Precious You - Helen Monks Takhar

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I clear this first?’

      I thought I heard a stifled snort from the IT intern in the far corner of our bank of desks. I couldn’t let on I didn’t know what ‘this’ was.

      ‘Go for it.’

      ‘You’re sure?’

      ‘Yep.’

      ‘I mean, Gemma wanted me to focus on writing this curtain-raising piece for the awards, but I can prioritise your work if you’d rather—’

      A request for consent twice. Signature play. Inserting yourself into the most visible and important areas of my work, also what I’d soon identify as a classic move.

      The Leadership awards were the biggest night of our year, our shop window and a rallying cry for readers and advertisers to stick with us for another twelve months. You were already worming your way to the front and centre of it. As I hadn’t been well enough to attend, let alone lead on last year’s awards, this year’s would be my chance to reassert my authority, reinstating my reputation by showing everyone I was alive and kicking, on the outside at least.

      You turned back to your screen and started typing again without waiting to hear my mumbled, No.

      ‘Oh, I should probably also flag, I was just introducing myself to the team and got brought into a little pow-wow about the cover for the reprint of the mag for awards night? I have a couple of ideas on tightening up the cover lines, maybe going for a sharper image. I mean, it’s practically the same, just a teensy bit more contemporary. I’m sure you’re going to love it, but they’re only ideas. Feel free to push back.’

      Those dark eyes danced below raised eyebrows, a certain mischief on that smooth pale forehead, your orange lips, perfectly arranged into the faintest of smiles. Well, what have you got for me?

      ‘I’m sure I don’t have a choice,’ I said quietly to the air.

      ‘Katherine. You’re so funny,’ you said without a hint of laughter.

      That afternoon, when Gemma headed to a board meeting, I watched you brazenly go into her office, close the door behind you and start rifling through her in-tray. You opened a stiff brown envelope, removed what looked distinctively like a corporate credit card, and slipped it into your pocket. I was outraged, not just because of the lunacy of giving an intern her own card on account of being the pretend daughter of the boss, but because I’d been waiting weeks for the replacement one I’d been promised by the new owners.

      When you walked out you went directly to Asif’s desk. Whatever you said made him jump out of his seat, pull on his corduroy blazer and accompany you towards the double doors out of the office. It was nearly 3 p.m., the time I’d normally go for a coffee with him. It seemed we wouldn’t be heading out together that day. Neither would I go for coffee with him the next day, nor the day after that.

      After watching you disappear with my only remaining ally at work, I dialled a department recently created under the new management.

      ‘Is this Talent and People? Katherine Ross here. I’ve got a new intern, started today. Trying to work out how best to use her, could you ping over her CV?’

      If I was going to get one step ahead of you, I needed to get to know you better.

       5th March – The First Day

      I so love the ritual of writing this at the end of my day. The stiff cover, the rustle of real paper, a safe space for me to unload and observe, and so much more intimate than my MacBook. Vintage, like a proper diary, one I can’t delete or undo. This notebook is perfect.

      I should have been long gone by the time Katherine Ross showed up at the bus stop. It was so weird. She kept turning around, blatantly staring, which got me thinking. Why don’t I blag my way into the woman’s cab? So I do. Easily done.

      At first, all I get from her is the generalisable hate she has for people my age. It was radiating off her, the way she looked at everyone at the bus stop. Total disdain. But then she lets herself talk and the hate starts to lift. She likes chatting to me, I can tell. What’s more surprising is how much I enjoy talking to her, watching her speak. It’s like there’s a whisper of something warm, and I get the feeling she’s throwing me a rope she wants me to grab onto. I’ve only felt it once before in my life. When I realise it’s happening again, and with KR of all people, I have to stop myself from massively over-sharing.

      Don’t ask me how, but at one point she ends up stroking my face. Now that, I was not expecting! It feels pretty intense when I have to keep my head straight. I also need to make my life easy wherever I can, so I decide to pick up Mum’s gift for Gem as I’d promised. I have it that we swing by one of the offices she cleans on Mondays. God knows how many fat cats’ bins she had to empty to pay for that pen, but Gem will, and I guess that’s the point – to make Gem feel crappy on a day she should be feeling good, guilting her out about how much Mum would have toiled to buy something Gemma could pick up with the change in her Smythson purse.

      When I get back to the cab, I can tell KR had been looking at my MacBook. For about a second, I brick it, but she looks so guilty, I know she’d not got very far. I kind of feel sorry for her.

      Gem gives me The Talk the second I walk in. I make all the right noises, of course. When it comes to telling people what they want to hear, I am, of course, something of an expert.

      KR is scared of Gem. When it’s her turn to go into Gem’s office for the first time, she looks petrified, so I see an opportunity. I do what any supportive subordinate would when their boss has an important meeting, I give her a bit of friendly encouragement that might help keep her on her toes. Isn’t that what ‘normal’ female friendships are all about? Show me even the best of friends who don’t have to watch what they say, bend over backwards to keep everything on an even keel, all the while trying to make the whole thing look like it’s not really hard work.

      I also make a point of showing KR I’m onto way better things than the grunt work she’d inevitably give me, the freshest of the fresh interns, the lowest of the low. I get a couple of pieces published, make them change the front cover of the awards reprint.

      I invite the right-hand man Asif out for coffee. He jumps at the chance. Too easy.

      She’s made sure everyone knows I’m there because I’m The Niece. She didn’t tell them I wasn’t being paid though did she. Gem tells me I need to be seen to ‘earn my stripes’ first and wait for an opening. The ground is already shifting, even if she, and KR, can’t feel it yet.

       Katherine

      When I got home from the gym that night I looked at my flat again with new eyes: your eyes. Every inch of our 730 square feet had been maximised. When we planned to sell up, I’d encouraged an old mate to do a piece on the place for ‘Homes & Property’ in the Evening Standard. The headline: ‘The next big thing’, the sell: ‘How one budding novelist styled the life into her conversion in up-and-coming N4’. The piece detailed how I’d turned walls into bookcases, high ceilings into display mezzanines, bedroom stairs into storage, with feature walls created not by wallpaper but oversized Damien Hirst prints. With that article, I felt like I’d really done it. I’d left the old me at my mother’s farm where she belonged. I was no longer insignificant, no longer provincial. I was urbane. Successful. Someone you wanted to be. Someone you wanted to know. Now I barely remember being that person.

      We paid for doing up the place with the rent from Iain’s flat in Holloway, which he owned outright, having the foresight to buy it practically on his credit card back in 1990. My friend had written that I was a journalist and ‘writer-in-waiting’ and it was almost true. Two literary agents had asked for the rest of my latest

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