by Karen Swan
She had arrived early, partly because Jack and Tom had scheduled a conference call with her at eight and partly because her nerves were making it almost impossible for her to sleep anyway. She had been awake since five and, after abandoning a meditation session halfway through, had jogged the eighteen blocks from her apartment to here, showered and had her feet under the desk by seven.
‘—Oh, Chloe. You’re here.’
Chloe looked up at the voice. Jack had written to the team over the weekend, informing them of Poppy’s accident. It wasn’t just another Monday, this wasn’t business as usual, and as everyone started arriving, the mood in the office was distinctly muted. Poppy’s vivacious irreverence had made her the beating heart of the team – she was already missed, Chloe was already not enough.
She pushed back in her chair, fingers interlaced. ‘Hi, Serena.’ Chloe saw the question on her colleague’s face as she took in the sight of Chloe in Poppy’s chair, her Vans-stickered headphones over Chloe’s ears. ‘Yes. Jack’s asked me to cover for Poppy till she’s back.’
‘Really?’ she drawled, as though the word was elasticated.
Chloe found the surprise in her voice offensive, the intimation being that she was back office only, not good enough to interact with the prize clients; it was Chloe’s exact fear, and within a few words Serena had hit upon it. ‘Yes. I did some client-facing work back in London.’
‘I never knew that.’ Serena nodded as though deciding to let it pass. ‘God, it’s so terrible though. I couldn’t believe it when I heard. It’s so unbelievably distressing.’ She didn’t look that distressed; in fact, she looked immaculate in a black shirtwaister dress, strappy pointed flats and Michael Kors shades on her head pinning back her long dark hair. It seemed she too had been at the beach this weekend – how long ago Saturday seemed already – for her cheeks and forehead were more tanned than Chloe recalled. She could imagine her, poolside in East Hampton, a chilled drink beside her. Not so very different to how she herself had found out of course, but she could bet their reactions would have been very different. ‘How’s she doing now? Has there been any further news?’
Chloe looked away, disgusted. As if she cared! This was just gossip to Serena; the woman clearly either didn’t know or didn’t care that Poppy’s life hung in the balance. ‘Not that I’ve heard,’ she said in a tight voice, picking up one of Poppy’s battered biros and beginning to tap it frantically against the desk.
Serena hesitated, watching her, seeing how Chloe wouldn’t return her gaze: she was as closed as a clam. Her eyes skimmed Poppy’s desk as though it might be contaminated but she stepped closer and leant against the edge of it, lowering her voice. ‘Listen, Chloe, I’m not going to pretend Poppy and I were close. Clearly we weren’t what you’d call friends, but what happened to her – it’s the most terrible thing. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. I hope more than anything that she’ll be okay.’
Chloe looked back at her, seeing the concern writ large over Serena’s face. Of course she did. Who wouldn’t? There was no room for petty office politics at a time like this. ‘I know,’ she relented, feeling bad for her intial harsh thoughts. A sigh escaped her. ‘I just wish the hospital would tell us more.’
‘Jack’s email said she was in a coma?’
The very word made Chloe shudder. ‘Induced, yes,’ she clarified, as though that somehow made it better, implying that the medics really did have control of this situation. ‘She sustained a severe head injury, apparently.’
‘My God,’ Serena whispered, looking horrified. ‘I still can’t believe it. It all feels like such a horrible dream.’
The word you’re looking for is nightmare, Chloe thought to herself, wanting to scream. ‘I know. It’s just terrible.’
Xan came in, his skateboard tucked under one arm and trilby on. His desk was on the other side of the bank to Poppy and Chloe’s, Serena’s narrow back turned to him, and he arched an unimpressed eyebrow at the sight of her there, cosying up to Chloe.
Chloe didn’t respond, Serena was watching her.
‘Still, trying to look on the bright side, this is a great opportunity for you. You must be so excited.’
Chloe frowned. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘To be taking on Poppy’s clients. That’s no mean feat, she’s got some big names on her list – impress them and you could springboard into any job you wanted.’
Chloe blinked. Did Serena really think that she was concerned with her own career trajectory under these circumstances? ‘As I said,’ she replied in a strangled voice, scarcely able to believe she had just fallen for Serena’s duplicity, and aware of Xan’s flabbergasted expression behind Serena’s back, ‘I’m only sitting in for Poppy till she’s well enough to come back. I’m very happy in my own area. This is not something that I want.’
‘Oh, of course. I know that.’ There was a pause and Chloe saw Serena was making no move to head off. ‘But if I can offer you a friendly word of advice,’ she said, leaning in slightly. ‘They’re tricky characters, Poppy’s clients, and they don’t suffer fools. Not to mention, Poppy has a way of inveigling herself into people’s lives – I’m not sure even they realize how much they depend upon her. I know from experience that it’s a very intimate relationship, one that takes months – if not years – to nurture; there’s a chance they’ll resent you for not being her, you should be aware of that. It won’t necessarily be an easy ride, these next few weeks.’ She reached out and patted Chloe’s arm, before straightening up. ‘So if you need a friendly steer at any time, you know where to find me, okay? I’d be only too happy to help.’
