“Eh? Oh . . . sorry, they were in my line of vision, what can I say?”
I grab a cardigan out of my overnight bag, wrap it around me and button it across my chest. He sits down in an armchair, places the two glasses on the table and fills them both half full. I sit down on the edge of the double bed, deeply aware that the setting is probably – no, definitely – inappropriate. Ethan takes a drink of wine, his arm shaking slightly when he places the glass back down on the polished side table. I scrutinise his expression. There’s a faint smile and a sparkle in his eyes, so I assume the talk isn’t going to be serious.
“Okay, spit it out,” I say, tucking one of my legs underneath me. “Is this about Delfina? Because I know I shouldn’t have said what I said and I’ve already told her I’m sorry. Admittedly, she was behind a closed door when I apologised, but—”
“No, it isn’t about Delfina, although . . . Okay, you did call an executive director of our agency a vile pig, so we are going to have to work out a defence to that when we get back to London. I admire your directness, Vi, honestly I do, but when you piss off the people we have to work with, it’s bad for my career as well as yours.”
I pause as Ethan’s frustration with me sinks in. “I’m trying to work on that, but nobody’s perfect. I’ve been trying to think before I speak for twenty-eight years without much success.”
“Can we not do this again?” He rubs at his brow. His skin has developed a pink flush and his breath reeks of alcohol. “I didn’t come here to talk about Ridley sodding Gates.” He picks up the wine bottle and refills his glass. “Are you not drinking?”
I don’t need wine. I need sleep. But I suppose wine is the next best thing. I pick up the other glass and have a sip. Then a gulp. Maybe I do need wine after all.
“So . . . um . . . where shall we start?” I ask tentatively. His smile morphs into what I think of as ‘my smile’. It’s big and beautiful and makes his eyes glint in a way that I only see when he’s talking to me. I confess the jury’s out on whether I’m imagining the uniqueness of this particular smile, but I’m going to claim it anyway.
“We could start with ‘I don’t know how the hell to start talking to you’,” he says. “Do you know where to start?”
The look of abject terror in his eyes breaks the ice and I giggle. “No, but I have to admit I’m feeling a bit scared.”
“I don’t believe you. Violet Archer is never scared about anything. That’s why I . . .” He pauses as the momentary ease on his face is replaced by terror again. “That’s why I love you.”
A swell of desire builds deep inside my pelvis, and my possibly-in-love heart squeezes tight when he says those three words. I can feel my pulse pounding in my head and . . . I am scared. Shit, I’m so scared I can hear my teeth chattering in my skull. But . . . wait . . . what kind of love is he talking about here? Don’t assume he means that kind and look like a fool. All friends love each other, don’t they? As in platonic love? What on earth do I say next? I dig deep, and all I come up with is . . . “Oh.”
Words fail me again. I’m a twit – this year’s winner of the world’s most twittiest nitwit award.
“Was that a good ‘Oh’ or a bad ‘Oh’?” he asks.
“It was an I-have-no-fucking-idea ‘Oh’, which I think means we have a problem.”
“That doesn’t sound good.”
“Generally problems aren’t good, but the first step in fixing a problem is realising there is a problem, so it might be more good than bad.”
“Okay,” he says with a nervous laugh. “Well, fixing stuff is your area.”
“Do you need to be fixed?”
His eyes meet mine and he holds my gaze for what seems like an hour. “I don’t think so. Loving you just feels right.”
I cross my legs on the bed, my feet tucking under my shins, and I try to ignore my heart thudding in my chest but I feel like I’m going to pass out. I take a deep breath, followed by a deeper plunge. “When you say ‘loving me feels right’ . . . um . . . what kind of love are we talking about here?”
His gaze becomes more intense, burrowing under my skin. “I haven’t figured that out yet, but it was the kind that made me kiss you last night.”
Suddenly I’m on my feet, but I’ve nowhere to walk, so I stand in front of him looking stupid, acting stupidly and thinking stupid thoughts. “Ethan, I . . . um . . . oh fuck . . . this really is a problem.”
He stands up too. “It doesn’t have to be.”
