(Welcome to this year’s National Novel Writing Month, and my quest to write another 50,000 words in 30 days!)

Jasmin pushed open the gleaming glass doors of the Aspire Advertising Agency. The lobby was high-energy, with stylish spot-lighting, efficiently minimalist chrome-framed seats, and hordes of sharply-dressed, competent-looking youngsters who seemed to be paid to dash enthusiastically to and fro through the doorways and up the impressive marble staircase. The whole effect screamed ‘success!. Jasmin felt small and bumbling in comparison. Her posh suit was slightly shabby around the edges, her shoes were positively ‘last year’, and she couldn’t be sure there wasn’t baby-sick on the shoulder of her rumpled jacket.

‘Can I help you, Madam?’

The voice made her jump. A spotlessly-turned-out receptionist had just popped up behind the mahogany desk to her left, and was looking at her with what could only rightly be described as pity. She bridled, and that in turn helped her beat the paralysis into which this stunning building seemed to have plunged her.

“I’m here to see Mr Dreyson,” she said, standing to her full height and meeting the receptionist’s condescending gaze.

‘And what would your name be, please, Madam?”

“Ms Fawcett. Jasmin Fawcett.’

The receptionist consulted her computer screen and typed something. Jasmin supposed she was meant to be impressed, and in fact she was. Executives had computers, but to find one in a reception area was something of a statement. The company that could afford to give its receptionist her own computer was a company doing well. Mind you, this was the ‘Aspire’ agency after all. Maybe that was everyone’s aspiration, to have their own computer on their desk. What a bizarre world that would be, she thought.

‘Ah yes, Miss Fawcett …’

‘Ms Fawcett.’

‘Yes, of course. Well, Ms Fawcett,’ (the emphasis on the title was just a little too heavy for politeness), ‘you are indeed booked in to see Mr Dreyson. Please proceed up the stairs to the third floor, then turn left. You will come to a seating area where you can wait for your appointment with him. Someone will tell you when he’s ready to see you.’

Jasmin nodded, and the receptionist smiled briefly, before returning her attention to the screen at her side.

Jasmin felt mildly dizzy as she climbed the stairs which circled the high-ceilinged lobby. Everything seemed so vast and cavernous. She supposed that two years at home with a baby got you used to small spaces. Life was about cosy corners where the little one felt warm and safe. But now she was back out in the big, bold, bustling adult world of business, where no-one much cared about feeling safe. This decade of opportunity was all about reckless risks and sky-high returns. She shivered a little. She wasn’t sure she was ready to be any part of that kind of world.

There had been no way around it of course. Once Maurice had left her, there was only one way she could look after herself and her little daughter, and that was to work. Still, brushing off her old suit and shoes had been hard enough, let alone brushing off her dusty, 1970s copy-writing skills. She had been good in her day, but this place was all the evidence she needed that ‘her day’ was well and truly over.

She rounded the corner at the top of the last flight of stairs, and made her way along a window-lined corridor. There was a reverent hush to this floor which made her even more sure that the bustling juveniles below were really only there for effect. Here, the order of the day was serious work. This was the place where that mediocre breakfast cereal might just be turned into next year’s best seller. Fortunes were made here.

The corridor opened out into the promised seating area, and seeing no-one to report her presence to, Jasmin chose a chair near the window and sat down. The silence was profound. In fact, it was almost oppressive. She looked out over the rooftops of the city centre, trying to see if she could spot her block of flats. As she strained her eyes, she imagined she could see in through her window … see her friend Iris playing with the baby. Well, not so much of a baby anymore really. She had passed her second birthday already. Jasmin smiled at the memory of her angelic cherub extinguishing her two pink birthday candles by spitting on them, thereby showering most of the party-guests at the same time. Little terror!

‘I do like a woman with a fine smile,’ said a low, silky voice.

