by Ruth Ware
Everyone falls quiet, apart from Elliot. He is still speaking to Rik. His deep bass monotone booms around the silent lobby.
“—server problems with the geosnoop rollout, if we can’t—”
Rik nudges Elliot, who looks around. He breaks off midsentence, his face confused.
Beside me, Topher has gone completely stiff, and his expression is taken aback. This must be Eva’s presentation. But it looks as if Topher knew nothing about it.
Suddenly I know what this is. I know what is happening. This is an ambush.
No. That’s not the right word.
This is a coup.
ERIN
Snoop ID: LITTLEMY
Listening to: Offline
Snoopers: 1
Snoopscribers: 1
“Snoopers!” Eva is saying, in a high-pitched, artificially jolly voice. She is standing on the bottom step of the spiral staircase, though she doesn’t need the extra height, and she looks amazing in her flawless cashmere sheath, like a tall flute of champagne. “I know this wasn’t on the agenda, but Ani and I wanted to welcome you all here and begin the week with a few highlights from the Snoop journey, just to remind you all how amazing you are, and how far we’ve come, and what you, all of you, have contributed to the phenomenon that is Snoop. Will you come into the den for a few minutes? You can bring your drinks.”
There is a general shuffling and a weird feeling of electricity in the air that I can’t quite pin down.
Looking around the room, I can see from the reactions of everyone here, and the expressions on their faces, that the group divides into three camps.
First, there is Eva’s little coterie—which seems to comprise Rik and Ani. They knew about this, and were waiting for her cue. They were gathering round even before she made the announcement, and now that she has spoken they look tense, as if ready for battle.
Then there is a middle ground of people who are surprised, but pleasantly so, and looking forward to the diversion with a cheerful obliviousness. That group includes Tiger, Miranda, and the lawyer, Carl. They are picking up their drinks, chatting away, seemingly quite unaware of the tensions flowing around them.
And finally there is Topher’s little group, who are also surprised—but not in a good way. His assistant, Inigo, looks like a kid who has stepped in a dog mess in new shoes and is about to get shouted at by his dad. Techy Elliot is standing in the corner with his arms folded, and he looks mulish. He is tapping his foot and glaring through his glasses like he’s just been bluffed in a poker game. Topher himself has risen from the couch where he was talking to Liz, and he looks positively alarmed. It’s the first time I’ve seen his boyish charm properly ruffled, and I realize that beneath the charisma and the projected confidence, there’s something else. I’m just not sure what. Is his smooth surface hiding a frightened little boy inside? Or is it something very different, more dangerous perhaps? For a minute I think I see a flicker of anger cross his face.
Finally there is Liz. And I am not sure what camp she is in. She doesn’t fit into any of them—but I think she does know what’s going on. Her face is blank, her glasses reflecting the overhead light so that I can’t see her expression. But she doesn’t look happy. In fact she’s got her arms wrapped round herself like she’s fending off a blow.
“Hold on a second, Eva—” Topher says, with an attempt at his customary tone of command, but it’s too late; Eva is ushering the others swiftly into the den, and he has no choice but to follow with Elliot, or get left behind. “Eva, what the f—”
And then the door shuts behind them.
LIZ
Snoop ID: ANON101
Listening to: Offline
Snoopers: 0
Snoopscribers: 0
As Ani ushers us inside, I feel a twinge of panic. The den is small and dark. The windows are covered with blinds. The only light is coming from the doorway, and from a projection of the Snoop logo being beamed onto a blank wall. The image is bright pink, and it turns the faces of the others a strange, cooked color, like hot ham. I settle myself onto a sofa, and as the door swings softly shut, I feel the atmosphere close around me like a fist.
It is an atmosphere I haven’t felt for nearly three years.
Money. Privilege. Ambition.
The scent of it is as real as Topher’s expensive bespoke cologne, the same brand I used to have to order in from a little Paris perfumery in the rue des Capucines, stammering through his order in my bad schoolgirl French. I can smell it now, though he is over on the other side of the room.
