Canada Square (Love in London #3)

by Carrie Elks

  He recoils as if I've hit him, and lets go of my hand so fast it drops right into my lap.

  “Don't flatter yourself,” he says, his eyes narrow, his mouth mean.

  “What?” The sudden transformation startles me.

  “You're nothing special, babe. You're pretty, yeah, and your body's okay. But you can't wear a tight dress to save your life without looking like a deformed freak.”

  I open my mouth to reply, but nothing comes out. The merest hint of a breath escapes my lips.

  “You think I want you because you're perfect?” He carries on. “You're nowhere close. But you're easy, you're dumb and you turn a blind eye.” He laughs but it's anything but funny. “You're the ideal girlfriend.”

  “You were right. You are a dick.” I'm not going to cry, not in front of him. I try to keep my voice even. “You're an ignorant, cheating arsehole with the biggest ego I've ever seen.”

  I lean forward and speak to the taxi driver. “Can you stop here please?”

  He winks. “With pleasure, love.” He presses his foot to the brake, slowly pulling up beside the pavement. “There you go sweetheart, no charge to you.”

  “Thanks.” I give him a tight smile. Then I sit back and grab the handle, putting my weight on the door to open it. Before I leave, I glance at Luke for a final time, wondering why I ever thought he was being sincere. “And by the way, your ego's the only big thing about you.”

  “Fuck off.”

  “Gladly.” I get out, slamming the door behind me. Adrenaline rushes through my body, making me jittery and high. I breathe in deeply, letting the fresh air overpower the nasty taste in my mouth.

  The driver unwinds his window, leaning his arm on the door as he looks out. “Best of luck to you. You're better off out of it.” Then he pulls away, leaving me open mouthed. The last thing I see before the cab disappears into the darkness is Luke's angry face half obscured by the glass.

  * * *

  At exactly 9:00 a.m. the next morning, I slide a venti Americano with steamed milk onto Callum's desk, then turn to walk out of his office.

  “Amy?”

  I look over my shoulder. He's staring at me through those dark, auburn lashes. “Yes?”

  “Are you okay?” He tilts his head to the side, still looking.

  I realise he can see my red-rimmed eyes, and the shadows that bruise the delicate skin below. “I didn't sleep well,” I tell him. It's an understatement. In spite of the adrenaline and bravado that fuelled my late-night argument, I still managed to sob deep into the night. Even now I feel achingly empty—as though I haven't eaten for weeks and weeks.

  Slowly, he peels the lid from his coffee. Steam rises up like a smoke signal. “I know how that feels.” Taking a sip, he brings his eyes to meet mine again. “I thought you could come to this afternoon's meeting. You might find it interesting.”

  His offer feels like an olive branch, and I eagerly grasp hold of it. “Really?” The last few days of filing have taken their toll. I don't want to see another metal cabinet ever again.

  “Really.” He nods his head slowly. “But I recommend you dose yourself up on caffeine first. Project meetings can be deadly, especially in the afternoon.” He fakes a yawn then smiles, and it's infectious. In spite of my shitty evening and hideous night, there's the tiniest pinprick of light at the end of the tunnel. The fact my boss isn’t scowling feels like a major achievement.

  And I haven't insulted him once today.

  I shake my coffee cup at him. “Triple espresso. These eyes won't be able to shut even if they try.”

  I'm still grinning as I check my emails; replying to some, deleting others. Then a message from Charlie pops up on my screen.

  Simpson, C: How's my favourite filing lady doing?

  Cartwright, A: Piss off.

  Simpson, C: Ooh, tetchy. Anyway, entertain me; what excitements do you have today? Photocopying? Hotel booking...oh, maybe you'll be able to snag him a table in a restaurant.

  Cartwright, A: Actually, funny boy, I'm going to meet with some potential clients.

  It's a big deal, I could tell that just from Callum's expression. He's pitching to them, hoping to score a million-pound project. No wonder he's losing sleep.

  Simpson, C: Bloody hell, how did you manage that? Wait...you didn't, did you?

  Cartwright, A: Didn't what?

