The Fixer Read online

  But Harriet was determined. Her job was more than just a job to her; so much more than that. It was a vocation, a way of life, a mission statement. She knew, of course, that there were sneers and put-downs from some people about what she did for a living. She worked for the HQ of a big charity organisation, and, as part of her job, had been seconded to manage a small charity shop that was so run-down, even the locals had nicknamed it Dead Old Lady Dresses.

  ‘Really?’ she was asked on one ill-advised Tinder date she went on, when she’d first moved to Dublin. ‘That’s what you work at? That’s actually your chosen profession?’

  ‘Yes, but that’s not all I do,’ she’d smiled shyly. ‘I volunteer for the Samaritans two nights a week and I work for Amnesty at the weekends. We all live such first world lives here, we have a responsibility to give something back don’t you think? Even if it’s just your time?’

  ‘Hmmm,’ her date said hesitantly, ‘but just to make sure I got this right – your day job is working at a CRAP store? Voluntarily?’

  Never was a charity shop more aptly named; its full title was Charity Resale And Purchasing. CRAP for short.

  ‘That’s right,’ she said.

  ‘But isn’t that more like something prisoners are forced to do on community service?’

  Then he looked at her very, very weirdly, slowly taking a small step back from the crowded bar where they’d managed to nab two stools together.

  ‘Jesus,’ he added hastily, ‘don’t tell me you’re out on probation?’

  Hurtful remarks like that were par for the course for Harriet. It was something she’d never got used to, and she’d been working at CRAP for almost four years now. Promoted to Regional Sales Manager and everything, not that fancy titles held much appeal for her.

  ‘Climbing the career ladder now, I see,’ her dad had joked when he’d first heard about her promotion. ‘You see, love? I knew all this altruistic shite about helping the less well off was just a business plan for you. Good to see that it’s beginning to pay off and that you’re finally making a few quid out of it.’

  ‘It’s not that big a deal, really, Dad,’ she’d blushed, ‘I’m the only one in the store most of the time, and my boss Mona only gave me a fancy title because she thought it would anchor me to the job.’

  ‘You’re too honest, Harriet,’ her mam had chipped in. ‘That’s your trouble. Why can’t you just blow your own trumpet for a bit? I’ll certainly be bragging to them all in Kelly’s Hotel tonight that my daughter was just made Regional Manager. It’s not too shabby, now, is it?’

  Harriet had let it go – what was the point in arguing? Her parents were comfortably off, both still working and working hard, too, and they couldn’t see why their youngest daughter, scrap of a thing that she was, could possibly want to devote her whole life to the voluntary sector. No more than anyone else could.

  So, Harriet would do what she always did, whenever people were less than kind or encouraging about what she did for a living. She regrouped. She went for long, bracing walks on the beach. And she reminded herself why she was doing this in the first place.

  To help those less well off. To try, in her own small way, to make the world a better place. And above all, to charge the maximum amount possible for ancient, knackered pairs of nun’s knickers, and first-generation car phones that didn’t work and that were the approximate size and weight of a brick.

  *

  Harriet could never be quite certain when Meg Monroe had first bounced into her life; it all seemed to happen so easily and organically. It was about two years ago now, when Meg just took to calling into the shop daily, then sometimes twice a day for the chats. She lived locally, she’d claimed, in one of the old cottage houses across the street that she was trying to renovate from scratch. Meg had got it at a knock-down rent, she’d said, but the downside was that the elderly man who owned it had died there, and had been a lifelong hoarder.

  So it seemed like every single day without fail, sometimes twice a day, Harriet would see Meg’s small, neat silhouette in the window lugging yet another bag load of cast-offs and chipped china dogs and magazines that were so yellowing and frayed, Princess Diana was still alive in them.

  The two had become buddies from the get-go, but then, Harriet had been starved of friendship and it was just so easy to get pally with someone like Meg. She was so much fun and light-hearted and easy to chat to. Harriet would offer her cups of tea and Jaffa Cakes whenever she dropped by and, pretty soon, Meg started popping in for chats in the evening, just as Harriet was closing up. Before long, they took to slipping into a local pizzeria after work to share a few cheesy margarita slices between them.

