Just As You Are

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Just As You Are Page 23

by Kate Mathieson


  He looked at me, confused, before saying, ‘Emma, you lied on your CV. And the worst thing is, now you’ve made me complicit in your lie. And Phil. And Glenn. And everyone who works here at Maker. We’re front page news, Emma. Everywhere.’

  I swallowed heavily as the weight of what had happened sank in. He was right: it was worse than I thought.

  Nick took a breath and stepped away, sitting back down in his chair. I could tell he was angry, because a vein was throbbing in his neck. ‘I can’t take you off the project now, this far in, but how is that going to look to everyone here? Someone working on a lead PR project, when they’ve never done one day’s work of PR in their life. Someone who lies about everything.’

  ‘Everything?’ I said hotly, because that was a bit much coming from someone who had been banging a thousand women around town.

  ‘A lot of things,’ Nick said, trying to hold back, but I could sense he wanted to let loose. As if he couldn’t hold it in any longer, he suddenly said, ‘Apparently you’re a free spirit. Meant to be in Alaska. A true traveller. But look who’s working at Maker. In a nine to five job, dressed like every other corporate ladder-climbing person. For all I know, everything out of your mouth is a lie. You probably lied the entire time we were together in Fiji for all I know.’

  ‘I can explain.’ My mind was reeling across all the lies I had told to keep my new life afloat. Lies to Nick. To Maker. To the press. About Honey. About everything. It was all one big gigantic lie, and I wanted then to just come clean, about it all. That was the only way it felt I could cleanse myself from this … mess.

  ‘No need.’ He stood as if to say the meeting was over and I felt a flash of irritation run through me. Why did I have to explain myself to Nick? About Fiji and being a free spirit. I’d known him for one night. On a holiday somewhere. On an island, and God knows what happens on islands should stay on islands. And besides, he was the one who was sleeping with everyone and keeping that a big secret.

  I stood and said, with a touch of frustration in my voice, ‘I was figuring out who I was, Nick. Or aren’t people allowed to do that?’ I felt annoyed that this was even a topic of discussion. It felt personal, not about work. ‘Besides, I didn’t realise I had to give you an entire thesis on my life including my likes and dislikes before we kissed,’ I said through clenched teeth.

  ‘Slept together,’ Nick corrected.

  ‘Or slept with multiple people!’ I said hotly and watched Nick’s eyebrows rise almost to the roof. ‘But if you’re so keen for an entire list of my likes and dislikes, here we go.’

  I put my hands up, ticking off things. ‘Likes: dogs, eating pasta with cheese, flat shoes, travelling.’ I looked pointedly at him. ‘Dislikes: cheating, arrogant high-powered suits, people who are judgemental, people who go hot and cold and can’t just choose a lane and stick with it, people who leave me to look after Honey whilst they go gallivanting around town, and everything about Daniel Cleaver!’

  He leaned over his desk. ‘Well, here’s mine. Dislikes: People who lie. All liars. People who pretend to be free spirits but are really corporate queens.’

  ‘I’ll have you know I am not a corporate queen.’ My voice was getting louder and my body was shaking. ‘I am a corporate …’ I searched frantically for a word before landing on one that was just as terrible ‘… princess!’

  We were almost nose to nose, close enough I could see the flash of something in his eyes. His smooth lips, his perfect teeth.

  Suddenly someone knocked on the door. ‘Nick?’ It was Glenn and he sounded furious. My stomach dropped. He knew.

  ‘Yes, mate, just on a VIP call. I’ll come up there in a second,’ Nick said quickly.

  ‘Make it quick. I’m fucking fuming.’ And we heard his footsteps storm away, even on the carpet.

  ‘You can go now,’ Nick said without looking at me.

  I realised I’d just made everything a lot worse, by yelling at Nick.

  ‘I feel like you’re going to fire me,’ I said in a small voice, feeling as though my entire life was falling down around me.

  ‘Good, then you won’t be surprised if maybe I do.’

  ***

  At his desk, Phil looked horrified.

  ‘Did you hear that?’ I whispered to him.

  He shook his head. ‘Just yelling.’

  I nodded, feeling dizzy and light-headed. I sat at my desk.