“Well it is, and you know it is!” I lean my back flat against the wall and stare up at the ceiling. My body is aware that he’s just inches away from me, and it craves his touch. “Jesus Christ, Ethan . . . you’re my friend! We’ve been best friends for three years. And you’re pissed. Are you saying this because you’re pissed?”
“No, I’m saying this because it’s how I feel,” he says with a smile that lights up his irises with specks of blue and amber. “I didn’t plan this, Vi. I just started seeing you differently. I’ve always loved you. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had, but I don’t know what being in love with somebody feels like because it hasn’t happened before. You know the part I play – Ethan Fraser, the life of the party, the guy who always gets the girl. That’s me, right? Except I’ve never got the girl. Not the one I wanted. I told you you’re different and I meant it. Nobody has ever come close to making me feel like this . . .”
He makes a grab for my hand, but I pull away. “Ethan, I can’t . . .” My voice shakes and I wish with everything I have that I wasn’t such a wimp. He reaches out to caress my face, but I bat his hand away. Then I walk towards the door. I don’t know where I’m going or what I’m doing – this is my hotel room after all – I just need to move away. “You can’t love me. I’m nothing like the women you fall for. I’m not outgoing or exciting. I’m wrong . . . everything about me is wrong for you.”
“You’re not wrong,” he says, frowning under the amber lighting. “You’re everything.”
“You said yesterday that our friendship was everything. And then you ran away.”
“I was unsure yesterday, even though you kissed me back and it felt like . . . it just felt so wonderful.” He moves closer and I push my back up against the door, my hand grasping for the handle. “You’re not like all those other women, and I don’t want you to be like them. That’s why I walked away last night, and that’s why I haven’t stopped thinking about you today.”
“I’ve thought about you too, but . . . you’ve been drinking. How do I know this is real? This is what you do – you get drunk, then get needy, then shag the first woman in sight.”
“That’s not me anymore,” he says, sounding wounded.
“It’s barely been a week since Carly, Ethan. A week since you vowed never to do this again.”
His body stiffens and he rakes his hand over his hair. “So, this is about our law?”
“No, screw our law. This is about us.” I turn the door handle and open the door. “I think you should leave. We can talk again when you’ve sobered up.”
He walks into the corridor. He looks ready to say something, but instead he reaches out and sweeps an errant loop of hair from my face. I flinch instinctively, but then I let him tuck it behind my ear. “I was wrong yesterday. We don’t have everything, but we could have . . .”
He leaves.
I text Daniel to say we’re swapping our rides back to London tomorrow.
19
THE DRIVE HOME FROM CUMBRIA yesterday couldn’t have gone worse. Delfina still hates me, Stuart still reeked of Eau de Cow Shit, Wendy bored us all about London’s inadequate recycling facilities, and Dave Handcock (yes, his name is still hilarious) blessed the journey by developing the prostate of a pensioner. We had to pull over every half an hour so he could pee.
I got back to my flat by seven in the evening, and – somewhat miraculously given I couldn’t sleep a wink for mulling – I was at my desk by eight o’clock this morning, far too wound up to eat. This means I’
m starving, and nothing exacerbates my overthinking like hunger.
Ethan texted just after nine to let me know Stella and Ridley have scheduled a review of our location work at nine thirty. Not something I’m looking forward to considering I’m still totally consumed by visions of punching Ridley in the face. That’s the other thing I’m overthinking about. What the hell am I going to do about Ridley Gates?
***
Just before the meeting, my stomach gets the better of me. I go to the kitchen to get a granola yoghurt, and Ethan’s there. He comes over to the fridge and I’m overtaken by nerves. I want to say something, but as I mix around words to make sentences in my brain, the fear of sounding like a deranged lunatic, a heartless bitch and a needy drama queen all bundled into one super-scary package means I say nothing.
Ethan doesn’t speak either. I watch him faff around in the fridge, but I can’t imagine he has any food of his own in there. He always goes out for lunch.
“If you want a yoghurt, I have another one. Top shelf, right-hand side.”
“You do? Oh, um, right. Thank you.”
