‘Got fed up of the abuse,’ he says. ‘Anyway, I don’t want a career. I told you, I just need to get a place. To show her I’m serious.’
I give a loud sigh, rubbing my forehead. And then I feel his fingers suddenly tighten around my right wrist, squeezing it until my palm begins to go numb.
‘Listen,’ he says, his pupils wide as he stares at me. ‘Please. I’m asking you nicely. I need money. I need it now. If you don’t get it for me, I’ll tell everyone what happened with Mum.’
‘You sound about six years old,’ I say, but I’ve misjudged it again, forgotten how easy it is to turn on his anger, like flicking a switch.
‘Fucking hell. I’m your brother!’ he roars.
I brace myself, squeezing my eyes shut and protecting my face with my hands. But all I hear is a thump and the clang of metal as he kicks one of the bikes, and when I finally look up I’m alone on the side street, Jason’s cigarette lying crushed at my feet.
THEN
Helena
I never used to be the sort of person who overslept, but here I am, late for work again. There was no time to even shower this morning, so I’m bare-faced and stressed as I race into the office, only to see a copy of Style and Beauty on my desk, open to reveal a double-page spread all about the pop-up. I take in the headline, the photos of shiny happy people having fun, the highlighted quotes declaring that KAMU B are ‘shaking up beauty like never before’ and then I close the magazine and push it to the corner of my desk.
‘There’s no link at the end of this,’ I say to Ash. I know I sound petty, but I don’t care.
She looks up from her desk opposite me and I notice she’s wearing winged eyeliner for the first time. The effect is a little startling. Some people just don’t suit make-up; how ironic that she’s one of them.
‘But did you see the headline?’ Ash says. ‘It’s amazing coverage! And the editor wants to take me . . . um, us out for lunch next week. She’s considering running some kind of partnership or sponsorship programme for the next event. Ticket giveaways for the readers – that kind of thing. I’m now thinking about running a programme of talks from beauty insiders—’
‘But there’s no link to the website,’ I interrupt her. ‘In fact, there’s no mention of the website at all.’
Ash looks down, gives a little sigh.
‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘That is a bit poor. Sure it’s just a mistake at their end.’
‘Did you even mention it when they interviewed you? I’ve told you before,’ I say, the words rushing out before I have the chance to stop them, ‘that we’re a digital business first and foremost. That’s where the real money is. It’s fundamental that people are aware of KAMU B online as well as the pop-up events. It’s not just some London-centric throwaway children’s party we’re trying to build here.’
Her face melts into one of her fake smiles. Her teeth seem whiter than I remember. As I grow weaker, she seems to grow stronger, more attractive, more confident. You’re not in competition with her, I have to remind myself. The opposite, in fact. You’re not rivals, you’re meant to be a team.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says, fixing her blue eyes on me. ‘It was an honest mistake.’
‘Is this article going online?’
‘I think so.’
‘Can we please make sure the website is properly linked to from that. And while we’re at it, ask them for multiple mentions on social, with trackable links. Let’s make sure we know exactly how useful this PR hype is to the bottom line.’
‘Of course,’ Ash replies. ‘Consider it done! By the way, I’ve finished my final budget report for the pop-up. Would you like to see it? We can go through it together? The main thing to know is that we . . . tripled our profit target! I’m over the moon. Hope you’re impressed.’
‘I can’t look now,’ I say, logging into my computer. ‘How about . . . three p.m. this afternoon instead?’
‘Oh,’ Ash says. ‘I’ve got a meeting with David then.’
I raise my eyebrows at her, my heart pounding in my chest.
‘Can I ask what about?’ I say.
Ash glances around at the team and lowers her voice.
‘Just an HR thing,’ she replies. ‘Shall we do four p.m.?’
‘Fine.’
My emails swim before my eyes. There’s no way I can concentrate now, so I get up and make my way to the bathrooms. Inside, I stand in front of the mirror above the basin and pull out my make-up bag. It’s time for war paint, because this is war.
When I finish, I look back at myself and want to scrub it all off. I look too tarty, too done up, too bothered. I sigh again. I’m always tired, these days, but today feels like climbing a great big hill against gale force winds.
