by Naomi Joy
‘Hi girls,’ I said as I neared their exclusive little group. ‘You all look gorgeous.’
It was true. George had chosen extra-thick false lashes to accompany her outfit tonight, and the other girls in the group must have got ready together they were so homogenous in their beauty. They almost looked like triplets, with identical caramel coloured locks, petite bird-like figures and grey-blue eyes. No wonder George was head of the pack, she was the only one with any personality.
‘Nothing compared to you, Ava,’ Georgette cooed. ‘That dress is stunning. We’re all dying to know who sent it… go on, who’s the secret admirer?’
Oh dear, I thought. By morning the entire office would be gossiping about my non-existent new relationship. I decided to lie. ‘I bought it myself, actually.’
‘Jade seemed to think it had come from David.’
I looked Georgette dead in her glitter-lidded eyes and she angled her neck towards Jade, blowing her nose next to the drinks table by herself.
‘But I should know better than to listen to a word she says about you. Sorry.’
I thought on my feet, reasoning she’d already seen who had sent the Westwood package to the office and that, on balance, Jade probably had nothing to do with it.
‘David has a contact who sent it to me, but that’s all.’
Georgette changed the subject quickly, she’d already got all the information she needed and she wasn’t about to let anything get in the way of a good story.
‘Told you she’d be wearing a tunic dress,’ she giggled. ‘Though I’m not sure why she’s so attached to it: it makes her look like a fucking inpatient.’ The rest of the group spluttered with laughter behind her.
At that moment, a woman announced that we should all take our seats in the main hall and I was able to extract myself from Georgette’s clutches to follow the crush of people funnelling through the double doors to the main room.
Jade’s emerald eyes were all over me as David sat down and kissed my cheek. She’d be hating this, cursing me a hundred times over for sitting at the top table without her. I hoped she hadn’t seen him touch me earlier. I hoped no one had.
He rose to speak and the room hushed.
‘I’d like to welcome you all to my favourite home and thank each and every one of you for another fantastic year of W&SP PR.’
Polite applause rippled around the room. The elephant in the room, of course, was Olivia. I noted he’d said a fantastic year of PR, not a fantastic year. ‘I think we’ve actually managed to get through this one without a dogging scandal!’
The applause made way for nervous laughter and someone shouted out Don’t speak too soon! from somewhere near the back. We’d had an incident last year: one of our restaurant clients’ car parks had sprung up on a load of forums as the number-one dogging hotspot in the UK. Before we knew it, the car park was heaving with topless creeps and the story had made national news. Then, the mummy trolls had come for the restaurant, reservations went down by 80 per cent – you’d have thought the doggers would have booked a few tables to help us out, but no – and the brand’s twitter page crashed due to the amount of people writing to us expressing their outrage. We’d all suspected there was a high likelihood the most vocal mummies ‘worried about it happening in their area’ were also the most prolific doggers, the ones who’d turn up first wearing masks. Beware the loudmouth trolls: they were always the biggest hypocrites.
David chuckled in response which instantly lightened the mood, staff round the room noticeably relieved that it didn’t appear their boss was about to launch into a fifteen-minute speech about his personal loss.
‘I’ve been talking to a few colleagues about the scandals we have faced this year, however… and I’d like to share a couple we’ve managed to keep out of the headlines with you tonight.’
His audience was eating out of the palm of his hand and he certainly had a way of connecting with people: he was so charismatic and captivating. Growing ‘oooh’ sounds began one after the other as David took a pregnant pause before diving in.
‘In January, we learnt that our new client, kids’ clothing store Gracie & Maine, had unwittingly hired a convicted paedophile to run its flagship store in Cambridge.’
A group at the back of the room familiar with the story squawked in recognition.
‘We had to introduce the concept of background checks to them, and stop a vigilante group from coming down with reality TV cameras to catch the guy in the act. Apparently, they’d been stalking the shop for weeks trying to get images of him looking sideways at the kids. Disgusting. Then, in April, the CEO of not-for-profit client Hollywell Health stole three million pounds from the company’s books, then used it to pay for numerous plastic surgery procedures. A team of W&SPs managed to limit that potential bombshell to just an eighth of a page in the regional paper, and are doing their best to keep her brand new double Gs out of Page 3.’
His delivery was smooth and I admired how naturally public speaking came to him.
‘And, finally, my favourite: it came to our attention earlier this year that a randy manager at hotel client, Lokal, had installed a network of cameras in each guest bathroom on the property.’
‘What?! I stayed there!’ a bloke shouted from towards the front of the crowd.
‘I doubt he was spying on you, Trevor.’
Trevor was the caretaker, bless him, and the years hadn’t been particularly kind. Gentle laughter flowed round the room and the people either side of Trevor put their arms round him.
‘Ironically, the hotel’s existing security cameras caught him watching back the footage in his office. But, that’s not the best bit, he’d watch his videos in a giant pink tutu and eat packets of sliced ham at the same time. Don’t worry: ham is off the menu tonight, I wouldn’t want anyone to get too carried away…’
Applause fired up again and David reiterated his thanks to everyone before taking his seat.
‘That was brilliant.’ I beamed, meaning it.
