But the pool had called to her.
‘I wish I was into swimming,’ Grace had begun to say on the days that Faye took an early lunch.
Grace and her husband Neil ran the recruitment company together. Grace regularly said they couldn’t have done it without Faye, and Neil, who actually worked very little, was smugly convinced its success was all down to him.
‘Swimming sounds so easy, swim, swim and the weight falls off,’ Grace had said.
Faye grinned, knowing that Grace liked the idea of exercise and the results that exercise provided but wasn’t that keen on actually doing it.
‘Is it better than running, do you think?’ Grace went on. ‘I’d quite like to run but I’ve weak ankles. Swimming could be the answer.’
‘You’d get bored in a week,’ Faye told her. Grace was a chataholic and got anxious if she hadn’t had at least four friends phone her a day in between her hectic schedule of business calls. ‘There’s nothing sociable about swimming. You put your head into the water and plough on. You can’t hear anyone and you can only see what’s ahead of you.’
It was like praying, she often thought, although she didn’t say that to Grace, who’d have thought she was abusing recreational pharmaceuticals. But it seemed like that to Faye – here it was only you and God as you moved porpoise-like through the water, nobody else.
‘Really? No Baywatch male lifeguards?’
‘I haven’t noticed any,’ Faye said drily.
‘Well, who needs a Baywatch lifeguard anyway?’ Grace said.
Which was, Faye knew, her way of moving on to another line of conversation. Because Grace, although happily married, had many fantasies about a muscle-bound hunk who’d adore her. It was strange when Faye, who’d been on her own for most of the past seventeen years, went out of her way not to notice men at all. She was with Billie Holiday on the whole men issue: they were too much trouble. And she’d learned that the hard way.
Lunchtimes could be busy in Little Island Recruitment because that was when staff from other offices got the opportunity to slope off, march into Little Island, relate the sad tale of their current employment and discuss the possibility of moving elsewhere where their talents would finally be appreciated. But today when Faye arrived back from her swim, damp-haired, pleasurably tired out and dressed in her old reliable M & S navy suit, reception was empty except for Jane behind the reception desk.
‘Hi, Faye,’ said Jane cheerily and held up a sheaf of pink call slips. ‘I’ve got messages for you.’
The office was very high-tech and designed to impress. Nobody could fail to be dazzled by the glass lift, the stiletto-crunching black marble floors, or the enormous modern-art canvas that dominated the reception. Faye thought the picture looked like what two amorous whales might paint if they’d been covered in midnight-blue emulsion and left to thump around for a while on a massive canvas. But having an artistic daughter, she understood that this was probably not the effect the artist had anticipated.
‘People are scared of modern art,’ Grace said gleefully when the painting had first been hung.
‘It can be intimidating,’ Faye pointed out bluntly. ‘But this one’s a bit dull, to be honest.’
‘Perhaps you’re right,’ sighed Grace. ‘But it says we’ve arrived. We’ve come a long way from that awful dive of an office we started out in, remember.’
Faye remembered. Ten years ago, Faye had been broke after a series of dead-end jobs, and was desperately trying to get her foot on an employment ladder that didn’t involve late-night bar work. She’d been so grateful to Grace for taking a chance on her in the fledgling recruitment business she had made sure Grace never regretted it. Nobody in Little Island worked harder than Faye. The two had forged a professional friendship that grew stronger every year.
‘The ex-barmaid and the ex-banking queen, who’d have thought we’d make it?’ Faye used to say, smiling. She didn’t let many people past her barriers, but Grace was one of the few. What if Grace was a social butterfly, was married to the obnoxious Neil, and could air-kiss with the best of them? Despite all that, she was a real person. True, kind, honest. Faye trusted her, which made Grace part of a very small and exclusive club.
‘You should say “ex-beverage administrator”,’ Grace chided. ‘Besides, you should have been running that bar. If you’d had the childcare and the opportunity, you would have been.’
Grace knew Faye’s history and how she’d worked in dead-end jobs so she could take care of Amber herself. She knew most of Faye’s secrets, but not all.
Faye took her messages, walked past what was now dubbed ‘Flipper Does Dallas’, went up to her office and got ready for the afternoon meeting.
At three in the afternoon, on Mondays and Wednesdays, there was a staff meeting in Little Island Recruitment. Grace said it kept everyone in touch with what the whole company was doing.
They’d been holding it for nine years and it was a marvellous idea because it made every single member of staff feel both personally involved in the company and valued by it.
‘We’re only as good as our last job,’ Grace would remind the staff at the meeting, where there was always a buzz of conversation, until the apple and cinnamon muffins came in. ‘This is the think tank where we come up with ideas to improve what we do.’
The staff all believed the idea for the meeting had been Grace’s. After all, she’d been a banking hotshot for years before starting up the agency, and could write a book on how to get ahead in life.
It could be called Who Moved My Emery Board? joked Kevin who was in charge of accounts. Grace’s nails were things of beauty: ten glossy beige talons that clacked in a military tattoo on the conference-room desk when she was irritated.
Clack, clack, clack.
In fact, Faye had suggested the staff meeting shortly after she joined.
Grace felt that some benign presence had been on her side the day Faye walked into her life. Grace may have been the one with the financial acumen and the qualifications as long as her fake-tanned arms, but Faye was the one who’d made the agency work.
On this afternoon, nineteen members of staff sat around the conference table and worked their way through the agenda.
Today’s meeting focused on the few sticky accounts where the jobs and the jobseekers didn’t match. There were always a few. Little Island had an ever-growing client roster, with just three companies who created the problems, people for whom no applicant was good enough and who went through staff faster than Imelda Marcos went through shoe cream. Chief among the difficult clients, known as VIPs, in-house code for Very Ignorant People, was William Brooks.
It was wiser to transfer a call from him by saying, ‘It’s Mr Brooks, one of our VIP clients,’ and risk being overheard, than to say, ‘It’s that horrible bastard from Brooks FX Stockbroking on the phone and I’m not talking to him, so you’d better.’
William Brooks, the aforementioned company’s managing director, was yet again looking for a personal assistant. This was his third search in six months, the previous two assistants having decided to leave his employment abruptly.
Little Island also supplied temps, and only that morning, Faye had been on the phone to Mr Brooks’s current temp who said she was giving it a month more, ‘Because the money’s so good, Faye, but after that, I’m out of here. He’s a pig. No, strike that. Unfair to pigs.’
‘We have no PAs on our books that will do for him.’ Philippa, who was responsible for Mr Brooks, scanned through the file wearily. ‘Out of last week’s interviews, we found two wonderful candidates and he doesn’t like either of them. I don’t know