The Rival

by Charlotte Duckworth

  ‘One thing, Martin,’ she says, as though she’s read my mind. She puts her glass back down on the table. Perhaps she’s going to go for it, after all. ‘If we’re going to work together. Please. We’re not girls. We haven’t been girls since we left school.’

  Martin flushes then – so suddenly and immediately that I am worried he might start shouting, or have a heart attack. It occurs to me that no one has ever said anything like that to him before – and certainly not any of his suppliers. I am proud of her for speaking out but, at the same time, mortified and terrified he’ll change his mind.

  He doesn’t, of course. How can he, sitting here surrounded by women? He’s both in the minority and in the wrong.

  ‘Oh, of course, of course, I do apologize,’ he says, but his neck is still bright red. ‘Slip of the tongue. Not an indication of how I see you both, I assure you. None at all, none at all.’

  ‘Thank you, I appreciate the apology,’ Ash replies. ‘I’m sure you can understand, as women in business, it’s something we have to deal with a lot. And it can get tiring.’

  ‘Of course,’ Martin says, swallowing, pulling at his shirt collar.

  Louise is staring at Ash with an open mouth.

  ‘Right,’ I say, trying to bring things back into focus. This is my meeting, after all. ‘I’ll have the contract drawn up later this afternoon for you to sign, along with some forms for the event, which we’ll need you to fill in. Has Ashley shown you pictures of the venue? It’s stunning – really atmospheric and incredibly Instagrammable! I’ll ask my assistant to send some across to you later.’

  ‘Perfect,’ Martin says. His champagne glass is already empty.

  We finish up the meeting with small talk on where we all live – Martin says he knows my road in West Hampstead, explaining that one of his ex-girlfriends lived there when he was in his twenties. Ash sits in silence as we chat about how the area has changed in recent years. I know she lives in Mitcham, but she’s never spoken to me about it, except to say that her commute to the office takes ages. I wonder why she doesn’t simply move closer.

  We leave their office and manage to hold ourselves together pretty well until we get outside. And then, Ash gives a giant squeal, so shrill it nearly pierces my eardrums.

  ‘Oh. My. God!’ she says, flinging her arms around me. ‘Boutique D’Arblay! Oh my God, Helena, can you believe this? This. Is. Epic!’

  I give her an encouraging smile, trying to imagine what my industry friends will think the next time I see them and drop into casual conversation that we are now working with Boutique D’Arblay. It’s easily one of the most popular niche brands among the team at KAMU – the skincare brand I used in my proposal to the Americans, and the one I most wanted to get on board.

  But there’s a little niggle of doubt that tells me Martin wasn’t as convinced by my pitch as he was by Ash’s. Perhaps I was naive, giving Ash all the responsibility for the events. They were meant to be part of the whole package, not a separate proposition, and certainly not an alternative one.

  ‘Jesus,’ Ash is saying, while texting on her phone. ‘You realize what this means? It means that Celia and Co and Lila Rose will be desperate to do the event! And I was worried I wouldn’t be able to get meetings with them . . . the second I tell them I’ve signed these guys . . . seriously. The only way is up.’

  She continues smiling at me, spinning in circles, and when I glance at her phone I realize she is tweeting something.

  ‘Wait, what . . .’ I say, trying to see what she’s writing, ‘what are you saying? Don’t tweet anything yet! Ink’s not even on the page yet, let alone dry. You’ll jinx it.’

  She twists her forehead into a frown, her finger hovering mid-air above the screen.

  ‘OK,’ she says, quitting Twitter. ‘You’re right. Just got carried away.’

  I put my arms around her shoulders and give them a squeeze.

  ‘OK, no tweeting, but what shall we do to celebrate? Come on, it’s lunchtime, let’s go somewhere lovely. Put it on the company.’

  ‘Can we?’ she says, and her eyes are sparkling and I remember how very young she is. It’s easy to forget most of the time – in many ways she’s more self-assured and confident than me.

  ‘Not really,’ I say. ‘But I won’t tell David, if you don’t. We’ll claim we were taking Martin out for lunch.’

