Obviously I can’t tell her. “Some . . . uhm . . . things.”
“Take a seat,” she says. I take off my coat, pull a chair up to her desk and sit down opposite her. “So, I was seeing this guy a few years back. We were engaged for a time. He’s an actor on General Practice, Richie Robbins?”
I’ve never heard of him or his show. “Sorry, I don’t watch much television.”
“Well, don’t watch General Practice,” she says with a derisive laugh. “It’s on BBC2 at half past one in the afternoon and it’s utter horseshit. Richie’s fans consist of students, the retired and the unemployed. He’s not even Z-list enough to make it onto a reality TV show. But despite Richie Robbins being to Brad Pitt what Aled Jones is to Justin Timberlake, Jadine threw herself at him every opportunity she got. At Diablo’s Christmas party she asked him to dance and orchestrated a wardrobe malfunction that unleashed her left boob into his face.” Freja grimaces and rolls her eyes. I dig my fingernails into the arm of the chair. If she behaves like this with Ethan, I don’t think I’ll cope. “This one time, Richie and I were on a date, and she mysteriously appeared with an entourage of model friends. She was hammered out of her skull and she jumped him when he went to the men’s room.”
“Oh my god, what did you do?”
“I ignored it for too long. To be honest, Richie and I should never have been together,” she says matter-of-factly. “Funnily enough, he did end up cheating on me with Alyssa Brooks, one of Jadine’s modelling friends.”
“Alyssa Brooks . . . I know her. She’s modelled for one of my ads before. Alyssa Brooks-Robbins?”
Freja nods curtly. “Yeah, that’s her. Richie married her and Jadine was her bridesmaid.” She lets out a little laugh. “Can you believe that?”
I feel my jaw hit the floor. “I can’t believe any of this.”
She clears her throat and I see her eyes glisten – the first time I’ve seen her confidence waver. “As you can imagine, I’m not overjoyed at the prospect of having Jadine in my team. Lucas knows how I feel, but he bends over backwards to accommodate what his daughter wants. He didn’t know she existed until she was fifteen, and he’s been making up for it ever since. He’s blind when it comes to her.”
Christ, this is worse than a frigging daytime soap opera. It sounds like cheating dickhead Richie Robbins doesn’t even need to act in General Practice. He just needs to show up to the set and live his life. “I’m so sorry, Freja. I don’t know how you can be in the same building as her, never mind have her in your team.”
“Terrible people need kindness more than anyone else,” she says, powering down her console and popping a couple of pens back in a yellow pot with googly Minion eyes. “Don’t get me wrong, over the years I’ve called Jadine worse than shit to her face, as well as behind her back, but all this is in the past now. I’ve moved on from that.”
“You’re a better person than me. I have a knack for holding a grudge.”
Freja tilts her head to one side and scans my face again. I feel her eyes boring into my skull like she’s reading my mind. “What did she do to you?”
“Oh, nothing really. I just overheard her saying something and I wanted to know if I should be worried.”
“You look worried. What did you hear? Violet, you can tell me.” The empathy in her voice reaches deep inside me, opening doors in my brain and bringing down walls that I have no time to rebuild.
My gaze falls to my lap, then I close my eyes briefly and take a few deep breaths. “I’ve just found out she has a history with someone who is very . . . uhm . . . special to me. She wants him back in her life.”
I dare to look up, expecting to find her eyes still fixed on me, but instead she’s pensively resting her chin on her hands, her fingers locked together as she thinks. “Is this about Ethan Fraser?”
My stomach heaves. “I . . . I . . . how . . . ?”
“Please,” she says with a smile. “You think I didn’t notice you were rushing towards his office when you knocked me to the ground this morning? You think I didn’t see your face fall when he left without saying a word?”
“Was it that obvious?”
“Probably only to me,” she says. “I notice things.” Her smile grows wider, warming up her pale complexion and crinkling her eyes. “Oh, and Jadine has already told half the studio that she used to date him.” My stomach heaves again. I think. Or maybe it’s my heart. “So, where are you guys at? I’m guessing you’re in love with him. Is he in love with you?”
“We’ve been together almost six months.”