I can’t believe Ashley is now arranging meetings alone with David. I logged on to Facebook earlier, and was surprised to see that she had become friends with almost my entire social circle – every single person that had turned up at the launch party had been added as her ‘friend’, even the ones she barely spoke to. It feels like she’s trying to steal my life, piece by piece.
I shake the thoughts away; tell myself I’m being ridiculous. She’s just trying to better herself, and after all, people aren’t possessions. I don’t own my friends. But still, she needs to understand her place. I take a deep breath and march up the stairs to David’s office.
The KAMU team all look up and smile as I weave my way through their desks. David spots me approaching from inside his glass cube and waves me in. I push the door open. I’ve tried to avoid being alone with him recently, but this is important.
‘Helena,’ he says, giving me his broad smile. I can never tell exactly what he’s thinking – it’s both unnerving and impressive. ‘I’ve been meaning to come down and congratulate you on the Style and Beauty piece. Impressive coverage. Well done.’
‘It’s only a trade mag. But . . . thanks,’ I say, standing in front of his desk. He gestures for me to sit down, but I ignore him. ‘I’m not stopping. I just wanted to ask . . .’
I pause. If I didn’t know David as well as I do, would I have the nerve to ask this? I’ve lost all sense of what’s appropriate.
‘Ashley mentioned she had a meeting booked in with you later. And I was wondering if you needed me there?’
‘Have we?’ he says, frowning and clicking his mouse. ‘Oh, at three. I’d forgotten.’
‘So do you need me?’ I say, a little more forcefully. ‘I mean, if it’s an HR thing, I think as her line manager I should probably sit in.’
David gives a loud sniff, his eyes flicking back and forth.
‘Um,’ he says. ‘I’ll be honest. I’ve got no idea what it’s about. But if it is an HR thing, perhaps best I see her alone. I’ll feed back to you afterwards?’
‘Sure,’ I say, defeated. ‘Whatever you think.’
‘Best you’re not there – just in case she’s making a formal complaint about you!’ he says. Despite knowing this is a misfired attempt at a joke, my heart pounds as I consider it. ‘I’m sure you’ve got more important things to do.’
‘Fine. But . . . if it’s about Toby,’ I say, ‘he has my full support. So I’d appreciate it if you’d let me know. The two of them have had difficulties working together, and from my impartial perspective, it’s Ash who’s the cause of most of the issues.’
Even as I say the words, I feel a conflicted stab of guilt. She’s worked herself into the ground for KAMU B, while Toby’s always the first to leave in the afternoons. But still, she’s definitely not a team player, and that’s important on a small team like ours.
David nods and I turn to leave.
‘Oh,’ he says, calling me back. ‘While I’ve got you . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘I’ve just had a call from Brian in the New York office. They’re very excited about the concept. I don’t want to get your hopes up yet but I have a feeling they’ll be calling on you to roll it out over there . . . It’s a different market, of course, entirely –
but the commercial model ought to hold up in NYC, at least . . .’ He pauses, watching my face as the news sinks in. ‘How do you think Jack would feel about relocating?’
There’s an edge to his voice that makes my skin prickle.
‘Wow,’ I say, knowing that Jack would find the idea intolerable. ‘That’s . . . brilliant. Certainly very exciting. I’m glad they’re so impressed.’
‘You get all the credit – it’s all down to you, kiddo,’ he says, and as if on cue, his phone starts ringing.
I murmur a goodbye and escape through the heavy glass door.
*
Back downstairs, I find Ash already in her coat, lingering by my desk and thumbing through that bloody issue of Style and Beauty, her new Kate Spade handbag tucked under one arm.
‘Ready?’ she says, beaming at me.
‘Ready?’ I reply, confused.
‘Yes, the follow-up meeting with Rose & Blue? It’s in your calendar.’
‘Shit,’ I say, then give myself a little shake. Perhaps baby brain is a thing, after all. I feel Toby’s presence as he appears behind me, hovering just out of view, trying to catch my attention. ‘Yes, of course. I thought it was at eleven.’
