That evening, Tom’s list of Things To Feel Bad About was as follows:
1. Using the photo shoot set-up as a pretext for touching Rachel’s face. (Bad.)
2. Using the photo shoot set-up as a pretext for touching her hair. (Somehow worse.)
3. Almost confessing how he felt about her, then losing his nerve. (Pathetic.)
4. Putting Rachel in the position where his idiot half-brother could projectile-vomit all over her. (Unforgivable.)
5. A variety of daydreams involving Rachel in his shower, which were only intensified by the sight of her wearing his clothes.
6. The destruction of the sitting room rug, now languishing in a skip at the local dump.
7. Getting Oscar grounded for a month, even though he’d held off telling Christine the full details of her son’s Adventures In Alcohol Poisoning.
8. Seeing red and implying that Christine couldn’t handle Oscar when she tried to blame Tom for his behaviour.
9. Making a non-date with Rachel that he very much wished was a proper date, which would involve her listening to awful music under (sort of) false pretences.
10. Not feeling nearly guilty enough about 1, 2, 5 and 9.
March
New Year’s Ongoing resolutions
1. Consider exercise an act with actual benefits – both mental and physical – not merely grim punishment for pizzas consumed. Have a proper go at Continue letting Greg drag me to yoga.
2. Also re-download Complete Couch to 5K running app and actually do the programme. Keep running at least twice per week – always being careful not to perv on anyone improper.
3. Apply for promotion at work at first chance. Move to bigger account and try to get pay rise. Avoid, if possible, further projects concerning dog biscuits, disinfectant, high-quality printer ink cartridges, ‘miracle’ grass seed, organic vegetables, etc.
3a. Try to hang on to job (and temper) despite presence of evil ex-boyfriend hideousness of certain clients.
3b. Ignore everyone who keeps banging on about how fit he Jack is.
3c. Ignore how fit he is.
3d. Ignore the fact he keeps trying to be friendly/nice/possibly quite flirtatious.
3e. Ignore the fact he is getting divorced.
4. DO NOT agree to further dates with Laurence. Remember: it’s no use having a boyfriend who is good on paper if you do not actually fancy him.
4. Forget that Laurence even EXISTS (despite usefulness of overblown ‘romantic’ gestures for creating illusion of deeply devoted boyfriend).
5. Try to remember Mum means well, even during phone calls where she implies I am doomed to a lonely life of penury because I am thirty with no partner, hardly any savings and no mortgage insists on talking about the babies/breasts of people I went to school with.
6. HOWEVER, do not (!!!) speak to Mum when suffering PMT. Set phone alerts for likely spells based on period tracker intel.
7. Try to address ‘hardly any savings’ situation. (If promoted, set aside extra earnings for future house deposit instead of spaffing it all on ASOS.) (Do not spend entire pay rise on ‘cheer up’ treats to distract from heinous ex-boyfriend mess.) hot new outfits for work – see 3c.)
8. Try to eat my five-a-day. (Remember horrid rule that potatoes do not count.)
9. Start using proper night cream with retinol. SERIOUSLY.
10. Do the best possible job helping Tom with exhibition. Be supportive and discreet re Oscar.
19
Rachel and Jack’s success with Sir Humphrey saw them drafted in to help oversee a flurry of small pitches in the following few weeks. Their names began to be used in tandem, as though they were twin halves of some 2-for-1 deal: ‘See what Rachel and Jack think’; ‘Ask Jack and Rachel for their take on it’; ‘Jack and Rachel might be able to help.’
Kemi and her friends openly resented this, and Rachel fielded countless impudent questions about the nature of their relationship from women whose interest in ‘Hot Harper’ was far from professional. This was irritating, but Rachel couldn’t help feeling warmed by her proximity to Jack’s star – excited by her colleagues’ envy, although it was mostly misplaced.
When Greg suggested she might be enjoying the speculation surrounding their closeness, however, she strenuously denied it – even threatening to cancel post-yoga cocktails if he wouldn’t stop sniping. Greg complied, but his silence on the subject still spoke volumes – as did his regularly raised eyebrows.
