by LP Lovell
He and his friend talk to us for a while, until we’re interrupted by the steadily growing volume of the guys behind us, their voices getting louder the more they drink. I pretend not to hear the crass comments about who’s going to fuck the new secretary first.
I glance at Quinn and give a small jerk of my chin. Time to extricate ourselves. “Well boys, we need to get going.”
“Oh, come on. Stay for one more drink.” Quip boy says, a charming smile lighting his face.
“My yoga class is at six.” Quinn says. “We don’t look this good by sheer fluke you know.” She says with a wink before sliding off her stool.
They step aside, and we move past them, managing to make it to the lift with only a couple more interruptions.
I hail a cab outside the bar, and we slide into the back. Now the fun really begins.
Rule number four: Be above reproach, and keep it private. I like to keep my social life separate from the prying eyes of other bankers, the sharks just waiting for a hint of blood in the water. In this city, a woman must appear squeaky clean, beyond recompense, beyond judgment. As far as they know, we’ve gone home to get our beauty sleep. Little do they know.
Friday night and I’m having to spend my time at this shit.
Elite is having its annual charity party bullshit in which people gather and pretend to like each other, even though they’d all rather be doing other things. The lucky few will have managed to come up with an excuse, but for the most part, we have to come or face being on the boss’ shit list. On the up side, the drinks are free. I’d love to neck twelve martinis, but there are clients here and of course, the rules.
Giles Samson, one of my oldest clients, has turned up with his mail order bride. Giles may be the client I’ve made the most money for, but in a world obsessed with what someone can do for another, he’s also a friend.
His wife is clinging to his arm with a face like a slapped arse. She’s an ex-super model who gave it up for him apparently. I’m pretty sure most Eastern European girls would give up their left tit to marry a guy as wealthy as Giles, plus he’s only in his forties, and he’s not a bad looking guy. The entire notion of a gold digger makes me laugh and cringe at the same time. Still… he’s getting to plough a twenty-five-year-old pussy every night, and she’s driving around in a Bentley. Everyone’s a winner. No judgment here.
A waiter passes by, and I grab a glass of champagne off the tray before I make my way over to him. Giles is pretty much the only person I actually want to talk to here.
His face breaks into a wide grin when he sees me. “Georgia!” He beams, his perfectly white teeth gleaming against his tanned skin. Giles kind of looks like the baddy in a bond film. He’s originally from Norway, and his hair is so blonde it’s almost white. He even has the matching eyebrows and really pale blue eyes that seem to look straight through you. He still speaks with a slight accent and laughs a lot. Basically he looks, sounds and acts like a crazy rich dude, which would be accurate.
“Giles.” I say, a genuine smile pulling at my lips.
He shrugs away from the grasp of his wife and wraps me in a bear hug. I used to find him a bit strange and definitely unprofessional, but I’ve come to realise that it’s just how he is. I like that he doesn’t give a shit about social etiquette.
“You look lovely.” He says, the laughter lines creasing the corners of his eyes.
I roll my eyes. “You always say that.”
“Well, it must be true then.” He chuckles, his wife glaring at me the entire time, or maybe that’s just her resting face? I can’t tell.
I take a deep breath and plaster a smile on my face as I turn to face her. No matter how little time you have for wives and girlfriends, you have to make an effort. Women are naturally threatened by a , who not only has more in common with her man but also garners his genuine respect, add in attractive, and they want to claw my eyes out. Men like to pretend they wear the trousers, but everyone knows that behind every powerful man is a woman pulling his strings. If she’s not happy, then he’s not happy.
I turn towards, Erika? Shit, I think that’s her name. I really need to work on that.
“Hello. I don’t think we’ve officially met. I’m Georgia.” I say, holding my hand out to her.
She eyes my outstretched hand. “Erika.” She shakes my hand tentatively.
“I’m sorry I missed the wedding; I had pressing business in New York.” I tell her, bullshitting for all I’m worth. Giles invited me to his wedding, but as much as I like Giles, I try not to blur the lines between business and friendship that much.