  ‘Excellent,’ she says.

  She loops her arm through mine, and we walk together along Glasshouse Street towards the Underground. I can still smell her perfume from when we hugged – something strangely masculine yet sickly – and for the first time since we met I feel truly fond of her.

  ‘How are things with Joel?’ I ask.

  She makes a non-committal noise.

  ‘Think I might have overestimated him.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ I ask, giving a pause, waiting for her to add to her story. But she doesn’t, so I carry on. ‘I think he broke up with a long-term girlfriend just before starting at KAMU.’

  Her eyes flash.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, that’s why he had to move in with his mum. She left him high and dry – they bought a flat together and she basically kicked him out. He seems lovely, though. Perhaps he’s just a bit bruised from his experience, wants to take things slowly.’

  ‘Hmmm.’

  My phone rings and I pull it out. It’s Jack.

  ‘Sorry, I’d better get this.’

  ‘No worries.’ We have stopped outside Boots. Ash’s eyes are already scanning the aisles just inside the door. ’I need to get some bits in here, anyway. I won’t be a minute.’

  She disappears into the shop.

  ‘Hi,’ I say, into my phone. Jack rarely rings me in the daytime. ‘Everything OK?’

  ‘Yes. Just wondered if you’d seen my message?’

  ‘Sorry . . . I’ve been in the meeting with Boutique D’Arblay. They are going to sign! I’m actually so shocked. They were very excited about the pop-up, which is great for Ashley. Really boosted her confidence. What was it?’

  ‘That’s great! Congratulations. It was just to let you know that I’ve got an agent coming round tonight to value the flat. Seven p.m. Doesn’t matter if you’re not home by then. I’ll make sure I’m back.’

  ‘Jack . . .’

  ‘He’s doing next door’s, anyway, and I thought he might as well do ours at the same time. It’s good to know how much it’s worth, don’t you think? Did I tell you how much Alex sold his for?’

  ‘Jack . . .’ I don’t have the energy for this conversation. Not now.

  ‘Look, we don’t have to do anything. I’m not saying we put it on the market tomorrow. It’s just to give us an idea. You know. So we can start planning a bit more . . . for the future. When we’ll . . . well, we’ll need more space when there are three of us. I’d better go . . . meeting someone for lunch. And on that note, I hope you girls are celebrating! I’ll see you later on. Love you.’

  He rings off and as I wait for Ash on the busy street, I’m not thinking about the estate agent, or moving house, or the baby that Jack suddenly seems so obsessed with having.

  Instead, I am thinking of Ash’s voice saying we haven’t been girls since we left school, and I’m wondering why I never noticed my husband calling us that before.

  THEN

  Ash

  Day two of radio silence.

  Where is he?

  Who needs a man, anyway?

  It’s my own stupid fault. Falling in love is for fools.

  The price you pay for love is grief.

  Look at Gran. Professing to love a man who’s put her second to everything else his entire life. Where’s that got her? There is nothing more important for a woman than to be independent, both financially and emotionally.

  These are my thoughts as I run around Mitcham Common, waiting for the sun to finish rising. Everywhere I look, I remember moments we shared together. I hope, if I keep on running, eventually the sentimental nonsense in my head will disap
pear. But it doesn’t, so I carry on. I carry on until I’ve run 15km, and my left calf starts cramping.

  I’m cold as I limp back to the station. That kind of horrible sweaty cold, my leggings sticking to my crotch and my socks damp inside my trainers. It’s only 6 a.m., I have time to get home, have a shower, and still be in the office by 8.30 a.m.

  Back at the block, I let myself in and climb the concrete stairs to my flat. The stairwell smells of urine again – someone drunk last night, probably, or that ancient dog that lives downstairs with the skinhead who never seems to leave the flat, except to let the sickly creature go to the toilet in the ‘communal garden’. The dog’s clearly on its last legs and winces in pain as it limps out of the block, but there’s no evidence that the owner has taken him to a vet. Clearly, putting it down is the most humane thing to do. Sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind, and the poor thing needs to be put out of its misery. Thankfully, the stuff I ordered online has arrived. I just need to get home in time to leave it an irresistible snack – that will be one less thing to worry about, at least.

