You Don't Know Me Read online

  ‘And will he be here soon?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘And this is Personnel?’

  ‘Sort of.’ Jodie sighs.

  ‘Sort of? How can it be sort of Personnel?’

  ‘It just is.’

  I pause for a few seconds to take in the information. I sort of work in Personnel, and I work for a man called Norman.

  ‘And what does Norman do?’

  ‘Whatever Mr Foster wants him to do.’

  ‘Which is?’ I hold out a hand, begging for just one answer that makes sense.

  ‘Oh, you know, this and that.’ She picks up the biro and swings it about in mid-air as if this and that are actually in the room.

  ‘And what happened to the last secretary?’

  ‘She went to Finance.’

  ‘Finance?’ I’m gawping now, and I know it. That was my bloody job. ‘Why did she go to Finance?’

  ‘Dunno.’ Slipping the biro between her teeth, Jodie sets about thinking hard. ‘She was pretty good at Sudoku,’ she says at last. ‘Maybe that’s it.’

  I lean forwards in my chair and wonder what sort of mad-cap place I’ve landed myself in. It’s only the first hour of day one and I’m already suspecting that I should start to look for another job.

  ‘So what’s Mr Foster like?’ I ask tentatively.

  Jodie shakes her head. ‘A complete shit.’

  And probably at least fifty years old, my brain muses. He’s the owner of a building company, for God’s sake. He’ll be fat and bald and wheezy to boot.

  ‘A complete shit?’

  ‘Yup.’

  I’m clearly going to get precious little else out of the pink one on this particular matter. She’s already back into the Sudoku so I spend the next few minutes trying to switch on my computer. At last, Jodie lets out another sigh and comes to join me.

  ‘It’s here.’ She reaches around the back and presses some invisible button.

  I stand up, lean round the monitor and raise an eyebrow.

  ‘Where did you work before?’ she asks, eyeing me suspiciously.

  ‘Oh, I temped for a bit. You know, moving about all over the place.’ I bite my lip. There really is no way I’m going to tell her the truth: that this is my first secretarial job. And as it happens, I don’t have to. Norman saves the day.

  ‘Ladies!’

  A huge mountain of a man barrels his way through the door. He’s at least six feet tall, with legs like tree trunks and a belly the size of a barrage balloon. I stare into the face of what I can only describe as a colossal teddy bear. He’s a mass of wrinkles and smiles … and he really is quite old.

  ‘Welcome, Maya!’ While his brown eyes dance with pleasure, two huge, oversized arms reach themselves out to greet me, and I have no option but to step inside them and have the breath squeezed out of me. ‘I’m Norman.’

  ‘Hello, Norman,’ I whimper into his tie. At last, he lets me go and I stagger backwards, trying my best to gather my wits. ‘Maya,’ he grins. ‘Such a beautiful name. I’m going to say it over and over again. Maya. Maya. Maya. Maya.’ He sings my name into the air as if he’s become enraptured by it. ‘Now, Maya, let me induct you.’

  Into what, I wonder. And will I actually know what I’m doing after this?

  ‘This is your office.’ He swipes his massive hands through the air. ‘And that’s Jodie.’ He points a finger at the pink one. ‘The kettle’s over there.’ He motions towards the corner. ‘That’s the fridge. And that’s a filing cabinet.’ The big hands sweep through the air again. ‘Most of our stuff is either on that thing.’ He points at my computer. ‘Or in here.’ He taps his own head. ‘And my office is through here. Come along. Let me show you.’

  Okay. So, I’m still no clearer on anything. I follow the man-mountain and find myself in the most incredible space: an enormous room, complete with a glass wall giving out over the Thames. It’s a thoroughly modern office with a thoroughly modern, massive desk that’s buried under a mound of paperwork. To my right, there’s a leather sofa and a coffee table, and to the left, a book shelf and an exercise bike. While Norman begins to rummage around on his desk, my eyes scan the contents of the bookshelf: empty mugs; empty glasses; a selection of knick-knacks that wouldn’t look amiss in an old lady’s sitting room; and finally, one single framed photograph. I step forwards and find myself staring at a younger Norman, still huge but much leaner and suntanned. Standing in front of a Georgian country house, he’s flanked by a kindly looking man, and an even kindlier looking woman.

  ‘That’s Mr and Mrs Foster,’ he smiles appreciatively. ‘I started out with them almost fifty years ago. I used to be tea boy. Then I worked my way up.’

  ‘They started this company?’