She nods and turns away, making her way to the bar. Giles chuckles, drawing my attention back to him. “What?”
He shakes his head. “I appreciate the effort, I really do, but she’s somewhat prickly.” He says, holding his hands out like a bad impression of Edward Scissorhands. I shake my head, suppressing a laugh.
“She’s beautiful.”
“The beautiful ones are always crazy.” He says, his accent caressing the words. “I know this, and yet, I have a weakness.” He shrugs.
I laugh. At least he’s honest.
We talk business for a few minutes before I decide I had best do a quick recky of the party so I can bail. I have somewhere I need to be.
I end up talking to some guys in expensive suits, because when it comes to networking, always aim for the guys with the money. If I’m going to have to spend my time at these events, then it needs to be worthwhile. I’ve got as far as ascertaining that they’re American and that the younger guy likes tits when Collins sidles up beside me, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. I go rigid, the contact instantly putting me on edge.
“I see you’ve met Georgia. She’s one of our best. If you like money, then she’s your girl.” He laughs to himself. So apparently they’re here as clients or potential clients. My boss sways on his feet slightly, leaning against me. God, I hate being touched.
“She seems very…capable.” The pervy one says. I have to try very hard not to glare at him.
“You’re too kind.” I say. Fuck me. “I should go and talk to Giles before he leaves, but it was lovely to meet you.” I say with so much sweetness in my voice I’m almost making myself vomit.
I slip from Collins’ grasp and move away from the small group. I’m done. I’m going. I slip into the bathroom to touch up my make-up before I make a break for it.
I’m rummaging through my clutch bag in search of my lipstick when I hear the door open, close, and then I hear the ominous sound of a lock clicking into place. I look up from my clutch and into the mirror to find Collins behind me, leaning against the door. Oh, this not good. Not fucking good at all.
I spin to face him, crossing my arms over my chest. “You know this is the women’s bathroom, right?” I keep my tone light and joking.
A creepy smirk pulls at his lips as he pushes away from the door and drags a hand through his greying hair. “Oh, I know.” Fuck, fuck, fuck.
He moves towards me slowly, and I start side stepping, trying to manoeuvre around him in the small space, but it’s impossible. He steps close, too close. I can smell the stench of whisky on his breath.
“You’re so beautiful, Georgia.” Code fucking red!
I laugh lightly. “If it’s flattery you’re going for then you might want to aim it at Dan, his ego is much more receptive.”
He reaches up and brushes a strand of hair away from my cheek. I flinch away from his touch, praying that he’ll drop this shit. My shoulders are so tense they’re starting to ache. I hold my breath, waiting, hoping that he’ll stop, but when he closes his eyes and leans into me I know it’s game over. I duck out from my position between him and the vanity, causing him to stagger forward and bump against the sink.
I stride towards the door, flicking the lock off and yanking it open. “Expect my resignation on your desk Monday morning.” I throw over my shoulder before I exit the room.
Fucking Collins, stupid prick. I know he’s drunk an
d in the morning he might regret this, but he crossed the line. The rules are simple and are there for a reason. Is it my fault he hit on me? Of course not. Should he be expected to keep control of his dick? Hell yes! But that’s not the way it works. I can bitch, moan and whine about it, or accept that there will be consequences. I just won’t be hanging around for them.
I take a sip of my chai latte, needing the caffeine badly this morning.
Giles sits across from me in his immaculate pinstripe suit with his elbows braced on the table; his chin propped on his clasped hands. We meet every other Monday for breakfast, always have for as long as I can remember. It’s this personal touch that makes me like Giles so much. This morning is more than just a casual breakfast meeting, though. His pale blue eyes watch me carefully as I word what I need to say in my head. I’ve worked with him for years, and yet, the way he scrutinises everything always has me feeling inadequate in some way.