  The two swapped phone numbers, and in no time they were doing more and more together, though always on a low-rent budget. She and Meg only ever went to the cheapest restaurants, and split a starter between them. And even at that, it was always for an early bird. If they were out drinking, they only ever ordered soft drinks and made them last for a good two hours, topping their glasses up with discreet plastic bottles filled with supermarket vodka, to much messing and stifled giggles from the pair of them.

  Sunday strolls in the park became a regular thing for them, and they’d sit on a park bench, sip coffee from a flask to save money and chat about whatever gossip there was from the night before. It got to the stage where there wasn’t a free outdoor movie the girls didn’t know about, or a cheapie sample sale that they weren’t at the top of the queue for.

  All the best fun imaginable, and nothing that cost any money. But then, you didn’t need money to have a good time with someone like Meg; even sitting on the top deck of a bus with her was an adventure. In a very short space of time, they’d become inseparable. They were Thelma and Louise. They were Tina Fey and Amy Poehler. Patsy and Edina from Absolutely Fabulous. They were each other’s closest, most trusted mate. Harriet had even gone and bought Meg a mug from the charity shop that said, Bestest Friends Forever. It was chipped at the rim and it cost seventy-five cents, but, feck the expense, Harriet thought, I’m buying it anyway.

  Months passed and it got to the stage where there was very, very little that Harriet hadn’t confided in Meg about her private life. Including a certain someone who she’d just met, but who was turning into someone . . . well, someone very, very special, as a matter of fact.

  Meg had been all ears when Harriet had first told her about Freddie de Courcey. Full of thoughts, full of wise advice, full of helpful suggestions. The two even met, many times, and got on brilliantly. In fact, Meg had been amazing about Freddie from day one. She always seemed to be there when Harriet needed her, to steer her, to advise her and then, in time, to pick her up off the floor when things started going belly-up.

  Which they did, spectacularly.

  But Meg had been by her side, through every single day of it. She’d been like a cross between a guardian angel and a wise, calm relationship counsellor during one of the very lowest ebbs in Harriet’s life. More than that, in fact. Meg was actually the one who’d warned her off Freddie in the first place, on the grounds that it was never going to work out anyway, mainly because he was seeing someone else. Oh, Meg had all the cold, clear evidence, the online photos of Freddie and his medical consultant, a woman so intimidatingly successful, it was almost scary.

  What would I ever have done without Meg? Harriet often wondered, when she was at her most upset and vulnerable.

  Back then, Meg had turned out to be such a stalwart friend. And yet, just look how things seemed to have changed. Now, when Harriet had come back after a full year abroad, Meg seemed so frosty and unwelcoming. Almost as if she wanted Harriet gone. Was it really possible that the foundations of their friendship had shifted, in such a short amount of time? No matter what way Harriet looked at it, it made absolutely no sense to her.

  As soon as she was up, showered and dressed, she called Meg’s number, just to talk. It didn’t matter what about. All she wanted was to hear her pal’s voice. It was late when
she’d arrived here the previous night; maybe Meg was just tired. Maybe that was it.

  But Meg practically bites the nose off her.

  ‘Please, Harriet, I’m trying to work here, will you stop calling me?’

  There was no mistaking it; Meg had been borderline rude. Why in God’s name was she acting the way she was?

  Harriet thought about it, then worried about it, then texted her again a little while later. Just a lightning-quick message, to make sure she wasn’t imagining things.

  Didn’t mean to disturb you. Guess you’re having a stressful day, sending love.

  The brusque reply came back almost immediately.

  I’ll be back later and will drop you off wherever you need to be.

  No, Harriet thought, when she read it.

  Definitely not imagining things.

  Chapter Ten

  Meg

  Guessing you’re having a stressful day, sending love.