‘Nope,’ Ash says. ‘Shall I meet you by the lifts?’
I nod, pushing a smile to my lips and grabbing my iPad from the drawer.
‘Sorry, Toby,’ I say. ‘Not now. Can we chat when I’m back?’
He smiles but his eyes tell me how frustrated he is as he nods politely and slinks away.
We catch a cab to the private members’ club – my idea, not hers. I can’t face the idea of getting the Tube. It’s incredibly warm and I am wearing too many layers, my skin itchy and hot underneath them. Thankfully the taxi is quick, and we are early, meaning we arrive before the Rose & Blue team. We take a seat in one of the leather booths, and Ash’s mobile rings. She picks it up, a flicker of anger passing across her face as she mutes the call. I watch her, wondering who it was, and realize that I barely know her. No one really does.
‘Was that Joel?’ I say. ‘You’ve got time to talk to him, if you need to. They’ll be another ten minutes.’
‘No,’ she says, her voice emotionless as she tucks her phone back into her handbag. ‘It’s fine.’
I give a little shrug and turn back to my iPad, desperately scanning the figures for the Rose & Blue landing page. As suspected, they’re less than superb. Outright disappointing might be a more accurate way of describing them. Yet I know their stand at the pop-up was one of the busiest. I search my brain, trying to think of reasons – no, excuses – that I can give them, and then I swallow a wave of nausea as I see them approach our table.
*
‘It could have been worse,’ Ash says, as we leave the club afterwards. ‘They’re pleased with how the pop-up went at least.’
‘Yes,’ I say, their words bouncing around my mind.
Don’t see why we need to sign up to coverage on the site. Can’t we just do the pop-up?
It’s becoming an all-too-familiar refrain.
We pass one of my favourite coffee shops. I need to eat something, I’m beginning to feel light-headed again.
‘Listen, let’s not go back to the office just yet. It’s a little bit early, but we could call it brunch?’
She looks up at the café sign.
‘OK, why not?’
Inside, I order a peppermint tea and a flapjack, while she chooses a fruit salad. We settle at a table in the corner of the café, lit overhead by a huge skylight. The June sun is bright and warms my skin through the glass.
‘It’s amazing, you know. What we’ve achieved,’ she says, stirring her almond-milk hot chocolate. The colour of it – a kind of off-putting beige – swilling around in a mini tornado makes me gag a little, and I have to turn away and wipe my mouth with a tissue. I sip my peppermint tea. ‘No caffeine for you today?’
I look down at the peppermint tea.
‘No . . . I don’t know, I just didn’t fancy it.’
She raises her eyebrows and pierces a neatly sliced grape with her fork.
‘Rose & Blue were so happy with how the event went.’
‘Yes, I’m aware,’ I say. ‘But we really need to start focusing on the site. That’s where the recurring revenue lies.’
‘I know, I know . . .’ she says, fixing her eyes on a spot on the wall behind my head. ‘But technically speaking, building traffic for the site isn’t my job, is it?’
She’s right and I hate it.
‘David mentioned the Americans were pleased.’
‘Really?’ she replies, smoothly. ‘That’s exciting. Forgive me, Helena, but you . . . you don’t seem yourself lately. Aren’t you enjoying working together? Because . . . well, I’m loving working with you. You’ve taught me so much.’
‘Have I?’ I say, giving a half-hearted smile. ‘Hope some of it was useful.’
‘Of course!’ she says, and then she beams at me again. ‘But you’ve achieved so much in such a short time . . . this can’t be your only dream?’ She sounds a bit shy then, the way I remember her when I first interviewed her. Less than a year ago, but so much has changed since then.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Don’t you have other dreams? Ideas? Things you want to do with your life. Things you wanted to do when you were young?’ She picks a tiny bit of dirt off one of her strawberries with her finger.
I think of Jack; his furniture business.
‘I don’t know, really,’ I say. ‘When I was a child all I wanted to be was a mother. But then I grew up and having a career seemed a lot more appealing.’
