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  “Taxi,” a gruff voice replied. Her chariot had arrived.

  The driver looked familiar; he had probably taken her to work thousands of times, or taken her somewhere, she was never sure. As she settled into the back seat she pulled her trusty compact out of her Prada handbag and applied her makeup like an expert. Clara had never quite got the hang of public transport, as her taxi firm had observed. Once she had put on her face, she grabbed her purse from her bag, counted out the fare and, as the cab pulled up outside the office of Seymour Forbes Hunt, she was ready.

  She winked at the cab driver as she walked away and he smiled. She knew she still had ‘the charm’. Clara had discovered ‘the charm’ at an early age: not the brightest child in the world, she had used it to get her through prep school, her strict boarding-school, finishing-school and eventually to her job in sales at SFH. It always got her what she wanted, and allowed her to break every rule in the book to do so.

  It wasn’t that she wasn’t gorgeous, everyone thought she was. She had long blonde hair, pretty blue eyes, sweet lips and a figure to die for. But Clara knew how to make the most of her looks. She dressed to kill – skirts were always short, tops showed just a hint of cleavage: makeup emphasised her good points and hid the bad. Clara was an expert in making the most of what she’d got, and although she had more than most, she made herself desired by practically every man she met.

  As she waited for the lift, she thought of Tim. What time had he left her bed? She didn’t remember him going, but she knew that at some point after she passed out, he would have slunk home to his wife. She also knew that he would already be in the office, at his desk, wearing his immaculate suit that would have been laid out for him by his immaculate wife.

  Christ, if I was as organised as his wife, I’d make a much better mistress, Clara thought as she climbed into the lift, which would take her to begin her day.

  Chapter Two

  When Ella got to work, she could tell it was going to be a busy day. The salespeople were on the phone, collecting information; the traders were reading research. Ella picked up the report that the researchers prepared every morning and flicked through the market predictions. As soon as the markets opened, she checked her screens, watched the prices jumping and felt an adrenaline rush as she prepared to trade.

  She checked her positions and was happy that her trading book was as it should be. Then she called her favourite broker, Danny, and proceeded to sell a number of stocks she had bought cheap on Friday, which had upped in value that morning. After working her positions for the first hour, Charles, one of the sales-guys called over to her: “Ella, can you get me a price in Orchid Corp for a million shares?”

  “Buyer or seller?” Ella shouted back, checking the screens.

  “Dunno, he wouldn’t open,” Charlie replied.

  It was the response that Ella expected: clients never said if they were a buyer or seller, there was only so much information they felt a trader needed. Ella flipped a coin in her head and guessed that the client was probably a buyer. She shouted back her price.

  “I’ll buy at twenty-five or sell at fifty cents higher for up to five hundred thousand. I’m happy to start like that and work the balance if you still want a million.” She waited as she watched Charlie speak with his client.

  “You’ve sold five hundred to SAM at twenty-five and a half. You’ve got a balance of half a mill to buy for them. Top limit is five-eighths. Try to improve. Oh, and, Ella, you’ve got one hour.”

  Ella remained cool but she knew this was potentially a good trade. She also knew it was risky: she didn’t own the stock she had just sold. She was short of half a million shares, and needed to buy them back at a lower price to make a profit. “Sure thing, Charlie,” she shouted, as she sat down and picked up the phone.

  Half an hour later, the order was filled, the price good, both Ella and the client were happy, and Charlie asked Ella to marry him.

  Ella was a trader on the European Equities desk. She bought and sold shares in European companies both for clients and for SFH’s own trading account. Her own trading account, ‘her book’, gave her more satisfaction than the client trades. It was her book that had made her a small fortune in commission over the last few years.

  ***

  Ella had had a good day. She pulled out-a calculator and worked out how much money she’d made for the firm. Not bad at all. Picking up her gym bag, she grabbed her coat, said goodbye to anyone still on the desk and left. It was a quarter past five.