Rachel knew that a handful of her co-workers still considered the mystery of her Valentine’s Day flowers unsolved. On the other hand, she was aware that, while Jack had assumed the bouquet was from her secret suitor, plenty of other people thought he’d sent it to her himself. As far as Greg knew, the identity of the giver remained unknown, even to Rachel – a misconception she was happy for him to hold on to.
By mid-March the cheering trumpets of daffodils had taken over London’s parks and window boxes, and Rachel had finally finished Couch to 5K. She didn’t feel as though she’d lost any weight, but that had never been the point. While her clothes weren’t any looser there was a pleasing new firmness to her thighs, and sprinting to avoid missing the bus had become noticeably easier. Most importantly she felt proud of herself for not quitting – for pushing through the pain and believing she could do it, despite her lifelong loathing of exercise. She and Anna celebrated her achievement with several large gin and tonics from the huge bottle of The Botanist that Will had given her on the weekend of her final training run.
When Rachel returned to the R/C office after lunch one Tuesday afternoon, she found Jack waiting for her – one eyebrow cocked and his gaze trained on a £1 bunch of bright-yellow blooms she’d picked up for her desk.
‘For me? You shouldn’t have,’ he said, grinning in the way that never failed to make Rachel feel like an invisible rope was tied to her stomach: one he could tug on gently or reel all the way in at will.
She shot him a death stare. ‘Haha.’
Determined to ignore him, she removed a trio of biros from a glass Kilner jar in the corner of her desk, then ripped off the paper tie around the daffodils’ stems. Aware that Jack’s eyes were still on her, she dropped them into the jar and took it to the kitchen for water.
‘If you wanted a floral arrangement for your desk, surely you could have just put in an order with your other half?’ he said when she got back. Rachel made murder eyes at him again, but a now familiar feeling of satisfaction stirred in her stomach. Refusing to engage with him on this, Rachel had realised, felt like a superpower.
It had occurred to her that she was playing with her own feelings as well as Jack’s ego by persisting with the ruse that she was attached – and yet she couldn’t seem to stop. Every time he tried to goad her into talking about her ‘boyfriend’, the thrill of declining to be drawn on the topic got stronger.
‘Isaac wants to see us this afternoon,’ Jack informed her. ‘There’s more new pitch work. Something bigger this time, I think, quite challenging from the sound of things.’
‘That’s good,’ Rachel said. ‘It’ll be nice to get stuck in to something harder again.’
Jack smirked. ‘Please go on. I love it when you talk dirty about digital content strategy.’
She flushed, annoyed but amused in spite of herself. ‘Do shut up, or I’ll be forced to staple your sensitive parts to your swivel chair.’
‘Ewwww,’ breathed a voice behind her. Rachel winced, turning to see who’d spoken – though she already knew.
‘Walking past you two should come with a “not suitable for work” warning,’ Donna said. She swept past Jack’s desk towards the kitchen, giving Rachel a look that was one part disgusted, one part jealous and two parts self-satisfied.
‘I’ve no idea why, but that woman really hates me,’ Rachel sighed.
‘She hates everyone,’ Jack said with a shrug. ‘But mostly other women, I think – particularly if they have the nerve to be pretty and clever.’
Rachel stared d
own at her keyboard, not wanting to acknowledge the compliment. She opened up an email that didn’t require an urgent reply and began typing a response at speed, her fingertips hammering the keys as though someone’s survival depended on a swift but comprehensive answer to the question of whether the terms log in and login were interchangeable. (It didn’t, and they weren’t.)
That afternoon Rachel sat in the small R/C meeting room, cradling a cup of tea in her hands as Isaac waxed lyrical about the importance of the pitch he was about to assign them.
‘This is a national charity with incredible reach – a household name even more recognisable than BHGH. And it’s in the medical-slash-mental health space,’ he went on. ‘If we get this and do a good job, it will open up doors for us that I’ve been trying to knock on for years. You guys are undoubtedly the team for the job, but – as with BHGH – I think your client-side contact is a bit of a thorny character.’
Rachel groaned aloud at the thought of dealing with another sneering sexist, then tried to mask the noise by taking a huge gulp of tea. It went down the wrong way immediately, and Jack smacked her between the shoulder blades as she coughed and spluttered beneath Isaac’s unbroken chatter.
