Taking Flight: A Sapphic Office Romcom Read online

  TAKING FLIGHT

  A SAPPHIC OFFICE ROMCOM

  T C PARKER

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  About the Author

  Also by T C Parker

  CHAPTER 1

  "Why do you really want this job, Ms. Fitzgerald?"

  The woman - girl, really, 25 at a push even through a half-inch of makeup - leans forward conspiratorially, inviting confidences.

  Felicity steadies her breath.

  "There's no agenda," she says, slowly. "I saw your ad. I thought I might be a good fit. That I might have something useful to bring to the table."

  "You're kidding me, right?" says the girl. "With your experience? With twelve years at Executive level? That makes no sense."

  "So you're saying… I'm too qualified?"

  "That's not all I'm saying, but yes. You most certainly are that."

  "Isn't that a good thing? Shouldn't my experience work for me, not against me?"

  "This is an entry-level position. Junior Designer. We're looking for college grads, people new to the job market. I thought the description in the ad was pretty clear on that."

  "Yes. I can say only that I saw it and hoped for the best regardless."

  "Ms. Fitzgerald, why are you here today?"

  "Felicity, please."

  "Felicity. What are you doing here? Why am I interviewing you, when everything about your resume tells me you sit about ten points above my pay scale?"

  At this point, Felicity thinks, there's probably no harm in the truth. Whatever happens next, she won't be walking out of here with an offer and a start date.

  "The fact is," she says, "despite the CV that you find so impressive, I've been utterly unable to find work since I got to this city. I've been to God knows how many interviews just like this one, in offices just like yours, and yes - quite a few of them for more senior positions than the one we've been discussing today. I've shaken hands with more Board Directors over the last month than in the decade before it. Believe me when I tell you that I have pressed the flesh. But not a single job offer has come my way, not one. I have an apparently unbreakable twelve-month lease on a flat in Russian Hill, and I have a pile of bills on my kitchen table that grows larger every time I look at it. Going back to London isn't a possibility. So here I am, and here we are today. Does that answer your question?"

  "I don't get it," says the girl. "Not one offer? Nothing?"

  Well, thinks Felicity: in for a penny, in for a pound.

  "I've been blackballed," she says finally.

  "Blackballed?"

  "Bad-mouthed. Maligned. Professionally discredited."

  "By who? An old boss?"

  "I would imagine so, yes. Likely the senior Director at my previous agency."

  "In London?"

  "In London."

  "What did you do?" asks the girl. "You must have really pissed him off, right?"

  " Yes. I'd say so."

  "I'm guessing there's a story there."

  "Would telling it help me secure this position?"

  "Probably not," the girl concedes. "But I'd like to hear it anyway."

  Pushing through the wide glass doors that spill her out onto the pavement, Felicity reaches into her pocket for her phone.

  "Hugo? It's me. Yes, I do know - it's 4 o'clock here. Are you in bed? This is an early night for you, isn't it?"

  On the street beside her, what looks like a tow-truck accelerates loudly up a hill and off into the distance. Seconds later a police car speeds past in pursuit, black and white as a thickset zebra. She keeps walking, left hand half-covering the phone's mouthpiece.

  "What? No, just a siren somewhere. Nothing to worry about. Look, Hugo - I need you to do me a favor..."

  A bearded man, cross-legged in the doorway, reaches out for her ankle as she passes a coffee shop. She keeps walking, away from doors and doorways and reaching hands.

  "That boy from university, the Scottish one, Jim something ... Filbert? Filbert, that's it. Did you happen to mention a while ago that he was here? In San Francisco?"

  She sidesteps quickly to the right, narrowly avoiding a suspiciously organic-looking brown pile on the curb.

  "I was hoping I might be able to look him up, that's all. Perhaps a drink, I don't know. Didn't you say he did something in architecture? Building or planning, something like that?"

  A vast white gull, wings spread, dive-bombs into a rubbish bin not six inches in front of her. She swears into the phone before she can stop herself.

  "What? No, nothing. Just a seagull. The birds here are the size of cats."

  The gull emerges from the bin, half-eaten burger clasped in its enormous beak, and takes to the sky. She finds herself nostalgic, suddenly, for London pigeons.

  "What? Oh. That's disappointing. In that case, do give him my love when you see him."

  "No, Hugo, I'm not getting desperate. It would just have been nice to have seen a friendly face. What? Trip? Good God, you can't mean Trip Hasson?"

  "Yes, I do remember him. "Uncle" is a bit of a stretch, though, isn't it? He can't be more than fifty. And I’m certain he’s more of a second cousin.”

  "No, I hadn't thought to call him. Why would I call him? How would I call him? I haven't seen him in decades."

  "Of course I've heard of it! I can probably see the building from here, in fact."

  She squints into the distance, and there it is: squat and onyx, small by the standards of some of the other buildings in the financial district but vividly recognisable, the silver Citadel logo balanced on the spiked roof like an antenna.

