A Brit Complicated

by Brenda St John Brown

It’s sixteen steps from my desk to the glass castle. I’ve counted them before, but never with my heart beating triple time with every step. I tap once on the glass and open the door. Bradley doesn’t look up from frowning at his phone.

  A week ago, I’d have sat down and crossed my legs, tapping my nails on the chair, feigning impatience. Today, every instinct tells me not to do that and, for a change, I listen. I stand so straight, my lower back hurts, and press my heels into the floor.

  It feels like five minutes before Bradley puts his phone back on his desk and turns towards me, but it’s probably less than one. “I wanted to speak with you about your timeline for the office space. Is there any chance you can accelerate it to have at least a couple of rooms ready for next Friday?”

  “Next Friday as in a week from today?” I didn’t think I could stand up any straighter, but I was wrong. “Why?”

  “I don’t see how the reason for my question influences your ability to answer it. It’s either possible or it’s not.” There’s the Bradley I know and loathe. Prat.

  He’s right. Of course he’s right. But a week ago he never would’ve responded like that. A week ago I would’ve called him on it, but now I keep my voice even as I say, “It’s possible, yes.”

  “And are you available next Friday from four to seven? I’m hosting several important prospective clients over at the new office space for a cocktail party of sorts. The space isn’t complete, but what better way to showcase what we’re capable of than to show the transformation in progress? I’d like you to attend, if possible, as well as Tom and a few others.”

  “That’s a great idea.”

  Bradley raises an eyebrow and I swear there’s the smallest hint of humor lurking around his mouth. “I’m glad you approve, Ms. St Julien.”

  “Like you’re worried about my approval.” I roll my eyes.

  The humor disappears in an instant. “No comment.” Bradley’s eyes fix on mine. And they are blazing.

  Which hits me in all the wrong places. I furrow my brow. “I’m not sure you have a reason to be angry with me, so do you want to tell me what that look is for?”

  “No. I want to walk out without any explanation.” Bradley looks at the ceiling and then back to me. “That’s the method you prefer, isn’t it?”

  What. The. Fuck?

  I open my mouth to respond when there’s a tapping on the glass behind me. I twirl on my heel and Tom’s at the door, file and notebook in hand. Bradley must gesture for him to come in because he pushes the door and says, “Sorry to interrupt. Brad, I’ve had a call just now from Megan Strohm in New York. They’re interested.”

  “Great. Come on in.” Bradley turns to me and says, “Apologies, Ms. St Julien. Perhaps we can finish this conversation later. In the meantime, please let me know if you need any extra resources.”

  I give a sharp nod because I don’t trust myself to speak. Correction: I don’t trust myself not to scream. Bradley has a lot of nerve if he’s making this my fault. Whatever the hell this is. He can’t seriously think I walked out on him with no explanation. I told him what he said and did, and it’s not like he doesn’t know my number if he wanted to talk it through. Or apologize.

  Knobhead.

  I’m still stewing when Tom comes back to his desk twenty minutes later. He takes one look at my face and says, “Uh oh. What happened?”

  “Nothing.” My automatic response when anything Bradley WS comes up. “You look happier, though.”

  “Anne von Thaden’s team is coming over for the event next Friday. They’ve been on the fence, so getting that commitment is a big win.” Tom directs a pointed look at me. “I still think your aesthetic compliments hers, so it’s a good opportunity for you as well. Do you know which photos you’ll be focusing on?”

  Trust Tom to bring me back to earth. And sanity. “Definitely Bess because I love her. Do you think we can get some of her brownies in?”

  “Ask Brad. I’m sure he’d be fine with it.”

  But that would require talking to Brad, and I’m not sure I could do that without screaming. “I think I’d rather ask for forgiveness later.”

  I grin and Tom shakes his head. “Brad doesn’t love surprises.”

  “You just said he’d be fine with it.”

  “Prefaced by ‘ask him.’ I thought you two had turned a corner?”

  “We had, but it was temporary.” And I do not want to talk about it. Or think about it. “I have to call Nicola and see if I can get the prints from her on Monday. That will give me all week to do the painting.”