I pull the lid of my yoghurt pot open and a splatter of pale purple sprays up my arm, followed by a huge splodge which lands on my top. “Oh, crap. I loved this top.”
“Here, let me get it,” Ethan offers. I lick the yoghurt off my arm as he wets a piece of kitchen towel under the tap. He goes to dab it onto my top, stopping only when he realises the splodge settled directly on my left boob. He passes me the paper towel with a sheepish smile, and our eyes lock. He’s looking at me in a way I don’t like – there’s a dash of frustration, a pinch of embarrassment, a sprinkle of longing and a large dollop of hesitation. I wonder what kind of cake I’d have to eat if I mixed that lot up and baked it in a tray for an hour or two. I’m sure it’d be the type that looks great but makes you sick after three mouthfuls.
“Ridley wants to see you after the meeting. Delfina told him about Vile-pig-gate. I tried to shrug it all off, but . . . well, you know how it is.”
“That’s fine.” I dab at my top and get most of the purple off, but it will probably need a trip to the dry cleaners. I pick up a spoon and head back to my desk.
***
Ridley, Stella, Daniel and Wendy are assembled around a circular table in Conference Room C for a reveal of the material for the Quest ad. Ethan runs through Wendy’s footage, detailing his ideas as images of Delfina and Alyssa wearing the best high-street outfits money can buy flash across a big-screen TV. He outlines the copy I wrote whilst having a drystone wall wedged up my bottom, and I watch as Ridley twists his creepy slimeball face at every single one of Ethan’s ideas.
“I don’t think you captured Delfina’s best angle on that shot, Wendy.”
“How could you let those outfits pass by the lens, Daniel? Stuart won’t be pleased with those choices.”
“Why did you shoot with only the hills as backdrop? You were sent to the Lakes and I can’t see any lakes.”
“The copy is wrong. It needs more work.”
“The lighting is wrong. See what the CGI unit can do with that.”
After he makes his twentieth negative comment in a row, Stella steps in. “Oh for fuck’s sake, Ridley. The work isn’t complete. We know what we need to do on this. Leave it with us.”
“My arse is on the line here, Stella. I’m trying to save this account. I slogged my guts out to win this client.” Daniel shifts in his seat at that news and I don’t blame him – everyone knows it was Daniel who slogged his guts out to win Quest. Ridley showed up on contract-signing day with a champagne lunch catered by Ampersand and has taken full credit ever since. “Despite what you might think of our roles in this agency, we’re both creative people, and I recognise crap when I see it.”
“Ah, Ridley, I really wish you hadn’t said that. You’re making this so easy,” Stella says. She’s wearing a red, 1930s-style, figure-hugging sheath dress with a dramatic neckline and sleeves which ruffle at her wrists – like a modern-day Joan Crawford. “I could have let all this go if only you hadn’t said that. You want to know why you don’t ever get to describe yourself as creative? Because you’re fucking not.”
Ridley rises to the bait, his peroxide smile dazzling bright against his orange-tanned face. “Wow, is the great Stella Judd going to lose her cool over an adjective?”
Daniel clears his throat in a bid to draw the attention of the warring directors. He looks embarrassed, while Ethan looks pissed off and Wendy looks devastated.
“Let me tell you what a creative is, you ridiculously overly-Tangoed shitgibbon,” says Stella, slamming her notepad shut and fixing her black-rimmed glasses to the edge of her nose. “A creative is someone who lives and breathes ingenuity, innovation and imagination. The people who designed this ad – my people – put in more hours than you every bloody day. Creatives are the engine that keep this whole machine running. I give no fucks if you disagree with me on that, but by all means come back to the discussion after you win your first AdAg award.”
Ridley’s grin doesn’t waver. He’s been playing the role of smug twat so long that he has it perfected to a fine art. “You lot may be the engine, but I’m the ignition.”
Oh, dear lord. This could go on for some time.
“Come on, you two, you’re acting like children,” says Daniel.
“If I don’t fight with Ridley, I’m not doing my job. And if he doesn’t fight with me, he isn’t doing his. That’s how things roll in advertising. Ridley just doesn’t like that I win all the time.” She peers through her smart spectacles at her antagonist. “I do empathise with how I make you feel about yourself, Ridley.”
