The Promotion: A psychological thriller with a killer twist

by Daniel Hurst

  The photos he fought so hard to get are still on my phone, but it’s time to change that.

  I take my device from my handbag and go into my pictures, looking through the several I possess of the intoxicated Michael up to no good in that club last night. Deleting them one by one because they are evidence that I was with him around the time he died, it also feels like I am shedding my past with every deletion of his image from my phone. By the time all the photos are gone, I am feeling much better about things.

  He is no longer on my phone, and he is no longer in my life.

  Despite what he always believed, it is me who has won, not him.

  And now my husband is calling me into the kitchen, where dinner will be served, and more champagne will be consumed.

  This is a night of celebration, so I guess it’s time I started celebrating.

  Here’s to the future.

  Here’s to the new boss.

  34

  I’m flying to New York tonight, but before I go, I am visiting Dad because it will be a couple of days until I get to see him again. But I can tell as soon as I walk in that today is not a good day for him. For a start, there are three nurses in his room when I arrive, and there is also the fact that he is calling each and every one of them names that can’t be repeated.

  ‘Dad, what’s wrong?’ I say as I go towards where he is sitting up on his bed, trying to fend off the nurses, who are doing their best to calm him down.

  ‘They’re trying to kill me,’ Dad tells me, and I can see from the fear in his eyes that he thinks that is really the case.

  ‘Nobody’s trying to kill you, Dad. They’re trying to help.’

  ‘No, they’re not!’

  All three nurses are staying very calm and being extremely professional as they deal with their tricky patient, and I thank them for their help before they leave the room, and I take a seat next to my father.

  ‘Dad, they are looking after you. You’re safe here.’

  ‘Am I?’

  My father seems genuinely confused, and it breaks my heart to see the look on his face. Some days are good, and some days are bad. Yesterday was good. He was smiling, chatting and looking forward to watching his favourite show on TV after I had left. But today, he doesn’t seem to know where he is or why he is here.

  ‘Come on, Dad, it’s okay,’ I say as I take his hand and give it a squeeze, and I can see tears in his eyes as he calms down and accepts my explanation of things.

  While he does, I ponder whether to talk about work and, in particular, some of the tasks I am doing now in my role as manager that I didn’t know existed before. But perhaps my father isn’t in the right state for a conversation like that. But who’s to say my father’s condition won’t worsen while I’m away? Maybe if I talk about my experiences as the manager, it might help put him in a better mood, and it might get him talking about his experiences as the boss – I’m always trying to encourage him to keep recalling things and using his memory.

  ‘I’ve had a busy day, Dad,’ I say once he is more settled and relaxed again. ‘Lots of meetings and calls. I bet you’re glad they didn’t have videoconferencing when you were starting out.’

  ‘You have a job?’

  I frown. That’s not a good sign.

  ‘You know I do, Dad. The same place you used to work, remember?’

  ‘I thought you wanted to travel.’

  I realise that my father seems to be talking to me as if I am in my early twenties again, back when I was doing my best to avoid entering the working world and pushing back on his attempts to give me a junior position at the bank.

  This is obviously not the right time to talk about work, and I decide to leave it, hopeful that there will be better days ahead when he will be more lucid and able to get more joy out of what I will tell him.

  The rest of my visit is spent reading the newspaper with him and chuckling at some of his observations about current affairs. Despite all the articles about natural disasters, upcoming elections, and celebrity scandals, the main thing Dad seems to be looking for is anything about the Millennium Bug, which he worries will cause havoc with the computer systems at the bank if it’s as bad as some are saying it could be. I kindly tell him that there is nothing to worry about there – sometimes it’s better for the patient to not be corrected about their skewed timeline at every opportunity. If Dad thinks it’s the late nineties, and he obviously does if he is talking about the Millennium Bug and me being a traveler, then he can think it. He is happy enough, and he doesn’t need to be any more confused than he already is today.

  But it’s as I’m preparing to leave that he says something that makes me pause because of how surprising it is.

  ‘If you see your mother, tell her that I’m sorry,’ he says, looking up from his newspaper.

  ‘What are you sorry for?’

  ‘I’m never home. I’m too busy. I work too much.’

  I take a seat back beside Dad because it’s clear he isn’t finished yet.

  ‘I should spend more time with her. It’s selfish of me to work so many hours.’

  ‘You have an important job, Dad. Mum understands. We both do, and we’re very proud of you.’

  ‘It’s just difficult. There’s so many things I have to do. So many people want me here, there, everywhere. I don’t know whether I’m coming or going half the time.’

  ‘It’s okay, Dad,’ I say, giving his hand a squeeze again. I’ve never known him to talk like this about his career before. As far as I knew, he enjoyed every minute of it and didn’t regret a thing, not even the sacrifices he had to make regarding time spent with his family because he knew the sacrifice was just part of the job, and nothing good ever came without sacrifice. But it does seem now like he had some reservations about the way he was living his life back when he was at the height of his powers, and I wonder if he ever told my mum how he felt. Maybe not, because he has just told me to tell her he is sorry, and unfortunately, I’m not able to do that for him.

