I don’t bother engaging. I’m too pissed off with him. I stare at the text message, shaking my head: WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU? I KNOW YOU’RE NOT AT HOME. I SWEAR IF YOU’RE WITH HIM I’M GOING TO HUNT YOU DOWN AND KILL YOU. I SUPPOSE YOU THINK ME WASTING A FORTune on a room at the fucking Birch Royal is funny? I know this is down to him. Tell him he’s a piece of shit and tell him to fuck off. All the way off – to hell and back again! Actually no, not to fucking hell and back again. A one-way ticket to hell! I hope he fucking stays in hell. With the devil’s pitchfork sticking right up his fucking arse.
Given that English is Max’s second language, I’ve been impressed by his creative use of expletives for quite some time, but here he surpasses himself. Is he trying to win a “how many fucks can you place in a text message” award?
I slump back on the pillows. “Just tell me what you did.”
“Okay, but it isn’t that bad. I just told him to book a room at a five-star hotel then make sure he got to escort Amélie home safely in a cab. The plan was to slip her the hotel address and room number once he’s halfway there.”
“What the hell were you thinking? You made Max into a creepy stalker. She’ll have him for sexual harassment!”
A fleeting worried look crawls across his face, but then he shakes his head. “Well, it should have worked. This very same move was tried and tested by me with Erin from Sunta Motors two years ago.” I roll my eyes at him, but he continues. “Anyway, Max thinks you sent him the tip. You told him a London Symphony Orchestra cellist called Dirk took you to the Ritz for a steamy night of passion.”
“What the actual hell? Max is going to think I’m an even sluttier version of you! You could have at least given me a hot-sounding made-up fuck buddy. Why would I have a one-night stand with a stranger called Dirk? I actually feel sick at the thought. Dirk is making me feel sick. If I had anything left in my stomach right now, you’d be wearing it.”
“You’re saying that now, but you weren’t when Dirk brought out the massage oils and handcuffs.”
My jaw drops. “Ethan, this is serious. Max is going to hate me for this. And think I’m a slut.”
“Leave it to me, I’ll set him straight. I’m great at sweet-talking him. All it takes is a bottle of that weird fruity beer he likes. He’s like a puppy after you throw him a bone – friends for life.”
I climb out of bed and walk over to Ethan’s huge wall-length closet. I take out a dress, then retrieve my make-up bag and bundle of toiletries from the drawer he gave me. This drawer is the only tangible evidence of our relationship. I was so happy when Ethan gave me my drawer, but recently I’ve found myself yearning for more.
“What’s the matter?” he asks, catching me lost in thought. He gets out of bed and walks around to where I’m standing. “Look, I’m sorry about Max. I promise I’ll set him straight, but I was trying to get him laid. It’s been a while for the poor bastard.”
I close my drawer and let out a sigh. “Max has been great about us being together, and he’s the only person who knows. This isn’t a good way to repay him.” I try, but totally fail, to stop a note of bitterness creeping into my tone at the reminder that I can’t share my happiness with anyone else.
“Hey, I know it’s tough. I want nothing more than to tell the world how I feel about you too, but you know the score – no work relationships. Stella put that clause in my partnership contract because of my past, and I need to earn her trust back. My getting involved with a client played a huge part in BMG losing the Quest account. I promised you I’d work on Stella when the time’s right, but that time isn’t now. Tribe hasn’t even launched, so I daren’t approach her yet. I know it’s hard, but please . . . just a little longer.”
I force a smile. “I’m sorry, I’m being selfish. I just can’t help thinking back to the summer, in Santorini. We had a great time doing that impromptu campaign for Kenneth Ives. I wish we could go back to how we were then.”
He lets his thumb smooth over my jaw as one hand moves to softly touch my hair. “What matters is we know we’re together. I’ve wanted to be with you for so long, and I’m so sorry I can’t make it perfect for you. This isn’t the way I want things either, but the most important thing is we love each other, isn’t it?”
I nod. After spending my entire life believing I was unlovable, the fact that I have the most amazing boyfriend in the world is all the perfect I need.
2
AFTER I SHOWER AND DRESS, I put my things back in my drawer, find a hairband and finish off styling my hair. Shit, it looks like a short-sighted bird has attempted to build a nest in it. When will I ever win the war against the frizz? I find my shine serum and get to work.
