by Tara Bond
“Are you serious?”
“Well, let’s face it. You haven’t been as up for going out lately, have you? Even before all this happened.”
Lindsay didn’t answer straight away. Instead, she gnawed at the inside of her mouth. “I think you’re seeing this the wrong way. I still like going out and drinking and clubbing with you, but I want to be doing other stuff, too. I want more from my life than pulling shifts at the Nick and getting wasted. All I’m saying is that this time at Richard’s company may be your opportunity to change your life for the better, too.”
I could tell she was trying to be reasonable, but for some reason her words irritated me. I’d always thought I could count on Lindsay, and now it seemed like she was moving on, and becoming one more person rejecting me and telling me what to do. “So does this have something to do with the interview you had the other day?”
A flash of guilt crossed her face. “Richard mentioned that? Yeah, it was at a casting agency. Answering phones and general admin at first, but it’s a foot in the door, and I’ll be learning the ropes. The acting hasn’t worked out, but I’d still like to stay in the business, and this seems like a good way to do that . . .”
This was all news to me. Lindsay had gone to drama school, and working at the Nick was meant to be her way of supporting herself between acting jobs. But somewhere along the way she’d stopped going for auditions, and bartending had become a full-time gig for her, like it was for me. Now it seemed she was looking at moving on. The unsettled feeling in my stomach began to grow.
“Right.” I snorted a laugh. “So you start seeing Adrian and suddenly you stop going out and decide that you’re too good for the Nick.”
Her cheeks flushed. “That isn’t it at all, and you know it! I’m genuinely worried about you, and you’re trying to turn this into something it’s not! I only want the best for you, and as my friend, I thought you’d be happy that I’d met a nice guy and that I was trying to start on a new career for myself.”
“It’s hard to be happy for you when you’re becoming as boring as the dullard that you’re dating.” I knew I was going too far by attacking her boyfriend, but I didn’t care.
“How dare you!” Lindsay’s eyes flashed. “Don’t start slagging off Adrian because you’re unhappy with your life!”
We glared at each other for a long moment. Neither of us was the type to back down. After a moment I stood up. “I’m going to rest up before work tonight.”
“Yeah?” Lindsay got to her feet, too. “That sounds like a good idea.”
We both turned away. I slammed my bedroom door on the way in, and a second later Lindsay did, too.
* * *
I wasn’t looking forward to going into work at the Nick that evening, because I knew I’d have to hand in my notice. I decided it would be best to get it over with quickly, so the first thing I did was tell my boss, Malachi, that my last shift would be Saturday night, because I had a new job starting on Monday morning. I didn’t go into the details of how I’d been forced into it, but I let him know that it would be an office job—the last thing I wanted was for him to think I was going to a competitor. He got funny about things like that.
In fact, for someone who worked in an industry that by its very nature employed transient workers, he could be surprisingly moody when anyone resigned. So I fully expected to get some grief from him about leaving on such short notice.
“So you’re finally joining the nine-to-five grind?” He finished pulling a pint, and handed it to a customer, then turned back to me. “I never thought I’d see the day.”
“I know, right? I can’t see it lasting.”
“Well, I hope it does.”
I frowned. “You do?”
“Yeah. I think it’ll be good for you.”
“Really?” I couldn’t help feeling a little hurt. I’d expected him to be furious about the short notice—to demand I stay longer. I’d almost thought I could put Richard off for a month or so by saying I needed to stay until a replacement could be hired, and that he might forget the whole arrangement as time went on. But now it seemed Malachi was totally on board, and I was stung by his willingness to let me go. “But you always said I was your best barmaid.”
He leaned up against the bar, stroking his goatee as he mused the point.
“Yeah,” he said. “You working here is good for my business, but is it good for you? That little stunt you pulled on Sunday night?” I’d have loved to keep that from him, but unfortunately I’d had to explain why I couldn’t work Monday and Tuesday nights. “I’ve been waiting for something like that to happen.”