  ‘Will you tell her?’ he asks me, looking me right in the eye as if it is very important that I do.

  ‘Okay,’ I reply, not wanting to upset him any more.

  ‘One word of advice,’ he says after I have kissed him on the head and stood up to leave again.

  ‘What’s that, Dad?’ I ask as I put on my coat and prepare to go, expecting him to say something witty or just confusing. But it’s not that. It’s actually rather serious.

  ‘Don’t become a boss, whatever you do. It’s much easier at the bottom than it is at the top.’

  35

  My father’s slightly ominous last words to me before I left his nursing home are still ringing in my ears, but I have to admit, at the moment, I’m not quite agreeing with him. That’s because I am currently reclining in a very luxurious aeroplane seat with plenty of leg room, free drinks service, and my selection of over a hundred movies on the screen in front of me. I’m on my way to the head office in New York, and not only that, but I am flying first class to get there.

  As the plane I’m on trundles down the runway, preparing to leave the grey skies of England behind for the bright lights of the Big Apple, I take a sip of my complimentary champagne and think about how this is much better than the way I travelled the first time I was summoned to the States. It was four years ago when I was called to visit head office and give a presentation on our third-quarter figures after Michael had been struck down by a severe case of food poisoning. Back then, I had made the eight-hour flight across the Atlantic in economy with cramped leg space and barely enough room on my tray table to eat my meal, never mind try to prepare for my presentation. But things have changed, and I could definitely get used to travelling this way, and I imagine that I will get the opportunity to do this more now that I am on the cusp of being promoted.

  I wait until we are up in the air and the seat belt sign is off before I take out the documents in my carry-on case and spread them out on the table beside me. I don’t have to work on this f
light because I will have some time to go over things in my hotel room in New York when I arrive, but I like to be prepared, and it’s never been more important. I’m heading into a meeting with Alastair, the CEO, and I want to be ready to dazzle him with my knowledge of the company he presides over.

  I fully expect to be made the official general manager of the UK branch when I sit down with Alastair in his office tomorrow, but that doesn’t mean I can rest on my laurels and sit here sipping champagne and toasting to a job well done. I want to leave him in no doubt that he has picked the best person for the job, and the way to do that is to demonstrate how hard I have worked for the business, as well as how hard I will continue to work now that I have reached the top. That’s why I am poring over the company finances and looking for ways I can further increase the profits both back in the UK, and indeed around the world at our sixty-two other branches.

  I don’t just want to walk in, shake Alastair’s hand and smile when he promotes me.

  I want to make him wonder why it has taken so long to give me the top job in the first place.

  Of course, before any contracts can be signed and before I can squeeze in a little sightseeing around New York, I will have to express my sorrow about Michael’s untimely demise and comment on how it was a pleasure to work under him. I’d rather just tell Alastair the truth, which is that Michael made my life a living hell from dawn to dusk on a daily basis for several years, but somehow, I don’t think that will go down well, so I’ll play it safe and give Michael a glowing obituary. But whatever I say, I doubt I will be able to make him sound as exceptional as the obituary in the banking sector email that was circulated this week in which Michael’s death was noted, and a glowing review of his career in the industry was laid out.

  I had been forced to grit my teeth and roll my eyes as I had read the obituary, which had painted Michael as some kind of savant who had single-handedly turned around the fortunes of the UK branch of our bank with his trademark displays of financial aptitude, charisma, and confidence. Never mind the fact that it was mostly my hard work for Michael that helped turn around the fortunes of the branch: it was clear that my late boss had done a fine job of making everybody else in our industry think he was behind it all.

  All the presentations. All the pitches. All the profits.

  I did all the hard work. And Michael took all the credit.

  But not anymore. The email that his obituary came out in has probably already been deleted by most of the employees who received it. No point in having it clogging up their inboxes. I know I deleted it with great haste once I had finished reading it and rolling my eyes. Now it’s yesterday’s news, just like him, and it’s all about the future now. But unfortunately, the future isn’t all rosy for me.

  Visiting Dad yesterday was another stark reminder that his condition is worsening and that his memories are starting to get more mixed up by the day. I’ll be out of the country for a couple of days, but I’m already feeling anxious about going back to see him again because I just know the day I have been dreading is coming.

  It’s the day when he no longer recognises me as his daughter.

  Not even another sip of this free champagne is enough to set my mind at ease and make me feel better about the situation with Dad because I know nothing can make it better. Not the nurses who are caring for him, not the lovely surroundings he gets to spend his days in now, and not even all my visits where I keep trying to jog his memory and remind him of the man he used to be. He’s fading slowly, just like we all will in the end, and it’s a sad sight to behold, there is no doubt about that. But before I get back to my work, I think again about what he said to me just before I left him.

  ‘Don’t become a boss, whatever you do.’