  "I don't think so, Hugo, no. Because I don't know him. And the memories I do have of him are quite honestly unflattering."

  "Yes, tomorrow - another agency. A start-up. You never know with these things, do you? But yes, I'm keeping my fingers crossed."

  "What? No, I don't want... I can't imagine he'd even remember who I am!"

  "Fine. Fine. Text me his details. I'll think about it. But probably not.”

  A week later, and she's sitting at the 29th floor of the Citadel building, perched on a waiting room sofa shaped like a sherbet fountain.

  "He shouldn't be long," says the receptionist. "He's in with the board, but they'll be finishing up soon."

  The 'meeting,' Felicity gathers, is not a happy one. She can hear the shouting even through the thick wood of double doors, most of it from Trip. His voice, she notices, hasn't changed much in twenty years. The West Country farmer's burr she remembers has given way to a West Coast drawl, but it's the same intonation, the same sharpness on the syllables that always made him sound so perennially exasperated.

  There's a soft muffled thump from the conference room, then a light rhythmic tapping. She imagines a large folder thrown against a wall, a picture frame rattling.

  "Don't worry," she says. "I'm happy to wait."

  "What is it you want?" says Trip. His face is less red and his mouth less contorted than the moment immediately after she was ushered into his office, but he still looks like a man on the verge of a heart attack. She wants to reach out and loosen his tie, to release some of the pressure she imagines building up around his neck.

  "Want?" she asks softly, biting back any hint of challenge in the response. His anger, she thinks, is dissipated but not entirely spent, and she'd prefer not to antagonize him with a wayward inflection.

  "I'm assuming you want something from me."

  "Why would you assume that? I thought, since I was in the city, that it might be nice to see you. To catch up."

  "I haven't seen you since you were twelve years old, Felicity. What could we possibly have to catch up on?"

  "Fifteen. I was fifteen when you last came to see us."

  "Twelve, fifteen... What's the difference? You were a kid, and I haven't seen you since. So why are you here? No, wait - don't tell me. It's your mother, isn't it? She's after more money. Or your brother, what's his name? Phil?"

  "Hugo. But in both cases, no. Although Hugo was kind enough to pass on your email address. Or rather, your secretary's."

  "Then what? I don't have time to sit around here playing guessing games. Get to the point."

  She sits up a little straighter in her seat and tries to project some image of dignity.

  "A job," she says. "I was hoping that you might be able to help me in finding a job."

  This, at least, throws him sufficiently off-balance to silence him, temporarily.

  "Why would you need a job?" he asks eventually. "Aren't you some sort of superstar inventor?"

  "Product designer."

  "Product designer, inventor, whatever. I've seen you - you were all over the news a couple of years back with that GPS climbing hook thing, the one that guy took up El Capitan. What was it called?"

  "The Lock."

  "Lock, right. That's what I mean - you make stuff. You invent stuff. You definitely don't need me to give you a job."

  "Find me a job. And actually, I do.
I've found getting hired somewhat challenging since I've been here. I can only blame the job market."

  "Then go back to London! You don't need to be here, Felicity."

  "That isn't entirely... possible. At the moment. Or desirable."

  "Why wouldn't you...? Oh my God, wait! Wait a minute!"

  Realization dawns, and he smiles, his still-red face a picture of glee.

  "You were engaged to that woman, the journalist! That guy's daughter, what's his name?"

  "Yes."

  "Sir something. Sir John? The furniture store guy! I remember now, we got the wedding invite from your mother! Had it sitting in my tray for a month."

  "Yes, him. And her."

  "But you didn't marry her."

  "It appears not, no."

  He stops, thinks. For a minute he looks almost sympathetic.

  "So you screwed up. And ran away."

  "'Screwed up' is a harsh assessment. But it's certainly fair to say that there have been professional repercussions that I hadn't anticipated. John's contacts are... extensive, even in the US. Nowhere back home will touch me. And obviously I had to leave Hanover."

  "What's that, something to do with your old job?"

  "My old agency. Part of the AquaLight Group."

  "That's his company, right? Sir John whateverhisname's?"

  "Yes."

  "So… you pissed him off, and ran away to San Francisco, and now you can't get hired. Is that about the size of it?"

  "In a nutshell, yes."

  "And you know I can't hire you?"

  "Why not? I learn quickly, and as you've pointed out, I'm very accomplished. There are many things I can turn my hand to when the need arises."

  "We're an ad agency, Felicity! What would you even do here? We generate ideas. We don't make anything, not the way that you mean. And I'm sorry, but you're a little old for our trainee program."

  "Please, Uncle Trip."

  "Uncle Trip? Jesus Christ, Felicity, Uncle? It sounded ridiculous enough when you were a kid, let's not go there now."

  "Trip, then. Please, Trip."

  "Alright. Alright. No begging. I can't deal with begging."

  He picks up the phone on his desk and presses a button.

