by Annie Dyer
Roger laughed. "Of course. I've noticed what you've done for our rivals, and there was the tube campaign your company did for Little Red Balloons, which my wife loved." He looked at Linda. "The credit card not so much."
"It was a great advert that was around London. It really made the shops look interesting and different and real – not just a chain store. We're thrilled you're going to be working with us," she beamed at me.
"Thank you. Little Red Balloon was amazing to work with. They're a franchise – I know you probably know this already – but the managers of each store like to work closely together so it does feel like you're working for a family business. We wanted to show that in the adverts and I think it worked," I said, feeling more in control now I was talking about our portfolio rather than Jackson's family.
The sommelier came over and topped up my wine. I sipped it slowly, wishing I could somehow get rid of it, despite it being a full-bodied Chianti which was usually my favorite. "Jackson showed me some of the adverts you've finalized for Callaghan Greene. I was already intrigued by your firm, having seen the other campaigns but that sold it for me. Using the boys and Claire and Payton in the adverts was a genius idea. Some of the adverts are almost like artwork and the slogans are excellent."
"When did you speak to Jackson?" I asked, trying to stop my hands from shaking. "We have gone through a couple of edits on the adverts recently."
"This wine's amazing, isn't it, Linda?" Linda nodded, clearly agreeing given the amount she had drank. "I met him for a coffee on Tuesday. He got in touch to chase up some work we'd given him months ago – it wasn't necessary but he is very thorough – and mentioned you. He raved about what you'd done for him and of course when he said you were courting his enthusiasm made a lot of sense. It was lovely to hear from him. He's a good boy – you could do a lot worse."
"As could he," Linda said. "He's got a lovely, intelligent young woman there, who's independent and has a work ethic. I definitely think he's taken the top prize."
When I was younger and in a situation, I wanted to run away from, behind my ears would thud like a drum on parade day. That drum was now on full volume, reverberating through my head and down my spine. How dare Jackson interfere. We would've gotten the contact on our own merit, I was pretty sure of that, so why did he have to sell us and use his connection. This was what I had been afraid of, him pulling a stunt that Richard would have done. How long would it take for him to credit himself with us having this account? How would he hold it over my head? I felt sick and wished I could leave.
The rest of the meal dragged, although to Roger and Linda I looked as if I was having a lovely time, happy to talk about photography and Derbyshire and managing not to be called a 'top prize.' Usually being defined by my ability to be a trophy wife or girlfriend was something I let go, especially when such comments were made by someone older, but today it grated like sandpaper on an infected wound.
We said our goodbyes and added a meeting next week into my calendar that Josh would also attend and then I flew back to Sophie's, throwing myself onto my bed and growling into my pillow.
"Fucking stupid men. Why are they all the goddamn same?"
My phone vibrated: it had been on silent since I'd met Sophie earlier and I hadn't had time to check it other than using it to access my diary. I pulled it out of my bag and looked at the messages.
Jackson: My hotel room has a huge freestanding bath. You'd love it. Wish you were in it with me.
Jackson: I know you're meeting clients this evening. Give me a call when you're done.
Jackson: Do you want to remodel the bathroom on the top floor? One of these baths would be great and we have the room.
Jackson: I'm stalking you with messages now. Wish you'd been able to come with me. We could've gone to Derbyshire Friday evening and seen your dad and gran. Have you told them yet?
I threw my phone on the floor. He knew who I was meeting with tonight and he hadn't said anything about his conversation with Roger Davies although he would know full well Roger would've mentioned it. His step-mum had preached honesty but clearly, he'd only been paying lip service when he'd agreed with her.
Forcing water down, I contemplated what to do. I was mad and communicating when I was mad was not a good idea. I also didn't want to speak to him, potentially ever again. Yes, what he'd done by recommending me and ensuring we got the contract by utilizing his family connections would have been done with the best of intentions, I had no doubts about that, but he'd been thoughtless and clearly didn't know me. This was all too soon. Moving in with him was being chivvied along because of the sex but there was no substance.
There was no way I could continue to have a relationship with him.
***
"What the fuck's happened?"
I woke up on the sofa, Sophie's face peering down at me.
"Have you been watching Jon Snow die again? Because that's the only reason why your eyes ever get that red."
I shook my head and the blubbering began again. Thick, heavy sobs that started after I reread all of Jackson's texts and went to get a coffee, even though it was way too late for caffeine. "Jackson..." I started again.
"Okay, do I need to have his testicles removed and shove them up his ass?" Sophie sat down and hugged me, much like she had on the first night I'd left Richard.
"He's just like Richard," I tried to speak coherently. "Uses his fucking family to get easy passes. He's mentioned that we're seeing each other to this big client and now the big client wants us. He'll start to tell me that it's all him, that we got the deal because of him just like Richard did." My monologue continued without Sophie interrupting.
"Okay," she finally said. "I see where you're coming from but I think you're overreacting. He's not done anything wrong, Van. I think you're just scared and this has given you a way out."
