Not that I see them much. I stick to my Borough Market room and only see Bradley when he brings someone through. But Anne’s with him at least half the time and she’s handsy as hell. Her fingers are on his arm, his shoulder, that tie, and they’re so possessive, making my stomach clench harder every time. By the time they leave for dinner – with the rest of her team and a few others who’ve managed to wrangle an invitation – I can’t decide if I’m depressed or angry. Or both.
Either way, I snatch a chocolate peanut butter brownie as I’m leaving and take a big bite as Tom hails a cab outside. The sugary goodness hitting my stomach makes me feel a little better, but not much. Even the second bite doesn’t do much and I offer the rest to Tom once we’re seated across from each other in the back of the black cab.
He shakes his head. “I need real food. Those canapés were good, but they weren’t filling.”
“We can order Chinese? I’m not sure Tara will be up to eating, but I’d share some cashew chicken with you.”
“Deal.” Tom leans his head back against the plastic partition. “I think tonight went well, don’t you?”
“It was good.” I can’t resist saying, “Bradley and Anne von Thaden seem pretty cozy for exes.”
“It’s complicated.” Tom sighs. “I’m sure he knows what he’s doing.”
I should let it rest. But I can’t. “Are they back together?”
Tom shakes his head. “No. That ship has sailed for him, I think.”
“You think?” I force a grin. “Sounds to me like a reconciliation isn’t off the table then.”
“Sounds to me like someone’s a little too interested in Brad’s personal life.” Tom gives me a knowing look. “I have to say, if you’ve developed a sudden thing for him, I’d rather see him with you than with her any day of the week.”
“I wouldn’t say it’s sudden.” The urge to tell Tom everything is so strong, I take a huge bite of brownie.
“I see.” Tom’s eyes gleam. “So, what are you going to do about it?”
Six hours ago, my answer would have been very different. But now I shake my head and my voice is muffled by baked goods when I say, “Probably nothing.”
“Nothing?” Tom’s eyes widen.
“I’m not one to chase.” Or give up my job for someone interested in someone else. Jesus, what was I even thinking?
“Right. Of course. Someone else will come along. I mean, look at you. Obviously, someone else will come along.” Tom’s tone isn’t as snotty as his words, which is a good thing or I’d be seriously offended. He studies me for a long minute, then leans back again. “But I think when you meet someone who challenges you and holds your interest, you owe it to yourself to fight for them a little. Maybe even a lot.”
I bite my lip. “Like you fought for Tara? As I recall, you’d pretty much given up on her until she asked you out.”
“Tara didn’t ask me out because I challenge her. Tara asked me out because she was tired of being treated like shit. It’s a different scenario altogether.” Tom’s tone holds a little too much holier-than-thou for my liking.
“Sounds the same to me. Failure to man up.” My words come out as malicious as they sound. It’s a low blow and I know it, but Tom started down this road and it turns out I’m itching for a fight.
“Pot, meet kettle. Have you ever manned up for anything where feelings are involved? For that matter, have you ever had real feelings for anyone before?” Tom’s lips purse until they’re white around the edges. “Because if you have, you know how much rejection sucks, and that’s why you’re lashing out at me right now. I’m certain you realize Brad’s not immune to your beauty, but he’s far from a sure thing, and what if he doesn’t want what you want?”
“He’s my boss. He doesn’t date his employees. Hell, he barely approves of you and Tara dating,” I snipe back.
“Are you sure about that? Have you asked him what happens when and if you start dating? Or are you assuming?”
“We had an agreement. Sex with no strings and no expectations. He kept his end of the bargain. I didn’t. I invited him to your birthday party next weekend and he said he didn’t want me to feel obligated because of our so-called arrangement. That’s when I realized I didn’t want to be his piece of ass on the side. But then I thought about it some more and, believe it or not, I was going to fight for him.” I cross my arms over my chest. “Until he showed up tonight with his gorgeous ex draped all over him. Somehow I think that kind of speaks for itself.”
