Rosanna pressed her fingers to her temples and sighed bitterly as she stared at her screen.
Being Aitchison Maitland's youngest ever female partner sounded good - and looked good on a CV. But in practice? Still so dull.
Thirty pages into the contract and it still made no more sense than when she'd started. The document barely seemed to be through its introductory disclaimers and boilerplate assertions of dread consequences for breaching its Byzantine terms. Sure the figures involved were mind-boggling (£110 million for three seasons!), but that novelty wore off pretty fast.
"That sounds so exciting Ros!" her friends would trill, as she casually dropped that she was working on the contractual details of a massive new Netflix deal for a client.
"Sorry, no details though!" she would continue teasingly. "Strict confidentiality agreements on this one..."
Because however exciting the clients, how expensive the contract, and how generous the annual bonus was, the truth remained that 99% of Rosanna Jackson's working day was spent painstakingly trawling through arcane legal documents, and reviewing the work of her more junior colleagues.
Boring, boring, boring.
All day, every day, five days a week in dull times, seven when something particularly dramatic was in the works.
Some senior colleagues had the excitement of holiday homes, husbands, wives, families and dogs to act as an escape. Others discreetly enjoyed the hedonistic opportunities that being wealthy in London afforded.
Rosanna for her part lived with her boyfriend Greg in a tastefully appointed flat in West London. A perfectly amiable rugby playing City banker, he was attentive and good fun, without many of the tiresome character defects that one found in men of his background (Eton, Oxford, MBA, etc. etc.)
Approaching her thirtieth birthday, Rosanna thought she had dropped the appropriate number of hints about rings, country churches and large families. She assumed Greg had the logistics in hand. Maybe their summer getaway that year would be the moment.
And that would be nice. Engagement, a splendid family wedding, children, a labrador or two, an Aga, an encyclopaedic knowledge of Waitrose's deli counter.
All nice, all very lovely, something to look forward to. The next fifty years, all planned out ahead of her.
But still. A bit boring.
***
"Tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow!" Harriet insisted, firmly.
"But it's a work night, and I'm knee deep in this absolute horrowshow of a deal, darling".
"It'll be fun! We'll go for a quick drink, a quick dance, and I promise I'll have you home to Greg by midnight, my little Cinderella!"
Rosanna sighed.
"If I say yes, will you promise to leave me in peace for the rest of the month?"
"Deal!"
***
Rosanna steadied herself against the granite bathroom sink, and took a deep breath. The pounding of bass beats rattled the mirror as she studied her reflection. Not bad, all things considered.
Her jet-black hair, let loose from its usually prim ponytail, fell across her tanned shoulders, artfully dishevelled after an hour of vigorous dancing. Dark eyeliner framed her catlike green eyes, a feature inherited from her Irish mother. She barely even looked tired. Amazing what a bit of work with the touch-up brush could do.
Her dark pink Hervé Léger bandage dress had looked immaculate, until an errant hand had knocked £30 worth of cocktail across the front of it. Happily her frantic dabbing with tissues had prevented it from becoming too see-through, but there was definitely going to be a stain.
"For fuck's sake", Rosanna muttered to herself.
"Are you OK?", an American voice drawled.
"Fine, thanks, not a problem", she replied irritably.
"I just came to say sorry- I think it was me you ran into out there- and to offer you a replacement drink because I *hate* it when people do that to me because I'm clumsy enough to begin with let alone when other people are involved!"
"That's very kind but..." Rosanna looked up.
And stopped dead as she saw who had spilled her drink.
Irritating encounters in the ladies' room are of course an occupational hazard on a night out, even in Mayfair's priciest hangouts.
Stream of consciousness rambling from drunk American girls? Not exactly unusual.
But this wasn't just some random.
Rosanna looked past her reflection in the mirror, and saw one of the most recognizable faces in the world.
***
"So you're here often then?"
"Yeah - it's cool! Just somewhere fun where you don't get hassled so much".
Rosanna stood at the bar with her new acquaintance.
"And I'm not just too many gin and tonics down? You are the Actual Taylor Swift?"
Taylor giggled.
"I get that a lot."
The two women sat on a deep leather sofa, towards the back of the darkened room, and watched the blue-lit shapes moving across the dancefloor.
Rosanna wasn't quite sure where Harriet had got to, but she didn't particularly care at this moment.
