The Lubetkin Legacy

Violet: Print

‘So you’re going to tell me why you’re looking for a new job, Violet?’ Gillian Chalmers perches like a tiny blonde bird behind her vast polished desk on which are two porcelain cups, both empty, and a pile of slip cases in different colours. The monitor shows a picture of the Lloyd’s Building at night, the windows blazing with light. ‘It seems like a very sudden decision. Why didn’t you come and talk to me first?’

Gillian’s eyes are sharp like pencil leads. A mesh of fine wrinkles is etched on her skin and deeper lines around her mouth. She read somewhere that women who spend too long in front of a computer develop wrinkles.

‘I just …’ she starts apologetically. Gillian’s grey gaze confuses her. ‘I know I should have …’

From across the desk, she can smell Gillian’s subtle perfume and a faint horsey whiff of ashwagandha. The light slanting through the blinds throws a criss-cross of shadows across her face like a cage. This remote, trapped, ageing woman seems a million miles away from the tigerish go-getter she saw in action in the Lloyd’s Building.

‘The thing is, Violet, you should have asked me first, before putting my name down for a reference. It puts me in a difficult position.’

‘I know. I’m sorry. You were away in Bucharest, and I didn’t want to miss the deadline.’

‘Mmm. Well, I wish you every success finding a new job, Violet. But I need to know why you want to leave GRM.’

‘It’s hard to explain,’ Violet mumbles. ‘It’s a matter of principle.’

‘Oh? Principle? That sounds interesting. Tell me more.’ Gillian leans forward on her elbows. She looks tired and irritable. Her mascara has run into the creases of skin under her eyes. The office is cold but she has the air con on full blast, and is warming herself up with a cup of ashwagandha that looks like faintly tinted hot water.

‘So. Wealth Preservation turned out to be … not what I expected. I didn’t agree with the practice of setting up shell companies in tax havens. In poor countries like Kenya, you see, when rich people take money out, there’s less to go around for schools and hospitals, and … it just didn’t seem right.’

‘Ah. It didn’t seem right.’ Gillian’s expression is blank, apart from the pencil-point eyes, fixed on her face. ‘And what about Marc Bonnier? Did you have a disagreement with him?’

She shivers. Surely Gillian knows of Marc’s reputation, like everybody else at GRM. He probably told her himself, smiling his twinkling smile, not exactly bragging, but giving the impression that he was a bit of a lad.

‘It’s not a personal disagreement, if that’s what you mean.’ She takes a breath. ‘I told him I didn’t think it was ethical, facilitating tax evasion in poor countries. I’m not criticising Marc. I just don’t want to be part of it.’

‘But it is personal, isn’t it?’ The pencil-point eyes seem to bore into her. ‘You can tell me the truth, Violet.’

Her mind searches for neutral words which don’t sound accusing or vengeful: that would be cheap. She doesn’t want to get back at him — she just wants to learn her lesson and move on. But Gillian isn’t making it easy for her. Keeping her tone even, she describes how she found the inflated invoices for the buckets.

‘Marc said it was the way business is done here. I decided it wasn’t for me.’

‘That’s interesting.’ Gillian sits back, and tilts her head. Her expression doesn’t alter. ‘As it happens, I agree with you, Violet. It’s unethical, and it’s not the way we do things at GRM. Can you forward me the invoices?’

‘Yes. I’ll try.’

‘Thank you. If you prefer, you can come back to International Insurance?’

She considers the possibility, but only for a moment. The world outside of GRM, even with all its chaos and hardship, has more attraction. ‘I think I’d like to try something different.’

‘Well, please give me the details of this job you’re applying for.’

She takes a gulp of breath and makes a split-second decision. ‘It’s with an NGO based in Nairobi that encourages women’s enterprise across southern Africa. You see, women are often the family breadwinners, and a small input of capital and training can make a massive difference to —’ She stops.

Gillian is staring out of the window, expressionless.

‘I’ll be pleased to give you a reference, Violet.’ The lines around her mouth have softened, but her eyes still look sad.

By the time she leaves Gillian’s office it is almost one o’clock, and people are starting to stream towards the elevators for lunch. On impulse, she takes the lift up to the fourth floor, and walks along the corridor past Marc’s office. The door is closed, but she can see through the peephole in the frosted glass that he’s not in. She still remembers the key code. Her heart is beating hard, but she knows this is her only chance; another time, she won’t get past security into the building without an appointment. If he returns, she’ll make up some excuse. She taps in the code and opens the door.

The room feels musty and still, as if no one has been in for a while. The sun is beating in through the open blinds of the south-facing window. Whereas Gillian’s office was cold, his is hot. The faintest trace of his musky aftershave lingers in the air, and there’s a wilted bunch of red roses in a glass vase on his desk. Who gave him those? He hasn’t wasted any time, has he? A burst of anger drives her courage. She turns on the computer and logs on — it still recognises her password — finds the HN Invoice file and presses PRINT. On Marc’s cabinet next to the coffee machine a small printer-copier whirrs into life.

‘Violet?’ His voice startles her.

She turns. Her heart thumps. There he is, standing in the doorway, watching her. How long has he been there? How much has he seen?

‘Marc …’

‘Violet, I’m glad you’ve come. Look, we need to talk. Will you have lunch?’ A new frown has gathered between his eyebrows, and the line of his mouth is hard, but he is still formidably good-looking. She’d almost forgotten.

‘I’m sorry, Marc. I was just looking for something. I can’t come for lunch.’

‘Come on, Violet, I owe you an apology. Just a little lunch won’t hurt.’ His smile twinkles. ‘I promise not to bite.’

‘No … I … I’m busy.’

‘Busy?’ He frowns. ‘What are you doing in here, Violet?’

‘Oh, just … printing something off. Some personal stuff.’ He’s still staring in that disconcerting way. She can feel the blood rushing through her head. ‘I uploaded it on here because I haven’t got a printer at home. I know I shouldn’t, but …!’ She shrugs and performs a little hopeless giggle.

‘Personal stuff?’ He sounds incredulous.

‘Am I interrupting something?’ A woman’s voice.

Gillian is standing there watching them with cool eyes.

Violet winces. It must look as though she went straight from their meeting to find Marc in his office. In other words, it looks bad.

‘Not at all, Gillian! Are we still on for lunch?’ Marc steps forward, smiling; his expression has switched instantly.

Watching their exchange of looks, Violet realises how little she knows about them. Marc and Gillian were an item for years. Does Gillian still have feelings for him? Was she foolish to trust her when she blabbed on about Marc and the invoices?

While Marc turns towards Gillian, she quickly gathers the four invoices from the printer and slips them into her bag.

‘Of course. We need to catch up.’ Gillian’s eyes are now resting on her. ‘And you, Violet, will you join us too?’

‘I’m sorry. I’d love to, Gillian, but I have to … prepare for a job interview.’

So those two had already planned to have lunch together! She sees in their faces that they have secrets going way back. In a flash it dawns on her that she doesn’t belong here: not in this triangle, not in this environment.

As she leaves Marc’s office, she feels their eyes following her as she walks back to the lift. Outside on the pavement, she hurries away from the GRM building, gulping in lungfuls of cool fresh traffic fumes.

On the corner near the traffic lights is a newsagent, where she makes a copy of the GRM re-invoices she has just printed off. She puts the originals in an envelope and posts them to Gillian Chalmers at GRM. The copies she folds into another envelope to take with her to Nairobi.

Then she catches the 55 bus to join Laura for lunch.