I get a sudden wave of anxiety.
I think I might throw up.
“Tiger,” Eva says, when everyone has found a place to sit. “Would you lead us through a short meditation?”
“Sure!” Tiger says. Her voice is slightly husky. I think she always sounds like that, but it makes me want to clear my own throat. I resist the urge to cough as she looks around the group. “Make yourselves comfortable everyone—whatever that means to you. That could be sitting, leaning, standing, embracing.”
I can’t stop myself from shuddering at the last word, but my reaction is better than the snort of derision I hear from Carl. Eva shoots him a look that could kill, and he covers it by shifting on his floor cushion. The filling inside squeaks and hisses as it resettles.
Tiger closes her eyes.
“Shut your eyes,” she whispers, “and take a moment, everyone, to center yourselves.”
There is silence in the room now. I shut my eyes, but it doesn’t help the feeling of being trapped, in fact if anything it worsens it. I can feel the warmth of Inigo’s shoulder to my left and Rik’s thigh pressing against mine to the right. They can’t help touching me—the sofa is too small for three—but it doesn’t make me feel any less tense. I am sweating. My palms are sticky. My whole body is rigid with discomfort. I do not want to be here. I do not want to be here.
“Take a moment to thank yourself,” Tiger says, her voice low and soft. “Thank your body for bringing you here, your bones for carrying you, your muscles for supporting you, your mind for freeing you.”
I don’t want to thank anyone for this. I want to get out. There is another rustle as Carl shifts uncomfortably, and suddenly I can’t cope with the claustrophobia anymore. I open my eyes a crack, trying to dispel some of the discomfort. I am about to shut them again when I see I’m not the only one peeking. Opposite me, Topher’s eyes open for a moment. He scans the room, trying to figure out what the hell is going on. Our eyes meet. I see you. He raises a single eyebrow. I shut my eyes quickly.
“Take a moment to thank the universe,” Tiger-Blue continues. “For the gift that is your being; for the gift that is your being here; for the gift that is this place, the majesty of the mountains shared with us for just a few days.”
Beside me I can hear Inigo’s breathing. It is fast and shallow. When I glance over it looks like his teeth are gritted, and a muscle is jumping in his cheek. He is hating this as much as me, and clearly he did not know this was happening any more than Topher did. I know from my own PA days how Topher reacts to being out of the loop. Someone is going to get both barrels later. I feel sympathy for Inigo, but my main emotion is relief that it is not going to be me.
“And take a moment to thank Snoop,” Tiger intones. “That thing that we are, and that is bigger than all of us. For all that we are—for all that we have—for bringing people into contact, and music into our lives. For the simple miracles it makes happen every day.”
Thank God I don’t work for Snoop anymore is all I can think.
I don’t know if she is finished or not, but there is a short silence. I can feel a pulse beating in my throat. Just when it has stretched out to something almost unbearable, Eva speaks.
“Thank you Tiger-Blue, that was beautiful. And it brings me to what I wanted to say, which is thank you all for coming here, and for all that you’ve done for me, for Topher, for Snoop, and for music. Thank you for the music.”
“Hear, hear,�
� Topher says. Eyes snap open around the room, and he raises his glass so that we all have to drink, whether we want to or not. I sip my water.
“Now, you’ll forgive me for springing this on you, but I couldn’t let the week begin without a little celebration of our triumphs, of what you’ve achieved over the last four years,” Eva says. She does not look at me when she says it, but it is impossible for me not to realize I am the odd one out here. I am the only person not currently employed by the company.
“Ani?” Eva says. And Ani nods and presses something on the laptop balanced on her knees. There is a crackle from the speakers. Music begins to blast out, uncomfortably loud. Moving images begin to light up the wall opposite.