“How about we review again later today?” Ethan says, successfully breaking up the bickering. “Wendy, can you do some post-production on the film and run some of Violet’s narrative behind it?”
Wendy looks like she’s been hit in the face by a force-nine gale, and I fight an urge to give her a hug. “Um . . . sure . . . I’ll get straight on it.”
“Maybe if we see Violet’s hashtag too,” says Daniel. “I always find it easier to view an ad when it has all the correct branding.”
“Great idea,” Ethan says. “Violet, can you perfect your copy and get it to Wendy this afternoon?”
“Sure, we can get to work on that,” I say, catching Ethan’s eye across the conference room table. He gives me a smile which makes my insides flutter.
“No, it’s not good enough. I’m not putting this in front of the client,” says Ridley. “It doesn’t scream ‘adventure’ to me; it screams ‘tree-hugging leftie let loose with a camera.’ How did you make Delfina look like a deranged Druidic wild-woman? Who did her eye make-up? She looks like she’s possessed.”
Wendy looks ready to explode, and I don’t blame her. He’s making this personal for no good reason.
“What the hell side of the bed did you wake up on this morning?” asks Daniel. This makes everyone in the room sit up and take notice. Daniel never loses his cool.
Ridley grits his teeth. “Watch yourself, Daniel.”
“I don’t need to watch anything. Stuart was with us on the shoot – well, aside from the shit incident. He loves Wendy’s work on this, and so do I.”
“And so do I,” Stella chimes in.
“Well, neither of you two are head of the Client Services department – I am,” Ridley says authoritatively. “I get to decide if our product fits the client’s brief – and it doesn’t.”
“Were you listening? The client has already seen the shoot footage and he likes it,” says Stella, ignoring Ridley’s arsey behaviour. “By the way, what was the shit incident?”
“He fell off a fence and landed in a mound of cow shit,” Ethan explains, a glimmer of humour flashing in his eyes as he recalls the funniest thing that’s happened since Max attempted to iron a t-shirt whilst wearing it and singed his chest hair.
“Oh my god, really? I’d have paid good money to see that. How much of the shoot did he miss?” asks Stella.
“A few hours. I took him back to the hotel and he had to be hosed down and stripped in the car park,” Daniel says, laughing.
The mood seems to lift, but just when I think we’re home and dry, Ridley reminds everyone he’s a shit-stirring prick again. “Violet, just one thing before everyone heads off to see if they can salvage the thousands of pounds we’ve wasted on this shoot. I told Ethan I’d save this until after the meeting, but maybe Stella needs to know. Can you explain the fracas you had with my wife?”
“There was no fracas,” Ethan says abruptly.
“Now isn’t the time or the place to talk about it,” I add. What on earth is he playing at? Is he daring me to talk about everything I know about him and Carly and Malcolm in front of Stella? Or is this his fucked-up way of making sure I don’t?
“Wendy, Daniel and Ethan, you are excused.” Stella’s gaze is steely, but when she looks at Ridley’s smug expression, I think the penny drops. “What’s this all about, Violet?”
Daniel and Wendy get up to leave, giving me a supportive wink and nod respectively. Ethan remains seated.
“Didn’t you hear me, Ethan?” asks Stella.
“I’d prefer to stay, if it’s alright with you. I was there and—”
“No, it’s not alright. I told you to leave, so get out.”
Ethan reluctantly gets up and goes. I know he’s trying to help, but if he thinks I can’t face up to my responsibilities he’s lost his mind. But, Christ, listen to me trying to convince myself I’m brave. Truth is, being in the same room as Ridley Gates makes me want to run away and hide under my desk until home time.
So I take the reprimand, all the while remembering that I have enough ammunition in Lucille’s file to get him back one hundred times over. I apologise . . . again. I offer Ridley vomit-inducing fake gratitude for not taking my gross misconduct up with HR, and my stomach twists into a heavy knot of anxiety as I watch disappointment drain the colour from Stella’s face.
Just Friends (The Agency Book 1) Page 18