***
I try to ignore the painfully obvious fact that all eyes have fallen upon me when I walk across the creative floor and sit down at my desk. It’s after nine, I’m later than usual, so everyone is here and the atmosphere on the fifteenth floor is charged with gossip. I fear I’ll snap the head off the first person who asks me about yesterday.
Less than a minute later, Will Thornton proves he has a death wish. “So, Violet, why did Ethan kick the shit out of Slimeball Gates yesterday?”
I give him the look of death.
“Come on, you’ve got to tell. Zoe told us Malcolm hasn’t turned in today, Ridley is sporting two black eyes and people are saying Ethan got fired. I have a fleet of planes waiting for their instructions from air traffic control.”
“Do you think this is funny?” I snap. Pinkie sinks into his chair and turns his head away from me. “And if you even think about flying any of your stupid gossip planes around the floor with any of my business written on them I will personally fly you out the fucking window.”
His expression shifts for a moment. Barely a moment. It swiftly returns to his usual resting-cocky-fuck-face. “You can’t blame us for wanting to know what’s going on, Violet. I’ve worked here for three years, same as you, and Ethan’s my friend.”
“If you want to know, you’ll have to ask him yourself.”
“He isn’t here.”
“Call him!” I yell, then I pick up my own phone and buzz through to Gabriel, Stella’s executive assistant.
“Hi, Vi . . . Hey, that’s funny, isn’t it? Hi-Vi, like hi-fi,” he says in his delicious Catalonian twang. Gabriel Diaz is the proud owner of Barrett McAllan Gray’s hottest accent. His voice has a luscious purring tone which radiates sex and desire. Every new female employee at BMG falls at his feet the instant they meet him, but within thirty seconds the truth of his gayness shines through via his sparkly trousers and Versace shirts.
“I need to speak to Stella, is she free? It’ll only take a moment.”
He pauses far longer than necessary. “She is busy all today.”
“Busy, where? It’s quite urgent, Gabriel. I really need to see her.”
“I’m afraid I cannot say where she is.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Both.”
“Thanks for nothing.”
“I’m sorry, but I have my orders. Now, put the phone down – I have to keep this line open for sex.”
Urgh. He doesn’t deserve that accent.
I disappear to Production for the rest of the morning to help Wendy in Ethan’s absence. To say she’s a little alarmed that the Quest ad is due to be finalised by the end of next week and we’ve lost our art director would be an understatement. Unlike Will, Wendy doesn’t pry, choosing to offer support and sympathy instead. Ordinarily, the touchy-feelies give me the heebie-jeebies, but Wendy mothers everybody, so I let her empathise with me about losing my partner.
I return to my desk after lunch to find a message on my iPhone from Ethan: Meet me for lunch 12.30 @ The Hairy Lemon.
I look at my watch – 13.15.
Fuck!
Why didn’t I take my stupid phone with me? I quickly text him back: Sorry, just got your message. Are you still there?
Ten seconds later: Didn’t hear from you so didn’t go. Few things to take care of. Meet there in an hour?
I reply that I will. The second I put my phone down, my brain races with possibilities. Is Stella with Malcolm? Does Ethan have his job back? Can I report Ridley for sexual harassment without dragging Malcolm into it?
“And where the hell have you been?”
Max’s angry German accent brings me out of my thoughts with a start. I’ve barely seen him since I got back from the Lakes, and I promptly feel guilty for ignoring him.
“I’m sorry, Max. I’ve been busy.”
He’s standing with his hands on his hips, a very faded 1990s Ministry of Sound t-shirt clashing with a checked shirt and . . . what the hell is he wearing around his neck? A dog-tag pendant decorated with bling? Has he joined “the hood” since I’ve been away?
“Where’s Ethan? Is he fired?”
“Yes.”
He lets out a whimper. The kind of whimper you’d expect Bambi to have made when his mother got shot. “When . . . were you planning . . . to tell . . .”
I tenderly place my hands on his shoulders. “Stella’s working on getting him reinstated. I think.”
“What do you mean, you think?” he asks, his brow pleated into tight ridges and his eyes wild with anguish. “Why did he attack Ridley?”