  Simpson, C: You didn't... make him an offer he couldn't refuse?

  Cartwright, A: For your information, my very nice boss invited me to a very important meeting because I'm a very good worker.

  Simpson, C: Uh oh.

  I sigh, still tapping at the keyboard.

  Cartwright, A: What?

  Simpson, C: It's happened.

  Cartwright, A: Stop talking in riddles, it's annoying. You're annoying.

  Simpson, C: I think you've got Stockholm syndrome.

  This time I groan.

  Cartwright, A: I'm going now. I have work to do.

  Simpson, C: Wait! If he offers you the blue kool aid, don't drink it.

  Cartwright, A: Goodbye, Charlie.

  7

  I'm nervous before I take a step inside the conference room. While Callum walks in, carrying his laptop in one hand, with a large, bound file beneath the other, I linger outside. Reaching out, I hold on to the oak doorframe, my fingers curling around the warm wood. Callum stands with his back to me, his broad torso bent over the large table as he goes through a pile of paper.

  “Are you coming in?” Looking over his shoulder, he raises an eyebrow. “I won't bite.”

  It takes effort to release my grasp. Even more to make my tone light and airy. “Of course. What can I do to help?”

  “Would you think I was a terrible boss if I asked you to check if the coffee is on its way?”

  “When has that ever stopped you?” I tease. Then I double check myself, wondering if I've overstepped the mark again. But no, that wasn't too cheeky, was it?

  We spend the next ten minutes arranging the room, putting materials on the table and starting the multimedia screens. When the coffee arrives, I direct the catering staff to the side table, and Callum shoots a grateful look at me.

  “This is a big deal, right?” I ask. He's nervous. I can tell by the way he keeps raking his fingers through his hair, and adjusting his tie as if it's strangling him. Maybe if I knew him better, or if I was a little bit bolder, I'd help him even up the knot. As it is I make a face and gesture at my neck. “It's a little off centre, I think.”

  “Is that better?”

  “A bit to the right,” I say, gesturing with my finger.

  “That's left.” His brows pull down, and I smile at his confused expression.

  “My left, not yours.”

  A few minutes later, the rest of the project team file in. There are representatives from legal, finance, and three of Callum's direct reports. A couple of them wave at me, recognising my face from the office, and they come over to introduce themselves.

  “Amy, right? I'm John Adair. This is Mike.” They both shake my hand and we make small talk about the department, all the while shooting nervous glances across the room.

  When 3:00 p.m. arrives, reception calls up to let us know the potential clients are here. Being the most junior—and I suspect because I'm the only female—I'm dispatched to the ground floor to pick them up. The lift is mercifully empty and I lean against the wall, tapping on the handrail as I descend the floors.

  As soon as I walk across the lobby I recognise the clients. Not because I've seen them before, or even because Callum's described them to me, but because of the easy-going, relaxed nature of their posture, coupled with the sharp tailoring of their suits. There are three of them—all men, sitting on the sofas in the waiting area—and as soon as I approach them, they turn to look at me.

  “Mr Grant?” I turn my gaze on each man. I wait for the oldest to step forward, fully expecting him to be the CEO of Grant Industries.

  But the older man hangs back, turning his gaze on the
younger, blonde-haired thirty-something who turns to smile at me. “Call me Daniel,” he says, reaching out his hand. I take it automatically.

  “It's a pleasure to meet you, Daniel. I'm Amy Cartwright, Callum Ferguson's assistant.”

  “Lucky Mr Ferguson.” He shakes vigorously. I wait for him to introduce me to his co-workers, but he doesn’t.

  “Would you like to follow me?” I say, pointing towards the lifts. “Mr Ferguson's team are ready for you.”

  “Sure, lead the way.”

  Daniel Grant is chatty. In the course of a short elevator ride I discover he's a Harvard graduate who built his company from scratch, using hedge funds in the early days but bailing out long before the 2007 crash. Though he lives in Manhattan his heart is still in Chicago, where his beloved Bears play come rain or shine. I also learn—though not from them—that the two men accompanying him are his chief financial officer and chief counsel. When Daniel says their names they raise their hands in salute but say nothing. I get the impression that Daniel talks enough for the three of them.