‘Oh, come on, Isaac – do tell,’ Jack said. ‘Rachel and I can’t cope with the suspense.’
Rachel made a face that she knew he’d understand meant Have a day off, kiss-arse. In response, Jack smiled at her serenely as Isaac resumed his speech.
‘We are talking about Lighthouse UK,’ he announced impressively.
Jack sat up straighter in his chair and nodded, his green eyes bright and approving.
Rachel felt herself twitch – felt some memory spark in a dark corner of her mind. Lighthouse UK …
She ought to know about this organisation – she’d definitely heard of it – so she dipped her head and crossed her arms as though she was well informed and listening attentively.
Lighthouse UK … It was definitely ringing a bell.
As the ringing became louder, it twisted into a discordant, grating clamour that only she could hear. Keeping time with it, Rachel’s breathing became heavier and faster, echoing in her ears. Her heart was pummelling her ribcage so hard she thought it might crack a bone. She was panicking. Why was she panicking?
Isaac was still talking, and as Rachel tuned back in to the conversation she suddenly understood.
‘NHS hospitals …’ Isaac was saying. ‘Terminally ill children … Grief counselling … Bereaved brothers and sisters.’
Rachel felt her body flash hot, then cold, then hot again. She felt as if she were watching all this in a mirror – or as if she were trapped at the bottom of a deep pool, seeing events unfold in a blur while her lungs filled up with water.
‘You all right there, Rachel?’ Isaac asked. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
Jack was staring at the carpet, focusing on a very specific spot between his shoes.
‘I … erm. Yes. Sorry. I think maybe my lunch hasn’t agreed with me. I’ll be fine, though. Carry on.’
‘Cantina van?’ Isaac asked, grimacing in sympathy. ‘I’m sure I had a bad beef taco from there once.’
Rachel nodded, despite the fact that she’d been nowhere near the mobile Mexican takeaway since her experience with an enchilada several months ago.
She took a breath that she hoped no one noticed was shaky, then passed a hand over her forehead to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Her fingertips came away clammy.
‘I was just saying this pitch is for Olivia Mason, the CEO. She’s very clever but also incredibly controlling. I know you had to dig deep to come up with ideas that would deliver what Sir Humphrey wanted, given how little he was prepared to compromise on the day-to-day running of things. With Olivia, it’s going to be the opposite: a matter of taking her ideas and presenting them back to her … Embellished, probably, but intact. She feels she knows what Lighthouse’s new digital platform should look like,’ he continued, ‘and she won’t take kindly to her ideas being second-guessed.’
Jack was nodding as though this were no problem, but Rachel’s head snapped up in surprise. Annoyance briefly cut through the swell of alarm inside her. ‘But this is a whole new website build, right? I’m sure Olivia’s as smart as you say, but what qualifies her to come up with a complex plan that includes the site map, writing content, linking up their online and offline comms …?’
Isaac tipped his head to one side and frowned. Rachel couldn’t tell whether he was irritated with her for being difficult or if the notion that this might be a problem hadn’t previously occurred to him.
He sighed. ‘What I’m saying is, unless she’s asking for something undeliverable or which will actually create problems for Lighthouse, I’d strongly advise avoiding any sort of confrontation. Give her what she wants and I’m confident we’ll get this. Then we’ll be in a whole new league when it comes to the clients we can approach.’ Isaac’s spherical face was suddenly sharper, hungrier. ‘Big medical research charities, government-backed initiatives, organisations with influence overseas … We need this. I want this. So we have to get it right – by Olivia’s standards, if not our own.’
Rachel tried to relax her forehead, knowing she needed to smooth away the line that had almost certainly appeared between her eyebrows. There was no point in arguing; she’d never known him so serious or resolute. This was obviously the side of Isaac that had seen him sail through Cambridge, co-found an agency before the age of forty and then engineer a deal to sell it for several million pounds just twelve years later.
‘I know this isn’t normally how we do things,’ he went on, calmer now. ‘But I think that with a bit of finessing, the plans Lighthouse have in mind will work just fine. Your creative muscles can rest a little, Rachel, and we’ll make sure they’re put to better use on whatever we give you next.’