I take Max away from Will and Pinkie’s enormous, prying ears and walk him over to Diego’s office, aka my second home. A paper aeroplane lands at my feet as I open the door. I glare at Will. He swings back in his chair, grinning from ear to ear.
Once we have privacy, I tell Max everything – well, everything except Malcolm’s secret. He takes Ridley’s involvement with Carly better than I expected, and he isn’t even cross with me for not telling him before. But then the conversation moves on to Ridley’s threats against me.
“I’d have done a much better job of beating up that piece of shit than Ethan. You’d have had to peel Ridley Gates off the toilet walls after I’d finished with him! Two black eyes? I would have broken every bone in his miserable body.”
“Max, you’re built like a scarecrow. Ridley spends an hour in the gym every day.”
He looks hurt. “What are you saying?”
“Um . . . that you mightn’t beat him in a fight?”
“Look, I might be tall and skinny, but I’m also fast and stealthy. I’d have thrown a punch and he wouldn’t have seen it coming. Like, “Whoosh . . . what the fuck was that?” I’m also crafty, so if he came at me, I’d fucking nail him just by confusing him. I’m like a cross between the Flash and the Riddler.”
Oh, sweet Jesus. What planet is he living on?
“Wasn’t the Riddler a bad guy?” I ask, trying not to laugh,
“No, he was misunderstood. The good people of Gotham, and later the residents of Arkham Asylum, were too dumb to recognise his genius.”
He sits down on Diego’s sofa, right next to a giant fake potted palm which looks like it’s been plucked from the Amazon. I take a seat next to him. All of a sudden he seems morose. He slouches low, his bottom barely hanging on to the end of the seat, his long legs criss-crossed in front of him so he looks like a knock-kneed giraffe.
“I’m bloody pissed off with you.”
I fold my hands in my lap and let out a sigh. “I know. I’m sorry for not telling you, but you know me. I wanted to try and sort it out myself. I shouldn’t have told Ethan about Ridley.”
He inhales deeply and accidentally sucks a giant fake palm leaf onto his face. He bats it away, but I laugh. And then he laughs. And in that moment the tension disappears. “I’m not angry you said nothing, I’m angry you tried to handle this alone. For someone who is so smart, you can be such an idiot, Violet.”
“I know. I can’t stop fucking up, Max. Ethan’s lost his job, you went on a drink and drugs binge, and Malcolm . . . well, I dread to think what’s going to happen there. Whatever you were going to say, just bear in mind that I hate who I am right now.”
“Stop right there. Don’t you dare say that to me. I’ve seen you at your worst, I’ve seen you cry, I’ve seen you fail and I’ve seen you make the most godawful stupid choices, but this is who you are, and I love every bit of you – especially the fucked-up bits.” Not for the first time in the last month, Max’s kindness brings tears to my eyes. “This isn’t your fault. It’s Ridley’s and Malcolm’s and Ethan’s faults. You may have screwed up a little bit, but they made the soup sandwich, not you.”
“A soup sandwich?”
“Yes, a soggy, gloopy, totally unfixable mess.”
I laugh at his perfect description. “I know you’re right – partly right – but I should have put my friends first, just like Ethan said. If I had, he would still
have a job. You’ve been mates since uni . . .”
“And we’ll still be mates, but this isn’t about us. It isn’t even about Ridley. This is about you.”
“Yeah, and I made this happen.”
“Rubbish. You didn’t make Ethan beat the shit out of Ridley yesterday. Everybody is talking about it.”
Tears flood my eyes. “Let them talk.” I curse the crack that appears in my voice. Funny they call me the sodding Snow Queen when all I seem to have done for the past few days is cry. “Look, I have to go. I’m meeting Ethan in half an hour.”
He stands and walks with me to the door.
“Will you promise to let me know what’s happening?”
“Of course. Thanks for the advice.”
“I didn’t give you advice. You don’t need it. You need love and understanding, so that’s what I gave you.”