Tom doesn’t say anything at first, but his expression softens. When he speaks, his voice is softer, too. “For what it’s worth, Brad’s onboard with Tara and me, company policy notwithstanding. As for Anne, she and Brad got together when he was up and coming. She liked being attached to his rising star, but she didn’t like the practicalities of it, meetings, long hours in the office, him working weekends. She wanted to be able to pick up and go to Paris on any given Thursday afternoon, but that’s a little difficult when Brad has things scheduled up to a month in advance.”
He sighs and I do, too. “It doesn’t sound like a match made in heaven. But at the end of the day it’s still less complicated than dating one of his employees. Unless I leave, which is a big step to take for something that will probably fizzle in a month anyway.”
“Because you love your job at WS so much?” Tom raises his eyebrows at me.
“No. But it’s a good job.” I shrug. “And you know, when I get moved up to luxury accounts…”
“It will be the same job in fancier wrapping, and you still won’t love it.” Tom sounds so certain of this I can’t even argue. “Brad’s been different lately. Happier than I’ve ever seen him. I assume that’s got something to do with you. And you’ve been happier, too, which I think might be half because of Brad and half because you were painting again, doing what you love. You get cranky when you’re overworked. Yet this week, you’ve worked more hours than anyone in the whole office and you’ve been exhilarated.”
I cross my arms more tightly and stare at Tom. He’s right. He’s right about all of it. But it doesn’t matter. “Can we please stop talking about this now? It’s not going to change anything.”
“Sure.” Tom shrugs. “But the Scarlett St Julien I know isn’t a quitter.”
“The Scarlett St Julien you know knows when to cut her losses.” I make a scissoring motion with my fingers. “Poof. Losses cut.”
Only it doesn’t feel that way. It feels like now I’ve had a disagreement with a good friend on top of everything else and that’s not something even a chocolate peanut butter brownie can cure. I watch the people walk by on the sidewalk and keep my gaze on the passing scenery as I say, “I’m sorry. I’m frustrated and taking it out on you.”
“I know.” I hear a smile in Tom’s voice. “But I still think–”
I hold my hand up. “I know what you think. I’ll take it under advisement. That’s as far as I’m willing to go.”
“Better than nothing.”
“I never do this, you know. I own my choices full stop.” I half-grimace at the words and then laugh. “Now I’m even questioning if I should have worn my black Jimmy Choos instead of these.”
Tom laughs, too, but it doesn’t last. “Shoes as a life metaphor works, you know. Even if nothing further happens with Brad, you could try a different designer, or even switch to sneakers for a while.”
“It’s trainers, sir. You’re in Britain. And you know heels are practically my uniform.”
“They are. But maybe they’re also your armor.” Tom’s phone buzzes and he pulls it from his jacket pocket.
While his thumbs fly over the screen I stare out the window. If I’d known where my fling with Mr. Walking-Sex was going to lead, I’m not sure I’d have made the choice I did the day of the World’s Largest Tea Party. I might have walked away. Not that that would have been better. But it sure as hell would have been less complicated.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
The weekend passes qui
etly. It’s the first weekend in ages I don’t work and with Tara sick there’s not even any pressure to go out, so I don’t. I do mundane things, like laundry and ironing, and luxurious things, like sleeping in and eating ice cream in bed. I find a documentary series on women’s right to vote and end up binge watching it like it’s a rubbish reality show. It makes me equal parts astonished and angry, and I can’t help thinking that if those marches were happening today, I’d be there, dammit. Take that, Bradley Walking-with-a-Stick-Up-His-Ass.
And, yes, I’ve spent the entire weekend trying not to think of Bradley. It hasn’t worked, but it helps to resort to primary school name calling, half-hearted though it may be.
Midway through Sunday afternoon, I text Jaz and write: I’ve done nothing this weekend and it feels glorious. Is this how you know you’re getting old?
It takes about ten minutes, but the reply comes back: I don’t think so. This weekend has been insane and I feel ancient.
