waggy would need a complete overhaul. Their fat-to-protein ratios were all wrong, too many cheap fillers. They were a two-star that could be a four-star bargain brand and still make a good profit.
She put them to one side and picked up the third file, the biggest one. She opened it and had a flash of déjà vu when she saw the name at the top of the page.
Ciaoissimo.
Chapter 54
Over the next fortnight, Polly worked on researching her three clients, but mainly Ciaoissimo; the mills of God couldn’t have ground finer detail. She poked into every nook and cranny of the business; she investigated every member of the board down to what colour socks they wore and what sort of pet their dental hygienist owned. She took her research to obsessive levels, getting in after Chris some nights, which he wasn’t happy about. They still weren’t sleeping in the same bed, even though he said that if they did maybe that would bring a few memories back. She refused to be hurried. She recognised that work had become her respite again, as it must have been before because there was nothing outside it, nothing to come home to other than rattling around inside four walls with someone who did nothing to dispel her loneliness.
She’d just walked into the house, having had a very successful meeting with the Mandy’s Handbags people, when there was a knock on the door and straight afterwards Will flew in. His eyebrows were lowered in a worried frown and she remembered a younger version of him, convinced he was going to fail his exams, wearing the selfsame expression.
‘Polly, I need to talk to you,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure if I’m doing the right thing but I have to do it.’
‘Then sit and talk to me.’
Polly pulled out a chair from under the table for him and he threw himself down on it.
‘Are you okay?’ she asked. He didn’t look okay. He looked stressed.
He was stressed; in fact Will couldn’t remember being more stressed in his life. He had talked himself in and out of this more times than he could count. He felt as if he’d been at war with himself for the past couple of weeks.
‘Polly, what do you remember about the day you left?’
‘Not a lot.’
‘Do you remember the wedding?’
Polly jiggled her head, unsure. ‘I thought I rememberedawedding. I think I was a bridesmaid but I’m not sure that’s right.’
‘No, Polly, you were the bride. On the day you left, you were getting married. You didn’t know you were; you thought you were my Auntie Camay’s bridesmaid. It was all supposed to be a big surprise.’
He pulled out his phone. For once he was glad that his sister was a class-A bitch and had filmed it, probably for nefarious reasons, but he’d warned her right off using any footage. He started the video and Polly heard violins playing, saw herself walking in between chairs, people’s heads turning, the close-up of confusion on her face hardening to something akin to horror.
Images slammed into her brain like asteroids. She remembered it all in one godawful agglomeration of facts. Shauna’s sneery face, the long, baggy dress, Camay and her plum satin, the gripping hand of panic at her throat as she realisedwhy she was there. Kicking off her shoes and picking up her dress to run. Stan and the limo; angry, sweary texts on her phone. Her hands shaking as she tried to put her key in the car ignition to go, leave, now. She had to get away, her foot on the accelerator.
Will watched her eyes flickering and could only imagine the brain activity going on behind them.
‘Everyone thought you’d gone because you were leaving Dad for someone else, that’s why it took us so long to look for you. Oh Polly, I’m so sorry.’
Me and Mrs Jones. A receipt for fillet steaks and porn star martinis.