  When she reached the stop the bus was waiting, which was always a good sign. It was a fitting end to the day. Ella was buzzing all the way home. She loved nothing more than making money, and the thrill it gave her was better than sex. Well, better than the sex she remembered. She thought fleetingly back to Tony, her ex-fiancé, and tried to push him out of her mind. God, no matter what she did or where she went he was always there, haunting her, and she didn’t even know if he was dead or alive.

  Ella knew she was one of the best traders at SFH, and she had proved herself. She worried about the lies catching up with her, about Tony finding her if he were alive, or the police finding her, if he were dead. She also worried about her brother Sam. Her only contact with him now was the monthly cheques she insisted on sending him. She still couldn’t see him; she still couldn’t give him her address. She couldn’t even bring herself to call him. As far as Ella was concerned, she was a fugitive. Before she allowed herself to dwell on her past for too long, the bus pulled up and she got off.

  She walked from the bus stop to her smart, riverside Docklands flat, laughing at herself through the sadness, as Sam would have laughed if he could see her. With her smart flat and her TVR in the underground car park he would call her a yuppie, although they no longer existed. It was these imaginary conversations with her brother that kept her going. If only Sam could see her now, she knew that, along with the jokes, he’d be proud of what she had achieved.

  She let herself in, kicked off her shoes and made herself a cup of tea. Then she put the stereo on and relaxed on the sofa, sipping tea and thinking about her work. She knew that she was in line for promotion to the manager position within the next year or so. Then who knew? She was looking forward to being the first black female managing director of SFH.

  Her flat was incredibly tidy, because Ella could hardly bear for it to be lived in. She could still remember when she had got the mortgage, signed the forms and been given the keys. It was hers, the first thing in her life that had belonged to her totally. She loved it: the polished wooden floorboards, the big red leather sofa, the huge television she hardly watched, the stereo, the abstract paintings she had chosen. The bookcase was jammed full of books: books that offered Ella the escapism she craved. She had a few knick-knacks from her old life: a china elephant Sam had given her, a photo of her family, and some wooden boxes she had once kept her treasures in, but that was all. The coffee table had only today’s Financial Times on it and the book she was reading at the moment.

  The kitchen was small but functional. It was fitted and a bit too chrome for Ella’s liking, but she had never thought of changing it. The bathroom was lovely, white and clean, and the bath was large. Ella loved her bath. She had a separate shower room, which she barely used. Her bedroom was huge with big, fitted wardrobes, one filled with work suits, the other with casual clothes; it was empty by comparison with the first. She had a navy blue duvet cover and a plain wooden blind on the window. It was not an interior decorator’s dream, but Ella thought it was nice; and she only wanted her life to be nice.

  She picked up the Financial Times and read it for the second time that day. The one thing she loved about her working day was that although it demanded an early start, an early finish was the reward. She had a routine in the evenings that made her feel secure. She would read the paper, listening to music. Then she would cook herself some dinner, and after dinner, she would have a long soak in the bath with a book, which she would then take to bed with her. During t
he week Ella rarely went out. She was too concerned about staying focused. So after her tuna salad, she picked up her Jackie Collins novel, and took it with her to the bathroom.

  Ella was normally in bed by 10 p.m. and asleep by half past. She sometimes wondered why she wasn’t in the army, since her life was so regimented. But this routine was necessary for her to do her job well, and her job was about the only thing she had left.

  Ella fell asleep dreaming about her work. She knew that there was more to life than work: her one friend, Jackie, whom she had met when she first moved to London, was constantly reminding her of that, but Jackie was the only person who could get away with it. Jackie, with her down-to-earth ways, and her down-to-earth restaurant was the only person Ella could afford to let into her life. Friends did not happen in Ella’s life; she was afraid of anyone finding out too much about her. She shivered as she thought about what would happen if ever the truth came out. God, she loved her job and, as she often pointed out to Jackie, at the moment that was enough for her.

  Because all these thoughts were running through her brain, it took Ella longer than usual to fall asleep that night.

