by Celia Walden
‘I – am I … ?’
Ross shook his head at her.
‘I can’t call my lawyer?’ Jamie looked around wildly. ‘Is this actually happening? Hey, girls, help me out here?’ Jamie had moved to the central hub, arms outstretched. ‘It must be one of you. Don’t be shy. Unless – hang on a sec – unless you don’t remember it, either. Because I don’t remember assaulting anyone. And that’s not the kind of thing you forget, is it?’
Jamie’s shirt had become untucked at the back and his hair ruffled into a peak.
‘Was it you?’ he asked a junior broker, peering intently at her screen. ‘Did I open the door in a way that made you feel “uncomfortable” or tell you I liked your skirt? It’s a very pretty skirt. Am I allowed to say that? Is it “verbal assault”? Probably.’ When there was no reaction, Jamie began waving his hands around in front of her face – ‘Hello! Hello! I’m talking to you!’ – causing her to jolt back in alarm and every woman nearby to freeze, lest they too should be noticed and picked on.
‘Come on! Is nobody going to ’fess up to being attacked by me? One of you comes forward with some bullshit story that I’m not even allowed to hear, by the way, and suddenly I’m Harvey fucking Weinstein? Where’s the proof … where’s the proof of anything?’
Out of the corner of her eye Jill saw Ross, flanked by Pete, walking fast in a straight diagonal towards Jamie.
‘Oh – I forgot – we don’t need proof any more do we? ’Cause if a woman says it, if it’s her truth, it’s the only truth.’
‘That’s enough now, Jamie,’ Ross said, adding something else she couldn’t make out.
‘Worse? How could it get any fucking worse? You make out I’m some sort of predator who attacks women – not just women, but my employees – and then I’m supposed to just quietly disappear without knowing who I’m supposed to have done this to?’
‘Jamie.’ Ross reached forward to tap him on the arm before thinking better of it, and for a second Jill had the absurd thought that Jamie might take a swing at him. ‘As we explained, the allegations will be made clear to you in due course.’
At Ross’s signal, Pete moved in closer and clamped a paw on Jamie’s arm.
‘Come on, pal, time to go.’
‘Pal?’ Jamie took a theatrical step back. ‘Am I still your pal, Pete? I was your pal when you gave me your daughter’s CV and asked me to look into an internship, wasn’t I? I was definitely your pal when I got her that summer job in the post room. And now I’m not. In fact, you wanna throw me out in the street.’
‘You need to go and cool off.’
‘’Cause everything’s going to look better in the morning? I don’t think so. But I will leave – after I’ve got my jacket.’
Jamie took a step towards his office and so did Pete, barring his boss’s path.
‘Let’s not let this get silly, Jamie.’
‘Pete’s right. That’s more than enough. I appreciate that this is upsetting – for everyone. But right now we’re going to need you to leave.’
Despite everything, Jill felt a flush of embarrassment for her one-time friend as Pete, a hand clamped on Jamie’s arm, ‘saw’ him into the lift and out.
At this point the whole floor seemed to exhale in unison. And after the murmurs had subsided – a proper postmortem would take place in the pub later – everyone got back to work. Everyone except Jill, who was still standing there, one hand on the doorknob, in Paul’s office.
‘Paul?’
‘Yeah.’ Her partner was slumped at his desk, head in his hands.
‘I didn’t ask before because I was embarrassed. Because I was pretty sure I knew the answer, and that someone was playing pranks on me. But Jamie didn’t send you an email, a while back, referring to me as “YKW” and –’ she cringed ‘– “senile”, suggesting I was no longer “a good look” for the company, that sort of … ?’
The way Paul shifted in his seat, his refusal to meet her eye, stopped her short. ‘We had a brief exchange about four or five months back in which he, um, told me he was worried about you and felt you should take some time off. But “senile”? He’s never used a word like that on any email to me. And “YKW”? What does that even mean?’
The relief made her smile. ‘Never mind. It must have been … a prank.’ Alex. It must have been Alex.