  The lift arrives at the tenth floor, and we step out, Daniel walking beside me as I lead them to the main conference room. It's here that he undergoes a transformation, a straightening of the back and a roll of the neck that signals a metamorphosis. It's like watching an actor slip into the skin of a well-rehearsed role; even his face takes on the expression of someone older. Someone with gravitas.

  I wonder if this is what we all do. Step into clothes that aren't our own and talk with voices an octave lower than we should. It's like wearing armour, protecting ourselves, because if somebody rejects that skin we are wearing they aren't rejecting us.

  “Let's go.” Daniel's tone is clipped, but when he catches my eye I swear I see something of the lift version there. I wonder why he didn't feel the need to hide his talkative side from me. Is it because I look new, or because I'm unimportant enough to be sent down to pick him up?

  When I push the heavy door open, the team stand. Callum walks forward, introducing himself, shaking each man's hand in turn. He has the ease of someone who knows where he's come from and where he's going. It hits me as strikingly attractive.

  My only destination has always been “not here”. Until now my life has been less of a journey and more of an escape. I wonder what it must feel like to be so sure of yourself, so comfortable with who you are. Maybe it's something the rich feed their children, along with their daily vitamins and silver spoonfuls of castor oil, giving them a sense of self-worth along with their shiny hair.

  “Coffee?” Callum asks, his voice breaking through my thoughts. I immediately flush, my pink cheeks matching the scarf I wound around my neck this morning.

  “I'm sorry, what can I get you?”

  He shakes his head slowly. “I was offering you a coffee, Amy. Would you like one?”

  Beside me, Daniel says nothing. The others place their orders, as Callum walks over to the flasks the catering service brought in earlier. Pressing down on the lever, he fills four china cups with steaming black coffee. It's so strong the acrid smell fills the room.

  “I'll take mine black.” Daniel takes the proffered cup. “Thank you.”

  “Did you have a good flight?” Callum asks as he pours milk into the other cups. Then he passes them over one by one. The first to Brian Johnstone—the CFO, the second to Saul Shoemaker, Grant Industries' chief counsel. He hands the final one to me. It's muddy and sweet, painting my tongue and palate.

  Five minutes of awkward small talk follows, and I step back, letting Callum and his team take the lead. The coffee is strong enough to give my blood a little fizz, energising me. Everybody finally takes a seat and Callum fires up the screens, filling them with brightly coloured slides that reflect in the window across the room. They flicker as he progresses through them, providing a voice over to the charts and projections, his words smooth and reassuring.

  I realise that he's wearing a different persona, too. His accent is smoother than normal, his tone lower. He's all smiles and good looks, appealing to them with words of praise and reassurance.

  Every now and again I glance over at Daniel Grant. His elbows are on the table, his hands clasped, fingers steepled. I notice he rarely looks at the screen, in spite of the vast array of information that flashes there. Instead he concentrates on Callum, the two of them sharing eye contact in a way I'd find uncomfortable. They’re scoping each other out.

  Callum reaches the end of his introduction and hands over to one of his technical team, who begins to talk through the intricate specifications of the proposals. The poor guy is barely two minutes into his spiel, when Daniel waves his hand, and asks him to stop.

  Immediately the techie looks over at Callum, looking for direction. This is clearly a part of the presentation none of them have rehearsed, and he looks lost, standing up there, his mouth opening and closing silently.

  Strangely, it's Daniel who takes charge of the situation, turning to him with a reassuring smile. “I'm sorry, I know it's rude, but I don't need to go into details right now.”

  The man at the front visibly swallows. His Adam's apple bobs up and down, stretching the thin skin of his neck. “Are you sure? We have some really cool stuff...” he trails off, looking down at his highly polished shoes. I can't help but feel sorry for him. I know how much effort it takes to get ready for a presentation. The preparation, the nerves, the fear that slowly morphs into elation.

  “Is there anything else you'd like to discuss?” Callum's accent is stronger this time, and he's unable to hide the disappointment that veils his words.