Jasmin jumped. What was it about the people in this building and their ability to take you by surprise! Barely three feet away from her stood a middle-aged gentleman in a beautifully-tailored grey suit. He was short and thick-set, with a pudgy face that looked rather out of place above the fine Savile row sculpturing. He was smiling at her, but it wasn’t the kind of smile that communicated joy or good times.

‘You must be Miss Fawcett,’ he stated.

‘Ms Fawcett,’ she replied curtly.

‘Aha! One of those eh?’ He put his hands up in mock defence.

‘No,’ she said calmly. ‘Just Ms Fawcett.’

Right you are, well you’d better come in then, my dear.’

She bit back the ready retort on her tongue.

‘You would be Mr Dreyson then, would you?’ She asked.

‘Yes, that’s me, dear. Not Master, not Messrs, just good old plain Mr Dreyson.’

Ignoring the mocking tone, she rose to follow him.

He led the way into a huge office, dominated by a solid maple-wood desk. The walls were lined with accolades which would only be impressive to someone who knew the finer workings of the advertising industry, but they were lavishly framed nonetheless. Mr Dreyson clearly thought much of himself and his firm.

‘Sit down, Ms,’ he invited. ‘And why do you use that title, by the way? A bit ashamed of still being a spinster, are you? Or has the hubby done a runner?’

‘Neither of those things is the reason, Sir. I simply use it because I …’

She tailed off. She had never had to explain her reasons for choosing the more modern, less instantly categorising title before. But then again she had only just found herself needing to have a title at all. For years she had just been Jasmin.

‘Oh, I see!’ Mr Dreyson’s eyes shone with intrigue. ‘You’re … you’re a girl’s girl, are you? Well, good on you I say! Probably better to stay away from us hopeless men. Much simpler all round … and the sex is probably much better!’

Her mouth fell open and she stared incredulously at him. Had she really just heard him right? Surely not!

After a moment she regained her composure. Trying to restore some semblance of sanity to the conversation, she said: ‘No, Mr Dreyson, you’ve got it all wrong. I’ve got a child of my own. I’m definitely not a …’

She tailed off again, rather embarrassed at how vehemently she had felt the need to deny she was a lesbian. Her friend Iris would have chastised her for such an illiberal attitude. But Mr Dreyson seemed to bring out the worst in her.

‘Oh?’ He looked confused all of a sudden. ‘But haven’t you come to discuss the copy-writer’s opening with us?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘That’s what I thought, but I had rather assumed you would be ready to take up the post immediately, my dear. Things move fast in the world of advertising you know. We don’t have time to wait for the youngster to go to university.’

‘I am ready to start now, Mr Dreyson.’

Confusion was replaced by alarm.

‘Ah now hang on, Miss … Ms Fawcett. I’m a broad-minded man, you know, but Aspire isn’t ready to become a Kindergarten. We can’t be having kiddies tagging along to work. I expect 100% from my employees, and how can anyone give even 50% when they’re changing nappies, reading stories and cleaning up sick …’

‘I wouldn’t be bringing my child to work with me, Sir!’ She raised her voice to interrupt this ridiculous tirade.

‘OK, no need to get hot under the collar, dear. You must forgive me for being a little slow on the uptake, but one minute you tell me you are applying for a job, and the next you say that you have a child. Call me old-fashioned, but is not life for a woman like yourself about doing one or the other?’

This time she failed to bite back the retort in time.

‘For a woman like me, Mr Dreyson, life is about finding a way to raise money to feed myself and my daughter. The way to raise money is to work. Therefore, the two simply cannot prove to be mutually exclusive.’

The odious man smiled patiently. It did nothing to decrease her burning desire to impale him on his own ballpoint pen.

‘I appreciate that life can be mighty tough, Ms Fawcett, but … if you’ll forgive my forthrightness … I think you may be going about this all the wrong way.’

‘Oh?’