Of course Paul hadn’t engaged with Jamie’s crude language in that email, because that language had only been added afterwards, when the email was being edited – by an ex PA with a grievance.
‘But I should tell you –’ there was that shifty look again ‘– that there was a letter to the supervisory board, suggesting you be …’
‘Retired?’
‘I tried to talk Jamie out of it, and I refused to have any part in it. But he was concerned about Stan’s illness taking its toll. He’d mentioned it a couple of times to me.’ Paul flushed. ‘And others, I’m afraid. I just put it down to his ego: always wants – wanted – to be top dog, Jamie, didn’t he?’
Maybe it was that simple. Jamie wasn’t the man she’d believed him to be, and that he’d actually written that letter was beyond treacherous; unforgivable. But if the words in that email had been manipulated to make him look worse than he was, could Jill really be sure that Nicole wasn’t doing the same thing now? Because if her claim had been exaggerated, didn’t that make the punishment they had decided to inflict on him worse than the crime?
She was already halfway back to her office by the time Paul called out, ‘Jill, why are you asking?’
Once at her desk she fired off an email.
To: [email protected]
From: Jill Barnes
I know that you doctored that email. What else did you do, Alex? What else?
The answer pinged in minutes later: a chilling reminder of the tie that bound them.
From: [email protected]
To: Jill Barnes
Here’s to putting a not-so-good man down.
CHAPTER 28
NICOLE
‘Still not quite visualising it?’
Rupert Jones moved slowly and wordlessly around the gallery, kneading the side of his neck with his knuckles as he gazed up and down at the four tiers of boxes arranged in a semicircle around the stage. These, and the trompe l’oeil ceiling that continued to catch her out no matter how long she stared at it, had always been the theatre’s most impressive features in her eyes. But after their meeting with the council’s planning department the previous week – a meeting in which an alarming number of unforeseen limitations had been placed on the property’s structural development – Nicole had felt a sharp downturn in Rupert’s enthusiasm.
It was up to her to get his excitement levels up again, but after a sleepless night in the hotel and the call to HR she’d finally mustered the courage to make that morning, Nicole wasn’t sure she had it in her. And yet she needed to close this deal.
‘Originally the boxes would have had their own entrances on the north and south sides,’ she volunteered with a brightness she found physically painful to muster. ‘Apparently theatres from the period were always laid out that way – one entrance for the king—’
‘And one for the Prince of Wales,’ Rupert murmured, gazing down at the proscenium arch. ‘Yeah. I read the paperwork, too.’
‘Course you did.’ Nicole wished she’d stopped to buy the Nurofen she so urgently needed on the way here. The back of her skull ached from all the booze she’d got through the night before and she hadn’t had anything but black coffee for breakfast. ‘It’s all pretty fascinating stuff, isn’t it?’
Fascinating stuff? Her phone buzzed loudly in her handbag. She’d put it on vibrate after the first two missed calls and now regretted not muting it altogether. ‘Sorry.’
‘Answer it.’
‘No, no. Anyway, you heard what planning said about pushing the stage back, so that’s a big plus even if …’
‘That’s basically the only structural alteration I’m allowed.’
<
br /> ‘Well, they didn’t quite say that,’ she countered, smiling – although they had. ‘But they could have been more helpful, I agree. Still I’m convinced …’
A more insistent buzz as a voicemail pinged in.
‘Someone really wants you.’
He turned away and Nicole took the opportunity to reach into her handbag and check whether it was Ben, finally returning her calls. But Rupert chose that moment to speak: ‘I’m not going to lie: that sit-down last week has changed things.’
‘Of course it has.’ She felt repetitive and slow-witted, incapable of doing her job and yet acutely aware of how important it was to clinch this deal before they left the premises. If she didn’t, Rupert would pass, she was sure of that. And yet there was something humiliating about this part of her job, reminding her as it always did that she was no more than a sales girl, zooming in on that crucial moment’s indecision before it hardened into a ‘no’.