  I’m in the middle of doing one of my super-fast costume changes in the back of a taxi, but I only have to glance at the message and I can physically feel my blood pressure spike to danger levels.

  The worst part is that it’s all my own fault for letting Harriet into my life in the first place. I’ve no one but myself to blame for allowing us to get close. Not that I’ve got anything against Harriet per se; sure, she’s a little naive and excitable, but she’s a good and kind person and her heart’s in the right place. In a parallel life, maybe we’d even have become proper friends. Not that I’d know all that much about friendship.

  But this isn’t a parallel life, is it? This is reality and, right now, I need her to cop herself on, realise that she’s majorly in the way and bugger off into the sunset, long before Ellen de Courcey ever gets wind of the fact that she’s back. I need to leave emotion out of it, park my conscience at the door and airbrush her clean out of the picture.

  It’s a problem. It’s a massive headache for me, and just thoughts of Harriet being there in my flat, all alone and possibly snooping through my private business, actually makes me burst a blood vessel in my eye. Thank you, hypertension.

  There’s nothing I want more than to turn this taxi around, head home and sort this out once and for all. Can’t though, can I? It’s my first day on the Katherine Sisk job, probably the biggest and most lucrative gig I’ve had all year, and how would it look if I just didn’t turn up?

  With little choice in the matter, I have to put the whole Harriet situation to the back of my mind for now, regroup and keep going.

  In a few deft, practised moves, I’ve shimmied out of my Lululemon leggings and into a neat little shift dress from LK Bennett, along with a pair of nude pumps I’d pre-packed in my gym bag. But then, preparation, I’ve always found, is key. I check my face in a compact make-up mirror, dab on a hint of mascara with a light dusting of powder, and once I’ve scraped my hair up into a neat chignon, I take one quick, final check in the mirror before I’m good to go.

  Yes, this look works. I’m in uniform. Looking utterly unrecognisable from the sweaty, tousle-haired mess I needed to be at yoga class earlier.

  Which at least is something.

  I pay the taxi driver, tip him overgenerously because he let me change in peace, then step briskly out of the cab and into Katherine Sisk’s constituency office, where I’ve ‘volunteered’ to help out with the upcoming election campaign.

  First job on the list? To work closely with Jess Butler, Senator Katherine’s campaign PR manager, not to mention her husband’s girlfriend, in a bid to gain her trust and hopefully grow closer to her. Grow closer to her, that is, before gently persuading her to move aside, so I can really go to town on Philip Sisk and his little extramarital dalliance.

  Not that this would be my usual modus operandi – far from it. Normally, I get to know my targets socially first, and that strategy has never failed me. But how are you supposed to get to know a team who work twenty-four/seven on a politician’s re-election campaign? The only way is by joining that team and working alongside them. So that’s precisely what I plan to do.

  Half an hour in, though, and I realise this isn’t nearly as piss-easy as it usually is. Ordinarily, I’d study your life, follow your digital trail – and, make no mistake, everyone leaves a digital trail – then I’d find a foolproof chink in your day, so I can slowly wriggle my way inside. I’d find out where you go for coffee, hang out in the evenings, go drinking with your buddies, or if there’s some kind of evening class you go to regularly maybe?

  But this? This is more like actual, well, work really. No sooner am I in the door to a few quick ‘good mornings’ from the rest of the team and a knowing nod from Katherine Sisk than I’m hurled straight in at the deep end.

  ‘Now everyone, listen up,’ says Katherine, looking tense and stressed as she addresses the entire office. ‘You all remember Meg, I hope, and as it’s her first day here, I want you all to show her the ropes. And be nice to her! Got it? Good.’

  And with that, she just whisks out of the room and straight on to another meeting, effectively abandoning me to the sharks. No sign of Philip Sisk either, but that’s OK, I figure. His girlfriend first; him later. Never any harm to save the best for last, is it?

  ‘Right then, let’s crack on with it,’ says Jess, swivelling her chair around to face me and shoving a biro up into her thick red mane of hair, as she juggles two phones at the same time. ‘So Katherine is on PrimeNews tonight at 7 p.m., and I need to get fully prepped for that. In the meantime, though, here’s a list of campaign donors you need to contact immediately. I know you’re new and all that, but this should be straightforward enough.’