‘If you are indeed without … err … someone to support you and your child financially, and if our great State Benefit system is not adequate for your needs, then it seems to me that you need to be looking for the kind of work which will allow you to combine your responsibilities more effectively. Perhaps you could mind other people’s children, or take in some ironing … that sort of thing.’

‘Have you ever minded anyone’s children or done anyone’s ironing for money, Mr Dreyson?’ Her voice was ominously low.

‘Well, no I haven’t.’

‘Then you could be forgiven for not realising what a thoroughly ridiculous suggestion that is. If I was to earn my living that way, I might raise enough to keep my daughter in colouring pencils, but that would be about it. You probably are intelligent enough to realise, though, that colouring pencils are hardly a healthy diet, and they really don’t keep you warm in winter … and that is why I am here. I need a job that pays me real money, Sir.’

Jasmin was perched on the edge of her seat now, and her temper was barely in check. Mr Dreyson, on the other hand, was leaning back in his chair, fingers steepled together, looking at her as though she were a rather complex crossword clue to be solved.

‘Yes, I can see that must complicate matters for you. How on earth does one find a job which pays enough. Isn’t that the rub for all of us, eh?’

‘Not for me,’ she said heatedly. ‘I have found just such a job, and it happens to be the one you’re advertising. So can we perhaps get on with the interview?’

He gazed absently around his office for quite some time. Under the supercilious arrogance she thought she detected a rather discordant note of uncertainty.

AT length he spoke again. ‘You see, my dear, the trouble is that I truly can’t offer you this job, determined though you are to prove to me that you can accommodate it in your life. I am not into all this women’s lib business you know. I believe a woman works until she gives birth, and then she mothers.’

Jasmin decided to let the infuriating distinction between working and mothering slide for the time being.

‘You are a pretty little thing, and you have certainly succeeded in convincing me that you are articulate, which I dare say makes you an excellent copy-writer, but I simply cannot circumnavigate my own principles. Surely you wouldn’t expect me to, would you?’

I would when they are straight out of ‘Male Chauvinist Weekly’, she thought. But the fight had gone out of her. She felt that she had sprinted full-tilt into a brick wall, and there was no righteously indignant breath left in her to protest anymore. She stood up and gathered up her bag.

‘Goodbye, Mr Dreyson. It was … interesting to make your acquaintance.’

‘Are you going so soon, my dear?’

‘There doesn’t seem much point in me staying if this job interview is dead in the water before it ever began.’

‘Oh, but there are other things to be discussed! Do sit down again!’

He looked somewhat crestfallen, and though she didn’t sit down again, she did stop to await his next contribution.

Seeing he had peaked her curiosity, Mr Dreyson leaned forward in his chair, rubbing his hands together. ‘The copy-writing job is a no-no I’m afraid. I need someone I can rely on, who isn’t going to be dashing off to kiddies birthday parties every second Tuesday. But there are other … arrangements we could come to.’

‘Such as?’

‘Well, let’s just say that I have certain privileges, as head of the company. I have a little discretionary fund which I can … make use of in whatever way I choose. I can create a little job here, give an honorarium there … you get the picture?’

‘Not really, but do go on.’

‘Well, there are always little jobs around the place that need doing, you know – maybe some typing or filing. We have secretaries, of course, but a successful businessman like myself manages to build up his own personal pile of paperwork, you know. I’m always on the lookout for young ladies who might have the time to give me a little personal assistance, shall we say.’

He winked lewdly, and Jasmin recoiled several paces.

‘Mr Dreyson, are you making an improper suggestion to me?’

‘Not at all, my dear!’ He made a valiant effort to retrieve his look of fatherly concern, but it now faded to seedy around the edges. ‘I am merely suggesting that a wealthy gentleman and his confidential secretary might find ways of … helping each other out from time to time.’

‘You, Mr Dreyson, are a filthy old man! I am leaving your office now, and I can promise you that I will never again darken the doors of the Aspire Advertising Agency.’