  ‘Yes, my love. From nothing. It was a simple building firm for a start. Old Mr Foster was a builder by trade. The company specialised in council houses and then we widened out into private housing. In the last few years, we’ve expanded again. Office blocks, car parks, shopping malls. You name it, we build it.’ He winks. ‘And now we’ve branched out abroad. We have contracts all over the place. And we have a couple of factories too.’

  ‘So, that’s Mr Foster there?’ I point at the photograph. ‘The man upstairs.’

  Norman chuckles and then his face straightens out into a frown.

  ‘No, my love, old Mr and Mrs Foster aren’t with us any more. Their son took over …’ He coughs. ‘Eventually. That’s the man upstairs. The big cheese. The big kahuna. He who must be obeyed. Daniel Foster.’ He glances down at his watch. ‘And I’ve got to nip up and see him.’

  I gaze around the room, searching for more photographs, but there aren’t any.

  ‘Norman,’ I venture. Really, I ought to be calling him Mr Whatever, but I suddenly realise that I don’t even know his surname. ‘Don’t you have a photograph of the man upstairs?’

  He raises an eyebrow.

  ‘The big cheese?’ I prompt further.

  ‘No.’ He dismisses the question immediately, and I understand. For all that he loved old Mr and Mrs Foster, he clearly isn’t quite so keen on their son. ‘Now then,’ he smiles. ‘Let’s give you some work to do.’ He picks up a handful of crinkled sheets from his desk and offers them to me. ‘I’m going to need this typed up as soon as possible. It’s a report on a factory we own up in Tyneside. Can you get it done this morning?’

  I nod.

  ‘Good. Good. Well, I’ll see you later. Better go.’

  While the big teddy bear slopes off to see the big kahuna, I return to my desk and set about deciphering Norman’s spidery handwriting. It’s anything but easy. After ten solid minutes of squinting at the first paragraph, my eyes are on the verge of becoming permanently crossed and my brain is crying out for a good lie down in a darkened room. But at least I’ve managed to work out the secret key to the scrawls. Feeling distinctly pleased with myself, I glance up to find that Jodie’s busy with the Sudoku book.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ she scowls, scribbling a line through one unfinished puzzle and making her way onto the next.

  ‘Haven’t you got any work to do?’ I ask.

  The pink one’s mouth falls open, yet again.

  ‘Work?’ she breathes, flabbergasted. ‘I don’t do any work.’

  Shrugging my shoulders, I go back to the task in hand. It’s obvious that I’ve just asked a completely ridiculous question … and I won’t make the mistake of asking it again. It’s all incredibly odd, but then again I shouldn’t be surprised. After all, Mrs Kavanagh did warn me. Just keep your head down, I tell myself. Get on with the job and question nothing. Take the money and run.

  Chapter Three

  Half an hour after he disappeared, Norman returns, looking distinctly flustered. He glances down at me and disappears into his office. At last I finish the report, print off a copy and take it in to Norman before I return to my own desk with precious little more to do. I spend the next hour gazing at my telephone, willing it to ring. I check my office emails, willin
g anyone to send me a message. Just give me a job, my brain screams out. Anything to pass the time. But nothing happens. Tomorrow, I decide, I’m going to take Mrs Kavanagh’s advice and bring in a good book.

  ‘I’m off to do a bit of shopping,’ Norman announces at half past eleven. ‘I won’t be long.’

  I stare after him in disbelief. He’s only been in work for two hours and he’s already decided to take himself off for a spot of retail therapy?

  ‘When’s our lunch hour?’ I ask the pink princess.

  ‘Twelve ‘til one,’ she grunts in return.

  I settle in for another half an hour of nothing. It’s almost midday when my telephone buzzes. I gaze at it in amazement, wondering what the hell’s going on. Somebody’s actually calling me? No, that can’t be happening. They must have got the wrong number. After a few seconds of buzzing, I pick up the receiver.

  ‘Mr … er ….’ Shit, I still don’t know Norman’s surname. This really is totally unprofessional. I fumble through my brain for the right thing to say, but nothing right comes to mind. ‘Norman’s office. Can I help you?’

  ‘You took your time,’ a voice growls.

  I give a start. Whoever it is, he’s definitely none too pleased about something.

  ‘Sorry?’

  There’s a silence. I hold the receiver away from my head and look at it, as if this is actually going to help matters. The silence continues.

  ‘Hello?’ I pull the phone back to my ear. Is he actually still there? Has he hung up?

  ‘Who is this?’ the voice demands. It’s rich and deep and velvety and if its owner wasn’t quite so rude, you might even say that it was sexy. But the owner of it is rude, and he’s making me feel uncomfortable.