She sits up straight, her entire body buzzing back to life. “Wow. I would never have guessed. I’m losing my touch. How didn’t I see that?”
“Because it’s a secret. Stella put a clause in Ethan’s contract banning work relationships with clients or colleagues. He says he’s waiting for a good time to tell her about us, but . . .” I fold my arms across my chest, protecting myself from the truth. “I couldn’t do it anymore. We’ve kind of cooled things down. It’s very complicated.”
“Cooled down? What does that mean?” she asks, screwing up her freckled nose. “Sex without sleepovers? Kisses without tongues?”
I almost choke on a laugh. “I don’t even know – it was my call, but I hadn’t thought it through. Like I said, it’s complicated.”
“And you’re afraid Jadine is about to make it a hundred times more complicated?”
I nod. “He says he can’t remember much about dating her, and I trust him, honestly I do. I’m just scared she’ll come between us. Like she came between you and Richie.”
“Jadine Clark didn’t come between me and Richie. She didn’t even scratch the surface of our doomed relationship.” Freja laughs, then she starts to pack up her bag. “Every woman has their ‘the one’, right? Well, Richie was never my ‘the one’; he was the rebound. Walk with me,” she says, jerking her head towards her office door.
We pick up our bags and coats then walk through the film studio, passing sets, cameras and a series of very technical-looking glass-fronted rooms filled with sound and video equipment. It’s going to be great having an in-house studio. At BMG, we always outsourced TV commercials to film production companies, sometimes outside the city, so being a truly multi-service agency will be great.
“Sorry for rushing you out, but I have to meet someone at eight,” says Freja. We make our way out to the building’s main reception area.
“I should be going too,” I say, scouting around my handbag for my security pass. “Do you have a date tonight?”
“Depends on your definition of ‘date’,” she replies. I recall overhearing her heated conversation with the angry Australian this morning and remember she has a friends-with-benefits thing going with him. A smile creeps over my face as I rummage deeper in my bag for my pass, finally retrieving it from one of the zip-up pockets.
As I sign myself out, I’m startled by a high-pitched squeal so loud I swear it starts a chorus of dogs barking. I turn around to see a woman with a round, pretty face and sleek bobbed hair tottering on heels in our direction.
“Oh my god, Georgie!” Freja shrieks as she plunges into the other woman’s outstretched arms, swallowing her up in a gigantic hug. “I heard you were thinking about coming back. Please tell me you’ve accepted the job.”
The shorter woman nods eagerly. “Uh-huh. I start tomorrow.”
Freja grabs Georgie’s hands in hers, gripping her tightly as if they’re long-lost sisters. Then they both start jumping in the air with excitement and hug again. I smile as I watch them, but inside I feel a pang of sadness. I’ve never had a female friendship like that, except with my sister. When Laurel died I knew nobody could ever match what we had together, so I shut out the possibility of having a female friend. I made friends with guys and told myself I wasn’t missing anything.
“Oh, where are my manners?” Freja’s still holding Georgie’s hand tightly as she steps forward to introduce me. “This is Violet, Tribe’s creative director
. Violet, this is my absolutely best friend in the world, Georgie Ravencroft. She’s been living in Africa for far too long, but she’s just returned to man our art studio.” She bends down close to stage-whisper into Georgie’s ear. “Violet’s one of us.”
Georgie grins widely and gives me a kiss on the cheek. “Lovely to meet you, Violet.” Her voice is both husky and plummy, with one of the poshest accents I’ve ever heard. If it weren’t for her rather ordinary appearance, I’d think she was aristocracy. She’s wearing a green wool-blend pencil skirt with sensible court shoes, a cream chiffon blouse and a camel-coloured winter coat with a missing button and a funny-looking brooch. Her bobbed hair is mousy brown and her natural make-up adds a tiny trace of colour to her face.
“Lovely to meet you too, Georgie. I heard you used to work for Diablo Brown as well?”