  With that, she shoves a printout at me that runs to eleven pages, all double-sided.

  Look at you, I think. So bossy and important. How the feck did this one find the time for an affair, never mind the energy?

  ‘But . . . I thought maybe you and I could grab a coffee or something, before we start work?’ I offer hopefully. ‘Just so we can chat about what’s actually involved in the campaign? We’re going to be working side by side, and the election is so soon, shouldn’t we at least get to know each other first?’

  But Jess isn’t even listening. She’s already on to her next call.

  ‘Yes, Senator Sisk needs a car to take her to Channel Seven studios for 6 p.m. at the latest, with full approval on all questions in advance, please. You can get your producer on the line and I’ll confirm it all with her. Yes, I’ll hold . . . and no, I most certainly will not take no for an answer.’

  ‘Where do I sit?’ I ask, looking around at the chaotic office, with posters strewn on every surface, several TVs on in the background all showing major competing news channels, and everyone looking busy and under pressure, to the point of having coronaries.

  Someone must overhear me though, because just then a chair on wheels is shoved in my direction, which I automatically catch with my foot.

  When I look up, there’s the same bespectacled guy who’d been at the office the previous day too, glued to his phone, talking about stats and percentage of number one preferences to God knows who. He’s dressed in a suit, as if he’s about to go on TV himself, but is baggy-eyed and looks as exhausted as everyone else. Jeez, did they pull all-nighters in here, or what? I grab the office chair and give him a grateful thumbs up sign.

  He covers the phone with his hand for a moment and catches my eye.

  ‘We all look a lot busier than we are, really,’ he hisses across at me. ‘Remember, this gig is about one thing and one thing only. Getting that little X beside Katherine’s name in the polling booth next week. And that’s it.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ I mutter under my breath, sitting down and studying the list that’s been thrust at me.

  ‘So what do I say when someone answers the phone?’ I ask Jess, who’s ended her call and is back to bashing away at her computer as if her life depends on it. ‘What are the key points I need to hit?’

  No response.

/>   ‘Jess?’ I repeat. ‘Did you hear me?’

  ‘I already told you,’ Jess snaps back, utterly focused on the screen in front of her. ‘You contact everyone on the sheet and discuss campaign donations. I thought you’d have at least started by now.’

  So, not only are you having an affair with your employer’s husband behind her back, I think, smiling benignly, while my mind stays icy, icy-cold. But you’re rude and dismissive with it. Well, your days are so numbered, babe.

  Maybe this gig won’t be as bad as I’d initially feared. Maybe it’ll actually be a fucking pleasure to take this one down in flames.

  ‘No problem,’ I beam back, nice as pie. ‘And I’m sorry to be a pain. First-day blues, you know how it is! You’ll have to let me buy you lunch to thank you for being so patient with me.’

  ‘Did you just say lunch?’ says Jess, looking up over her computer screen. ‘Are you having a laugh? How about we get Katherine re-elected first, then worry about lunch afterwards?’

  ‘Absolutely. Let’s never forget, you’re the boss.’

  Chapter Eleven

  Harriet

  Mid-morning, and Harriet is getting bored and restless, pacing about the flat, not quite knowing what to do with herself. So far, she’s made brekkie, lunch, coffee, herbal tea and watched a shedload of daytime TV, anything just to kill a few hours. She is utterly unused to not working, and now that she’s home again, she’s found herself desperately missing Dead Old Lady Dresses and all the eccentric characters who’d drop in and out to her all day for chats. And still, if the truth be told, she’s puzzling over what the hell had got into her one-time best friend, Meg.

  Harriet hasn’t been on social media in months, but with absolutely nothing else to do, she takes a quick photo of the cityscape view from Meg’s balcony, which looks so shimmery and gorgeous in the warm summer sun, then posts it on Instagram. She captions it,