  ‘Maya Scotton.’

  ‘Maya Scotton,’ the voice repeats slowly, as though it’s trying out the name for size. ‘You’re the new girl in Norman’s office.’

  Girl? Nobody calls me a girl. Before I can help myself, my mouth is firing off.

  ‘Actually, I’m the new secretary in Norman’s office.’

  ‘Like I said,’ the voice fires back. ‘The new girl.’

  And that really has got me going. Mr I’ve-got-a-sexy-voice-but-no-bloody-manners is a sexist pig to boot. I need to put him straight.

  ‘I’m twenty six,’ I blurt. ‘And I think that entitles me to be called a woman. Do you actually want anything?’ I wince. That’s definitely not the right way to go about things.

  ‘Yes, I do,’ the voice snaps.

  After a few more seconds of silence, I sigh. I’d better say something else now, and I’d better sound professional.

  ‘Well, would you actually like to tell me what it is that you want? Only my psychic abilities are a little off today.’

  I wince again. That wasn’t professional at all. I hear a sigh at the other end of the line.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that, Miss Scotton. Now, I understand you’ve typed up a report this morning. Would you be a good woman and email a copy up to me?’

  The phone goes dead and I stare at it. I’m in shock.

  ‘But who the fuck are you?’ I virtually spit.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Jodie glances up from her latest puzzle.

  ‘Some rude fucker’s just told me to email a file up to him? Email it up to where?’

  ‘Well, there’s only one up from here,’ Jodie smiles. She turns her face to the ceiling. ‘Mr Foster’s office.’

  ‘Oh shit.’

  No. No, no, no, no. I smack my hand against my forehead. Now that does make sense. If my brain had been in gear, then I would have done the sums. There’s only one floor above us, and that must be where Mr Foster has his lair. That was the boss I was just talking to, the boss I was just extremely rude to. But then again, he was rude to me. He deserved everything he got. With a shaking hand, I call up the file and email it straight up to the big kahuna.

  ***

  It’s nearly two o’clock when Norman finally returns, laden with two shopping bags and a stick of French bread. He staggers into his office just as his phone begins to ring. I watch through the doorway as he drops the bags to the floor and loses the French bread under the desk. He scrambles for the phone and picks up the receiver.

  ‘Hello? Yes, I’m here. I’ll be up in a minute … I had to get some bits.’ He pauses, listening intently, and when he finally speaks again, his voice sounds different, uncertain. ‘Yes … Okay … Yes, I’ll do that.’ He replaces the receiver. ‘Maya!’ he calls. ‘Can you come and join me for a minute?’

  I glance over at Jodie. With a sigh, she opens a drawer in her desk and retrieves a nail file and a bottle of varnish. Leaving the pink one to her manicure session, I step into Norman’s office.

  ‘Sit yourself down, my love.’

  His voice comes from under the desk where he’s busy rescuing the French bread. I shift myself onto the edge of the leather sofa, listen to it squeak beneath me, and wait for Norman to position the bread on his desk and plonk himself back down in his chair.

  ‘The factory up in Tyneside,’ he wheezes. ‘The one you’ve just typed the report on.’ He picks up a file, smiles warmly at me and slaps it back down on the desk. ‘We’ve got a big meeting about it this afternoon.’

  ‘Okay.’

  He continues quickly, as if he’s running out of time.

  ‘The factory’s been running for years. It currently employs two hundred and twenty five people. It makes machinery that we use in the building trade. Concrete mixers, that sort of thing.’ He wafts a hand about. ‘Only it’s been cutting a loss for a couple of years now. It’s a weak link in the chain, Maya. And Mr Foster is thinking of shutting it down.’

  ‘Okay.’ I really don’t know why he’s telling me all this. After all, I’m just a secretary. But I can’t help the next question that comes tumbling out of my mouth. ‘And they’ll all lose their jobs?’

  ‘If it goes ahead.’

  Suddenly I’m thinking of my dad, of all the heartache and the anguish that came our way when redundancy hit. ‘Can’t you convince him to keep it?’

  Norman’s thick lips pucker themselves up into a smile. ‘I don’t think so. The company can’t afford to prop up a failure, not in this day and age.’

  ‘This is awful.’

  ‘It is, my love.’

  ‘Norman?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Why do I need to know this?’

  ‘Oh.’ He waves his hand again. ‘Background information. A quick briefing. Just so that you know what’s going on in the meeting.’

  ‘In the meeting?’