“For my sins,” says Georgie, with a grin in Freja’s direction. “I started a year or two before Frey, and gosh, it was dull back then, really ghastly dull. I’m a photographer, you see. That’s my art. Studied at Oxford, then Surrey. I have a PhD from my published work, but I hate using that stuffy ‘doctor’ title. I’m babbling, aren’t I? Sorry about that. Try not to switch off, sweetie, – I do talk too much. Where was I? Oh yes, my submitted practical thesis surrounded the historical and theoretical representation of photography as an art form in the charity sector. Part-funded by Médecins Sans Frontières back in 2002. That’s when I fell in love with Africa, but now I’m done and I’m back in London again. We must go out!” She turns to Freja and continues to talk, her raspy voice not stopping for a breath of air. “What do you say we pop to the Wild Rover for old times’ sake, Frey? We need a catch-up and I need a drink or ten.” Freja looks at her watch, which produces a pet lip on her friend. “Oh please, sweetie. I’ve been travelling most of the weekend and I’ve had an absolute horror of a day today with meetings and trying to get my flat back. Would you believe I have to give my tenant six weeks’ notice? Six!”
“Were you planning on kicking him out on the street?” Freja says playfully.
“No!” says Georgie with a gasp. “But why does it have to take six weeks? My flat is furnished, so he only needs to move his stuff. I’ll be officially homeless over Christmas. Like a modern-day Virgin Mary.”
“Oh please, Georgie. Your family owns half of Buckinghamshire.”
“They do not.” Her throaty voice quivers, and I get the feeling her family’s wealth must embarrass her. “But even if they did, that’s not the point. That’s my flat, I bought it with my own money that I earned by myself and I want to live in it.”
“I’m sorry, I’m just teasing,” says Freja. It seems Georgie feels uncomfortable about being precisely as posh as she sounds. “I’d love to go out tonight, believe me I would, but I already made plans.”
Georgie pouts like a child too used to getting her own way. “Who with?”
Freja’s demeanour changes. Her eyes flick to me for a moment, and I’m surprised by her reaction. Surely she isn’t ashamed to confess where she’s going? She takes a deep breath. “Okay, if you must know, I was seeing Harry tonight.”
Georgie gasps in horror, her hands shooting to her chest. “Harry Hopkins? You’re passing me over for Harry Hopkins – the real-life Master of the Dark Arts – the same Harry Hopkins who sounds like he’s been named by J.K. Rowling but looks like he lives in a cardboard box?”
“Firstly, digital advertising isn’t a dark art, and secondly, you’ve no room to talk about people sounding like they’ve been named by J.K. Rowling, Georgiana Ravencroft.”
Georgie pokes her tongue in her cheek to stop herself laughing. “It’s Georgiana Ottilia Velvet Ravencroft, to be exact. And you know I’m a witch; so come clean, my tall friend, or I’ll put a spell on you. What the devil are you doing with Hopkins? He’s rude and horribly dirty.”
A filthy smirk appears on Freja’s face and I can’t help but laugh. Georgie gasps in horror again. “No,” she says. “No. He’s a total arse; you can’t, Frey, please. I’m very worried about this. I’m not even sure Harry Hopkins showers every day.”
Freja laughs at her friend’s dramatic reaction. “Okay, calm down, Mary Poppins. If you must know, we have an agreement, and it works quite well. It’s strictly sex. No dating, no sleepovers, no exclusivity, no messy boyfriend/girlfriend stuff.”
Georgie looks like she could cry. “We’ll have to talk about this later, I just can’t . . . I can barely look at you right now, but we’re still going out. You can have all the . . . ugh . . . I can’t even say the word—”
“Sex?”
“Ew. Don’t say it. I need a new word – ding-dong – no, that’s too obvious. Bing-bong. Okay, a little better. You can bing-bong with Harry Hopkins any time you like. Just tell him Georgie is back in London tonight and he’ll understand.” She turns on her heel, links her arm through mine and leads me towards the exit. “Do you have plans tonight, Violet? No? Good, you’re coming out too.”
Georgie gives me no time to protest. I’m tired and couldn’t be any less in the mood for this. Seriously, even if we were headed to the Royal Opera and had after-show drinks lined up with Italian tenor Paolo Fanale (trust me, he’s hot), I’d still rather have my bed.
Freja picks her iPhone out of her bag and texts Harry as she follows behind. “I hope you realise I’m giving up sex for you.”