“Well, what do you think?”
I turn around to face Ethan and my jaw drops to the floor. He looks drop-dead gorgeous. He’s wearing a charcoal-grey suit tailored to every line and contour of his six-foot-tall athletic frame. His shirt is dazzling white against his creamy skin, and a silk houndstooth-patterned tie is knotted around his neck. His hair is impeccably styled away from his face in short brown feathery flicks, and his sparkling blue eyes are smiling at me with a mixture of pride and excitement.
I smile back at him, but then my stomach slumps. He looks like a boss – my boss. Shit, he is my boss. Seemingly overnight, a ten-ton weight of responsibility and importance has been dropped on his side of the scales, throwing our perfectly balanced relationship off-kilter. Not that long ago we were spending our weekends hammered on whisky chasers after nailing our latest campaign and adding another rung of awesome on our career ladder. The next minute, my best friend is my lover and my boss, and we’re spending our weekends shagging each other’s brains out, hoping nobody uncovers our secret. I want to keep my Ethan – the amazingly talented guy who uploads his songs to YouTube, the adorable best friend who can only add up using his fingers, and the fantastic boyfriend who makes me feel glad to be me. He’s the guy I fell in love with, and I’m not at all sure about this other (still incredibly hot) guy in the three-piece suit . . . oh jeez, wait. What the . . . ?
“Ethan, are you wearing a waistcoat?”
He looks down at himself. “Yeah,” he says, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. “Why?”
“Don’t you think waistcoats are kinda for old people?”
“Well, I didn’t until now. It’s Valentino – last season, but I still spent a fortune on it. I was trying to look like an extremely important ad agency partner. Do I look ridiculous?”
“No, but you do look a bit old. And a bit like my grandfather.”
He rolls his eyes. “Would you be saying this if your grandfather was in the room?”
“No, but he’s been dead for the past twenty years, so talking about your suit would be the last thing on my mind if he was.”
He grins at me until his cheeks dimple. “So, how do I really look?”
I walk towards him and circle my arms around his waist. “Put it this way, you might be on a promise tonight.”
His eyebrows arch skywards. “Ooh, now that sounds nice.” He leans in close and kisses me softly. “But I’m warning you, I will kick your arse if you let even the tiniest drop of alcohol pass your lips today.”
“Ethan, please. You make me sound like a wino.”
“After last night you’ve no right to be offended,” he says jokily as his arms tighten around my waist. He hugs me again and I squeeze him right back. “What’s up?”
“Hmm?”
He moves his hand to my face and raises my chin until my eyes meet his. “You’re overthinking about something.”
I make a creeped-out face. “How do you know that?”
“Every time you’re fixating or worrying about something, there’s a little vein just here” – he traces his fingers lightly down the left side of my temple to my cheek – “that looks like it’s going to pop.”
I screw up my nose. “That doesn’t sound very attractive.”
“Don’t worry, you’re still beautiful,” he says, care
ssing the offending angry-vein spot. “So, what is it?”
“It’s nothing really. It’s just your new suit reminds me that you’re my boss now. We’ve always been partners, equals. It’s going to be weird not working with you like that anymore. Does that make sense?”
He nods slowly, his smile fading with understanding. “I know, Vi. It’s strange for me too, but we’ll get there. We’re a rock-solid team and we always will be.”
“Just promise you won’t boss me about.”
“I wouldn’t fucking dare,” he says with humour in his voice. “But . . . well, I have been thinking about what you said, about us.”
I pull away for a moment as my heart leaps. “You mean our secret?”
He nods. “Stella flew out to the States this morning, but I’ve decided I’m going to tell her about us when she gets back. I figure she chose me to head up the creative department because of what I do and who I am, so she shouldn’t demand I be somebody else. I’ll be forever grateful to Stella for everything she’s done for me, and I respect the hell out of the woman, but at the same time she’s not my bloody mother. She can’t control my love life. So, are you okay if I tell her when she’s back in London? It’ll just be another couple of weeks.”
“Erm . . . yeah, sure.”
“You’re looking at me funny.”