He smiled, his lips curling at the edges. ‘I’m glad you thought so, darling.’
20
Jade
She was practically dribbling as David gave his opening speech, salivating over every word, wearing a dress that barely covered her, giggling like a stupid schoolgirl by his side. I bet she’d begged to sit there next to him, all saucer-eyed and drop-mouthed in his office after work.
I dug my fingernails into my palms so hard I felt blood running down my wrist before the pain of them puncturing my skin. Tonight was going to be long. Josh wasn’t here, hadn’t texted to tell me why he couldn’t make it, and still hadn’t replied to my picture. It really was over and done with; love affair in ashes before we’d even lit the match. He was probably sleeping with someone else.
I didn’t talk to the nobodies either side of me. I wasn’t here to make friends, I’d been here for Josh, but now that was in tatters there was no point in me being here at all. Once again, thanks to Ava, I was on the back foot. It was so infuriating, just when I’d had a foothold on the job, she’d found a way to outdo me. Again.
I picked my way round melon and Parma ham, shut down any conversation that came my way, and thudded a bottle of red in front of me as if to mark my territory.
I think my propensity for ending second-best stemmed from the fact I was yet to actually experience what coming first felt like. I could only imagine the head-high jubilation of it all, that feeling of self-satisfied-smugness, the elation of taking joy from others’ loss. I longed for how that felt. I’d always been the girl behind the winner, vowing to work harder, telling myself I’d be her one day. But, if you haven’t done something before you’re an adult, when you’re an adult it’s so much harder to achieve: riding a bike, swimming, making friends, learning a language. I’d been second-best growing up too, the unnecessary third-wheel to my parents’ perfect bicycle of a relationship. They were a pair of distant academics who preferred study, and each other, to me. I still wondered why they even had a ch
ild. My mother once told me my father had tried to move us back to Hong Kong, where he was from, when I was little but that I’d been ‘such a fussy infant’, falling ill whenever we journeyed to visit relatives on his side, ‘for attention’. Then there was my only boyfriend: perpetually indifferent about my presence in his life, then actively disinterested when I suggested spending the rest of it together. At school, in every subject, there was always some girl with her hair in pigtails better than me. In anything sporty I was always bottom of the lot, ditto music, ditto drama. And now work. The only thing that had changed, in fact, was the way I viewed it: when I was younger I didn’t think it would always be like this, I was remarkably stoic about it, zen. My time will come. Now I was running out of time and, frankly, I was just angry.
The tedious four-course dinner service finally came to a close and I decided to prop myself up at the bar. My aim: to drink a sufficient amount of red wine to get through the next half an hour of ‘dancing’ before the first taxis arrived.
Though I’d managed to avoid her so far this evening, my luck was about to run out, and I clocked Georgette tottering towards me in a shiny pink ball gown, boobs first. Was Barbie really an acceptable look for anyone over the age of nine?
‘Having a good night?’ she hiccupped, before yelling at the barman two feet away from her that she wanted a G&T with fresh limes. She probably thought that request was classy. I thought about shouting an order for a G&T with stale limes to make her feel stupid. The staler the better.
I rolled my eyes and drank some more.
‘What happened to Josh, babe? Thought you was gonna get lucky tonight?’
Her eyes were practically cross-eyed she was so drunk. I wasn’t sure Barbie would approve of that. How did she know about Josh?
‘He’s not here. Not that I’d ever tell you about my love life, you’re like a walking foghorn.’
I wanted her to feel the hate I felt.
‘Why are you always such a bitch?’
Her retort took me by surprise and I balked at her assertion, almost spraying her with a fountain of red wine.
‘You can’t speak to me like that!’
‘I’m serious, you treat everyone like shit but expect us all to kiss your arse. Well, not me, not any more.’
She made a sort of ‘humph’ noise and waddled off to rejoin her cackling bunch of hags. I’d make her regret that comment on Monday morning.
Luckily, David didn’t make a habit of asking juniors what they thought of their seniors, so her ‘real’ opinion of me shouldn’t affect my chances of securing the job. I’d probably have to fire her if I did get it though, I couldn’t have someone with that little respect for my authority on the team.
My eyes danced lazily from person to person, following a number of my dimly-lit colleagues as they navigated behaving appropriately at a work function whilst being peer-pressured to drink copious amounts of booze, when I noticed something interesting towards the back of the room. I moved my position slightly to get a better angle: it was Ava and David, dancing, close. I watched them intently as her twirls, spins and giggles turned dopey, slow and clumsy. She probably hadn’t eaten all day to fit into that dress so it had only taken a couple of sips of wine to get her white-girl-wasted. They were dancing away from the main pack and I shifted in my chair so I could follow them as they moved towards the far corner of the room. Then I watched, jaw to the floor, as he pressed her against the wall and kissed her. Both her arms hung floppily by her sides. She whispered something in his ear.
Whatever she’d said had an immediate impact and David practically dragged her out of the dining room and through a door away from the crowds. I had to follow. I had to see what happened next.