  ***

  “Virginia, can you get my line?”

  “Virginia, can you fax this?”

  “Virginia, can you print me out the figures again?”

  “Virginia, can you photocopy this ten times?”

  Virginia smiled weakly at the giver of each instruction. It was a typical Monday.

  After fulfilling requests all morning, she left the office for ten minutes at lunch-time and tried to collect her thoughts. It was a bright winter’s day; the dull haze of the morning was long gone. She was slightly cheered by the weak sunshine and that the temperature had risen above freezing for what felt like the first time in ages. She walked past the other City buildings and wondered what they were like inside. She wondered if they shared the same routine as SFH, and what it would be like to work in one of them. She wondered what the trading floors were like. Dragging herself past them, she felt like a child passing toyshops. What she wanted so badly might have been in each of these buildings, yet all Virginia could do was walk past them.

  She went into the Italian sandwich shop where she always bought her lunch. She ordered a cheese-salad sandwich on brown bread and a bottle of mineral water. She returned to SFH, went to her desk and ate her lunch. At the same time she read and dealt with her e-mails (all from her boss), checked the diaries for the afternoon, and by the time that everyone had returned from lunch and the desk was full again, she was ready for the afternoon orders.

  Virginia worked as a secretary to Isabelle Holland and ten salespeople. She organised all their diaries, booked their client dinners, arranged their travel, photocopied, filed, typed, organised. She rarely had time to breathe. Isabelle was a demanding boss and most of Virginia’s time was spent working for her. The ten salespeople were also demanding, and kept Virginia busy for the day and most of the evening. Although she was an efficient secretary, no one on the team took much notice of her or seemed to appreciate her. The truth was that they had seen how Isabelle treated her, and heard how Isabelle talked about her behind her back. They had even laughed at her cruel jibes. No one was quite sure why Isabelle hated Virginia so much, but they had no intention of jeopardising their own positions by being nice to her. Virginia did not question their coldness. This was how she was used to being treated.

  She looked at her watch. It was a quarter past seven and she still had a pile of filing to do. She looked across the trading floor. It was thinning and the quiet buzz of the computers was the only sound once again. As she was close to being the first person in every morning, she was close to being the last there too. Thinking back over the day, her heart sank. Isabelle had been in a nasty mood. She had shouted at her for not doing things that she had never asked her to do. The people on the desk hadn’t left her alone all day, then before they left they’d all handed her their expenses, which were such a mess. Virginia knew she might not be able to bear the job for much longer, but what else could she do?

  She turned pink with embarrassment at the memory of last week when she had bravely walked into Isabelle’s office, bravely given her rehearsed speech, bravely stood as Isabelle once again stamped on her dreams.

  “Isabelle, have you got a minute?” Virginia had asked timidly.

  Isabelle had looked at Virginia over her glasses; the lack of interest was evident. “Sure.”

  As Virginia had walked into the office, she noted again what a mess it was. She often referred to her boss’s office as Paper Mountain, due to Isabelle’s inability to organise and tidy. When it got so bad that Isabelle couldn’t see over the top, she would summon Virginia to clear it up.

  Virginia sat down, facing Isabelle. She looked at her and wished she herself was more sophisticated. Although Virginia wasn’t short, Isabelle still seemed twice as tall and made her feel so inadequate. Her hair was tied up in a bun, but a couple of strands hung over her face to make her look less severe. Her wire glasses sat on her nose and Virginia always had to resist the temptation to push them back. Her pink lipstick always looked immaculate, as did her long, painted nails. The designer suit she was wearing complemented her slim figure, and if Isabelle hadn’t been such a bitch, Virginia would have said she was stunning.

  “I’ve been working for you for three years, and I really enjoy it, but I’ve come to a stage in my life where I need a new challenge, fresh opportunities, and I wanted to speak to you about what I could do.” Virginia had said it without daring to take a breath.

  “Go on,” Isabelle had said icily.