I should be watching the film—but I can’t concentrate. The music is too loud. It is making my skull hurt. The images are too bright. They are zipping past too quickly. There is a kind of desperate, hectic intensity. My headache, which had been slowly fading, is back and pulsing in my temples. It feels as if a band is tightening around my forehead.
Figures and graphs flicker across the screen—profit and loss, users’ profiles, expansion rates competitors. I press my fingers to my eye sockets, shutting out the flashing images, but I can’t shut out the thumping music as it segues from one song to another in a frenetic sample of Snoop’s greatest hits.
Eva is talking over the music. She is speaking about social media reach and key influencers. The rest of the group is silent. I can feel Topher’s simmering resentment from the other side of the room, even with my eyes closed.
And then the music cuts out. I feel a weight lifted off my shoulders, like someone has stopped screaming in my ears. I open my eyes. There is a single chart on the projector, overlaying the Snoop logo. It is full of figures. Eva is taking us through each set, explaining what they mean. Percentages, projections, ongoing costs—and then I hear it. The word we have all been dancing around for almost twelve hours.
Buyout.
I feel the band around my scalp squeeze unbearably tight. I am not ready for this.
She is talking about the offer. She is explaining what it could mean in terms of company expansion, employee opportunities—but she is barely halfway down the second table of figures when Topher interrupts.
“No, no, just fucking no, Eva.”
“I beg your pardon?”
He stands up. His face obscures part of the projection so that his profile is beamed black and sharp onto the wall and the figures overlay his face like some sort of grotesque tattoo.
“This is half the story, and you know it. Where would we be if we’d given up our IP to Spotify like they wanted back at the beginning? Nowhere, that’s where. We’d be some other tin-pot little streaming app no one’s heard of and—”
“Topher, this is completely different.” Eva is standing in the shadow, away from the projector beam. Her voice sounds pissed off, but also as if she is trying her best to sound reasonable. “You know it is.”
“Different how? I’m not going to end up like fucking Friendster.”
“If we try for another funding round we’re more likely to end up like Boo.com at this rate,” Eva snaps back. Then she takes a deep breath. I can see that she’s trying to rein in her anger. “Look, Toph, you have some valid points, but I don’t think now is the time or place—”
“Not the time or place?” He is crackling with anger.
I feel sick. I have a violent flashback to my childhood, my father standing over my mother, his voice raised. I squeeze my eyes tighter shut. I feel myself begin to shake.
“You were the one who decided to kick off the week with your little propaganda film—”
“Guys.”
There’s a lurch of cushions to my right, and Rik stands up. I open my eyes. He is picking his way through the cushions and glasses to put himself physically between them.
“I think Eva was just trying—”
“I know exactly what Eva was trying to do,” Topher shouts. I fight the urge to put my hands over my ears. “She’s trying to get her shot in first. Well, fuck that.”
“Topher.” Eva sounds close to tears, though I am not sure if she is. It’s very difficult to know whether her upset is real or a strategic distraction. If she is acting, it is very convincing. “Toph, please. This was supposed to be a celebration—”
“It was supposed to be a fucking ambush—” Topher says.
“No, absolutely not, never.” Her words carry conviction. But she has overreached herself with that statement. Everyone in the room knows that she is lying, and there is a rustle as people shift uncomfortably, refusing to meet one another’s eyes.
“Guys!” Rik says desperately. “Guys, please, this isn’t how we should be starting this week. We need to come out of this with a result everyone’s happy with.”
“Happy?” Topher rounds on him. “Happy? At this rate we’ll be lucky to come out of it with everyone alive.”
And with that he slams down his empty glass onto the coffee table and storms out of the room.
ERIN
Snoop ID: LITTLEMY
Listening to: Loyle Carner / Damselfly
Snoopers: 2
Snoopscribers: 3
I have my headphones in when Topher comes barreling out of the den and snatches a bottle of whiskey from the honesty bar in the lobby. I’m caught unawares, laying the table, tapping my feet to the beat. I wasn’t expecting them to break for another ten minutes, and as I pull the earbuds hastily out, I catch the tail end of his remark.