“I hope you realise you can do a hell of a lot better than Harry bloody Hopkins. You’re one of my most beautiful friends, I don’t know how you can stand it. He’s so . . . hairy.”
“Don’t knock a man with a beard until you’ve tried it, George. Or rather – until he’s tried you.”
“Oh, don’t. That’s gross. I swear my hymen has just grown back at the thought of it.”
Freja raises her arm and hails a taxi. Meanwhile, I have a headache. I don’t know whether it’s Georgie’s incessant chatter, or the Jadine revelations, or the prospect of going god knows where for drinks with two women I like but barely know. I always find socialising exhausting, but something tells me I’ll be very lucky if I survive a night out with these two.
12
WHEN I WAS COERCED INTO going out with Freja and Georgie to a place called the Wild Rover, I envisaged a swanky cocktail bar in the West End. The last place I expected to find myself was a historic pub on the Greenwich riverfront, a stone’s throw away from the Cutty Sark. The pub is also just a few yards from Freja’s quirky quayside home. I asked her why she chose to live here, and she replied that her Viking blood calls her to live next to water. I love that. She’s like the Little Mermaid, but with legs and attitude.
“So, beautiful, how do you like your eggs in the morning?”
The look on Freja’s face says it all as she turns around and screws up her nose at the bearded hipster guy who’s been watching us closely since we got here. “Definitely unfertilised,” she says, staring down at the much shorter man, whose round spectacles align with her chin.
“Aw, don’t be like that. How about you give me a chance—”
“How about you take yourself back to your friends before I embarrass you?”
The guy’s face falls. He looks over at me and Georgie. I feel a bit sorry for him, although his chat-up line was excruciatingly bad. “I guess you three are all lesbians, then,” he says, his voice slurred with drink. Good grief, there goes my sympathy. What an utter moron. Georgie shrieks with laughter. Freja looks at him as if she’s just scraped him off her shoe.
“Alright, I’m sorry. Could you at least pretend to give me your number, though? I bet my mates I could pull you.”
Freja looks at the guy’s group in the corner of the pub. They respond with a few jeers and a wolf-whistle. She rolls her eyes and shudders. Then she picks up a beer mat, takes a pen from her bag and scrawls a clearly made-up number on the edge of the damp, crinkly cardboard. She passes the beer mat to him with a flick of her hand. “Now go.”
The guy eagerly takes the mat and turns it around in both hands, sq
uinting at Freja’s writing. “Hey, is this your real number?” he asks, sidling up to her with his tongue practically hanging out of his mouth.
Freja stands tall and gives the guy a look which makes him shrink a few inches. “You know, right now I’m jealous of every woman who has never met you.”
The guy turns the colour of an undercooked chicken and promptly walks away. Georgie laughs again. “That was so mean.”
“After the chat-up line he just gave me? He’s lucky he didn’t get a hell of a lot more than a very witty knockback.” She shudders again and shakes herself back to life. “So, where were we?”
“I was ordering another round of shots,” says Georgie.
I yawn. The last thing I want is more drink. I’m half-sozzled already. She catches the eye of the bartender who’s come to work today wearing a fur trapper hat. It may be winter, but he’s serving drinks in a trendy pub in London, not hunting bears in Siberia. I’m all for expressing yourself via unusual headwear, but strands of lanky, sweaty hair because your head is too hot isn’t a good look.
I dare to share. “Listen, ladies. Tonight’s been great, but I really need to get home. I have an hour’s journey from here and . . . well, I’m tired.”
Georgie, who is sitting at the bar next to me, turns around and looks horrified. “It’s not even nine yet. We’re celebrating. Don’t be a goose. Tell her, Freja!”
“Leave her be, George. Violet has a lot on her mind right now.”
“Like what?”
Oh god, I really don’t have the time or the inclination to spew out all of my woes in a bar whilst sobbing into empty shot glasses. I don’t want to be here. Don’t get me wrong, this is fun – more fun than I thought it would be – but I need to find Ethan. I have to talk to him. I haven’t stopped thinking about him all day, and I won’t be able to settle tonight until I hear his voice.
The bartender plonks a rectangular wooden tray containing six flavoured vodka shots in front of us.
It's Complicated (The Agency Book 2) Page 11