  It would be easy to dismiss such a statement as a joke or even just a sign that my father is not thinking like he used to. After all, he spent most of his working life as a boss, and he didn’t seem to mind it then. Not only that, but he actively encouraged me every day when I joined the bank to strive to be in the position that he was in one day even though I told him several times that it wasn’t something I particularly wanted for myself when I was younger. So him saying that becoming a boss is not something he would recommend anymore is very startling for me to hear, and is a far cry from the kind of things he used to say to me back when he was in his prime.

  I remember him coming home from work when I was a child with his smart suit on, his briefcase in his hand, and a look of determination on his face even though the working day was over. It was a determination that he never settled for anything until he reached the top. No matter how many hours he worked, or how many pay rises he earned, or how much my mother told him to slow down and spend more time with the family, he had one goal and one goal only.

  He wanted to be the boss.

  Yet now he has just told me not to become one myself.

  Does he have regrets? Is that what he was trying to tell me? Possibly, but it’s hard to know with his current condition. I could try broaching it again with him when I get back, but I’m not sure how it will go. He might not even remember saying it. Or maybe he’ll have even more surprising things to get off his chest. I guess I’ll find out when I get back. But for now, I’m headed away from the old boss and towards my new one.

  The air hostess arrives back at my seat and asks me if she can get me anything for the next portion of the flight, and I think about it for a couple of seconds before realising that she can.

  She can get me another glass of champagne.

  This trip is about a dream coming true, after all.

  36

  The view from the fifty-eighth floor of this skyscraper in downtown Manhattan is phenomenal. From up here, I can see the tip of the Empire State Building rising high to my left, as well as the tiny yellow cabs jamming up the roads and the ant-sized pedestrians pouring over the sidewalks. There really is no city like New York, and I make a promise to myself that the next time I come here, it will be for pleasure, not business, and I will bring Evan along for the ride. But right now, it is all about business, and I glance again up at the clock that hangs in the waiting room and see that my meeting with Alastair was due to begin ten minutes ago.

  It’s a shame that he’s running behind, but it’s hardly surprising that a man as busy as him isn’t always able to strictly adhere to his schedule. He must have all sorts of problems to deal with on a daily basis, and I imagine meeting with me today ranks fairly low on his list of important things to tick off before the day is out. But I will be patient because I’ve come a long way, and this is a very important meeting.

  ‘Imogen, Mr Clarkson will see you now,’ the young man on the reception desk says, and I smile as I get up out of my seat and smooth down any creases in my business suit before picking up my briefcase and striding towards the closed door.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say to the man behind the desk before I take a deep breath and prepare to step into the CEO’s office. I imagine that when I do, things will never be the same again.

  And I’m not wrong about that.

  The first thing I notice when I enter Alastair’s office is the breathtaking view behind his desk. It feels like you can see the entire city from up here. But the second thing I notice is that Alastair is not alone. He is sitting across his desk from a female colleague, and I recognise her immediately.

  It’s Samantha.

  What the hell is she doing here?

  ‘Hi, Imogen. Glad you could make it. Come on in,’ Alastair says as he gets up from his seat and beckons me towards his desk.

  I keep my eyes on Samantha as I go, trying to figure out why she is here and why I wasn’t made aware that one of my colleagues from the UK office would be in New York at the same time as me.

  ‘Hey,’ she says to me with a simple smile as I sit down in the empty chair beside her. ‘What about this view? Not bad, huh?’

  But it’s not the view I’m interested in. What I want to know more about is why Samantha is here when
this was supposed to be a meeting about my promotion.

  ‘How was your flight?’ Alastair asks me as he pours me a glass of water before handing it to me and retaking his seat. ‘I believe you travelled in style.’

  ‘Er, yeah, it was great,’ I say before taking a quick sip of my drink.

  My throat has suddenly gone very dry, and I’m not sure why, but maybe it’s because I have the feeling that something might be wrong here.

  ‘First time flying first class?’ Alastair asks.

  ‘Yeah, it was.’

  ‘I bet you could get used to it.’

  I laugh, a little nervously, but I don’t think he notices. ‘I suppose I could.’

  ‘Well, I can’t promise that kind of travel every time, but we’ll see how we go,’ the CEO says, grinning at both me and Samantha before straightening out his tie and getting down to business.

  ‘Now, I’m glad you could make it here today, Imogen, because it’s much better to do this in person than over a conference call. The truth is, there are going to be a few changes in the UK office now that Michael has sadly vacated his post.’

  ‘Okay,’ I say, expecting as much but still not sure why Samantha is here as well as me to hear this.

  ‘Now I’m sure you are aware that we need to appoint a new general manager as quickly as possible. It will put a number of our high-net-worth clients at ease once they know who will be taking care of things in the UK.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Good. That is why I have come to the decision to offer Samantha the position of general manager, and I am delighted to tell you that she has just accepted that offer only a few moments ago.’

  He did what?

  And she did what?

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand,’ I say, my words matching the look of confusion that must be plastered all over my face.