"I don't want a relationship with someone who has too much power. His family, wealth, connections, I'll never be able to be judged for what I do, it'll always come back to who he is," I choked through tears.
"Have you spoken to him?"
I shook my head, heart rate rising. Usually, when I was mad or upset I removed myself from all means communication. Planned, meticulous and orderly: that was how I worked even when I was emotional. Tonight might not have been so smooth. I handed Sophie my phone.
She typed in the code and went straight to my messages. "You've told him it's over?"
I nodded.
"And that's it. No explanation, just, "I afraid this isn't going to work out. Alice will be your main contact for the ball and I wish you all the best."? What the fuck, Vanessa? You can't break up with the man you love like that!"
"I never said I loved him!" My mouth remained open but no more words came out.
"So you were moving in with a man you didn't love?"
"I... I..."
"Oh, fuck off, Vanessa. I am so mad at you right now. And I feel so sorry for him." She looked at the responses he'd sent. I'd memorized them and remembering the words made my eyes fill up again.
Jackson: What? I'm sorry, I don't understand.
Jackson: Are you breaking up with me? That's what I'm getting from your text.
Jackson: What did I do, Van? I swear, let me put it right. I know I can be a dick sometimes and get bossy and cranky but I can fix things. What have I done?
Jackson: Have I hurt you? I swear to god, I wouldn't do anything to make you cry, unless it's with laughter.
Jackson: Please will you phone me or just text me back and tell me why? I'll head straight back to London – I can rearrange tomorrow's meetings.
Jackson: Okay, you're not responding. I don't want to keep pestering you as you clearly don't want to talk. Just know that I'd do anything to make whatever I've done right. Please contact me when you're ready.
I didn't know what to say. I didn't want to say anything. I just wanted to bury my head in work until this goddamn ball was over and I didn't have to have anything to do with the Callaghans again.
Sophie switched the kettle on, blustering around the kitchen and brandishing a frying pan before putting it away. "It's a misunderstanding, Vanessa," she said after a few minutes. "But if you don't talk to him you will lose him. Imagine never being with him again. Imagine never going to his house or meeting him after work for a meal or being able to text him at one o'clock in the morning because you can't sleep. Imagine him looking at another woman the way he looks at you."
"I can't," I said, surprised more tears weren't thundering down my face.
She poured the water into a teapot. "You can. You're just scared. My friend, Vanessa, the bravest, most courageous girl I know with more sass and ambition than anyone else in our halls of residence is scared because she's not from a rich family." She took out one mug, an act that wasn't lost on me. "You're an inverted snob. Because someone has money and yes, they might have the connections, you think they're below you because they've not had to fight as hard as what you've had. And yes, for some people, that's probably right, but that's like saying everyone from New York drinks in coffee shops all day, just because that was what happened in Friends."
"You're saying I'm being stereotypical."
"I'm saying you're being judgemental as it's a way to stop people from getting close to you and risking yourself being hurt." She poured her tea. "I'm not going to speak to him. I want to, because he doesn't have a fucking clue what he's done wrong and that makes me mad, but you're my best friend and I'll always take your side, even when I disagree with it." She went off to her room, leaving me staring out of the window, looking over London and wondering what Jackson was thinking now.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Chapter Twenty-Two
Jackson
I didn't sleep Thursday night, staring at my phone and willing it to ring or to see a text from Vanessa, but nothing came. Part of me wanted to hire a car and go to her, check everything was okay as scenarios kept flying through my mind that she'd been kidnapped and was in trouble but the rational part of my brain informed me that if that was the case, I'd have heard from Sophie or one of my siblings or even on the news.
Friday was torture and I ended up switching my phone off and putting it at the bottom of my suitcase, needing to stop checking it every thirty seconds as it was clear she didn't want to speak to me. I raged between feeling as if I needed to go and hit a wall and feeling as if someone had stuck a hand into my chest and pulled out my heart, understanding for the first time in my life where songwriters got their inspiration from. On the train back to London, I went through my camera roll on my phone, gazing hopelessly at the photos of Vanessa and of the pair of us. There was one in particular that Ava had taken, when we were sitting at the table at Dad and Marie's discussing how much make-up Van insisted on having and how it had taken up most of the work surfaces in our bedroom. At that moment there had been no one else in the room, even though all of my family bar Callum had been there. We had been looking into each other's eyes, her hand on my knee and I probably had a semi at that point because that was all it took, and one of my hands in her hair, curling it around my fingers. We looked like we were in love and that was less than a week ago. I set the picture as the home screen on my phone, clearly wanting to torture myself and I replay every time I've been within my head, own personal, twisted Netflix.
I avoided my siblings for the whole of the weekend, trying to get my head around why Vanessa had ended it. Ended us. Perhaps ended me. I found it hard to figure out the words to describe how I felt so I locked myself away and read through legal journals, looked at case reviews and generally buried myself in work and weights at the gym. I didn't want to talk to anyone, unless it was Vanessa. I didn't want to see anyone, unless it was her.