  ‘Yes …’ He pauses and seems to swallow some kind of lump. ‘Well, Mr Foster just called. He … er … wants you up there.’

  My world jolts to a stop.

  ‘Me? Why me?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know.’ He pulls an I’ll-be-damned-if-I-know sort of a face. ‘Maybe he just wants someone to take notes.’

  Well, that’s obviously a load of bollocks, my brain calls out. You know exactly why Mr Foster wants you up there. He’s going to give you your come-uppance for not knowing your place ... and then he’s going to sack you.

  ***

  Ten minutes later, I step outside the strange bubble that’s Norman’s department into the normal, business-like operations of Fosters Construction. As soon as we’ve sidled our way into the lift, Norman pushes a button and we’re rising, but not for long. Moments later, the lift doors open onto the fifteenth floor. I half expect to emerge into a corridor, just like on any other floor, but instead I step out into something from a Hollywood movie: marble floors, plush sofas, a huge glass desk and, behind it, the most perfectly preened receptionist I’ve ever laid eyes on. I gaze around at the walls to find that they’re adorned with massive canvas photographs of massive buildings, mostly swanky skyscrapers, and obviously all the products of Mr Foster’s company. Jesus, I didn’t think it would be like this. Suddenly, I’m feeling intimidated, all the more so because I can hear a rich, velvety voice in the
background. It’s deep in conversation and it still doesn’t sound too pleased. My eyes follow the direction of the voice, to the left, where there’s a huge oak door, obviously the entrance to the big kahuna’s cave.

  ‘Is he ready for us?’ Norman splutters.

  ‘Yes, Norman,’ the receptionist smiles. ‘In you go.’

  ‘Mood?’ he enquires, passing by the desk.

  ‘Code red,’ she grimaces. ‘Take care.’

  Following in the wake of Norman’s huge body, I walk into a silent room. Norman moves to one side, revealing a glass table, around which are seated at least ten extremely serious looking people.

  ‘Sit yourself down next to me,’ Norman whispers.

  I settle myself onto a chair, with Norman on one side and an empty space on the other, at the head of the table. I stare at the sumptuous black leather chair. It’s currently waiting for the final bottom to be lowered into it. But where is that bottom? Turning to the window, I find it, along with the rest of Mr Foster. Now, that doesn’t look like a big fat sweaty fifty year old at all. In fact, it looks distinctly like the back of the man at the lifts this morning. Shit, my brain cries out. Mr Foster’s a sex god and you’ve gone and pissed him off! With his back to the room, and his arms folded in front of him, he’s looking out over the Thames. I take in the back of his fair, ruffled hair, his tall, lean frame with its broad shoulders and slim waist. And then, finally, I allow myself a quick peep at his backside. He’s not wearing a jacket now and it’s on full view, and my goodness, it’s a real stunner. All trim and hard and pert. No, he’s not bad from the back, not bad at all. And suddenly I’m remembering the receptionist’s words. ‘You should cop a load of him from the front.’

  ‘So you finally made it, Norman?’ A rich, velvety voice fills the room, the same rich, velvety voice that was snapping at me earlier.

  ‘Sorry, Mr Foster. I was waylaid.’

  ‘Dan.’ The voice cracks through the air, like a whip. ‘Call me Dan.’

  ‘Sorry, Dan.’

  The arms are lowered and he turns slowly. I hear myself gasp. That’s the first thing that happens, shortly before my adrenal glands decide to go on the rampage. Something flutters wildly in my stomach and my heart valves begin to flap like a line full of washing in a force ten gale. Fucking hell, my brain gurgles, that receptionist was one hundred percent right. The man is a sex god! He’s absolute, fucking perfection! Doing my level best to cover up a serious case of the jitters, I quickly try to take it all in: the tousled blond hair, the strong, clean-shaven jaw, the sensual lips that are parted slightly, and finally the eyes. They’re bright blue and they’re mesmerising, and they’re looking straight at me. I’m beginning to blush, and I know it. And my lungs seem to have contracted because my breath is suddenly coming in short, uneven spurts. Look away, my brain screams out. You’re making an idiot of yourself. Just pack it in! He moves away from the window and before I’m aware of what’s going on, he’s already seated in the chair at the head of the table, the chair that’s right next to me. Oh shit, I can smell him now. He’s all fresh and cleanly washed with no hint of aftershave, just the quietest undertone of some expensive body wash. Oh God, it’s gorgeous. Closing my eyes, I drink in his scent, knowing full well that this really is no way to behave in some high-powered business meeting that I have no business being in.