‘Listen, I’m sure you of all people can find a way around these things. And, actually, keeping a lot of this the way it is – with the restoration needed, granted – will really add to its charm?’ She was flailing and he knew it. ‘The originality of this place, though! I mean, I’ve never seen anything like it.’
Rupert’s facial expression was immovable. Time to up the ante. ‘And I should tell you that I have had a call from another potential buyer. Now of course I can manage to hold off on allowing anyone else to see the property for, well, a week – ten days if need be?’ She feigned a professional embarrassment she would have felt, had any of this been true. ‘But at a certain point I will have to let them know whether or not it’s still available.’
Rupert held her gaze a second, amused by the clumsiness of her tactics. ‘Another potential buyer, eh?’
‘That’s right.’ Lies: the more you told, the easier they were. And right now every sentence Nicole uttered seemed to be filled with them. ‘But I can hold off. I mean the second I saw this place I thought, “This has Rupert written all over it.” And I came to you first because I know that you’ve been looking for a north-west location for, what, eighteen months now – longer?’
Over the balustrade she caught the curve of the first row of Ambassador’s chairs. 8A: that was the number – white on black – she’d stared up at as they’d lain there afterwards. And for a moment she saw them both from above: panting and pleased with themselves on that fusty carpet. The place felt airless, prickles of damp beneath her arms and in between her breasts awakening the smell of yesterday’s sweat. She hadn’t thought to bring a change of clothes to the hotel, thinking only of getting through that dinner. Because after that nothing would matter: after that there would only be her and Jamie.
‘And as I said …’ Distracted by the acidity of her own breath, Nicole had forgotten exactly what it was she’d said. It didn’t help that Rupert was scrutinising her the way he was.
‘You OK? You seem …’ He made a vague hand gesture in her direction, and she felt a stab of shame at how much of a mess she must look in her crumpled blouse and Tube-applied make-up. Being well put together was part of who she was; today Nicole felt like she was coming apart.
‘Sorry, Rupert. D’you know I’m … I’m actually not feeling that well. Do you mind if I just pop to the Ladies? Let you have a bit more of a wander?’
In the dimly lit toilets she searched for a stall clean enough to allow her to sit, even for a second, before giving up and sinking to the floor, her back against the wall. With trembling fingers she pulled out her phone, staring at the screensaver image as though the two people in it had nothing to do with her. Syon Park, one freezing Sunday seven … no, eight months ago. Chloe on Ben’s shoulders, the bubble pipe she’d bought her on their way in just visible in her daughter’s hand. Ben’s affectionate rebuke to his wife, when she’d insisted they do the gift shop first: ‘You can never wait, can you?’ And her guilty interpretation of it, knowing she’d sent Jamie a text proving exactly that on the way there: Tell me you can get away tomorrow? Need you.
Ross, the HR director, had called twice and left a voicemail she didn’t have the strength to listen to. The third message was a WhatsApp from Anita, a colleague in Project Development. Their relationship had always limited itself to vaping breaks and celebrity bitchery exchanged in a rubbish-strewn Hammersmith backstreet behind the office. They’d never been for a drink together or contacted each other on anything other than email. OMG – you heard? Anita had messaged. Jamie’s been suspended!
She’d known he would be. From Ross’s silence at the end of the line after she’d strung out the nonsensical preambles as long as she could and finally managed to utter that sentence, recite it really, because that was what it felt like she was doing. Just get that first sentence out and the rest will come, because it has to: you won’t have any choice once those first words have been said. ‘Ross, I’m calling you to report an assault: Jamie – he assaulted me.’
She’d known he’d be suspended, and yet only as she nodded silently along to Ross’s instructions to write him an email, a written statement ‘including as much detail as you can remember about the assault’, had the permutations started to filter through. ‘I realise that might be hard for you,’ he’d said, businesslike rather than soothing, as a woman in his position would surely have been, ‘but it’s also vital in terms of how we proceed from here.’