  I shower quickly, one eye constantly roving towards my iPhone, which is balanced on the edge of the basin, to see if Joel has been in touch. But it doesn’t light up once.

  I dry my hair, and take out my new Isabel Marant dress. Helena will recognize it as designer – she has the sort of mind that can tell whether an item of clothing is high street or not. And she cares about labels. She told me that first impressions are everything, that labels show you are successful, that you’ve made it, that you are someone to be respected. In many ways, confidence and appearances are more important than brains or hard work. I hate that this is the way the world works, but I have to admit there is something to be said for non-verbal body language, and clothing is part and parcel of that.

  Plus, the dress is awesome. I found it in a charity shop last week and haven’t worn it yet. It’s in mint condition, too.

  Before I get dressed, I weigh myself. Down to eight stone exactly. That’s something, at the very least. I make myself a kale and banana smoothie with the machine that Joel bought me, allowing myself a second or two of nostalgia as I plug it in, and then head out of the door with my flask.

  On the train, I read CITY A.M. from cover to cover, then put it on the seat next to me in the hope that it stops anyone from sitting there. I can’t afford to get ill at the moment, and London trains are the worst. All that breathing in enclosed spaces, sitting on top of each other. People are disgusting.

  I flick through my calendar on my iPhone, trying to ignore the fact that he still hasn’t got in touch. It’s the first day since I moved across to KAMU B that I’m not looking forward to going to work. We have one new client meeting this afternoon – another one that I set up – but other than that, I’ll be talking to our new staff all day. Helena has asked me to give them a rundown of the ethos of the company, which pissed me off, as surely that’s her job? But I had to show willing. The more indispensable I make myself, the more opportunities . . . We hit our target last week, a whole month before the projection. Apparently, David was very impressed, although he didn’t bother to tell me that, of course – I had to hear it second-hand, through Helena. Even so, I know it was mostly down to me. It’s the pop-up that’s got them all excited. One mention of Instagram booths and model ambassadors and they’re sold.

  I take a look at the photograph of my vision board on my phone. I’ve been working on the proposal for my promotion in the evenings, detailing all the reasons why I should definitely be promoted to Events Director, and I just need to decide whether to show it to Helena, or go straight to David.

  I’m first in the office, as usual, and I sit at my desk and enjoy the peace. My phone is lying next to my computer keyboard, black and silent, as if it’s sticking two fingers up at me.

  As I finish off my kale smoothie and start to rewrite my to-do list in capitals on my notepad, listing jobs in order of priority and urgency, the door swings open. I look up, expecting to see Helena, but instead it’s Amy, the newest member of staff. Large of hip, meek of nature. Underneath one arm she’s carrying a huge bunch of white roses.

  ‘Morning,’ she says, her voice small and shy.

  ‘Hello!’ I say, my heart lifting, even though the gesture doesn’t seem Joel’s style, somehow. ‘Those are rather lovely.’

  She nods, sets them down at the desk next to me.

  Helena’s desk.

  ‘Yes, Karen on reception asked me to bring them up. They’re for Helena.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Lucky her.’

  I swallow my disappointment and try to concentrate on my pipeline spreadsheet, but Joel is in my head and he won’t leave. I can’t believe his silent treatment has lasted this long. I also can’t believe he said he loved me, even though it hadn’t felt entirely genuine, more like a shock tactic to get my attention. And what meaner way to tell someone you love them for the first time than when you’re having a massive row?

  After five minutes, Amy announces she’s off to get a coffee, and I take the opportunity to rummage about in the green and white foliage and fish out the tiny handwritten card. It’s not sealed (thank you, florists) and the message is not what I was expecting.

  Congratulations, you. I knew you could do it, D x

  Nice of her to give us any of the credit, then. By the time Helena gets in, it’s game over: my negative mood has set in for the day. She’s late, again. Most of the other staff members are here, although Guy – Helena’s assistant, who prefers to entertain the others with his camp bitchiness rather than actually do any work – is nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Hi,’ Helena says, crashing down opposite me, all bags and coats and scarves and bouncy hair. She looks flushed, her skin somehow shinier than normal.