‘Is that bitch for real?’ Xan hissed, throwing down his hat furiously.
‘I know . . .’ Chloe murmured, watching her go. The phone on the desk rang and distractedly Chloe reached out to answer it. ‘Invicta, Chloe Marston speaking,’ she said on autopilot, spinning back in her chair and watching in the small mirror as Serena reached her own desk and fluffed her sleek hair with a toss of satisfaction. ‘. . . Hello?’
There was a pause. ‘Oh. I wanted Poppy Langham. I thought this was Poppy’s direct line.’ It was a woman’s voice, an accent and annoyance in the words.
Chloe winced, bringing her full attention back to the caller; Poppy’s number wasn’t listed, only clients had the direct line which meant . . . Rosaria. It had to be Rosaria Bertolotti, her only female client. Serena’s words were still ringing in her ears . . . they’ll resent you for not being her. ‘Yes, yes it is. I’m afraid Poppy is unavailable at the moment.’
‘Unavailable?’
Apparently the word made no sense. ‘Yes. I’m going to be covering for her for the next couple of weeks.’
There was a stunned pause. ‘But why? Where is Poppy? What is going on?’
Chloe hesitated; she had been rehearsing what she would say since she’d heard the news on Saturday night, but saying the words out loud and actually stepping into these people’s lives . . . it was becoming real now. ‘I’m afraid it’s bad news. There’s been an accident and Poppy’s in hospital. She was involved in a road traffic accident at the weekend.’
Chloe heard the woman’s intake of breath. ‘My God.’ Her tone had changed completely.
‘I’m really sorry.’ She wasn’t quite sure what she was apologizing for.
‘. . . Will she be okay?’
‘We think so. We hope so. The doctors aren’t releasing much information yet, it’s still very early days.’
There was another long pause.
‘I’m so sorry to have to be the one to break the news to you,’ Chloe continued, hoping she wasn’t talking too fast, that the words weren’t coming out as a nervous gabble. ‘But I want to reassure you that you will continue to receive the same support and expertise in her absence. As I said before, my name is Chloe and I work very closely with Poppy and—’
There was a quiet click.
‘Hello? . . . Hello? Are you still there?’
The connection was good and Tom Elliott’
s open, country-clean face beamed into the room as clearly as if he actually was sitting across the table; she could almost smell his usual double-shot coffee and Armani aftershave drifting through the air.
‘. . . hoping to operate later, if the swelling’s gone down enough,’ Jack was saying on her right-hand side and looking haggard. He appeared to be growing a beard, although not by design, and it looked to Chloe as if he had spent as much time at the hospital as she had at the office.
‘Jesus, it still doesn’t seem . . . it doesn’t seem real,’ Tom muttered, rubbing his face and looking agitated, no doubt frustrated to be so far away. He was what her mother called a ‘doer’, preferring always to be in the thick of things, helping, sorting out problems, dismantling crises. It made him both a great manager and a pain in the backside. ‘But, I’m sorry to say that word is getting out already,’ he sighed. ‘Liv’s just told me everyone’s already beginning to talk about the accident—’ Liv was his PA and one of London’s best-connected girls about town.
Jack interrupted, a frown crumpling his laughter-lined brow. ‘When you say everyone, you mean . . . ?’
‘The Soho House crowd; the Condé Nast girls; plus Mills overheard some people talking about it at the polo in Windsor yesterday,’ Tom said, counting off his fingers. ‘Apparently #prayforpoppy is getting a thread on Insta.’
‘Great, so then it’s only a matter of time before the paps come sniffing,’ Jack groaned. ‘They love nothing more than a toff in crisis. I can see it now: Aristo totty left for dead in hit and run drama.’
‘Jack, don’t,’ Chloe winced, looking down at her hands.
‘Sorry. Sorry,’ Jack replied quickly, looking pained at her expression. ‘That was a stupid thing to say.’
Tom looked over at Chloe with concern. ‘How are you doing, Chloe?’ Chloe stared back at him accusingly; like he cared. ‘You and she were good friends, I gather.’
‘We still are,’ she said more sharply than she had intended, but his use of the past tense, as though Poppy was already dead . . . gone.
‘Yes, right, that’s what I meant.’ Tom shot a look at Jack – neither of them was doing a good job of navigating the emotional minefield.
She inhaled deeply, pulling herself back in. ‘I’m fine.’ She brought her gaze back to his though her expression was more guarded now. She couldn’t allow this to get personal.
‘And are you up to speed on her clients?’
‘Yes. I spent the weekend mugging up on the files,’ she said briskly. ‘I feel I’m good to go.’
‘Have you spoken to any of them yet?’
‘No, I wanted to check everything was clear with both of you before I made contact,’ she said, before remembering. ‘Although, actually, that’s not quite true – someone did ring in half an hour ago asking for Poppy and I had to tell them.’
‘Really? Who?’
‘Well, she hung up before I could get her name—’
‘Her? Rosaria Bertolotti then?’ Jack said, interrupting her.
Chloe shrugged.
‘Why did she hang up?’ Tom enquired.
‘Shock? Upset?’