This was news to me. He must have seen the shock on my face, because he gave a little smile. “It’s a hazard of the trade—bar staff liking the sauce a bit too much. This is a breeding ground for alcoholics.” I was about to object, but he held up a hand to quiet me. “But it’s not like that with you. You drink, but it’s not about the booze. You abuse alcohol, but you’re not addicted to it—not yet, anyway. There’s a darkness in you that you’re just trying to cover up. And that makes this the wrong place for you to be around. So I hope this new start works out for you. You’re a good girl, and I’d hate to see you get dragged down to a place you can’t come back from.”
Before I could even think about formulating a reply, he turned back to serve a customer. It was probably lucky that he did, because I had no idea what I’d say to him. That little speech was about the last thing I’d expected to hear from the usually taciturn Malachi. When did everyone turn into an amateur psychologist? And, more to the point, when had everyone decided I was a problem that needed to be solved, a victim who had to be saved? It seemed bizarre, given that out of everyone I knew, I was the one most able to take care of myself.
Needing a moment alone, I went through to the kitchen, and began to unload clean glasses from the dishwasher. Whatever anyone said, I wasn’t keen on Richard’s little plan to straighten me out. Unfortunately it seemed there was no way I was going to be able to get out of it. Malachi had been my last hope—and look how that had turned out.
And then it struck me—while I might not be able to convince Richard to release me from our deal, what if it was his idea? I couldn’t outright play up—that would just make him call my parents—but if I made minimal effort at his office, then surely he’d get so fed up that he’d have no choice but to let me get back to my life with no more interference.
For the first time that day, I felt a surge of hope. This didn’t need to be quite the disaster I’d feared. I just needed to bide my time, and play things the right way.
With my plan in place, I carried the glasses through to the bar, humming as I went.
Chapter 7
The following Monday morning, I emerged from Tottenham Court Road Tube station just before nine. It was a crisp, bright day, and as I joined the throngs of commuters hurrying towards Soho, I tilted my face towards the warm sun. But it was hard to enjoy the pleasant weather when all I could think about was what lay ahead—my first day at Richard’s advertising firm, Davenport’s.
I knew more than I wanted to about the business—and Richard’s role in it—because of my mother’s obsession with everything he did. I’d spent dozens of family dinners being bored to tears as she recounted how he’d saved Davenport’s from bankruptcy, and turned it into one of the most cutting-edge advertising firms in London.
Davenport’s offices were based in Soho, which was pretty much London’s equivalent to Madison Avenue for advertising firms. Soho, Covent Garden and Charlotte Street formed the heart of the industry—where there were plenty of cocktail bars and upscale restaurants for entertaining clients and celebrating account wins. As I walked along Dean Street with all the other commuters, I couldn’t help thinking that this was the last place I should be. It might be the hub of the sought-after media and arts industries, but it was still too conventional for my liking.
I didn’t bother to cover my mouth as I yawned. I was pissed off and tired. I’d be
en working in bars ever since I’d been kicked out of art school six years ago, so I hadn’t been up this early for ages.
To get to Richard’s office building, I had to walk through the maze of streets that made up Soho. As I passed a row of shops, I caught sight of my reflection in one of the windows. I hadn’t made any effort to tone down my appearance for the office. I was wearing what I pretty much had on at the bar every night—thigh-high thick cotton stockings, a black miniskirt, white tank top and my favourite vintage leather jacket. My platinum-blonde hair hung wild around my shoulders, and I had on my heavy blue-black mascara and eyeliner. Usually I would have fit right into the area, but at this time of the morning the commuters were out in force. The media types might not be suited and booted businessmen, but they were still well turned out, while I looked—to put it politely—scruffy. No wonder I could feel all the suits giving me sideways looks, wondering what I was doing here. I stuck out like a whore at a church fundraiser.
When I’d walked into the kitchen that morning, Lindsay had literally spat out her cornflakes when she saw me.