She turned towards the door. Once there, she turned to give him one last parting glare. To her astonishment, he was laughing.

‘Oh you poor thing!’ He said, mid-chuckle. ‘Idealism is all well and good, but it won’t put cornflakes in your little girl’s breakfast bowl.’

**********

Jasmin banged the front door louder than she’d meant to. Iris came rushing out of the lounge with an admonitory ‘ssshhh!’.

‘She’s asleep! You’ll wake her if you carry on shaking the building like that!’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Jasmin, dropping her bag and heading dejectedly for the kitchen.

Iris followed her, and got on with making the coffee, once she’d realised Jasmin was good for nothing more than staring blankly out of the window.

‘So how did it go?’

‘About as badly as you could ever wish it to go.’

‘Were there loads of candidates? I bet a job like that draws all the young keenies, doesn’t it … all those bright little sparks, fresh out of university.’

‘There were no other candidates, as far as I could tell. Just me.’

‘And you still didn’t get the job? Are they deaf-blind fools?’

‘There was no “they” either. Just a “he”.’

Iris laughed. ‘With your looks and brains, my girl, he should have been a push-over.’

‘Pushing him over wasn’t the problem, as it happens. He was perfectly ready to be pushed over whenever I liked. The problem was the more tricky business of getting him to pay me for something more skilful than sex and typing.’

The humour vanished and Iris looked perplexed. ‘You’re not serious are you?’

‘Deadly.’

‘He actually said that?’

‘He left me in no uncertain terms.’ Jasmin sighed heavily.

The two women drank their coffee in silence for a few minutes, Jasmin preoccupied with her depressing morning, and Iris lost for anything to say.

‘I just don’t know how I’m going to do this, Iris,’ said Jasmin at length. ‘Call me naïve, but I really thought I could walk into a firm and get myself a job. It never occurred to me that still, in this day and age, there would be men who would bar my way to any kind of decent paid employment, just because their worldview doesn’t allow for the mixing of motherhood and a professional career.’

‘Give Maggie a few years,’ said Iris sardonically. ‘She’ll beat them into shape sooner or later.’

‘Not even a woman Prime Minister is going to be able to change society quickly enough for me and my little girl.’

Iris was genuinely worried. Jasmin was rarely downcast, and almost never defeatist. She had ploughed her way joyously through the social upheaval of the 60s and 70s, relishing every sacred cow that got bulldozed along the way. She was the one who had always persuaded Iris to keep pushing the boundaries – to think beyond the thinkable. But now she seemed to have lost her heart for the battle altogether.

‘Come on, Jasmin! Don’t give up! Something will come good for you two. You’ve just gotta get right up and on that horse again!’

Jasmin looked wobbly. She put her cup down and walked out of the kitchen, heading for the bathroom. Iris called after her: ‘Remember the mantra!’

‘What are you on about,’ came the reply as the bathroom door closed.

‘The mantra. You know, that thing we used to say to ourselves when we were getting ready to march.’

‘Oh, that.’ The voice was flat and lifeless again. ‘Apparently it’s past its sell-by date.’

Iris went into the flat’s only bedroom, and looked down into the cot, where a blonde-haired, blue-eyed picture-book child lay fast asleep.

‘Well,’ she whispered, ‘if you’re mummy’s given up the mantra, maybe it’s time to pass it on to you, my sweetheart. You see, little Verity, this here life we live, it’s all about two things: being sensible and being successful! With those two qualities, you can go anywhere, do anything …best anyone!’

Chapter 1

As Reyana stepped down onto the platform, the old man in front of her with the maroon suitcase dropped dead. She didn’t exactly know what dropping dead looked like, but there was something about the way he fell that put her in mind of it. He didn’t crumple, he just toppled straight down, landing with his limbs draped over his very nice leather wheely suitcase. With a start, she pulled her mind back into focus. All this speculating on what people looked like when they dropped dead was helping no-one.

…

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