“—can add this to the bill of that Dutch bitch.”
Holy shit. What has gone down inside the den? For a minute I stand there, looking after Topher’s retreating back, and then the rest of the group comes filing out, their expressions subdued, and I have to start showing them to their places at the table.
The big glass door in the lobby is still swinging to and fro from where Topher stormed out into the snow. Where on earth is he going? He was wearing jeans and a shirt, and it’s minus eleven outside right now. There are no restaurants or bars in our little hamlet. St. Antoine 2000 is not much more than a handful of chalets. People who want to eat out in the evening have to go down to St. Antoine le Lac, which has all the shops and restaurants and cafés you could wish for. It’s an easy ski down—a long blue run right into the center of the village. But the only way back up at this time is the funicular, and that closes at 11:00 p.m.
Someone puts music on the big main speakers in the dining room, The 1975, jangly and bright, perhaps in an attempt to raise the mood. But as I begin to serve up Danny’s amuse-bouches—miniature wild mushroom gratins in little china spoons—Topher’s absence is like a twinging nerve. The gratins go down well—as Danny’s food always does—but I’m clearly not the only person stressing over Topher, and the atmosphere is strained. There is an empty space at the foot of the table where Topher should be, flanked by Inigo and Miranda, who exchange worried glances every time another course comes and goes without him reappearing.
Elliot, his back to the wall, eats with his head down, talking to no one, and spooning food into his mouth like it’s a race. “Spooning” is literal. The starter is the truffled parsnip soup, so the spoon makes sense, but when I try to clear the cutlery away for the main course, Elliot snatches the spoon back and glares at me, like he caught me trying to steal his watch. When the venison arrives he attacks it with the soup spoon, ignoring the fork and steak knife to either side of his plate. In between courses he sits with his head bowed, staring at the knots and whorls of the wooden table, blanking Tiger to his left, who chatters away to Miranda as if this is perfectly normal, and Carl to his right, who ignores him back, pointedly angling his body away from Elliot towards Ani and Eva.
Eva, at the head of the table, picks at her food, looking at her watch and out the window at the falling snow, her face showing all the anxiety I am trying to conceal. When Carl makes some innocuous remark to her, she snaps back with a viciousness that makes me wince, though he seems to accept it as
par for the course.
Liz looks pale and frankly miserable, like a rabbit in the headlights, and refuses all offers of wine. At one point Rik tries to talk to her. I don’t know what he says, I don’t hear the opening, but she shakes her head violently, and when he opens his mouth again, she bursts out “Excuse me, I’m going to the loo,” pushing her chair back with a violence that makes it clatter against the tiled floor.
After she is gone Eva glares down the table at Rik, mouthing something that I can’t quite read but which I think may have been I told you so.
Even Danny’s crème brûlée fails to revive the evening, and after supper the group scatters, with pleas of headaches, early nights, and emails to send. As I pass through the lobby on my way to replenish the wood burner in the living room I notice that two more bottles are gone from the honesty bar.
The mystery of one at least is solved when I go through to the living room to find Rik and Miranda huddled in the corner of the big squashy sofa, a depleted bottle of Armagnac on the table between them, and some kind of Cuban jazz filtering out of the speaker system, presumably from either Rik’s or Miranda’s phone. Rik sees me clocking the bottle and flashes a smile.
“You don’t mind, do you? We’ll add it to the book at the end of the evening.”
“Not at all,” I say truthfully. “It’s how the system is supposed to work. Can I get you anything else? Cheese? Coffee? Petits fours? Danny makes these incredibly moreish chocolate-dipped prunes that go really well with a glass of brandy.”
Rik looks at Miranda and raises one eyebrow, in a kind of wordless exchange that speaks more about their relationship than anything physical. There is something going on here. They are more than just colleagues, whether they realize that themselves or not.