Why? What was it that I'd done that had caused her to send me that one message and then refuse to communicate? I had gone through every conversation, thought about things from my past that she might've uncovered, searched on Google to check that what I liked in bed wasn't that weird and then I'd buried myself in the covers that still smelled of her and stared at her make-up on the chest of drawers that she'd decreed as being hers.
I didn't try to call her again and I didn't text. I stalked her on social media but there were no updates, no likes from her on anyone's posts. If I knew what I'd done I could put it right, but I was clueless.
My doorbell rang at seven-thirty on Sunday evening, just as I was about to read through an old dissertation on some obscure aspect of litigation that no one had thought about for at least thirty years. I shot out of my chair and practically fell down the stairs, hoping it would be Vanessa.
"Fuck, what do you want?"
It was Claire.
"To speak to my brother and find out what the hell's happened." She barged past me and walked upstairs, straight to the cabinet where I kept a decent stash of wine.
"I don't want to talk to you."
"Tough shit." She pulled out a glass and decanted nearly half the bottle. "Talk."
I sat down. There were worse people to have this conversation with and given I'd come up with absolutely nada about what had happened, Claire was perhaps the best person. And she was friends with Vanessa, so she might have insider info. "Vanessa's finished it."
"I know."
I stood up and refrained from murdering her, something I'd become efficient at through the years. "How. The. Fuck. Do. You. Know? Is she okay? What did I do? Is she back with Richard? For fuck's sake, Claire, talk to me."
"I will do when you stop pacing and when you're ready to listen."
I froze, bone still and stared at her.
"Now you're scaring me."
"Sorry." I sat down and rubbed my forehead with both hands.
"I haven't heard from Vanessa but Sophie messaged me on Facebook yesterday. I met her for a coffee this afternoon. I wasn't surprised you hadn't been in touch," Claire said, her words calm and specific.
"Is Vanessa okay?"
"Define okay? She's not hurt, physically, but she's gotten herself into a mess and I think you're going to need to give her some space."
"What did I do? I feel fucking horrific, Claire. I don't know what I did. I'm clearly shit at this relationship stuff. She's probably better off without me," I said, aware that I was starting to sound desperate.
Claire sat down next to me and tried to put her arm around my shoulders. "Okay. Who did you speak to last week and you recommended Vanessa's firm to them?"
"Two or three people. I showed the adverts to a couple of clients. It's what we usually do with businesses we like..." and then it dawned. "Roger Davies."
Claire nodded. "I think you hit a nerve."
I sat back and felt anger creep over me, clenching my fists. "All I was fucking trying to do was back up his decision to go with Van's firm, and I mentioned she was my girlfriend. He had asked if I was 'courting', as he put it. I'm not trying to undermine what she does – I would've recommended them anyway and, fuck. This is what Richard did, but he was trying to get the glory for himself. She's misunderstood."
Claire nodded. "Sophie thinks she's scared. She's been so set on making her own way and proving that she can do it that she won't accept any help or anything that looks like pity in the form of help. You haven't done anything wrong, Jackson, except maybe not mention it to her what you'd said to Roger."
I wanted to both throttle Vanessa and hold her. "What do I do?"
"Give her a few more days and then get back in touch with her. Text her. Send her flowers. Don't bombard her with communication though. If she's not worth waiting for while she sorts her head out then you need to let her go and move on," Claire said, rubbing my forearm.
"You think there's a chance she'll have me back?"
Claire glared at me, the look she usually reserved for Killian. "I think it should be. Does she have a chance of having you back?"
I looked at my hands and laughed. "I think I've made my mind up."
"I think she needs time. You know how dysfunctional her relationship with Ri
chard was. And I think she feels like a fish out of water sometimes, given her background. I can see her point of view, Jacks. Is she going to be worth it?"
Yes. Every time.
I avoided people on Monday, including my brothers. As well as managing the practice, I still had a moderately sized caseload, one of which was about to go to court and required documents to be submitted. I put a note on my door to not be disturbed and buried myself in papers.
Two days.
I was giving her two more days. And then I would start to teach her that I wasn't like she thought my sort could be.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Chapter Twenty-Three
Vanessa
Monday
When one aspect of my life went beyond my control, I clung to the rest like a toddler with its teddy. Work needed me; we'd had a bundle of new contracts, we needed at least two new creatives and potentially an office manager and a competent administrator. I walked into work on Monday with my head held high and my hips definitely not swinging.
And I became the boss from hell.
We'd decided the previous week to rebrand ourselves with a new name, new design and new, bigger drive. As well as starting off and delegating tasks regarding the new contracts, I had decided to throw myself into the rebrand.
It took precisely two and half hours before Alice walked into my office and demanded to know why I was acting like such a bitch.
I sat back in my chair and tried to feel in control. I smiled, tapped my nails against my desk and then burst into tears.
"Shit, Vanessa," she said, hovering around me like a mother hen, passing tissues and the switching on my coffee machine. "I didn't mean to upset you. You're not normally like this – I should've realized that there was something bothering you. It's not Richard, is it? He's not changed his mind?"