“You’re not seriously going like that?” she’d said, not making any effort to hide her disbelief.
“Why?” I’d cast a glance down at my attire, as though I had no idea what she was talking about. “What’s wrong with how I look?”
She’d shaken her head, and held up her hands in defeat. “It’s none of my business what you do,” she’d said, and resumed eating her cereal.
The atmosphere between us had been tense since our bust-up a few days earlier. For the first time ever, we hadn’t spent any of the weekend together. She’d texted to say that she was staying at Adrian’s for a couple of nights, and to call if I needed anything. I hadn’t bothered to phone, and she hadn’t attempted to get in touch again. Right now, I think we both knew it was best if we stayed out of each other’s way.
I tried not to be impressed as I arrived at Langley House, the building that housed Davenport’s. It was one of those elegant Regency mansion blocks, crafted from beautiful white-grey Portland stone. But while the exterior retained its period feel, the interior had been thoroughly modernised, and was all glass staircases, minimalist furnishings and flat-screen TVs—reminding me of the Apple store on Regent Street, with its mix of classic exterior and modern interior.
As I walked into the shared marble lobby, I could feel everyone staring at me. I felt a bit like Julia Roberts’s character in Pretty Woman, when she goes shopping. The only difference was, I didn’t care what anyone thought of me. In fact, shock and disapproval were exactly the reactions I’d been looking for.
Langley House was home to dozens of different businesses—everything from hedge funds to advertising agencies. There was a bank of reception desks in the middle of the lobby, staffed by four well-dressed women. I went straight up to one of the receptionists, whose eyes widened in shock when she saw me.
She managed to collect herself in order to ask my name, and who I was here to see. She then called up to check that I was expected. I could see her scepticism fade, and be replaced by a bright smile, as she came off the phone and directed me up to Richard’s offices.
As I walked away, I could see her lean over to whisper to the woman sitting next to her. I wondered if they were taking bets on who the hell I was, and why I was here.
Davenport’s was located on the sixth floor, at the top of the building. I caught the glass elevator up, and presented myself at the advertising firm’s reception. Two young, attractive women dressed in black were already busy answering phones. When one of them finally had a moment to take my name, I could see her eyes widen in disbelief when I said I was here to see Richard Davenport.
She put the call through, and told me to take a seat. Five minutes later, a neatly dressed woman in her fifties came to greet me, introducing herself as Jean Butler, Richard’s PA. She was too professional to show any reaction to my outfit, and instead led me down the hallway to Richard’s office.
His office was situated at the end of the building. I’d been expecting some glass-walled goldfish bowl, but instead his office had proper walls and a huge mahogany door, which Jean knocked on. Richard called out for her to come in.
He was on the phone when we walked in, pacing the room like a prowling panther, but beckoned me through, indicating for me to take a seat while he finished up. His PA closed the door quietly behind her. Richard was clearly bawling out the person on the other end of the phone—who, it sounded, had missed a deadline—but doing so in the most reasonable, restrained way possible. I took a look round the room as he spoke—it was neat and minimalist, with no hint of personality whatsoever—no pictures or knick-knacks. Just like his flat.
It was interesting for me to see Richard like this. To me, he was just uptight and annoying. Here, he was calm, commanding and in control. He had on a dark grey suit, the jacket thrown over the back of the chair, making it feel like he’d already been here for a long time. In the corner, there was a sports bag. That explained how he stayed so athletic even though he spent fourteen hours a day at the office.
He slammed the phone down, and then switched his attention to me. His eyes ran over my outfit, and I saw his lips twist in disapproval. “Seriously?”
“What?” I affected the same innocent look I’d given Lindsay that morning.
He shook his head. “Look, wear what you want. It’s no skin off my nose. You want to make life difficult for yourself, that’s entirely up to you. But let me assure you, it’s not going to make me get rid of you before the three months are up.”