23
THE HAIRY LEMON IS A gem of a pub hidden between St Michael’s and St Peter’s churches on Old Broad Street, not far from our office at the heart of the City. The building is a few hundred years old and is timbered in mock-Tudor beams. Of course, it isn’t hairy and has no connection to lemons, so the name of the establishment remains one of many thousand peculiarities of London.
He’s there when I arrive. I walk past the pub’s window and feel his presence. I’m too nervous and too anxious about what news he’s bringing me to smile.
The daylight ends as soon as I walk through the door. It’s as if the dark wooden fittings and furniture absorb the light, leaving punters with the unnatural brightness of the amber chandeliers as they cast wild shadows on the burgundy-wallpapered walls. The whole place has a Dickensian feel – it’s traditional and unique, which in this part of the city makes it cool.
My heels click-clack loudly against the tiled floor as I walk to his table. It’s very private, almost secluded, and I’m immediately thankful I don’t have to think about prying ears.
He stands as I approach. I wonder if last night is making me view him as hotter than ever . . . Oh Jesus Christ, am I even serious? Of course it is! My body clearly thinks so too – my skin tingles, my stomach somersaults and my thighs throb. He smiles “my smile” at me, and I feel like I’m either going to faint or explode into a ball of orgasmic glitter.
We sit in a circular booth with a round wooden table. He’s already bought a bottle of red wine, which doesn’t seem fitting for two fifteen in the afternoon, but as long as it’s wet, I’ll take it. He pours for me, and my eyes drift to the hard contours of his chest, outlined under a white v-neck t-shirt that’s fitted like a second skin to his body. His hair is styled away from his face as usual, but the soft flicks have just the right amount of mess to add to the bad-boy vibe emanating from his bust lip, bruised cheek and cut knuckles.
After he pours my drink he drains his own in one go, then refills it. He’s seeking courage, I can tell. Why is he seeking courage?
“Okay, I don’t know how to tell you this, so I’m just going to blurt it out.”
Oh sweet Jesus, what’s he going to say? My stomach is suddenly assaulted by a strange fusion of fluttering-butterfly feelings and sinking, impending-doom feelings. This could go either way.
“This isn’t definite yet, but . . .” He inhales a huge lungful of air as if he were a diver getting ready to plunge into the murky depths of the ocean. “I’m not coming back to Barrett McAllan Gray.”
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck!
“Stella couldn’t work Malcolm for you?” I manage to say as my heart sinks to my feet.
“It’s more complicated than that. I’ve been offered an awesome opportunity elsewhere, and I’m almost sure I’m going to take it.”
All I manage to say is “Where?”
He’s just ripped my heart from my chest with his bare hands and I don’t think he has any idea how much this is killing me. I stare down at my wine glass and swirl the dark red liquid around in a rhythmic pattern, but I don’t want to drink it. I want to drown in it.
“Stella’s starting up her own agency, and she says there’s a place for me there. She told me all about it after you went home last night. It’s called Tribe. She has a fuckload of investment behind her already and she has premises in the Docklands. Millions of pounds are getting ploughed into this thing from all over the city, and from overseas too. Remember your ex-boss, Dylan Best, visited a few weeks ago? He’s the major partner. Stella’s going to be CEO, and they’re merging with Lovett Ives and buying out Diablo Brown film studio. It’s amazing, Vi. She’s been building this thing in secret for months, but she’s pushing forward now because of what happened yesterday. She’s even got Quest to agree to give her their entire account when they finish with BMG next month.”
“Oh my god!” Now I get why he’s so excited. This is huge. But I can’t help feeling put out that she asked me to leave last night to tell him about this. Doesn’t she trust me?
“It doesn’t stop there, Vi. Stella hasn’t asked me to come as an art director or a creative director. She’s asked me to be a partner. Can you believe it? She wants me to buy in and head up the creative department, so I’ll be stepping into her shoes. Daniel Noble is going to be a partner too, as head of Client Services. I’m totally blown away. I can’t even get my head around it. I’m going to be the youngest ad agency partner in the city!”