  “Well, I really want to get into sales. I was wondering if I could do my exams for a start, then maybe you would let me apply for a junior sales position here, or maybe on another desk ...” The frost in Isabelle’s eyes had made Virginia stop prematurely.

  “But you’re a secretary,” Isabelle had said.

  “Yes, but I don’t want to be a secretary for ever. I have a degree, you know, and I have learnt loads while I’ve been here – and it’s something I’ve always wanted to do.”

  Isabelle sat up straighten “Virginia, do you know how long I’ve worked here?” Virginia had shaken her head. “Fourteen years. Fourteen long years. I have been at SFH as a salesperson for the whole of that time. So, please forgive me when I tell you that I know what makes a good salesperson. I know instinctively, it’s in my gut. And as I have had an extremely successful fourteen years, you’ll be able to trust me when I say that you would not make a good salesperson. You’re all wrong. Virginia, I value you as my secretary, but believe me when I say that that is the only job you will ever have at SFH. Sorry to disappoint, but I feel situations like this need an honest approach.” With that Isabelle turned to face her computer and Virginia was dismissed.

  She had not cried in the office, although she felt like it. She had waited until she got home and cried there, sobbed. Big fat tears. Virginia knew that Isabelle was wrong, but how was she ever going to get the chance to prove it?

  She turned back to her pile of work, and realised that no one would know if she left the filing for another day, and who cared if her desk was a mess? Virginia no longer felt like playing Miss Efficiency and, with that rather decadent thought, she shut down her computer and left the office.

  The drive home was quick and traffic-free. She stopped on the way to buy a bottle of red wine, something she rarely did, but today had been such hell that she felt she deserved it. She unlocked the door to the studio, picked up a bill and a letter from her parents that lay on the mat. She put them aside and opened the wine.

  Her studio had two rooms. One, her living area, housed a small double bed, an armchair and a counter that ran alongside and was her kitchen. She hated having her kitchen in the same room as her bed, but she kept it religiously clean and had learnt to bear it. It had a small stove on top of a small oven, a sink, a small fridge and a cupboard. Virginia cooked herself dinner every night; she kept the food simple
. Her room was magnolia, dirty magnolia. The carpet was dark beige and had seen better days, as had the armchair, which had lost half of its stuffing. She had a small bookshelf, which mainly contained books about the City, a small colour television and video. She even had her own phone, but as it never rang she often forgot it was there. She had only one picture on her wall, a print of a country landscape her mother had given her when she moved to London. It was oddly depressing – you could see all of Virginia in that one room. The shower room was just a shower, a basin and a loo, small but clean, which Virginia felt applied to the rest of her life.

  As she drank her first glass of wine, she tried hard to think about what she could do. She felt that she was at the end of the line. She had tried everything. After the initial rejection by all investment banks when she applied for the graduate programme, she had wanted single-mindedly only to work at SFH. At her first interview for her current job, she had talked about her ambition. In return, she had been told that SFH had a strong policy for internal promotion but she was also told not to expect it to happen overnight. It hadn’t happened overnight; it hadn’t happened at all. Now that Virginia had learnt that Isabelle had no intention of ever promoting her, she felt she had nothing left.

  Virginia drained her glass and went to take the second shower of her day. She tried to scrub off the disappointment; she tried to wash away her despair. Once dry, she poured another glass of wine, put the news on and finally opened the letter from her parents. For as long as she could remember, Virginia had had a pitiful relationship with her parents. They had been fiercely ambitious for her and Virginia had never lived up to their expectations, even at seven when she didn’t get the most Brownie badges in her pack. They wanted her to be the best, the brightest, the prettiest, and Virginia was none of those things. She was a failure. Her parents had pointed out their disappointment at every stage of her life. First she didn’t win the sack race; then she didn’t have the highest reading age in her class; she didn’t get into the top sets at secondary school; she didn’t get any As at GCSE; she didn’t get any As at A level. Then she went to what they saw as an average university, and, true to form, she didn’t get a first-class degree.