It’s A Man’s World. Polly Courtney
It quickly transpired that Dickie’s girlfriend was very drunk. Her eyes were rolling around in their sockets and every time the speaker paused for breath – sometimes after a joke’s punchline, often not – she would let out a loud, throaty chuckle as though the man had said something exceedingly funny.
‘I always look back to something that someone once told me . . .’
‘Mwahahahaha!’ cried the girl.
‘. . . that if you want to know the difference between a good lawyer and a great lawyer . . .’
‘Mwahahahaha!’ she cried again. People were starting to stare. ‘. . . then it is this. A good lawyer knows the law. A great lawyer knows the judge.’
‘Mwahahahahahahaha!’ yelled the girl, this time accompanied by a polite murmur of appreciation from around the room.
Alexa sipped her champagne, trying not to catch the girl’s eye in case the hysterics became contagious. Fenella. That was it. Fenella’s interjections were clearly not winning her any favour with the balding man on her left. Dickie was making a halfhearted attempt to shut her up, but short of physically restraining or removing her, there was little he could do.
Eventually, the speaker stepped down, amid a trickle of light applause. Predictably, Fenella clapped and whooped like a winner at the races. Alexa smiled as Dickie tried to explain that wolf-whistling was not an appropriate form of celebration.
Matt laid a hand on Alexa’s thigh under the table, pressing his lips to her ear. ‘The guy next to you is Dickie’s boss,’ he whispered.
‘Oh dear,’ replied Alexa, softly.
‘He’s also my boss,’ added Matt, with a meaningful look.
‘Right.’ Alexa nodded, understanding what was expected of her. Matt didn’t want a Fenella on his hands tonight.
Matt smiled, leaning back as a waiter swooped over to pour the wine. ‘Oh,’ he said, his mouth returning to her ear. ‘There’s one thing you should know about David Wint—’
‘DAVID WINTERBOTTOM,’ boomed the voice on her left.
Alexa jumped. The balding man was offering his hand.
‘Nice to meet you,’ she said, wondering what Matt had been about to say.
‘The pleasure,’ he declared theatrically, ‘is all mine.’
Alexa smiled politely as he grasped her hand in his and drew it slowly to his lips. He spoke in a way that might have been appropriate for very young children or foreigners: slowly and very loudly. She nudged Matt with her knee under the table, but he was already embroiled in a conversation about litigation with Dickie. Fenella, she noticed, was mumbling incoherently into her glass.
The starters were placed on the table with military precision by the waiting staff, offering Alexa a brief but welcome reprieve from Winterbottom’s ogling stare. He seemed to be looking at her as though she were some form of exquisite art, not a conscious person.
‘So!’ The stare returned as Alexa tucked into her caramelised onion tart. She didn’t actually like onion, but she decided that tasting small quantities was preferable to making conversation with Matt’s lecherous boss. ‘What do you do, then?’
‘I . . .’ Alexa avoided the man’s gaze, which was now firmly focused on her breasts. ‘I work in media.’
‘Ah.’ Winterbottom nodded knowingly. ‘I could have guessed.’
‘Could you?’
‘Yuh.’ He nodded again, glancing appraisingly at the silk dress as though sizing her up. ‘Yuh, definitely a creative type. What d’you do? Graphics?’
Alexa frowned. She wondered whether her role could be classified as ‘creative’. Some of her financial forecasts could probably qualify as such, but strictly speaking her profession was management or business. ‘No, I look at new markets for magazines.’
‘New markets, eh? Farmers’ markets? Are you a communities journalist?’
Alexa pushed away the remains of her tart. ‘No,’ she replied, through gritted teeth. Had Winterbottom not been Matt’s boss, she would have put him straight in no uncertain terms.
‘Let me guess,’ said Winterbottom. ‘Are you . . . oh, I know. Is it a local magazine?’
‘No.’ Alexa heard the resentment in her voice and reined herself in again. ‘No. I’m not a journalist.’
‘Then why did you say you were?’
Alexa kept calm, watching as he scooped out the filling from his starter and stuffed it into his mouth in one go. A small strand of onion flicked up from the fork, leaving a trail of chutney across his left cheek.
‘I said I worked in media. I look at new markets for magazines – new revenue streams.’
‘Oh.’ The man looked confused. ‘So, you work in finance?’
‘Sort of.’ Alexa nodded. It was probably the closest they were going to get to her actual job description.
The waiters whisked away their plates, topping up glasses as they went. Alexa took a large gulp of red wine, leaning sideways and trying to catch Matt’s attention.
‘No, no, no,’ insisted Dickie, apparently oblivious to his girl-friend’s sleepy head on his shoulder. ‘Regulation works better than litigation, every time. Prevention is better than cure!’
‘I disagree,’ argued Matt, launching into a complicated explanation for why.
Alexa turned back to her wine. It was always the same. Matt promised not to talk shop with his colleagues, then when the time came, the word ‘litigation’ reared its head and they were off. It was no wonder Fenella had drunk herself into a stupor.
‘So!’ It was the same slow, booming tone that had rung out before.
Reluctantly, Alexa turned to face Winterbottom.
‘You never told me which title,’ he said, patronisingly.
‘Oh.’ Alexa nodded. She thought for a moment. Part of her wanted to shock him by telling him about Banter, but she didn’t know whether that would reflect badly on Matt. ‘It’s a women’s magazine called Hers.’
‘A women’s magazine,’ he nodded, smiling. ‘Of course.’
Alexa managed to keep her cool. Inside, she wanted to grab the man’s tightly-stretched collar and shake him off his chair, wiping that smug, condescending smile off his face.
‘I trebled its gross revenue and shaved twenty percent off the costs last year,’ she said.
‘Did you?’ He looked at her, wide-eyed, glancing overtly at her breasts. ‘And how much revenue does a women’s magazine bring in, these days?’
Alexa exhaled. The fire was burning inside her. This man was intolerable.
As it happened, just as the collar-grabbing fantasy started to take hold in her mind, Alexa’s thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of her main course. Matt looked over and must have registered her expression because he suddenly wanted to know her opinion on joint liability in American asbestos cases.
Alexa’s shoulders remained tilted towards Dickie and Matt for the entirety of her next two courses: succulent veal followed by peach melba with raspberry coulis. She wasn’t enjoying the conversation exactly, or even following it, but she was doing a reasonable job of saying ‘mmm’ at appropriate intervals and the wine was slipping down nicely. Dickie and Matt didn’t seem to mind; they were lost in a world of corporate constitutions and shareholder rights.
Dessert wine was followed by cheese and port which was followed by a random selection of red and white wine scavenged