“You look troubled, Georgia.” He says in that accent of his, making each word sound almost lyrical.
I put my coffee down and lean forward slightly, meeting his eyes. “I’m leaving Elite.” I say.
His brows drop into a ghost of a frown before he nods slowly. “Why?”
I would never tell anyone else the real reason why, but I consider Giles friend. A good friend. Despite my efforts to keep things between us professional, he’s almost fatherly towards me. “Collins hit on me, and we both know how that goes.”
He sighs heavily. “I wondered how long it would be. He looks at you like…” He waves his hand around. “Like you are the golden fleece.”
I snort. “I just thought I would let you know. I totally understand if you still want to broker with them. They’re a very reputable firm.”
A small smile pulls at his lips and then he chuckles lightly. “My dear girl, my loyalty is not easily bought, but for you it is unfailing.” I’d be loyal if someone made me as much money as I make him. But I know it’s more than that. He has always believed in me.
I met Giles at a cocktail party. I’d attended it to network, but of course, most of London’s upper cut just saw me as something pretty, except Giles. He always says that he saw a fire in me. He’s a little crazy I guess, but then the ridiculously rich always are. Now I manage fifteen million pounds worth of stock for him. The thought of Collins’ face when he realises that his drunken play has cost him one of his biggest clients makes me smile.
“Have you thought of going out on your own?” He asks.
I shake my head, clasping the coffee cup between my hands. “I’m not ready.”
He cocks his head to the side, narrowing his eyes at me in contemplation. “You’re the best damn broker I’ve ever known.”
“Well,” I laugh. “I appreciate the vote of confidence, but I’m going to go for another bank.”
“Okay.” He shrugs. “I’ll put the word out. As soon as the big guns hear that Georgia Roberts is up for grabs, you’ll be inundated with offers.”
I hope he’s right.
When I get to work, I don’t even go to my office. I take the elevator straight up to the top floor. The lift doors slide open, and I step out. Only one secretary is in at this hour. She nods, waving me through.
I walk straight through the conference room and stop outside the heavy wooden doors that lead to Collins’ office. Taking a deep breath, I steel myself before I push the handle down, shove the door open, and walk into his office with my head held high. Collins is sat with his elbow propped on the desk and his hand covering his eyes.
He slowly looks up, watching me as I approach him. I place my written resignation on the enormous desk, sliding it front of him.
“What’s this?” He asks, his brow furrowing as his eyes trace over the letter.
“I told you I would have my resignation on your desk Monday morning.” I say, keeping my voice level.
His eyes meet mine. “Georgia, I…I’m sorry. I was drunk. Let’s just forget about it. Please.” There’s a begging tone to his voice.
“Thank you for the opportunities you’ve given me in my time here. That resignation is for a thirty-day notice, however, given the circumstances I feel it would be best if it were effective immediately.” He looks as though he may argue, but then I see the resignation in his eyes.
He drags a hand over his face, scrubbing at the slight stubble coating his chin. Now that I look at him properly he looks worn, troubled. “Samson?” He asks.
So that’s what has him so stressed. I guess I’d be stressed having to bring that news to the board of directors.
“You’ll have to ask him.” I fight a smirk. “Goodbye, Martin.” I turn on my heel and stride out of his office without a backwards glance.
I’ve worked for Elite Finance for five years. I’ve clawed my way from an intern to one of the best stock brokers here. As daunting as it is stepping away from the known, the unknown is exciting. There are always jobs and opportunities for someone with my skills, after all, making money never goes out of fashion.
I clean out my desk and leave the office. I can feel people’s eyes on me as I carry the small box of belongings to the lift. No one says anything, but I know what they’re thinking. There are very few reasons for instant dismissal, what with all the employment rights. There’s only really one…stock fraud. Seeing as Collins is unlikely to admit the real reason, the speculation will run rife. I’ve never given a shit about the opinions of others, though. I’m not about to start now.