  "Claire, can you speak to someone from Human Resources about a new hire? This afternoon, please. Yes, through me. But I need you to deal with it, alright? Thanks. I'll send her down."

  Felicity tries not to think about the conversation she'll be having with Hugo later.

  "Thank you, Trip," she says. "I appreciate it."

  "This isn't a permanent arrangement. I need you to know that."

  "My lease expires in November. I'll be gone before you know it."

  "And I wouldn't hold out any expectations. I have no idea where our HR people will put you."

  "It's a stopgap, that's all. Just a stopgap, until everything blows over."

  "And that's all it is. I'm doing you a favor here, Felicity."

  There's a timid knock, and the receptionist appears in the doorway.

  "They're ready for you downstairs, Mr. Hasson," she says, avoiding eye contact with both of them.

  Trip stands, tightens his strangulating tie, gestures for Felicity to get up from her chair.

  "Don't fuck this up," he says as they leave. “I really don’t need the publicity.”

  The lift is glass, completely transparent on all sides. It's a long way down from the 29th floor, and Felicity, who's forthright and fearless in so many other arenas, who spends three nights a week every week in the dojo tackling men twice her size and three times her skill level, who invented The Lock for the very purpose of scaling mountains - she doesn't do well with heights.

  She pushes the button for the lobby, looks down at the floor and waits. A second later, she closes her eyes.

  The lift slides and shifts; she feels the descent in her stomach, in the soles of her feet. Three, perhaps four floors pass, and then it stops abruptly. She hears the doors glide open, footsteps step inside.

  She keeps her eyes closed, conscious of the great glass drop below, but moves - she hopes discreetly - to a corner of the car.

  "Excuse me?" she hears.

  She opens her eyes. There's a woman directly in front of her - a very tall, very wide-eyed, very attractive woman, her brows furrowed and forehead creased.

  "Yes?" says Felicity.

  She looks ahead, the woman's (really quite lovely) face preferable to the view from the lift. She smiles, she hopes conveying friendliness and not acrophobic anxiety.

  "I need..." says the woman, hesitant.

  "Yes?" says Felicity again.

  She wonders momentarily if something might be wrong, if the (really very attractive) woman might need help, if some intervention on her part might be necessary.

  Or, less virtuously, whether this might be one of those moments, one of those lift encounters.

  And if it is, whether the woman might be persuaded to wait a moment or two before moving things forward, until they're closer to the ground.

  "The button," says the woman, gesturing impatiently at Felicity. "It's behind you. I need to get to it."

  This is not, after all, one of those lift encounters.

  "I'm so, so sorry," says Felicity, apologetic Englishness tumbling from her as she moves clear of the unwittingly blocked panel. "I didn't see where I was standing."

  "You didn't see?" says the woman, skeptically. She leans forward, pushes a button. The doors close, and the lift moves downwards.

  "I had my eyes closed."

  "Okay."

  "I'm a little afraid of heights."

  A corner of the woman's mouth rises, just a little, in what could be amusement.

  "Is this your first time in an elevator?" she asks.

  "You would think, wouldn't you?" says Felicity. "But no. Although it is my first time in this one. Not that this is by any means the most terrifying in which I've found myself. It's actually rather benign by some standards. Have you ever come across a paternoster lift, for example? Absolutely terrifying. It literally doesn't stop. You have to hop on and off as it moves."

  The cart stops again; the doors open.

  "I take it back," says the woman as she walks through them. "Your elevator knowledge puts mine to shame."

  She's definitely smiling, this time.

  The doors close. Felicity moves back against the safety of the wall.

  But she keeps her eyes open on the way down.

  CHAPTER 2

  The Human Resources floor is wide and grey and partitioned, a labyrinth of desk and plasterboard. There are no doors, no offices - just tops of heads and feet and ankles, poking out where cubicles end.

  "Hotdesking," says the manager. "It's a real space-saver."

  "I can imagine," says Felicity carefully. "And everything is shared? Nobody has their own space?"

  "That's right," he says, proud smirk expanding his already-spherical head into something closer to a rugby ball. "It's great for productivity, too. Get here early, you get a desk; get here late, and you're down in the basement all day."

  "In the basement?"

  "Lower ground floor. Andy will show you when he gives you the tour."

  He beckons to a younger man in an opposite cubicle, who unfolds slowly from his seat and ambles across to them, a bear claw dangling between his fingers.

  "This is Andy. He'll be easing you in this first week."

  "Good to meet you," says Andy, transferring the pastry from fingers to mouth and extending a hand that's nearly all knuckle.

  It's his second bear claw of the morning, she discovers as he walks her across the department floor. He also has a pack of M&Ms in his trouser pocket, a party size bag of Doritos in his rucksack and an emergency half-pack of donuts hidden in a tea caddy in the HR kitchen.

  ("You gotta move 'em around, though. Not even the really good hiding places stay hidden long").

  "You must have hollow legs," she says, following him into a corridor and down a flight of stairs.