I take another drink of wine to steady my nerves. I can’t think of anything to say. I can see how excited Ethan is and I don’t blame him. This is his dream, and after seven years of being ignored by Malcolm he deserves every bit of it. But at the same time my own world has been completely blown apart. My head is spinning and I have a dull ache in my chest which is real and painful, and I realise it must be heartache – a real and literal heartache. I should be telling him I’m happy for him, but all I want to do is scream and plead and beg him not to leave me.
“What are you thinking?” he asks. His eyes are watching me in anticipation.
I force a smile. “When would you start?”
“Straight away. She told Malcolm her plans last night, and she’s using what she knows as leverage to end her contract with BMG and take a couple of key clients with her.”
“Wait, what?” I say, my insides suddenly burning with betrayal. “She used what I said for her own ends? That is totally wrong.”
The excitement fades from his face. “She said she’d handle it . . .”
“And I trusted her to handle it by helping Malcolm, not to start blackmailing him herself!”
“It’s not like that,” he says, although I know he knows it is like that. “Okay, maybe it’s not the best scenario, but look at it this way. Malcolm’s secret is safe, Stella has what she wants, Ridley is neutered, and I have a job lined up – a totally fucking awesome job.”
“So you told her you’re going to take the position?”
“I haven’t told her yet.” He pours yet more wine into his glass and takes a drink. He looks nervous and I’m sure his hands are shaking. “I told her I couldn’t work anywhere unless you came with me.”
All I can hear is the rhythmic tick of a grandfather clock in the corner of the bar as a warmer, happier force creeps through me and starts to slowly repair my heart. “And what did she say?”
“She said yes. She likes you. Stella wants me to build the creative department, so I can choose to bring whomever I want anyway. Say you’ll come. Please. Whatever happens with Tribe, I’m not leaving you to work in the same building as Ridley Gates.”
“I just need some time . . . to think.”
He looks a little bit disappointed, but I’m not sure why. Who’d make a decision like this in five seconds? “I didn’t even realise I needed this until Stella gave it to me, Vi. I’d be a fool to turn it down. It’s more than I ever dreamed of. But I’m not doing it unless we do it together.”
Isn’t life amazing sometimes? The only things I worried about last month were the five grey hairs I found on my head and my noisy neighbour’s pervy
sex life – my flat has very thin walls. And now? Everything that is familiar and comforting has been wrenched from me, and my world has been turned upside down in just two weeks. One shitty piece of luck after another has come at me from every direction and punched me straight in the gut. I feel lost and scared and it’s a dead cert I’m overthinking all of this, but I can’t control that either.
“If I came with you, who would I partner with?” I croak the words out into the room, my breath shaking at the thought of working with somebody who isn’t Ethan. My head says that would be good for my heart.
“What? No, you don’t understand. I want you to be our creative director, in charge of your own creative teams. You can steal whomever you want from BMG, or you can recruit – it’s entirely up to you. I’ve already passed this by Stella and she thinks you’ll be great.”
“Me? A creative director, managing people? Oh, Ethan, I don’t know. I’m not a people person, am I? You said yourself that I piss people off.”
He pushes his wine glass closer to mine and scoots along the semicircular seat to narrow the gap between us. Our close proximity warms my blood and makes my skin goosebump. “That’s not the way I see you. You’re switched on and you understand people and you have a huge heart. You’ve mentored Ruby Sloan this past year and you were great. Where would Max and I be without you? You get me. You get him. Hell, you’re the only person on the planet who gets him, so in my book that makes you a people person. You’re not a stupid-people person and we’ll have to work on that pissing-people-off thing you do, but you can totally do this. I know you can do it.”
Is there anything more romantic than having somebody tell you they believe in you? I appreciate all of this, but my brain is throwing up doubt after doubt. “I don’t know if I even want to manage people, Ethan. I’m a writer. I want to write.”
“Then write. You can do whatever you want when you’re the boss. Look, we’ve worked for this. We’ve worked our arses off together – as a team – for three years, and this is the next step. I’m ready to set the world alight, but I’ll never be able to do that at BMG. And I can’t do it without you. I need you to be in this with me. We’re a rock-solid team. Just wait and see, we’ll leave next year’s AdAg Awards with armfuls of trophies.”
Just Friends (The Agency Book 1) Page 22