I peer at the screen. Jaz usually gets all pissy when I tease him for being older than me, even though the difference is less than a year. Except…
Oh, for fuck’s sake. I sit up straight and push the duvet down to my knees. I haven’t texted Jaz at all. Somehow, I’ve texted Bradley. I scroll through my messages. I never even drunk dial, so to send an errant text in the middle of a Sunday afternoon? Jaz would say it’s my subconscious talking, but if it is, I have no idea what it’s saying.
I debate not responding, but the temptation to be snarky wins. Too much entertaining?
This time Bradley’s reply is immediate: A bit. Everyone was very impressed with your work. And rightly so. It’s stunning.
His compliment almost allows me to overlook his admission that he spent too much time this weekend doing God knows what. Almost. Thank you. Did Anne enjoy her visit?
Or is she still here? My stomach drops a little. I try not to picture her in his flat, but I can. I do. Too easily. Bradley’s reply takes longer this time. Anne and I have a long history, but that’s all it is. History.
Me: Does she know that?
Bradley: Yes. I’m surprised it bothers you.
I hesitate. I have at least three choices about how to respond, but in the end, it’s Tom’s words in my head that make me say: No, you’re not. If it didn’t bother me, we’d still be doing what we were doing.
Bradley: You know what I’d like?
My fingers fly over the keys: What I’d like is for you not to blow by what I just said, but whatever.
Then they fly some more over the backspace key and I end up with: Um, no?
Bradley: You lying here on my sofa watching that singing movie you like while I finish this client proposal.
I sit up straighter. My back isn’t even touching my pillows anymore. What’s he doing? This time I ignore Tom’s words and keep it light. Are you sure you don’t just want an excuse to watch Pitch Perfect? Because let me be the first to tell you, no excuse is necessary.
Bradley: I think it’s more of an excuse to see you I’m looking for.
This time I don’t try to temper my reply: Nice try, but no.
It takes Bradley a few minutes to respond. I see those dots indicating he’s typing and I imagine him backspacing a lot. I know I shouldn’t be saying this. But I miss you the way I miss sunsets at the beach and my mom’s home cooking. Those are bad examples, but they’re all I’ve got right now.
Me: For real. They’re terrible.
Bradley: Did I mention I’m exhausted?
Me: From fucking your ex-fiancée? Yes, you did.
My phone rings in my hand and I’m so startled I drop it on my duvet before picking it up and pressing the green phone icon to answer. Bradley doesn’t give me a chance to say hello. “I wasn’t fucking Anne.”
“Okay.” There are at least thirty other things I could say, but I kind of want to know what Bradley’s going to say first.
“We were involved once, yes, but it’s been over for a long time and neither one of us have any interest in rekindling our relationship.” Bradley sighs through the phone. “Can I take you to dinner?”
“Why?”
“Because.”
Silence thrums through the phone. I’d say the odds are pretty evenly split between Bradley expecting me to refuse and to insist on a reason. To be honest, I’m pretty evenly split between the two myself, but the first one wins. “I can’t.”
“Why?”
Because I want you and us and so much more than dinner. But I can’t say that over the phone, so I tell him half of the truth. “Because I enjoy your company too much and I’m pretty sure going to dinner with you won’t end with dinner. Then we’ll be right back to where we started.”
“I don’t think we started with you enjoying my company.” There’s a hint of a smile in Bradley’s voice.
“Good point. I thought you were a knobhead.” I lean back against my pillows again because I don’t think he’s going to push this.
Bradley laughs. It’s equal parts good and bad that I know what he looks like doing it. “We’ve talked about this. I thought being hard on you would coax better performance out of you.”
“It’s probably inappropriate to make a joke about you being hard on me, isn’t it?” I can’t keep from grinning.
“Probably.” Bradley laughs, but it morphs into a sigh. “We shouldn’t go down that road.”
My smile fades, too. “I should go. I need to do some stuff.”
“Me too. It was good to talk to you.” Bradley sounds sincere.