I picked my way through the dancefloor, avoiding a drunk girl with knots in her hair, pivoting round her half-full glass as she held it at a precarious forty-five-degree angle, ducking round men who, eight pints down, had decided incessant jumping up and down was an acceptable dance move, and navigated round the centipede-like lines of women dragging each other out towards the toilets.
My head was spinning as I reached the door David and Ava had exited moments earlier. I pushed it open casually and pulled my phone out, ready to look like I was making a call if I found them on the other side. Nothing. I looked left and right quickly, assessing which way they might have gone, deciding that left, ironically, felt right, and marched up the corridor towards a small flight of stairs. The focus of my mission had sobered me up slightly and the floor no longer moved up and down like I was on a treacherous ferry crossing. Round the corner I spotted a lift and, above it, the number was changing as it made its way up the building: one, two, three, four, five. Five. I heard a robotic voice. I jabbed my finger into the call button. I wasn’t about to stop now. I waited a lifetime for the lift to arrive and, as soon as the doors opened in front of me, pushed my body in through the tiny gap, smashing the button for floor five. Come on, come on, come on. The machine creaked and groaned then, finally, arrived. The doors parted as though two lethargic snails were at the controls and I made out two bodies shuffling down the musty corridor in front of me.
Crap.
I moved fast, powering my way out of the gap as soon as it was big enough and pressed my body against the wall to the right of the lift, hoping the archway ahead would sufficiently shelter me from their view. A robotic proclamation, Doors opening, followed, as slow as the lift itself, sounding out about a minute after the doors had actually opened. I held my breath. Dear God, please don’t let him turn round and walk back here. I waited, not wanting to take any chances, and observed my surroundings. The corridor wasn’t unusual, it featured the same red carpet as the ground floor: a deep, regal colour flecked with gold. The stone arch I was cowering behind looked ancient, though, and was probably an original feature.
I heard shuffling in the distance: David and Ava were on the move again so I took a chance and poked my head tentatively round the arch. My instinct was right. She was in his arms, being carried like a newlywed, nuzzled against his neck. My phone was still in my hand. The door was open to a room beyond. I raised my mobile and flicked to camera mode. I zoomed in. He turned his body towards me, his eyes on the door, moving sideways to slip her body through the gap more easily. I took a picture. Blackmail. I had it.
21
Ava
A phone rang, loud and obnoxious, vibrating its way around a hard surface nearby. My body stiffened as something moved next to me. It groaned. The vibrations softened, surrounded by flesh, then stopped. A clatter reverberated round the room as the phone slammed back down on the hard surface. Silence. Where was I? My brain stuck in neutral. Who was next to me? Too scared to look. What was that smell?
An acidic, tangy, aroma floated nearby and my hand twitched, seeking out the source, an alien limb more interested than I was to figure out the puzzle. I kept my eyes clamped shut; I desperately didn’t want to have to wake up and face whatever reality was before me. My fingers dabbed a wet puddle not far from my face and I knew right away: vomit. I couldn’t ignore this any more. In one quick motion I sat up and my eyes, ears, smell, touch and taste fired simultaneously; all five senses assaulted by the scene before me.
A shaft of light burned through a small gap in the red curtains, dust dancing in its path. It illuminated my dress from the night before, folded neatly and placed on a chair in the corner of the room. I sat on a lavish four-poster bed with antique wooden posts and gentle cottons overhead. Two thick metal hoops hung off the headboard; I could only imagine what for. David lay next to me, dozing quietly, so incongruous in this setting I almost didn’t recognise him. What was he doing here? What was I doing here? Wait. Was this his bedroom? The only sound was his breath in and out. The smell of my pool of sick mixed with the stale stench of sleep and clung to my nostrils. My mouth was dry and sore and tasted more of regret and shame and confusion than anything else. I reached down. Where was my underwear? Why did I feel like I’d done something very, very stupid?
‘David?’ I called timidly, my voice a whisper, breaking slightly over the second half of his name. My throat was like sandpaper.
‘Yes, darling?’ He didn’t open his eyes.
‘What are we doing here?’
He raised an eyebrow in his slumber and his eyelid lazily followed. ‘What do you think we’re doing here, darling?’
His voice was different. It was almost like he was mocking me.
‘I was sick,’ I said, my way of explaining this situation couldn’t be what it looked like.
‘Urgh, clean yourself up, then come back to bed.’
His eye closed again and he rolled onto his side.
Like a robot I obeyed him and padded into the bathroom, my stomach cramping as I tried to repress a wave of nausea. A huge bathtub looked out over fields of lavender and the dregs of an empty tube of bubble bath dripped to the floor. His and hers sinks stood in the corner. But we weren’t his and hers. That was never the plan. He was an incredible, powerful, brilliant man and, sure, we’d grown closer recently but this was never what I wanted. Not ever. I didn’t even remember drinking very much last night, I’d promised myself…
I cupped my hands under the steady flow of the tap and dabbed my face back to life with the freezing water. I studied my reflection in the mirror: puffy, pale, possessed. I didn’t look like myself at all.
I sat on the toilet for a moment, about to pee, the cramps getting worse, when a realisation dawned on me.
I had to check, before I washed away the evidence for good.
I angled my fingers into the toilet bowl and held them underneath myself for a moment.