I drive home and pull my car into the space outside my Thames-side apartment. When I reach my front door, there’s a large manila envelope propped against it. Balancing my box of belongings on my knee, I crouch awkwardly and swipe the envelope off the floor. I unlock the door and drop the box in the hallway, shoving it against the wall with my foot.
I go straight to the kitchen, grab the orange juice from the fridge and pour out a glass. Once in the living room, I take a seat on the couch, placing my glass on the coffee table. I rest the envelope on my thighs and study my name in elegant hand writing across the front of it. I have no idea who it’s from.
I tear open the top and pull out the wad of papers from inside. The paper itself is thick, expensive. Across the top is a gold foil logo with scripted writing through it: Banks and Redford.
The covering letter is addressed to me and offering me a job. Not an interview. Not a meeting. A job. Banks and Redford are an investment manager in Mayfair, no, they’re the name in investment. I’ve heard that they headhunt talent from across the globe. Their success rate is second to none, and they only take on clients with a minimum five-million investment. And they’re offering me a job.
I place the letter face down on the coffee table and skim read over the first page of an employment contract, my eyes stopping on the six figure salary and signing bonus stamped in bold black letters on the crisp crème paper. I drop the papers onto the table and chew on my bottom lip as I think. This can’t be right, surely? If something seems too good to be true, then it usually is.
I dump my gym bag in the corner of the room and roll out my yoga mat next to Quinn’s before I lie down and start stretching. Morning sun spills through the tall windows that line the yoga studio, casting a reddish tinge through the room with the sunrise.
“I was worried you’d died.” Quinn says as I pull my knee into my chest.
“No, I just stayed home last night.”
“So, as good as then. I heard you got sacked for fraud.” She says, a smile playing over her lips. Quinn knows all about Collins’ sloppy Friday night play. When I told her, she looked at me as I’d just been sentenced to death.
“Wow.” I roll my eyes. “That didn’t take long.”
“How did Collins take it? I would pay good money to have seen the look on his face.”
“Okay, I mean, what could he say? He has no one to blame but himself and his fucking dick.”
She stretches her legs out in front of her and folds her body forward, reaching for her toes. “What’
s the plan now?”
I pull my arm across my chest, holding it in place with the other. “I have a job offer.”
“Fuck me; you work fast. Who with?”
“I got home yesterday to find a written offer on my doorstep. It’s with Banks and Redford.”
Her eyes widen and she blows a strand of hair out of her face. “Seriously?” I nod. “You kept that quiet. When did you interview with them?”
I cock an eyebrow. “I didn’t.” She frowns. “It’s shady if you ask me.”
She rolls her eyes. “You think everything is shady. Have you ever thought that maybe you’re just good at what you do?”
I snort. “Oh, I know I’m good, and they might even have heard it, but that fast? What are they? James Bond?”
She smiles, sitting up and bracing her hands behind her. “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, George.” She says, shaking her head. “You’ve been offered a job with one of the best firms in London. I hear the guy who owns it is set to make the Forbes list this year.”
I take a deep breath. “We’ll see.”
I walk into Mayfair House at seven forty-five. The steady clip of my Louboutins echoes around the vast marble lobby, making the woman at the desk look up. Her eyes are bright and her hair and make-up flawless.
“I’m here to see Mr Redford.” I tell her. “Georgia Roberts.”
She taps a few buttons on her keyboard and then smiles politely at me. “Take elevator number four. It will take you straight to the top floor.”
Even the lift looks expensive, with gold veined marble on the floor, and immaculate mirrors on the walls and ceiling. There are no buttons on the wall, only the small screen showing the climbing numbers as we rise.
A fissure of nervous energy has me tapping my foot against the floor. Angus Redford and Landon Banks founded Banks and Redford ten years ago, and in a short space of time, they have dominated the market and carved out their own legacy. Google is your friend and all that. That kind of success takes a certain type of man, though, and I won’t pretend I’m not a little intimidated by the prospect of having to prove myself to someone like that.