  “I hate to break it to you, but you’re going to need to be done with the painting by Wednesday.” Tom doesn’t pause to let me protest. “Furniture will be in on Thursday night, but the cleaners will have the run of the place before and after.”

  “Are you serious?” I thought I’d have until midday Friday and that’s cutting two days out of my plan.

  “Yes. It’s the only way it can work. I mean, the office is still a building site, but it has to be finessed enough to impress the clients.”

  “Why is Bradley doing this again?” I know I said it was a good idea, but that was before I realized what it entailed.

  “Because he believes in pushing himself and taking risks. Opening up the new office space when it’s unfinished is a gamble because most people want to come in and ooh and ahh over the sleek finished product. But by juxtaposing the work in progress with the end result, his hope is that it inspires confidence that WS is capable of whatever a client can throw at us.” Tom’s so sincere I don’t even have the heart to laugh.

  But I do say, “Wow, I swear half an hour ago you were riding the disenchanted train. Did the B-man slip you a happy pill when you were in there?”

  Tom laughs. “I think it’s a good idea, so sue me.”

  “I think it’s a good idea, too. But the timeframe worries me.” I glance at the clock on my computer. 4:54. “I’m going to call Nicola and see what she can do. Do you think I’ll be able to get into the building over the weekend?”

  Tom nods. “Brad said he’d be in and out all weekend and I think the site foreman is working, too.”

  Great. The last thing I want is to see Bradley this weekend when I need to concentrate. I don’t have time to fuck up if the deadline is Wednesday. I feel the panic rise in my chest. This is my proving ground and I’ll be damned if I screw it up because of a guy I slept with. Even if he is the boss.

  Hell, especially if he’s the boss.

  I pick up the phone on my desk and punch in Nicola’s number. She answers on the fourth ring and, although she’s not happy with my request, she agrees to have the canvases ready for me by tomorrow morning. Provided I meet her at her studio tonight to make sure they’re spec’d right.

  I agree to meet her by six and hang up with a sigh. Tom’s been listening and he says, “Sounds like the pub is off then?”

  I nod. “Have a pint or three for me?”

  “If it makes you feel better, I’m working this weekend, too.”

  “But you’re not working tonight.” I sigh again. “I was looking forward to going out, too, dammit.”

  “Just think how much better success will feel than a hangover.”

  I feign vomiting into my purse. “Save the inspirational talks for someone who needs them. I just need more hours in the day.”

  “I have faith in you.” Tom leans in. “If you weren’t awesome, you wouldn’t be doing this.”

  Finally, I smile. “Bloody hell, you aren’t going to quit, are you?”

  Tom shrugs. “I’m trying to help. You haven’t been yourself this week and I figure a pep talk can’t hurt.”

  It can’t. It doesn’t. But a pep talk isn’t what I need. And Tom isn’t the person I need it from. Problem is, even if I could ask Bradley for what I need, I’m not sure what I’d ask him for.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Best decision of my Sunday? Bringing two dozen donuts to the new office this morning. Anthony’s got a skeleton cr
ew on polishing floors and installing lights and they’re super appreciative, and after seven hours of painting and second-guessing myself, I need a sugar fix like you wouldn’t believe.

  Worst decision of my Sunday? Waiting until four o’clock to claim a donut for myself because all that’s left is a mangled glazed donut with pink sprinkles. I lift it from the box on the kitchen counter and eye it up, wondering how many dirty hands have already touched it. Anthony and co don’t seem very concerned about dirt or food hygiene, as evidenced by the half-eaten sandwich on the dusty table that I’d bet a Gordon Ramsey rant will be eaten before day’s end.

  Ah, screw it. I’m starving and it’s either this donut or I have to leave to get myself food, which will just prolong me being here. I close my eyes and take a bite and, yes, I moan when the sugary goodness fills my mouth. Contaminated or not, this is the best donut I’ve ever had. Maybe the best food I’ve ever had, period.

  I’m midway through the second bite when I hear, “I’m not sure I’ve ever seen someone ravish a donut before.”