  ‘Afternoon,’ I say, but I give her a bright smile, just to show that I’m joking, even though I’m not.

  ‘Oh, get lost, it’s six minutes past!’ she says, switching on her computer.

  I have about five minutes before she asks me to turn the radio on. She claims she hates working in silence, that it’s too intense. As though intense is a bad thing.

  ‘There was a massive queue at the coffee bar,’ she continues. ‘Otherwise I would have been early. How’s it going?’

  ‘Good, thanks,’ I say, typing gobbledygook into a blank email so she realizes I don’t have time for this conversation. ‘Those flowers are for you, by the way.’

  She looks over, barely even acknowledging them.

  ‘Oh,’ she says, as though they are a nuisance. She reaches over and yanks them closer, finding the card, as I did. I watch her intensely as she scans it. There’s a flicker of something like embarrassment, and then she smiles. ‘Nice.’

  ‘Who are they from?’ I ask.

  There’s a slight pause – just a millisecond – before she tells me what I already know.

  ‘David. Just congratulating us on hitting our target,’ she says, and her voice is impressively deadpan.

  ‘How thoughtful of him,’ I say.

  She gives a murmur and turns away from the flowers, pulling her iPad out of her bag.

  ‘Listen, I made some notes on this afternoon’s presentation – nothing major. Shall we go over them at some point this morning?’

  ‘Sure,’ I reply. ‘How about ten?’

  ‘Perfect. Love your dress, by the way,’ she says, before leaning over her desk and pulling my phone charger from the back of my computer. She plugs her phone into it and connects it to her machine. I grind my teeth together.

  I look back to see an email notification flashing up in the corner of my screen, clicking to read it without looking.

  It loads, and a familiar feeling of dread washes over me.

  A small square image.

  That face. That smirk.

  Jason K. Thompson is now following you on Twitter!

  He’s back. What does he want this time?

  ‘Oh,’ Helena says, again, and I look up at her, unblinking. ‘How
about some cheesy Magic FM to get us all going? It’s way too intense in here.’

  THEN

  Helena

  ‘Look at this place . . .’ Jack says, shoving his iPad on to my lap. Outside, the rain is persistent, drumming a beat that I’d usually find relaxing but today is making my temples sore. It’s been a long day, nearly the end of a long but successful week. ‘It’s a hundred grand less than this flat, and it has outbuildings.’

  I stare at the house. The type of place you’d expect your parents to own. Thirties styling. Half hung with tiles, a bright red roof. A detached workshop. A log store. Sweeping lawn at the front. Five bedrooms. Two bathrooms. Three miles to the station.

  ‘We don’t need five bedrooms,’ I say, handing it back to him. ‘And it’s too far from the station. What station is that, anyway?’

  ‘It’s direct to Kings Cross. An hour and fifteen minutes.’

  ‘And the rest,’ I say, pulling my laptop out from under the coffee table. Perhaps if I start to work he’ll leave me alone. ‘You know those commuter trains never run on time.’

  ‘You could work from home sometimes,’ he says, flicking back through the property site. ‘It’s a tech brand, after all. Supposed to be at the forefront of flexible working.’

  ‘I need to be in town. I can hardly manage a team from a shed in the woods.’

  Jack snorts. ‘I’m sure the wonder child, Ashley, would be happy to stand in for you.’

  I breathe in sharply.

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t be happy,’ I say, opening my emails.

  There’s one from her. It’s 10 p.m., I haven’t seen her for a few hours. Of course there is.

  From: AshleyT@kamu.com

  Subject: Threading!!

  So, Helena, I had an idea. I know we’ve got a nail bar already, but I was thinking if we shave a tiny bit off the coffee area we can squeeze in a threading station, too! I’ve spoken to this really cool new brand who . . .

  The message fills my screen and spills over beneath it. I don’t scroll down to read the rest. The headache settles in, so I shut my computer and stand up.