  ‘Did you spill about our event?’ Phil asked. ‘To our competitors?’

  ‘I didn’t mean to.’ I felt a pang of deep shame and guilt.

  He looked shocked.

  ‘What do I do?’ I fidgeted on my chair. ‘I’ll do anything.’

  ‘Yes.’ He stared at me as if we’d never been friends. ‘You will. Because if you don’t, Emma, you’ll be going down with this ship. You’ll never work in PR again. You’ll never work in Sydney again.’

  Would that be so bad? I thought. Truthfully, it didn’t matter if my career was over; maybe it was a Godsend, maybe it was a message from the Gods of Jobs or Future Lives, trying to get me back on track. But it did matter if I took Maker down with me. That wasn’t fair to all these other people. That could not happen.

  At my desk I tried to keep breathing deeply. But my head was spinning. My life was a mess. Nick. Honey. Chloe. Sex. And now Trent or Lachlan, or whatever his name was. God. What could I do? How could you spin this around? I had spun stories before – my own CV; that time in the Mexican dive bar when a group of people had got food poisoning and I had been coerced by staff to make it go away, and had convinced most of the patrons they had been breathing in the air conditioning on the local bus, and it was known for being a perfect carrier of viruses. And that had worked, kind of. But this was front page news. Flashed across everything. It needed massive damage control.

  I ran a search on our database for crisis plans, praying there was one. Luckily, I found one from another team from a year ago, but it had nothing in there about competitors luring information from you and then selling it to the papers.

  My phone was flashing with voicemails from our media and corporate affairs departments and others I assumed were the media. I didn’t know what to say. I’d single-handedly screwed up not just my project, but the entire company’s reputation. I had to fix this. My mind was in overdrive. How had Trent/Lachlan found out about me? He must have done some digging. He must have sensed when he spoke about London how I froze for a second; he went looking for lies, and he found them. That was exactly it. And that’s what I needed to do too.

  Taking a deep breath, I remembered something from last night that could possibly help. It was a hunch, and a last-ditch effort. I tried to remember what Lachlan’s phone message had said. Belrose? No, Belview. I typed it in. And after doing a bit of Internet research, I knew I was onto something.

  Then I picked up the phone and made a call. Not to save my career – I knew that was well and truly over – but to save Maker.

  ***

  ‘Phones down for this, please,’ Nick said seriously, later that day during a hastily arranged Friday afternoon staff meeting.

  Everyone exchanged looks and put their phones on the boardroom table. We were all stuffed in there, about fifty of us, from Media, Corporate Affairs, Creatives, Marketing and Events and PR.

  ‘We have an issue. A serious one. With Macabre,’ Nick began. ‘The aftermath is as bad as you’ve heard and seen splashed over the pages. I want to make one thing clear: we will not go down, and we will fight this thing. We have crisis plans and emergency plans but they don’t cover exactly what’s happened.

  ‘What we do have is one possible save. Emma.’

  Everyone turned to look at me. I felt my face flame red. I looked around the room and cleared my throat. ‘Yes, I’ve written another press release to refocus the headlines. I’ve called it: Death Is Happening – Why Aren’t We Doing Anything? It focuses on the fact that premature death is happening across the countries of Africa, particularly children, and that we are bringing this
to people’s minds, rather than covering it up. We’ve got a few quotes, and Honey has agreed to do another press conference with IAH about, um, what is really happening in Africa.’

  People looked at each other as if they weren’t buying it. I took a breath and continued.

  ‘The thing about Maker is we’re different from Hive. We don’t cover things up at Maker, like Hive did in their most recent campaign on Belview Health.’

  Some people looked confused. Others shared glances that said ‘what-is-this-girl-on-about?’ I cleared my throat again. ‘Hive publicised how they were helping the community with new medical supplies, and they hid the fact that Belview had been dumping medical waste illegally in the Hawkesbury river.’

  ‘How do you know this?’ Kara, the marketing advisor, asked suspiciously.

  ‘I spent some time with Lachlan Groves.’

  A collective gasp went around the table. ‘Lachlan Groves from Hive?’

  I nodded and looked at my lap. People were staring at me as if I’d just confessed to murdering their mother.