  My eyes fly open and there’s Bradley looking amused and approachable. And hot as hell in jeans and a Spiderman T-shirt. I feel a pang in my stomach that has nothing to do with hunger because, dammit, weekend Bradley looks lovely. I hadn’t forgotten as much as I’d sort of shut out that image, but it’s hard when it’s right in front of me. I swallow and point to his shirt. “Spiderman? Really? I would’ve pegged you for an Iron Man fan.”

  “My mom sent it to me.” I swear his cheeks redden a little. “I’m Team Silver Surfer through and through.”

  “I can see that.” There are at least ten things I could say about the Silver Surfer and/or how cute it is he’s wearing a shirt his mum sent, but that feels too intimate. Especially given how we left our last conversation. So instead I say, “What are you doing here?”

  “Checking in, making sure we’re on track.”

  “Are we?” I ask as I take another bite of my donut.

  Bradley nods. “Have you been upstairs at all? The common workspace area is looking great.”

  “I haven’t, but I hear a lot of banging around, so I assume progress is being made.”

  “You should go have a look when you get a minute.” Bradley shoves his hands into his pockets, which is my cue to brace myself. Because he’s either seen my work in progress or he’s going to ask about it. “How are you progressing with the meeting rooms?”

  “Good. I painted the walls yesterday and I’m working on the canvases today.” I point to my paint-splattered cargo pants. “Don’t worry. I’m confining the mess to myself. Mostly.”

  “Mind if I take a look at your work so far?” The way Bradley asks it sounds like a question.

  But it’s not like I can say no. I take a step towards him. “Sure. Let’s.”

  Bradley gestures for me to go first and follows me down the hallway. I’d like to say I’m not hyperaware of him behind me, but I’d be lying. His pace is unhurried and, even with my back to him, his whole vibe is a one-eighty from where it was on Friday afternoon. I slow as we approach the first meeting room. It’s the Borough Market room featuring Bess and her amazing brownies.

  I stop two steps from the door and turn to face Bradley. I want to preface his entrance with a disclaimer or a warning, but instead I widen my eyes and say, “Ready or not.”

  I don’t wait for his reply, but push the door open – Anthony still has to fix one of the hinges – and hold my breath.

  For the record, I’m pretty sure this room represents my best work. Ever. I’ve painted three of the walls a pale yellow and one a bright sky blue. A big photo of bunched carrots takes up most of one wall, surrounded by smaller photos of strawberries, rhubarb, and asparagus. Another wall is a collage of black and white photos with the Borough Market sign in the middle. And the blue wall is Bess’. Nicola got an amazing shot of Bess smiling and preening for the camera and I’ve then Andy Warhol’d parts of the photo with bright paint – the green awning of her stall, the vase of daisies on the table, a gorgeous two-tier Victoria sponge cake, and Bess’ bright pink wellies. I’ve also painted some pigeons on the floor and Mr. Fred, Bess’ pug.

  The last wall, though, is the one I’m most proud of. I’ve hand-painted a mural of sticky notes left in tribute to the victims of the London Bridge terror attack. I worked from a photograph, but I’ve made some of them bigger, including one that says London Bridge will NEVER fall down and another #LoveAlwaysWins. It’s a riot of colors and words, and I feel fiercely protective of it. Not just because Bradley and I never discussed this, but because of what it represents.

  Bradley doesn’t say anything for a full five minutes. But he does step closer to read the notes. When he speaks, his voice is low. “This is pretty amazing.”

  “Thank you.” I’m still holding my breath. He could love it but tell me it’s not going to fly.

  “I’m not sure if–”

  I don’t let him finish that sentence. “You have a social conscience. I know you do. Remember the protest rally? Why wouldn’t you want your clients to know that? And this is such a statement of strength and community. You can’t make me paint over it. Please.”

  “I’d never do that.” Bradley’s brow furrows. “I was just going to say I’m not sure if the furniture you’ve spec’d for this room is going to work with the décor. I think an acrylic or glass table would work best, with white leather chairs, maybe?”

  If all the paint wasn’t still tacky I’d sink against the wall. I settle for putting my hands on top of my head and exhaling loudly. “Thank you. I know we didn’t discuss this and, honestly, it wasn’t even something I’d considered until I was watching the news last night. The girl was on whose sister had been injured and she was talking about how her sister wants to remember what happened, of course, but she wishes people would focus on the sense of community and how incredible that was and is. It brought out the best in people, despite the tragedy. Then I started thinking I couldn’t create a proverbial shrine to Borough Market without acknowledging that night somehow and representing that spirit.”

