“Thank you for choosing KwikToy. We are sorry, you are held in a queue. Your call will be answered shortly.” Typical.
Start to work my way through torn-out Yellow Pages list of north London pet shops. It comes as no surprise to learn there is a national shortage of baby hamsters, though there might be one left in Walthamstow. Am I interested? Yes.
When I finally get through to KwikToy, clueless operative seems reluctant to admit they have any record of my order. Tell him I am a major shareholder in his company and we are about to review our investment.
“Awright,” he concedes, “there have been some delivery difficulties owing to unprecedented demand.”
I point out that the demand can hardly be described as unprecedented.
“The birth of the little baby Jesus. Been celebrating that one for two thousand years. Toys and Christmas, Christmas and toys. Ring any bells?”
“Would you be asking for a voucher, miss?”
“No, I would not be asking for a voucher. I am asking for my toys to be delivered immediately so my children will have something to open on Christmas Day.”
There is a pause, a beep and an echoey shout: “Oy, Jeff, some posh tart’s doing her nut on the phone about the Goldilocks porridge set and the push-along sheepdog. Whatmygonnatella?”
9:17 A.M. Arrive at Heathrow with time to spare. Decide to try to make it up to the driver for yelling. Ask his name.
“Winston,” he offers suspiciously.
“Thanks, Winston. That was a really good route. I’m Kate, by the way. Such a great name, Winston. As in Churchill?”
He savors the moment before replying: “As in Silcott.”
9:26 A.M. Barging through a choked Departure Lounge, remember something else I have forgotten. Need to call home. Mobile not in service. Why not? Try pay phone, which eats three pound coins and fails to connect me while repeating the message: “Thank you for choosing British Telecom.”
Finally get through on credit-card phone next to the boarding desk, watched by three members of staff in navy uniforms.
“Richard, hello? Whatever you do, don’t forget the stockings.”
“Lingerie?”
“What?”
“Stockings. Is there a lingerie angle here, Katie? Suspenders, black lace, three inches of creamy thigh, or are we talking boring old Santa gift receptacle?”
“Richard, have you been drinking?”
“It’s an idea, certainly.” As he puts the phone down, I swear I can hear Paula offering Emily a Hubba Bubba.
My daughter is not allowed bubble gum.
To: Candy Stratton
From: Kate Reddy in Stockholm
Client threatening to drop us on account of worrying dip in fund performance. Spun them a line about Edwin Morgan Forster asset managers being like Bjorn Borg: brilliant baseline stayers playing percentage shots and aiming for consistent victories over the long term, not flashy burnout artists going for quick profits and then double-faulting. Seemed to buy it. God knows why.
Kept popping out of Bengt Bergman boardroom to executive washroom, locking self in cubicle and using mobile to call pet shops in Walthamstow. Up until three days ago, Emily’s letters to Santa made no mention of hamster, now suddenly upgraded to Number One item.
Swedish clients all have names like a bad hand of Scrabble. Sven Sjostrom kept spearing rollmops off my plate at lunch and saying he was a passionate believer in “closer European union.”
Trust me to get only non-PC man in Scandinavia. Yeurk, K8 xxxxx
To: Kate Reddy
From: Candy Stratton
Sven Will I See U Again?
Sven Will We Share Precious Moments?
go for it, hon, it will relax you! luv Cystitis xxx
To: Candy Stratton
From: Kate Reddy
That is not funny. Remember, I am a happily married woman. Well, I’m married anyway.
To: Kate Reddy
From: Debra Richardson
Have just had unspeakable humiliation at hands — or rather mouth — of hateful school secretary at Piper Place (i know, i know, should stop this education madness). Yes, Ruby could be assessed for a place for 2002, “But I must warn you, Mrs. Richardson, that there are over a hundred little girls on our list and we have a strong siblings policy.”
Do you have any Semtex? These smug cows have got to be stopped.
What’s new??
To: Debra Richardson
From: Kate Reddy
Have not put Em down for school yet. By the time I get round to it, will probably have to have sex with the headmaster to have any chance of getting her in….More pressing problem: 2 days to wean Ben off dummy ’cause motherin-law thinks this sucking device is tool of the devil, only used by gypsies or chain-smoking lowlifes who “park children in front of the video.” What else to do with children in Yorkshire?
Have found hamster for Emily. Apparently female hamsters v. bad-tempered and sometimes bite or eat their young. Now why would that be?
2:17 A.M. Blizzard. Flight home delayed. Precious seconds set aside for last-minute shopping in London being eaten up. Scour Stockholm airport shop for Christmas presents. Which would Rich prefer, wind-dried reindeer or seasonal video entitled Swedish Teen Honeys in the Snow? Still refusing to buy Emily vulgar messy Baby Wee-Wee as seen on breakfast TV. Compromise on the local Swedish Barbie-type doll — wholesome individual, probably a Social Democrat, wearing peacekeeper khaki.
CHRISTMAS EVE. OFFICES OF EDWIN MORGAN FORSTER. I should have known where my pay negotiations were going when Rod Task came round the back of my chair, air-patted my shoulder three times like a vet preparing a cat for a jab and described me as “a highly valued member of the team.” It was midafternoon, the dregs of the day, and the sky over Broadgate was the color of tea.
Rod explained that there would be no bonus this year — the bonus I have been counting on to finish the building work on the house and for so much else. Times were tough for everybody, he said, but the really great news was they were giving me a major new challenge.
“We think you’re the person to do client servicing, Katie, ’cause you do it so damn well. Anyways, you got the best legs.”
A burly and curly Aussie, with a voice other guys use to get the attention of a bartender, when Rod first heaved his bulk over from Sydney to join EMF as Director of Marketing three and a half years ago — brought in to put some lead in the English firm’s propelling pencil — I really thought I’d have to leave. His inability to look me in the eye — and not just because I’m two inches taller — the way he would comment on parts of my body as though they were on special offer, his habit of ending every meeting with an injunction to “Get out there and kick the fucking tires!” After a few weeks, when Candy sweetly asked Rod for an English translation of this phrase, he looked perplexed for a few seconds, then gave a broad grin. “Screw the client for every penny you can!”
So I was going to have to leave. But then Emily hit the Terrible Twos and I bought a book called Toddler Taming. It was a revelation. The advice on how to deal with small angry immature people who have no idea of limits and were constantly testing their mother applied perfectly to my boss. Instead of treating him as a superior, I began handling him as though he were a tricky small boy. Whenever he was about to do something naughty, I would do my best to distract him; if I wanted him to do something, I always made it look like it was his idea.