Read Online Babyville by Jane Green - Free Book Online
Authors: Jane Green
Tags: Fiction, Literary, General, Psychological, Psychological fiction, Family Life, Domestic Fiction, Parenthood, Childlessness
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the face, then the name, because it is not a face she associates with work. “Oh, hi,” she says, placing her. “What are you doing here? It's Maeve, isn't it?”
Maeve nods. “You're never going to believe this, but I've just had a job interview. I was going to call you, actually, when I heard, but then I got so busy preparing for this I never had a chance.”
“What a small world. I didn't even know you were in this game. And aren't you living in Brighton?”
Maeve shrugs and smiles as if to say there is a lot Julia doesn't know. “That's the only thing I can't get my head round. London rents. If I get this, I'll have to move back, and the rents have gone crazy since I last lived here.”
For a second Julia contemplates inviting her to move in with them. God knows they have enough space, but she hardly knows this girl, and Mark would go crazy. “You could try the noticeboard,” she volunteers eventually, and breathes a sigh of relief as the lift doors open and they are on the ground floor.
“If you get the job and you need anything just call,” Julia manages, just before the lift doors close. “Nice to see you again. Good luck.”
“Thanks.” Maeve smiles a warm smile. “And to you too.”
As soon as the doors close, Julia turns and looks at herself in the mirrored wall of the lift. Christ, she looks awful. Her hair's greasy, her eyes are bloodshot, and she could pretty much carry the weekly shopping home in the bags under her eyes. At the beginning of the sleepless nights she tried to disguise it with cleverly applied makeup, but she rarely even does that these days. She sighs as the lift opens out on to the twelfth floor, and walks into Mike's office.
“You look fucking awful.” Mike's first words, allowable only because they are friends. And because it is true. “What the fuck is going on?”
Julia smiles. “Lovely to see you too, Mike. And how are you?”
“I'm serious, Julia, you look like shit.” Mike shakes his head and sighs, sadness and sympathy combined in his eyes.
Mike Jones is not the sort of man you would expect to work for a major television company, even less to see behind a large beech desk in an executive office, on the executive floor.
He's dressed as he always is (unless of course there's a big meeting with the ITC and Mike has to explain away explicit language or programming, in which case he wears the one suit he has in his wardrobe; the suit's Hugo Boss, except he wears it with Hush Puppies, which kind of destroys the effect), in jeans and T-shirt. Mike would describe himself as a geezer. Others, who didn't know him, might describe him as a thug. Short, crop-haired, stockily built—Julia always used to tease him by saying she was surprised she hadn't spotted him in the latest football violence videos.
His “genuine Larndan accent,” penchant for football shirts, and liking for more than a few pints with the boys belie a brilliant creative genius. He is a man who is loved by everyone who's ever worked with him, hated and feared by other television companies.
He didn't go to university (“university of life, mate, university of life. Rest of that stuff's for fuckin' ponces, innit?''), started off at London Daytime as a post boy, and the rest, as they say, is history.
Mike Jones is famous for his mind, his constant use of expletives and his—somewhat inexplicable until you get to know him—ability to pull women. Six years ago, at a Christmas party when Julia was very drunk and still found his power something of an aphrodisiac, they went to bed together. It was never discussed again, but Mike has always had something of a soft spot for her, and he is the only one who is actually willing to talk to her about what is going on.
“So come on, what's it all about? You look like shit, your work's going down the pan, I've got researchers in here every other day complaining about you throwing a tantrum, and I'm wondering why the fuck I still employ you. Would you like to
Maeve nods. “You're never going to believe this, but I've just had a job interview. I was going to call you, actually, when I heard, but then I got so busy preparing for this I never had a chance.”
“What a small world. I didn't even know you were in this game. And aren't you living in Brighton?”
Maeve shrugs and smiles as if to say there is a lot Julia doesn't know. “That's the only thing I can't get my head round. London rents. If I get this, I'll have to move back, and the rents have gone crazy since I last lived here.”
For a second Julia contemplates inviting her to move in with them. God knows they have enough space, but she hardly knows this girl, and Mark would go crazy. “You could try the noticeboard,” she volunteers eventually, and breathes a sigh of relief as the lift doors open and they are on the ground floor.
“If you get the job and you need anything just call,” Julia manages, just before the lift doors close. “Nice to see you again. Good luck.”
“Thanks.” Maeve smiles a warm smile. “And to you too.”
As soon as the doors close, Julia turns and looks at herself in the mirrored wall of the lift. Christ, she looks awful. Her hair's greasy, her eyes are bloodshot, and she could pretty much carry the weekly shopping home in the bags under her eyes. At the beginning of the sleepless nights she tried to disguise it with cleverly applied makeup, but she rarely even does that these days. She sighs as the lift opens out on to the twelfth floor, and walks into Mike's office.
“You look fucking awful.” Mike's first words, allowable only because they are friends. And because it is true. “What the fuck is going on?”
Julia smiles. “Lovely to see you too, Mike. And how are you?”
“I'm serious, Julia, you look like shit.” Mike shakes his head and sighs, sadness and sympathy combined in his eyes.
Mike Jones is not the sort of man you would expect to work for a major television company, even less to see behind a large beech desk in an executive office, on the executive floor.
He's dressed as he always is (unless of course there's a big meeting with the ITC and Mike has to explain away explicit language or programming, in which case he wears the one suit he has in his wardrobe; the suit's Hugo Boss, except he wears it with Hush Puppies, which kind of destroys the effect), in jeans and T-shirt. Mike would describe himself as a geezer. Others, who didn't know him, might describe him as a thug. Short, crop-haired, stockily built—Julia always used to tease him by saying she was surprised she hadn't spotted him in the latest football violence videos.
His “genuine Larndan accent,” penchant for football shirts, and liking for more than a few pints with the boys belie a brilliant creative genius. He is a man who is loved by everyone who's ever worked with him, hated and feared by other television companies.
He didn't go to university (“university of life, mate, university of life. Rest of that stuff's for fuckin' ponces, innit?''), started off at London Daytime as a post boy, and the rest, as they say, is history.
Mike Jones is famous for his mind, his constant use of expletives and his—somewhat inexplicable until you get to know him—ability to pull women. Six years ago, at a Christmas party when Julia was very drunk and still found his power something of an aphrodisiac, they went to bed together. It was never discussed again, but Mike has always had something of a soft spot for her, and he is the only one who is actually willing to talk to her about what is going on.
“So come on, what's it all about? You look like shit, your work's going down the pan, I've got researchers in here every other day complaining about you throwing a tantrum, and I'm wondering why the fuck I still employ you. Would you like to
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