  “Yeah, but I'd like us to chat somewhere else. Just you and me.” Daniel says. “The technical specs are important, and my team will need to go into the finer detail, but that's not the game winner here.”

  Callum doesn't flinch. “What is the game winner?”

  Nobody says a word. It's as if we're all watching the climax of a movie. Collective breaths are held.

  “You,” Daniel replies simply. “Whether I can work with you, whether I can trust you. An army is only as good as the general leading it. That's why I flew over to meet you, not to hear all the details, as exciting as they may be. I want to see if you're somebody I can do business with.”

  For some reason my heart's racing in my chest. All those times I've watched boys square up—hitting the shit out of each other in beer-fuelled fist fights—they have nothing on the testosterone fest I'm witnessing here. Two alpha males circling, sizing each other up. Trying to work out if they're enemies or friends. Though it only takes seconds, it feels like full, heavy minutes have passed before Callum smiles and shrugs his shoulders.

  “Everybody can go. Thank you for your time.” Nobody moves. Like me, they all assume he's talking to somebody else.

  “John, Mike?” he prompts. Suddenly they're scrambling to disconnect laptops and gather up folders, sheaves of A4 paper fluttering to the carpeted floor. I bend down and help them, earning a grateful smile from Mike, then I pick up the phone and call catering, asking them to clear away the coffee cups. By the time I'm finished only Callum, Daniel and his two employees are left. I turn off the screens and retrieve my note pad.

  “Can I get you anything else?” I ask Callum.

  He gives a languid, half-curve kind of smile that makes him look sleepy and vital all at the same time. It's the sort of smile that leads into something else, like a partly-filled promise. It waits and it lingers.

  Then he turns to Daniel. “Do you play racquetball?”

  It seems an odd sort of question, yet Daniel doesn't blink. “I do.”

  “Can you call my club and reserve a court, Amy? The number’s in my address book. Oh, and make sure they open the shop, we're going to need some gear.” He glances at Daniel. “You up for a challenge?”

  “If you're up for an ass-kicking.” Daniel grins, then shoots some orders at Brian and Saul. They're both nonplussed, standing in a foreign boardroom, being dismissed while their boss leaves with a man he might pos
sibly award a multi-million pound contract to. It's only now that I realise exactly why an internship is so integral to my degree, because all the lectures and textbooks in the world would never be able to accurately describe this.

  Some deals are the result of blood, sweat and tears. It appears that this could be one of them.

  8

  Though it's light outside, I can see through the huge window in Callum's office that the dark blue of evening is slowly encroaching, stealing away the sharpness of day. There are a few clouds in the sky—the wispy, just-torn from a roll of cotton wool sort—and their edges are tinged with orange and pink. At 6:00p.m. my desk phone rings and I snatch it up, bringing it to my ear as I answer with a breathless hello.

  “Amy, it's Callum. I need a favour.”

  “Of course,” I reply. “What is it?”

  “Have you got time to bring some papers over to the gym? I want to talk them through with Daniel before dinner. I'd come and pick them up but I'm covered with sweat and smelling like a dog. I need a shower.”

  I glance at my watch. The two of them must have been playing for almost an hour and a half, no wonder he sounds exhausted. “Tell me where to find them and I'll bring them over on my way home. I was just leaving anyway.”

  “You're a lifesaver. Thank you.”

  Half an hour later I'm walking into the Trafalgar Club, a private gym about a hundred yards from Embankment tube station. The building echoes to the sound of balls slamming against walls, and the muffled noise of the swimming pool. It's surprisingly unpretentious. I have to admit that when Callum gave me directions I was fully expecting one of those five-hundred pounds a month gyms where girls walk around wearing less clothes than they would in Ibiza.

  But it’s clearly a working gym. Though it has its fair share of slightly overweight businessmen missing every ball that's served to them, as I walk past the courts I'm impressed with most of the games I see. At the back of the building, I find the members' bar. Clutching a manila folder close to my chest I scan the room. Every table is taken, filled with after-work drinkers who look ready to kick back and relax.