‘I always wanted to sew.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes,’ she says, staring at the strawberry. ‘I wanted to be a seamstress. When I was a kid . . . I used to make things for me and my little brother, Jason. Cushions, naff bags made from scraps of fabric, that sort of thing. My gran taught me to use a sewing machine when I was ten. I thought doing that for a living would be the ultimate dream.’ She laughs. ‘Then I found out how much they get paid. And I woke up.’
‘Life’s not all about money, though, is it?’ I say. ‘There’s more to life than money.’
‘Spoken like someone who’s never been without it.’
What can I say to that? It’s true; I’ve never had to worry about money. But I only saw my mother twice a year up till the age of ten, and no amount of money can compensate for that.
Then again, the two things aren’t mutually exclusive. Maybe Ash had neither.
‘You never talk about your family,’ I say, steering the subject away. ‘I mean, I know your mother passed away but . . .’
She shrugs, and hides her face behind her hot chocolate. A habit of hers when she doesn’t want to show you how she really feels about something.
‘Nothing much to tell,’ she says, putting down her mug and pushing her remaining blueberries around with her fork.
‘Well, you’ve got a brother, right? You’ve just told me that. Any other siblings?’
‘Nope, just Jason.’
‘How old is he?’
‘Four years younger than me,’ she says. ‘So, he’s twenty-one now.’
‘Is he at university?’ I ask.
She shakes her head.
‘No,’ she says. ‘He . . . er . . . he’s taking a gap year. Gone travelling around America. I hardly hear from him. Just a few emails, every now and then. We’re not that close any more.’
I know she’s lying, because, for all her faults, Ash is an open book. Nothing stops her from saying exactly what she really thinks at any moment. There’s no pausing to consider whether a response is appropriate, no dumbing down her message to make it more palatable to the audience. And everything that just came out of her mouth sounded false, stilted, under-rehearsed and just . . . wrong. I wonder why she’s lying, and what her brother is really like. I make a mental note to google him later.
‘And your dad?’ I ask, even though I know I’m pushing my
luck.
‘Yeah, we’re not that close, either,’ she says. ‘He didn’t cope well with my mum dying. I didn’t have a great time, growing up. But my gran’s always been there for me. Can we talk about something else?’
‘Of course,’ I say, eyeing my flapjack. Even though I have to, to stop the nausea, I don’t actually want to eat it. Pregnancy is so strange – these are the flapjacks that I used to dream about late at night, yet now it looks completely unappetizing. ‘I don’t want to upset you. Listen—’
‘Oh no, oh no, you’re not upsetting me,’ she interrupts, and this time she is telling the truth. She looks at her phone as she speaks, scrolling through her emails. ‘I just don’t find it constructive to talk about my family, that’s all. Not when we have more important things to discuss like . . . shit.’
‘What?’
‘Oh, she makes me so cross!’
‘What? Who?’
‘Jess! Sorry, Helena, but she is useless. Useless. How hard is it . . . ? I mean, come on . . .’
‘What’s happened?’
‘I asked her to send over a sample product brief to MollyMoo. And copy me in. But not only has she not cc’d me, she’s sent a live mock-up, with all their details on . . . the MD has just emailed me to complain. Worried about how seriously you take NDAs in light of this. You’re on it, too.’ She nods at my iPhone, which is sitting next to me. I pick it up and open my emails, finding the message she is referring to.
‘Oh . . . oh,’ I say. ‘Well, easy mistake to make, I suppose.’
‘No, it’s not. It’s just careless. Makes us look like idiots. And MollyMoo is a nightmare. If the Americans found out about this, they wouldn’t be excited about us at all. Seriously. Every day it’s something. Every day.’
‘I’ll talk to her when we get back to the office,’ I say. ‘I promise.’
‘Make sure you do,’ she says, and there’s something in her eyes I haven’t seen before.
THEN
Ash
God knows how he got back into the office last night, but there was a note on my desk waiting for me when I got in this morning. He’s resorted to begging, which is a new twist. I ignored it at first, but now I screw it up into the smallest ball possible, and drop it into my waste-paper basket. I’ve been thinking of the way his voice quietened when he talked about Lisa, and wondering if he really does want to make a go of it with her. Perhaps she’d be good for him.
The Rival Page 17