  ‘So you’re the one who spilled it in the first place?’ That was Sadie.

  Nick stepped in. ‘You’ll see the breaking story about Hive come out in the next few hours. We’ve had Legal look over this and they’re guiding us through the next steps. Obviously, this opens up the playing field for Hive to retaliate, so I want you all to be on your game and keep things confidential.’

  Nick looked back at me. ‘But we are certain the headlines will be focused on Hive from now on, and not on Maker.’

  Everyone stared at me. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said quickly but no one said, ‘That’s all right,’ or, ‘It’s OK.’ They just picked up their phones and left the meeting room. I felt like a pariah. Even Phil couldn’t look at me, and when I walked out of the meeting, I saw he was having a coffee with Sadie in the kitchen. And that pretty much told me where I was currently sitting in the Most-Hated pile.

  I left work early that afternoon, just after the meeting ended at three. I couldn’t sit there and feel everyone’s eyes on me as if I was some massive traitor. I’d done what I could do to try and fix this, but it was possible no one would ever forgive me.

  ***

  On the train, I tried not to cry. But I felt the tears burn at the edges of my eyes, and when I realised I’d stuffed up so badly, the barrier broke, and I started crying about everything. About the life I’d created that I really disliked. About Nick sleeping with me, and Chloe and Honey. About my small flat. About trying to settle down. About being a general fuck-up, because it was true, I was. I didn’t want what everyone else wanted – I didn’t want that life at all. And I couldn’t even pretend to make it work. What was wrong with me?

  Thankfully I got off at the next stop, because I thought people were actually considering calling the guard. I wished they had. Then maybe they’d have taken me off in a cell for a while, where no one could find me, and I could have a sleep and pretend this wasn’t my life.

  I got home and curled up in bed. From where I was lying, I could see The Plan hanging on my wall, as if it were mocking me. Well, I thought, that entire thing was useless. When I couldn’t take it any more, I jumped off the bed, grabbed the piece of paper and the silly vision board I’d painstakingly made, and, with a sudden force, I threw them on the floor. God, that felt good.

  I picked it up and threw it again, so the board cracked. The third time I picked it up, I ripped up the stupid images of couples I’d stuck on there with hope. Of girls that were slim in designer corporate fashion. Of perfect houses. And perfect people. It was all so silly. How did I ever think I wanted this?

  I trudged outside in my sweatpants with the ripped-up images and half-broken vision board and stuffed them in the garbage bin.

  When I let myself back into my apartment, I saw my phone vibrating on the bedside table. I looked at the number, which said Unknown, and I decided to leave it. But then a bunch of messages came in from Phil.

  Have you seen it? Check this out now. He’d sent a link.

  I opened it up. My media contact had come through. Breaking news was in and it wasn’t good for Lachlan. Hive and Belview were all over the news. The headlines read: Toxic Outburst and Belview’s Blunder – Hive Has Burst. I breathed a sigh of relief.

  My phone started vibrating, again an unknown number, this time I answered.

  ‘Emma. What the fuck?’

  ‘Oh, hello, Trent,’ I said chirpily. ‘Or is that Lachlan? It’s so hard to keep up these days.’

  ‘What have you done, you little bitch?’ he snarled down the phone.

  ‘Now, now, now,’ I said. ‘I thought PR people were a group, a team, that got together to blow off steam, help in any way. I was helping you guys out, with your number one corporate strategy. I believe that’s transparency?’

  ‘You’ve made yourself a solid enemy, Emma.’

  ‘Well, that’s fine, Lachlan, because I don’t work in PR any more. Now be careful when you walk down the street, especially if you’re wearing Prada!’ I laughed then hung up the phone. For the first time in a long time, I felt as though I could breathe.

  ***

  When I woke up on Saturday morning, it took me a while to remember what had happened. Then the last few days quickly flashed through my mind. I thought about Lachlan and laughed. Then I thought about Chloe and Honey, and me wandering around Nick’s apartment wearing his stupid shirt, and that made me angry. But then I thought about Nick and what he’d said about me being a liar, because it was kind of true, and I suddenly felt really empty and sad.