“I’m not, I . . .” I catch him glancing at the mysterious place where my angry vein is supposed to dwell, and I cover it with my hand. He grins mischievously. “Just be sure, Ethan. Tribe is your dream. It’s everything you’ve ever wanted.”
“It is, but you are too. And if I had to choose, I’d choose you.”
My completely-and-utterly-in-love heart high-fives me for finding such a spectacular boyfriend. I give him the squeeziest hug.
“Okay, it’s almost seven, so we best get going,” he says, giving me one last kiss. “What do you say we stop off for breakfast at Mamie’s on the way to work today?”
“You’re enjoying our temporary office, aren’t you?”
“Too bloody right I am. Not only does a ten-minute walk to work save on Tube fares, but it’s also a chance to get some exercise. I’m going to make the most of it before we move to the Docklands.”
* * *
For the past five months, Stella has rented a small office space not far from the Novello Theatre in Covent Garden, while we prepare to merge with Lovett Ives and buy out Diablo Brown film studio. A week after we all resigned from BMG – and Ethan and I got together – we were installed above a fair trade coffee shop on Tavistock Street, and the pervasive aroma of freshly ground espresso has pervaded my workspace ever since – constantly reminding me why I despise hot drinks.
For those five months, Ethan, Max and I have worked as part of a skeleton team of six, laying the foundations for Tribe’s impending launch. Most of us have had to forget about our individual career expertise in the name of getting stuff done. Ethan is suddenly pitching for million-pound contracts with famous clients, and I . . . well, I’m pretty much the office jack-of-all-trades: administrator, financial controller, human resources officer, analyst and, on most days, sandwich shopper. Max, our temperamental but brilliant designer, refuses to do anything but art, so he’s been preparing Tribe’s branding and publicity material. Aside from Stella, the other members of our skeleton crew are managing partner Daniel Noble and G abriel Diaz, Stella’s executive assistant. Daniel is arguably the city’s best client account manager, but instead of winning new business, he’s taken on the challenging role of project-managing the team of hairy-arsed builders redesigning our new offices. As for Gabriel, he’s always existed to service Stella’s needs, so he’s mostly been doing her laundry and grocery shopping.
It’s been okay, but I often find myself thinking of the old days – working into the night with Ethan with a couple of beers and a pepperoni pizza because we had a looming deadline. I miss those wonderful moments where we’d brainstorm the shit out of a brief and come up with something so awesome that we’d celebrate by getting stinking rotten drunk. An event which often ended with one or both of us vomiting in a bus shelter. We had a fabulous week in Greece in the summer, shooting a TV ad for another company owned by one of Tribe’s senior partners, but I still feel a pang of nostalgia for how we used to be. Everything was simpler then.
“You fucking pair of bastards!”
Max’s voice roars into the office, followed by a body which looks like it’s been glued together with things found in a kid’s craft box. Over the last few months I’ve noticed my six-foot-four friend has started to make the most of his rapidly depleting hairline by spritzing what’s left of it into wild spikes. Ethan, of course, has thoroughly taken the piss out of his new look. He jokes that Max’s newfound fondness for eyeliner makes him look like Amy Winehouse’s twin sister – even with his stubbly goatee beard. This morning, Max has chosen to wear one of his favourite retro clubbing t-shirts with half-mast jeans that would be tight on any man who wasn’t built like a lamppost. Much worse is his vamped-up jacket, decorated with sequins, gold tassels and some sort of synthetic feathery plumage. It’s like he won a trolley dash through Camden Market.
I turn to Ethan. “Over to you.”
“What do you mean ‘over to you’?” His jaw tightens, and I can see fear in his eyes.
“I mean I’m sitting this one out.” Max’s green eyes are flashing between both of us, trying to work out what’s going on. “Max, this has nothing to do with me. I was completely out of it last night. Ethan sent you all those messages and I only found out about you and Amélie this morning.”
Max’s head snaps in Ethan’s direction and the skin of his neck reddens. “You miserable, kilt-wearing, haggis-eating, whisky-drinking shitweasel!”
Ethan starts to laugh, which makes the fire in Max’s eyes burn wilder. “Okay, I’ve never worn a kilt or eaten a haggis in my life, but I’ll give you the whisky. I was only trying to help you out, so cut me a bit of slack here.”