‘I don’t want to press charges, though,’ she’d flung back, panicked. ‘I don’t want the police. I can’t … go through with any of that.’ Alex had sworn that wouldn’t be necessary, but she had to be sure. ‘I don’t have to do that, do I?’ She’d been standing at the hotel-room window watching the same tourists as the afternoon before scraping up the last of their eggs Benedict as she made the call. While they’d been at their West End show or doing whatever the hell it was that people came to London to do, she’d been capsizing her life. And now she was going to do the same to Jamie’s.
‘At this point the report really is for our eyes only,’ Ross had stressed. ‘And an investigation will follow. But Nicole: we’re going to need you to stay out of the office today while we deal with this.’
‘Of course.’
Ross had then gone off on a whole spiel about the confidentiality of the process and ‘minimising co-worker speculation’, and all the while Nicole had had the curious sensation of falling down a bottomless shaft.
‘Nicole? You still there? ‘
‘Yes.’
‘It goes without saying that there is to be no direct contact with the accused.’
‘Yes,’ she said again. ‘I mean, no. I won’t make any contact with him.’
The accused. Like this was some TV drama. She thought of the CEOs, ministers and actors who had been dismissed at the first mention of ‘impropriety’, let alone assault, in the heady first months of Me Too. ‘They wouldn’t even tell me what I was supposed to have done,’ one MP had said. And back then she hadn’t believed that could be true. In the casual rush of thoughts news stories can prompt, she’d wondered about the wives and kids: were they blindsided? Were the whisperings at the school gates bad enough to make them change schools or were they too considered victims and deluged with sympathy?
That word – accused – forced her to consider the person she’d pushed out of her head from the start: Maya. How soon would she find out? And was she one of those women in denial about who their husbands really were? The kind you saw proudly clutching the hands of paedophiles outside courts in the papers? Of course, Jamie might confess to cheating. Tell her he wasn’t a saint and it didn’t matter who the woman was because it never meant a thing, but he was no monster – and he didn’t do this.
Alex had warned her that there might be pangs of guilt, but to force herself to remember, every time she felt one: ‘I said no.’
And if she could make Jamie feel even an iota of the pain sluicing through her now, then this was the purest form of justice.
Rupert would be wondering why she was taking so lo
ng. Pulling herself up by the basin, she leaned over the tap and splashed water on her face. Too late Nicole remembered her eye make-up and stood there a moment transfixed by the drops running down her face like muddy tears.
By the time she’d cleaned her face and taken two deep breaths in the mirror, Rupert was done in the galleries and was waiting for Nicole outside in the theatre atrium.
‘Rupert I’m so sorry. I really was feeling a bit off, but I feel much better now.’
He glanced up from his phone, trying to mask his irritation. And she wondered when Rupert Jones had last been kept waiting.
‘I’m thinking maybe I could take you for a bite? It would give us a chance to work out a game plan that we could take back to the council and …’
‘I don’t think so.’
He said it so quietly that for a moment Nicole hoped she’d misheard. Because it wasn’t just no to lunch, she knew. It was no to the sale – no to all of it. And why it mattered so much right now she couldn’t be sure, except that the falling sensation was back, with everything that mattered now slipping from her grasp.
‘Rupert …’
In its persistency the whirring seemed to be getting louder, and while she reached into her bag and scrabbled to find her phone in amongst the detritus of her life – the lipsticks, pens, compacts, dead batteries and mysterious electric leads – Rupert turned with a wave and let himself out of the door.
Had anyone else’s face appeared on her phone at that moment, Nicole might have thrown it against the wall, but it was her husband, it was Ben, and the relief made her light-headed.
‘Ben. Finally. I’ve been trying you all morning. Please – please – can we talk? Where are you? Can I come and see you now? And Chloe, how is she?’
She would have kept on going if Ben hadn’t cut in in low, measured tones: ‘Your boss, Jamie, is sitting in our kitchen. And he’s rolling drunk.’
CHAPTER 29