“It was good to talk to you, too. I’ll see you in the office?” It’s a genuine question. I used to know Bradley’s schedule, but for the past couple of weeks I only know what Tom tells me.
“I’m in all week, so I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Great.” I make myself stop there.
“Great.” Bradley pauses and I wonder for a second if he hung up. His voice is soft when he says, “Have a good evening, Scarlett.”
“Thank you. You too.” I wait five seconds and then press end. Not because I don’t want to talk to Bradley any longer, but because I do. And if we continue talking, I’m going to say something I’ll regret. Something like, ‘I want to work this out.’ Or worse.
CHAPTER FORTY
The air between Bradley and me has thawed since our chat on Sunday. I don’t know if one is related to the other; but when he walks by my desk on Tuesday afternoon and calls me into the glass castle, he says, “Scarlett, may I see you for a moment, please?” My eyes widen. My first name and a please all in the same sentence? I click save on the document I’m working on as Bradley says to Tom, “Can you join us as well, please?”
Tom nods, stands, and waits for me to push my chair back before the three of us march towards the glass castle. Tom hasn’t said anything about our conversation on Friday, but I’m acutely aware that he knows more than anyone about my feelings for Bradley.
So being in a room with the two of them? Not my ideal scenario. Or even in my top ten. Add to that getting called into the boss’s office with his business manager and my imagination goes into overdrive, even though I’m sure I’ve done nothing wrong. I even submitted my expense report yesterday for all the materials I bought last week.
Tom leans back in his chair, but I keep to the edge. Bradley goes behind his desk and shuffles through some papers in a folder until he finds what he’s looking for. Then he turns and faces us, saying, “I had an unusual meeting last night.”
He stops and I look at him with eyebrows raised. Even Tom has a questioning look on his face and sits up straighter.
“I had dinner with James Townsend.” Bradley looks only at me. “He was very impressed by what he saw of your work on Friday.”
“Thank you. That’s great to hear.” I keep my tone even, but I’m not going to lie. I’m jumping for joy inside. James Townsend is the Gallery Director at Kincaid, one of the most well-known and progressive art auction houses in London. Their sale of a Liam Cooper painting found in some pe
nsioner’s garage a few years ago was legendary.
Bradley continues. “I’ll get right to the point. He wants to hire you. He’ll be calling you this afternoon for a meeting.”
Whoa. What?
Tom responds first. “He can’t do that. Scarlett’s under contract here and we have a lot of clients who are looking forward to working with her.”
Bradley nods to acknowledge Tom, but then says, “That’s why I asked you to join us. I’d like to understand the impact if we did end up releasing Scarlett from her contract. What are the implications to our bottom line?”
Double whoa. What?
Tom rises from his chair. “I’ll get on it. If I know Townsend, he wants this to be a done deal yesterday.”
Both Bradley and I watch Tom leave. Which takes seconds, but it gives me critical seconds to gather myself. The first question that comes out of my mouth isn’t the one I thought I’d ask, but it’s on the list. “Why did James Townsend come to you first instead of approaching me directly?”
“As a professional courtesy. James and I have met in the past and he said he doesn’t want to poach my employee from under my nose without giving me fair warning.” Bradley rolls his eyes. “He’s very confident of what he has to offer, and with good reason.”
“Because Kincaid is recognized as one of the best in art business?” I ask.
Bradley nods. “Partly, but also because he can offer you a lot artistically that you won’t get elsewhere.”
“Even here? Even in luxury accounts?” It’s a bold question.
“Even in luxury accounts.”
“So you think I should do it?” I wish I had a better poker face. Bradley’s not giving anything away, but I can’t even keep my voice from going up an octave.
“I think you should meet with him to fully understand your options. You’re in an enviable place of having a position here and James is very keen and incentivized to get you on his team. So you can afford to be choosy. You can ask for the world and you might get it.” Bradley gives me a look I wish I could interpret, but I can’t.
A Brit Complicated Page 19