  I got up and made toast and coffee, thinking I just needed some food, since I’d forgotten to eat dinner the night before. But it didn’t work; my mind was stuck on repeat – Lachlan, then Nick, then Honey – going over and over the same things.

  The same question replayed in my mind – what am I going to do now?

  My career was over. I had no savings and wouldn’t be able to afford my rent. I’d lose my flat. I’d have to move back home with Mum and Dad. I’d be thirty-four, no, thirty-five, in a few weeks, unemployed and living with my parents. And that was even worse than Bridget Jones.

  Even though it felt as if my entire life was imploding, I still couldn’t bring myself to call Tansy or Maggie or Mum and tell them what had happened. They’d be so disappointed that I just couldn’t make it work. And I couldn’t handle disappointing anyone any more than I already had.

  Suddenly the world felt really, really big. But I couldn’t spend the rest of the day in my small unit, I’d go crazy. So out of sheer desperation I took a long bus and train ride over the bridge, and found myself heading to the aqua centre, to hang out with my elderly petal-capped friends – by choice.

  I slid into the pool next to Betty and Lena, and did the eggbeater, and the noodle, and the whirlpool sprint. After the class, Betty waved and called me over, ‘Emma! Where has my little petal been these past few months? We’ve missed you.’

  And because she was so lovely and kind, and I was feeling rather sad, I simply burst into tears.

  As she towelled off and put on her long floral dress in the change room, she said, ‘Right, let’s get a tea and you can tell me everything.’

  Over tea, I told her the whole story, including Nick, Fiji, the naked shower, and then the Maker disaster.

  ‘You’ve been busy.’ She took a sip of her Earl Grey tea, then laughed.

  ‘Yes.’ I nodded, sniffling. ‘It feels like everything that I had is slipping away – my job, my flat. What do I have? Tansy has her husband and three beautiful children. Maggie has her lovely family. Amy is getting married. And Nick has Chloe and Honey, because one is clearly not enough.’

  ‘And what about you?’

  I looked up at her. ‘What about me?’

  ‘Well, those things you mentioned are all other people. Forget about what they have. What do you want?’

  ‘A country cottage. Chickens,’ I said, blowing my snotty nose.

  She laughed again,
and put her wrinkled hand over mine; it felt warm and nice, like a giant hug. ‘This doesn’t look much like either of those things.’ She looked outside the café window to the busy highway.

  I shook my head. ‘It doesn’t.’

  ‘Then why are you here?’ she asked softly.

  As if on autopilot, I tilted my head up to tell her about The Plan. It had been my go-to spiel for so long, the three steps to being happy, before I had realised none of those steps had made me happy at all. Deep down, perhaps I’d always known I didn’t want to be here, trying to settle down. ‘I don’t know. And I keep getting things wrong.’

  She patted my hand. ‘Well, at least you’re not a well-behaved woman.’

  ‘But I can be!’ Thinking she meant I was horrible for the things I’d got up to … Maybe she was right, maybe I wasn’t very nice at all.

  She tutted. ‘You shouldn’t want to be. A well-behaved woman ends up married to someone she doesn’t like, having kids before she’s ready, passing her days in an office doing a job she may not like. She buys stocks because that’s a good decision. She gets low-fat yoghurt because she’s worried about her hips. She stares at herself in the mirror and prays for thinner thighs. A well-behaved woman has a list of “to-do’s” and “should-do’s” that are longer than any list should be. But for what?’

  I sat in silence.

  ‘Who is she trying to please?’ Betty took a large bite of carrot cake, before answering her own question. ‘Everyone but herself.’

  ‘Are you a well-behaved woman?’ I asked, sniffling into my tissue.

  Betty snorted. ‘No. Never. My parents wanted me to be a secretary. And I did for a year. It was soul destroying. They all wanted me to marry Lance, a nice wholesome farmer that lived down the road. It could have been so easy to have fallen into that life.’

  ‘But?’ I prompted. ‘What happened?’

  ‘I got on the next ship leaving Sydney and I went to America. Over there, I went to art school. I travelled along the west coast of California with a group of, I suppose you could call them hippies. I went to Woodstock.’

  ‘You went to Woodstock?’ My mouth hung open.

 

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