‘Well that’s not good! If she needed Poppy and Poppy wasn’t there . . .’ He looked stressed. ‘See? This is exactly what I mean, Jack. We need to contain this. Manage it properly. We can’t have her clients finding out after the rest of the bloody world.’
Jack forced a wry smile; he looked too exhausted to do any more than that. ‘Tom, relax. It was one call. Chloe will deal with it, won’t you, Chlo?’
‘Of course. I’ll ring her back after this to introduce myself properly and make sure she – and everyone else – is up to speed on events.’
‘Good,’ Jack smiled, but Tom still looked concerned, his gaze lingering on her with worried eyes. Chloe tried not to take it personally, his evident fear that she was going to somehow sabotage or jeopardize the company’s relationship with five of its most lucrative clients.
‘Well just try to anticipate their needs, okay?’ he said, shifting in his seat and putting on that earnest but chummy expression he always pulled at their team-bonding gigs. ‘Be . . . be proactive, not reactive.’
‘Right,’ she agreed, like she didn’t know that already. ‘And so with that in mind, I’m going to propose meeting each of them for drinks, breakfast, lunch, dinner, whatever they can accommodate as soon as possible – and assuming they’re in the country. I may know them inside out but it would allow them to get to know me too. Some proper face time would be good, help to really break the ice.’
‘Great idea,’ Jack agreed. ‘As soon as they meet you, they’ll be crazy about you. What’s not to love, right, Tom?’
Tom met her gaze and blinked back at her through the screen. ‘Yes, right.’
Chapter Four
‘Okay, now we’re getting somewhere,’ Chloe sighed, clapping her hands once and pressing the palms together with a pleased expression as she sat back in the chair.
‘Success?’ Xan asked from his side of the desk. If she and Serena had come back from the weekend with tans, he had had go-faster stripes buzzed into his hair.
‘Finally! I’ve spent the past hour chasing Poppy’s clients. It’s only five people. Five phone calls. How hard can it be, right? Let me tell you – it’s like hunting bloody spies!’ She began counting off her fingers. ‘Pelham’s incommunicado in the Gulf of Mexico, fishing for marlins.’ One finger. ‘I’ve left a message for Alexander’s assistant in Moscow – according to her assistant, he’s in Geneva today – but she hasn’t come back to me yet.’ Two fingers.
‘Ah yes, the warm and cuddly Anjelica.’ Xan smiled. Subocheva’s executive assistant was renowned for her frosty demeanour. ‘Well, you won’t hear back from her till she’s run background checks on you.’
‘How reassuring,’ Chloe said wryly, hand still in the air.
‘Hey, who can blame them?’ Xan grinned. ‘A strange woman calling on Poppy’s line? Just because you’re paranoid, it doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you, am I right?’
‘Well I doubt they’ll find anything on me apart from an unpaid parking ticket in Ladbroke Grove and some late library books,’ she groaned, forgetting about her countdown and lacing her hands behind her head as she let herself slip back into the memories of her old life for a moment: oozing poached eggs on rye for breakfast at the Daylesford Deli, delicate pink tulips from Wild at Heart, the way the sunlight pooled at the bottom of the bed warming her feet, those crushed vintage linen sheets she’d found at Portobello Market, the drawer – his drawer – which was full to bursting with his spare shirts, pants, toothbrush, socks, condoms . . . No! She snapped back into focus, sitting upright again with a jerk that made Xan frown. ‘Uh, anyway, LA’s still asleep so I won’t try Proudlock or Greenleve till after lunch. But I did just nobble Rosaria Bertolotti’s assistant; that was her I was speaking to just now. I’m going over to her hotel for coffee.’
‘Nobble?’
‘Snaffle. Catch. Get hold of.’
He nodded and she could see he was making a mental note of the new word. ‘Well are you going now? Cos I’m doing a one-time-only, never-to-be-repeated doughnut run in a minute. I figure we could all do with a sugar boost.’
He was right. Chloe glanced around the room. The usual buzz that made their office sound more like a coffee shop than a workplace was distinctly absent today, small groups sitting clustered on the sofas, shaking their heads sadly. As though there was no hope.
‘The meeting’s not for another hour; apparently I was lucky to catch the great soprano, as she’s flying out to Brazil at lunchtime,’ she said, shutting down her computer briskly and grabbing her bag. Their hopelessness wasn’t something she would share, or tolerate. She needed to get out, to breathe and get some headspace; she had been cooped up in here for too long now. ‘But sadly, no doughnut for me. I’m quickly going to show my face at the Berluti brunch first. I said I’d swing by and clearly they won’t be up to speed with the . . . changes here ye
t.’ She had spent much of last week setting up this exclusive private viewing for their members at the Madison store.
‘Where’s our soprano staying?’
‘The Hallmark on Fifth.’
‘Corinthian suite?’ Xan enquired.
‘Yes. Know it?’ Chloe asked, checking her hair and make-up in the little screen-mounted mirror. She applied a dab of lip gloss and smoothed down her men’s-cut olive trousers, opening up the neck of her crisp, pale-pink shirt.
He nodded. ‘Marble bath. Good views of MoMA from that side too.’
‘Okay, good to know.’