‘It would have been fine if he’d just let me take the bag back,’ she rattled on. ‘I suppose that was too much to hope after he’d gone to all the trouble of stealing it. Anyway, he turned round and shoved me, and the next thing I was crashing into a puddle.’
She grimaced down at herself. Her favourite skirt was ruined. ‘I kept hold of the bag, though, and everyone was looking by then, so I think he just cut his losses and ran off. Your mother had caught up with us by then, so I was able to give her the bag back. She insisted that we come in here, but I honestly didn’t know that you were her son!’
‘I believe you,’ said Simon with a dry glance. The lift doors opened, and they stepped out into the garage. ‘But I hope you’re not going to ask me to believe that it was coincidence that you were outside the building?’ he asked, leading the way to a sleek silver car.
‘No.’ Clara didn’t see any point in denying it. ‘I was hoping to catch you when you left work. I thought you might be in a better mood today.’
Simon jabbed the key in the direction of the car to unlock it. ‘I was in a perfectly good mood yesterday!’ he said as the lights flashed obediently. ‘Just as I’m in a perfectly good mood today,’ he added through clenched teeth, opening the passenger door for her with pointed courtesy.
‘Gosh, I hope I never meet you in a bad mood,’ said Clara.
There was a dangerous pause, and then Simon shut the door on her with a careful lack of emphasis.
‘I’m grateful to you for going to my mother’s rescue,’ he said stiffly when he got behind the wheel and started the engine, ‘but if you’re thinking of using this situation to press your case about this wretched programme of yours, please don’t bother. I’m not changing my mind.’
Clara heaved a martyred sigh. ‘All right. My wrist is too sore to grovel right now, anyway.’ She slid him a glance under her lashes. ‘I guess I’ll just have to resign myself to pain and the prospect of losing my job.’
‘You know, there is such a thing as employment law,’ said Simon, unimpressed. ‘They can’t sack you because you had an accident and hurt your wrist.’
‘No, but they can for failing to do your job, which in my case was to get you to agree to present the programme.’
‘Emotional blackmail.’ Simon put the car into gear and drove up the ramp and out into the dark January evening. ‘The perfect end to a perfect day.’
‘You’re right.’ Emotional blackmail was all she had left. ‘It’s not your problem if my career is over, or if I can’t pay my rent and have to go back to live with my parents and admit I’m a total failure.’
Simon spared her a brief glance. ‘Save it,’ he advised. ‘If you’ve done your research, you’ll know that I’m completely heartless.’
‘I have, and you’re not,’ said Clara. ‘I know how many times you’ve volunteered for emergency relief projects after disasters. A heartless person doesn’t do that.’
‘Don’t make me into a hero,’ he said curtly. ‘I’m not getting my hands dirty. I just make sure the money gets to those who need it.’
Quite a big ‘just’, Clara would have thought. Simon might not be pulling people out of the rubble or a doctor saving lives, but he regularly left his comfortable life in London to spend several weeks in extremely difficult conditions. Nothing happened without money, and relief efforts depended on financial managers like him to channel the funds where they were most needed and stop them being siphoned off by fraud and corruption.
Simon was clearly anxious to change the subject. ‘Besides,’ he said, cutting across her thoughts, ‘it’s totally unreasonable for anyone’s job to depend on one person.’
‘Tell that to my boss,’ said Clara glumly.
‘They must be able to find someone else. It’s not even as if I’m a professional broadcaster.’
‘It has to be you.’ Faced with his intransigence, she had nothing to lose, Clara decided. She might as well be straight. ‘The budget is based on your participation, and Stella Holt won’t take part unless you do. The whole thing falls apart without you,’ she told him. ‘And so does MediaOchre. There are only three of us as it is. That’s why I’ve been so persistent.’
‘Basing the entire future of a company on one individual is an extremely risky economic strategy,’ said Simon severely.
‘I suppose so, but you have to take a risk every now and then, don’t you?’
She knew immediately she had said the wrong thing. Simon’s expression didn’t change, but she felt him withdraw, like a snail shrinking back into its shell, and his voice was distant. ‘Not in my experience,’ he said.
There was a pause. ‘Well, you can’t say I haven’t tried,’ she said after a moment.
‘No,’ said Simon, ‘I can’t say that.’
A dreary drizzle misted the windscreen, and the streetlamps cast a fuzzy orange glow over the commuters hurrying for the tube, collars turned up against the cold and the damp.
How was she going to break it to Ted and Roland? Clara’s heart sank. She had failed them both. Now she could wave goodbye to her shiny new career and her hopes of becoming a producer. Just when she had filled the aching gap in her life left by Matt and found something she really wanted to do too.
Where was Julie Andrews when she needed her? As so often, Clara opted for frivolity when things looked like getting desperate. It was better than the alternative, which was crying hopelessly and which never really helped anyway. That was a lesson she had learnt the hard way in the weeks and months after Matt had left.
Well, she would just have to cheer herself up. Clara hummed a few bars of My Favourite Things under her breath while Simon negotiated an awkward junction.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Singing to myself.’
‘What on earth for?’
‘To make myself feel better.’ It seemed obvious to Clara.
‘I thought that’s why I was taking you to hospital.’
‘Music is the best medicine,’ she said. ‘Musicals taught me that.’
She might as well have claimed to have learned it from aliens. ‘Musicals?’ asked Simon as if he had never heard the word.
‘Shows where the actors sing and dance around,’ said Clara helpfully. ‘And some of the greatest movies ever made. Take The Sound of Music. You must have seen that?’
‘I’ve heard of it.’ He eased into a gap between a bus and a taxi.
‘I’ll bet you know most of the songs.’ She hummed the tune again. ‘Is it ringing any bells?’
Simon glanced at her, shook his head slightly, and turned his attention back to the traffic. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about, Clara.’
She gaped at him, astounded by his ignorance. This was probably how he felt about anyone who didn’t know all about quantitative easing and interest rate policies.
‘It’s a classic song,’ she told him. ‘And, what’s more, it really does work. When things go wrong—like you refusing to take part in the programme and ruining my career, for instance—all I have to do is sing a bit and I instantly feel better.’
It had worked when she missed Matt. Most of the time.
‘Who needs a doctor when you’ve got The Sound of Music?’ she said cheerfully, and Simon shook his head in disbelief.
‘I