Perfect on Paper by Gillian Harvey (top 20 books to read txt) 📕

suddenly warm. He was still Toby, underneath his career-ladder-climbing, overly stressed, image-conscious exterior.

‘It’s just – well, you don’t have to prove yourself to me. Or to Katie or Alfie. We all love you. And I obviously want you to be happy, Toby, but I feel like you’re kind of slipping away from me.’

‘It’ll get better,’ he said. ‘I … I don’t know. I’m just finding my feet. Sometimes,’ he paused, and glanced at the ceiling, ‘I don’t even feel like I’m me any more.’

They hugged then, tightly, and she nearly told him about her decision to rap in a local talent show. But somehow, her resolve to be forthright and decisive left her.

It was quite fun walking to the bus in the unseasonal early morning sunshine, knowing that it would be the last time she’d have to do it. She’d miss Mr Flasher with his secret under-coat sequins; she’d even developed a soft spot for the hipster driver. Dressed in her best black work suit, she felt smart and professional, and although her files were not yet in a leather satchel as she eventually intended, she’d at least borrowed one of Alfie’s old gym bags and ditched the tote.

Yes, she was definitely going up in the world. Although her folders had started to smell of socks.

‘Morning!’ she breezed to Nigel half an hour later, as she walked through the reception area at 8.05 a.m.

He visibly jumped, like a child caught with his hand in the biscuit tin, she thought. (Then she noticed that he was actually rummaging in Jane, the receptionist’s, not-so-secret snack drawer.)

‘Morning, Carol,’ he said, after a pause. ‘Just … just getting an envelope or two … eh?’

‘It’s Clare,’ she said.

‘No, en-vel-opes,’ he said, slowly and carefully, as if she was hard of hearing. ‘Ah, here they are!’ he said loudly, brandishing a couple of manilla A4s and acting as if she couldn’t see the bulge of sweets in his pocket.

Despite the fact that her boss seemed incapable of remembering her name, Clare felt uncharacteristically positive. Why had she ever felt so dissatisfied? she wondered. Work was going well, she enjoyed her job most of the time, and while she hadn’t made partner yet, she was still young – and well on the way to netting the firm a decent profit as long as Camberwaddle came around. Which of course he would, she reassured herself.

Tonight she was going to find herself a decent second-hand car and get herself back on track … or road.

She thought again of last night, when she’d rung Dan. He’d whooped down the phone, almost bursting her eardrum. It was hard to believe that someone really felt she’d make that much difference. Perhaps that was the reason for her good mood this morning, too.

Then: ‘Oh, good news,’ Nigel said. ‘Your new office is furnished and ready to go!’

‘It is?’ When she’d left work yesterday, she’d passed the door and peeped in. There had been a few carpet tiles scattered on the floor, and an old shoe in the corner. Despite Nigel’s assurances, she hadn’t really thought things would move so quickly. And, deep down, she’d still convinced herself that he’d see sense.

‘Yes! Got some of the boys on it last night. Looking rather swish, I thought.’

‘Right. Thank you,’ she said, feeling the buzz of anxiety in her chest.

She waited for him to disappear then went up the stairs slowly, like a character in a horror movie convinced they’re about to find a body. Reaching the old coat cupboard she saw a printed A4 sheet with the name Carol Bailey on it in comic sans. Feeling sick, she pushed the door open.

In the dim light of the windowless room, she saw her desk, practically filling the whole space. The floor had been hastily carpet tiled and the smell of glue lingered in the air. Her filing cabinet bulged in the corner.

She tried not to cry. Was this dark corner with its tiny electric bulb on a wire really going to be her office from now on? She’d worked hard for this firm, yet was being shoved aside like a coconut eclair in a box of Quality Street. Well, she was no coconut eclair! She was at least an orange creme. Maybe even a strawberry delight. And what was Will? A caramel at best.

But caramels are the kind of sweet that everyone likes, she realised. Orange cremes are opinion splitters. Sure, they’re some people’s favourite. But some people can’t stand them.

‘Is he serious?’ came a voice over her shoulder.

Clare jumped. It was Ann. She kept her face towards the office, afraid her colleague would see the tears pooling in her eyes.

‘I think so.’

‘Oh god, Clare.’

‘Have you been moved, too?’ Ann’s desk was currently in the open-plan part of the office, where she sat with several other secretaries.

‘Not yet. But I wouldn’t put it past them,’ her friend replied. ‘Oh, Clare. You can’t put up with this, you really can’t.’

Clare didn’t reply. ‘Hmm,’ she managed at last. Because she knew deep down that she probably would put up with it. And it would become normal. And she’d stop thinking about it. Because that, it seemed, is what she tended to do.

At 10.30 a.m., when Ann poked her head around the office door to tell her that Stefan had arrived, Clare didn’t notice her at first due to the dim light; meaning that when she did suddenly see what appeared to be a floating head halfway up the wood of the door, she spilled coffee on her leg, screamed and had to dab herself dry with a crumbling tissue.

‘Whoops!’ Ann’s head exclaimed. ‘Sorry!’

‘Don’t worry.’

‘Want me to keep hold of Camberwaddle while you get changed?’

‘No, think it’s sorted,’ Clare said, crossing her fingers and holding them up.

‘Good luck,’ Ann winked.

Stefan Camberwaddle had the confidence and ease that only comes with having grown up with money and an entourage of people to deliver praise and compliments on tap. ‘Mrs Bailey,’ he said, holding out his hand.

She took it, standing up,