“Help? Amélie slapped me in the face and called me a pervert, and then the taxi driver yanked me out of his cab and said London was going to the dogs because of ‘sleaze-balls like me’. The Royal Birch was going to charge me full price if I cancelled their shitty room, so I had no choice but to stay there. I stole a towel and twenty-two packs of shower gel off the housekeeper’s trolley to make up for the money I’ve wasted.”
Ethan’s eyes pop, and I have to suck in a breath to stop myself collapsing into a fit of giggles. “I’m sorry,” Ethan says sincerely. “I didn’t foresee this eventuality. I used this trick to pull Erin Leadbitter and it worked a charm, so—”
“You? This was your pulling technique?” His eyes transform into two angry pinholes. “Who the fuck is Dirk then?”
“Max . . .” I say, drawing out his name until the penny drops.
“You bastard!” he yells, turning back to Ethan. “You said it would work because Dirk wore corduroy trousers and looked like Mr. Bean! You said if a guy like that could pull Violet this way, then me pulling Amélie was a dead cert.”
Ethan is clearly finding all this hilarious. He swivels on his office chair, his jaw clenched tight with supressed laughter. “How did I know it wouldn’t work? It worked for me, so . . .”
“So, in case you haven’t noticed, I don’t look like you. And neither does fucking Dirk.”
“You know Dirk isn’t real, right?”
“Yes, I know Dirk isn’t fucking real, you tosser!” Max raises his voice a few decibels and I worry about our office neighbours. “Ever since you put Dirk in my mind last night, I’ve been wanting to ask Violet what the hell she saw in him.”
“Max, I’m actually quite offended you believed I’d sleep with not-real, made-up Dirk. Can you imagine me being with a guy who wears corduroy? You should have known better than to believe this. I’m pissed off with you just as much as I’m pissed off with him.”
“How is this my fault?” he says with a gasp of indignation. “It was plausible that you’d sha
g Dirk. You’re shagging Ethan, which is a hell of a lot worse—”
The door behind me swings open and Max falls silent. My heart plummets, my blood turns cold and my brain starts thinking up ways to kill Max and his stupid big mouth. I slowly turn around, and I’m met by the shocked face of Daniel Noble.
A horrified look spreads across Max’s face. “Erm . . . what I meant to say is . . . Violet is shagging this guy called Dirk and—”
Daniel’s eyebrows shoot up. “I wasn’t born yesterday, Max.”
I swear I hear all three of us swallow simultaneously. Daniel crosses the small office floor, flings his laptop case down on his desk and sits down. I sense he’s not happy. I hope it’s not due to the revelation Max has just unleashed onto the world.
“Is everything okay, Daniel?” I ask, hoping for the best.
“Hmm?” He stops reading through a bundle of papers to look at me. “Erm . . . yeah. Well, no, not exactly. There’s something I need to tell you all.”
Everyone stops working immediately. Daniel’s tone bears an overwhelming sense of doom, which is unusual for him. He never loses his cool. Daniel is widely regarded as the best advertising contract-closer in London. His confidence is unshakeable. If you want to sell wool to a sheep or trees to a forest, then Daniel’s your man. He’s also seriously good-looking, with sparkling blue eyes, the bone structure of a Renaissance statue and the athletic build of a Grand Slam tennis player.
“I’ve been pulled off the tender for the JET Financial bid,” Daniel says plainly, without making eye contact with any of us. “You’ll have to go it alone, Ethan. I’ll help you out behind the scenes if you need me, but officially I can’t have anything to do with Tribe’s proposal.”
The colour drains from Ethan’s face. “Daniel, that deal is potentially eight figures. I can’t lead on something that big – I wouldn’t know where to start. What the hell happened?”
“It was Stella’s decision,” he says shortly.
Max stands up, checks his watch and picks up a comic. “Sorry guys, it’s time for my eight o’clock appointment with the toilet. It’s nice to be regular, but today I’d obviously prefer to stay and chat.” He heads for our unisex bathroom. I wonder why he didn’t try to hold on for a bit. Max loves office gossip as much as I do.
It's Complicated (The Agency Book 2) Page 2