  “Where were you? Were you there?” Bradley’s voice is soft.

  “No. I was out at a bar in Shoreditch. But as soon as it happened, everyone’s phone started going with texts and alerts. It was insane.” I’m not sure I can keep my emotions in check if I talk about that night, and I don’t know where unchecking them will lead, so I change the subject. It’s awkward and obvious, but the alternative might be worse. “It might have been the only time I’ve ever watched television in a bar, aside from the night Obama became the US president.”

  “You couldn’t have been more than thirteen or fourteen when Obama became president.” Bradley narrows his eyes, and I half-suspect it’s because he recognizes my change of subject for what it is.

  “I was in the bar at Castle Calder. My parents stayed up all night watching BBC and they let Jaz and me stay up, too, because they said it was history in the making.” I smile. “I’m not sure my maths teacher felt the same way when I couldn’t keep my eyes open the next day, but they were right. It was pretty incredible.”

  “With the time difference, didn’t the news that he’d won not come in until the next day?”

  “Oh my God. So not the point.” I roll my eyes and Bradley laughs.

  For a second or two, it feels like we’re back. That there’s a we to be back to. It’s nice. And weird. But mostly nice.

  Then Bradley’s mobile rings and he takes the call and leaves the room without a backwards glance or an acknowledgement that, hey, we were kind of in the middle of a moment. I can’t even muster up the energy to be mad. Though, if I were going to, I’d be mad at myself. A leopard doesn’t change its spots. Blah, blah, blah.

  So no one’s more surprised than I am when Bradley returns twenty minutes later as I’m cleaning up my stuff. “Sorry. I had to take that call.”

  “Of course.” I continue putting the lids on my paints and sorting brushes into foil trays. “This r
oom is pretty much done. I’ll be doing the Brixton pottery guy this week and Nicola’s bringing the canvases over tomorrow afternoon once I’ve got the walls painted.”

  “That sounds great. Thank you.” Bradley pauses. “Thank you for pulling this together on such an accelerated timeframe.”

  “It’s fine. It’s my job and being forced to dive in saved me a lot of second-guessing myself.”

  Bradley doesn’t respond. But he doesn’t walk away either. I feel his eyes on me and it’s not until I meet his gaze that he says, “Would you have a drink with me? Coffee, wine, Scotch. Whatever.”

  Note: I’ve imagined this scenario eleventy billion different ways. Make this eleventy billion and one.

  My heart leaps, but practical me says, “Why?”

  “You caught me off guard earlier this week and I have to admit, I’m not a hundred percent sure what I’ve done wrong. I thought we were fine.” I hear a tinge of uncertainty in Bradley’s tone that’s not usually there.

  “I think that’s the thing, though. There is no we.” I give him a sad smile as my heart plummets back to where it came from. “When you reminded me what this is supposed to be, I realized I don’t want to be your clandestine lover. Fading into the background isn’t really in my wheelhouse.”

  Bradley smiles a little too. “No, I suppose it’s not. So that’s it then? Game over?”

  “I’m your employee. You’re my boss. I understand discretion is in order, but I don’t like being your dirty little secret. I like you a little too much for that.” I let my voice trail off because, though I’ve practiced this little speech in my head, I couldn’t practice how saying it makes me feel.

  Vulnerable as hell, thank you very much.

  “I like you, too.” Bradley studies me and for a minute it looks like he’s going to say fuck it. It doesn’t matter because this was more than an arrangement to him, too, and we’ll figure something out. But then he nods once and says, “I’ll let you get on with cleaning up your things. I’m sure you’d like to enjoy at least part of your weekend.”

  “Thanks.” I turn back to my paintbrushes. They’re all sorted. The reason I’m fiddling with them is because it gives me something to do with my hands. And I don’t have to look up. Because I’m afraid if I do, Bradley will see the expression on my face, and if he asks me what’s wrong, I’ll tell him the truth.