‘We understand completely, Isaac,’ Jack said, ‘and I’m sure it’s going to be a great project to work on.’ He looked to Rachel for agreement, but she found herself unable to speak. Even if the client weren’t some micromanaging megalomaniac, this was one of the last accounts she’d ever want to work on. She felt sick – as though she could pull an Oscar Evans-style spectacular at any second.
‘Bless you, Rachel, you really do look ill,’ Isaac said. ‘Maybe get yourself home, get to bed. And don’t come in tomorrow if you’re still rough.’
When Jack’s eyes met Rachel’s, they were anxious. She wondered whether he was worried for her or simply concerned she’d muck up a massive work opportunity. Then an ugly thought seized her and wouldn’t let go. She stared at him until he looked away.
‘I have another meeting,’ Isaac said, oblivious to the sudden tension in the air. He got to his feet and patted Rachel on the shoulder as he ambled out of the room. ‘Feel better.’
She stood up too, faster than she’d meant to – as if she were going to fly at Jack and punch him.
‘There are people waiting to come in,’ he warned, pointing behind Rachel to the cluster of designers standing on the other side of the glass wall.
‘Somewhere else, then,’ she hissed. ‘I need to talk to you. Now.’
Jack followed Rachel into the open-plan office, past the team who’d been waiting for their meeting to begin. He leaned against the glass wall with a searching look on his face, as if he wasn’t quite sure where this was going. She wondered whether the expression was genuine, and the fire in her belly burned brighter.
She grabbed his forearm and yanked him upright, then pushed him forward by the small of his back, propelling him towards the doors on the opposite side of the room. He let her direct him, and beneath her rage she recognised the way her stomach flipped at the warmth in her palms – the kick of excitement that came with feeling body heat radiating from his torso and through his clothes. Pathetic.
Rachel bundled Jack through the building foyer. She shoved him past Frank the security guard, who stared as they went by – looking for a moment as though he was tempte
d to intervene on Jack’s behalf, then obviously thinking better of it.
Once they were outside, Rachel dragged Jack round a corner and into the alley where an assortment of waste bins and recycling containers lived. It wasn’t picturesque but it was fairly private, and it would have to do.
‘Did you know about this? Did you do this?’ she demanded, and he shrank back against a dumpster, shocked by the force of her fury.
‘Do what?’
‘Wheedle your way onto this account for the sake of the kudos, knowing you’d have to take me with you – knowing that I’d find it painful, and simply not caring?’
Jack’s mouth dropped open, forming a perfect O in his annoyingly perfect face.
‘Or was getting me involved part of the plan?’ Rachel went on, her voice bitter and near breaking. ‘Bring someone with personal experience on board – a sad little sister who’s still secretly messed up. Get her to relive the worst days of her life, just to make sure every word on the new website for bereaved families rings with authenticity.’
Jack buried his face in his hands, then shoved them through his hair as he brought his head back up to look at her.
‘Are you serious?’ he asked.
‘Serious as cancer,’ she said, her face twisting and her eyes beginning to fill.
‘Rach … Ryan. Please.’
Jack risked placing his hands on her shoulders, holding her still and staring into her eyes.
‘Do I want to work on this project? Yes, now the opportunity is there. But Isaac decides who leads on accounts, not me. And your … your first-hand knowledge of charities like Lighthouse didn’t even enter my head until I saw your face in there.’
‘That I can believe. God knows you’re not renowned for your sensitivity on the subject of my sister dying.’
He let his hands fall away from her and hid his face in them again, scrubbing at his eyes.
‘The way I reacted when you told me about losing your sister was … terrible,’ he said. ‘Truly. But I couldn’t understand how you’d kept it from me for three whole years. It was like you’d dropped a bomb – the prospect of meeting your parents was terrifying enough … and then you told me how much pressure was on you to make graduation special for them because your sister never got to do it. Because you lost her before she even started at uni. So I freaked out, got drunk and ruined everything. I gave in and slept with someone who’d been pestering me for months because I was angry, because I felt like you’d been lying to me – if only by omission.’
Rachel Ryan's Resolutions Page 21