I tried not to show my disappointment at him having guessed my plan.
“Come on.” Richard walked over to the door. “Let me introduce you to your team.”
I followed him along the corridors. As we passed other employees, Richard greeted everyone by name—and they answered deferentially back. A couple of the girls were a bit more friendly than necessary, but Richard didn’t seem to notice. Here, at work, he was all business.
“You’re like God around here,” I observed.
“That’s what happens when you sign the pay-cheques.”
I had a feeling there was more to it than that.
“So we have three main departments here,” he said, as we walked. “They’re Accounts Management, Planning and Creative.”
I didn’t say anything. I’d resolved this morning to display no interest or enthusiasm. It seemed the quickest way to get out of here. But Richard appeared not to notice. He was too caught up in what he was saying.
“So Accounts Management is the ‘suit’ side of advertising,” he said. I imagined that was what he’d specialised in, but I held my tongue. I refused to ask any questions unless absolutely necessary. “The accounts managers are the main point of contact for the clients. Then there are the planners, who are in touch with what the consumer wants. And lastly, you have the creatives. They’re the ideas people, the ones behind the words and pictures.” He paused and looked over at me. “That’s where you’re going to be working.”
I had a feeling he was expecting to get a reaction from me—gratitude or excitement, maybe?—but I refused to give it to him. Instead I managed to keep looking bored and underwhelmed. “And what’ll I be doing?”
“Each of the Creative teams has an assistant. We usually assign one of the graduate trainees, as part of their six-month rotation, but you’ll be going there instead. You’ll mostly be doing admin tasks for the team at first, but there’ll be the potential to learn about the business, and perhaps get involved in more interesting projects.”
I gave him a sidelong look. “I’m not looking to learn or get involved. You’re forcing me to come and work here for three months, so that’s what I’ll do. But after that, I’m out of here, and back to my normal life. That’s our deal.”
Richard sighed. “Fair enough. But do me a favour, will you?”
“What?”
“Try to remember this isn’t meant to be a punishment, Charlotte. It’s supposed
to be an opportunity. It’s just up to you what you get out of it.”
He didn’t bother to wait for my response, but instead led me down to the Creative Department. The centre of the floor was open plan—for the more junior employees—and then at the side the more senior ones had offices. The creative teams worked in twos—one copywriter and one art director.
We reached one of the offices. There was a desk outside—which I assumed was going to be mine—and then inside there were two people, a man and a woman. They were caught up in a heated discussion. The door was open, but Richard gave a quick rap just to let them know we were there.
“Hey, guys.” They stopped arguing and looked up. “I wanted to introduce you to Charlotte Cranford, your new assistant. And Charlotte, this is your team—Helena Roberts, who’s one of our art directors, and Rex Morris, copywriter extraordinaire.”
They stood to shake my hand. To say that they made an odd pairing was something of an understatement. But then again, I imagined advertising didn’t exactly attract anyone average. The art director, Helena, was a severe-looking woman who I guessed was in her mid-thirties. She was model tall, and extremely thin, with a long, angular face. Her hair was pulled back in a tight bun, and she wore John Lennon–style glasses. She was smartly dressed in navy 1940s swing trousers, with a fitted white shirt tucked into the high waist. She’d topped the outfit off with a paisley scarf, tied like a cravat.
“Charlotte,” her voice was clipped and no-nonsense. “Good to meet you.”
Then it was Rex Morris’s turn. Again, he must have been in his mid-thirties, but physically, he was the opposite of Helena—he was small and rotund, with a round face. He was also completely bald. But while he might not be much to look at, he’d presented himself as well as possible, and was dapperly dressed in a natty royal blue pinstriped suit, with raspberry-pink trimming, which came complete with a matching waistcoat and a raspberry-pink shirt and tie.
“Fresh blood! Just what we need!” Rex’s voice was surprisingly high and camp. He grinned at me. “Let’s see how long it takes to corrupt you.”
