“You’re not going until we play another game – two games – of truth or dare,” says Georgie.
Oh no, why? The last game resulted in finding out Harry Hopkins likes to have sex wearing stripy toe-socks. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to bleach that image from my brain.
“Come on, you go first,” Georgie says eagerly, sliding the drinks in my direction. I consider taking two dares at once just so I can go home.
I take a deep breath and look at the drinks. They’re all various shades of off-white. One is a decidedly spunky colour. Ew. Not that one. I pick the least offensive-looking one. It has a yellow hue and looks a bit like pee, but I drink it down hoping for either lemon or pineapple.
Instead, I get a mouthful of sickly, sugary vanilla with a hard kick. I cough onto the back of my hand. “Christ, that’s awful.”
“That’s your third dare,” says Georgie suspiciously. “Why aren’t you talking? It’s me, isn’t it? Am I being overbearing?”
“No, no, of course not.”
Georgie frowns and her dark-brown eyes glisten with gloomy self-reflection. “Then what is it, sweetie? I know you’ve only just met me, but I’m a really good listener. I simply can’t bear anybody being sad . . . and you do look sad. Is it a man? It simply has to be . . . Why don’t you share, darling? Frey said you had something on your mind. Maybe we can help. We want to help.”
I wince at the intrusive line of conversation – and because the sickly vodka is still clawing at my throat.
Freja steps in. “Georgie, don’t pry. Now come on, it’s your turn.”
Georgie, still frowning suspiciously at me, takes heed of her friend and gives up the interrogation. As studio manager, she’s going to be Max’s boss, and through the sugary vodka fog that’s starting to invade my brain I wonder how on earth they’re going to get on. Georgie is overbearing. And persistent. And a little bit flaky. I sigh inwardly because there’s no question about it. She’s going to drive Max up the wall.
“Truth,” says Georgie with a broad smile that makes her round cheeks dimple. She straightens in her chair and does a little excited jiggle.
Freja drums her fingers against her chin, before her eyes light up and she asks, “Did you cheat on Mitchell in Africa?”
Whoa! What? I’m glad I took a dare. There seems to be no boundaries to this game. Georgie’s smile fades from her eyes, yet her grin seems to grow wider. “What made you ask me that?”
“Because you’ve been dating someone you don’t love for six years and you need to start living your life.”
Georgie’s smile fades away. I feel like I’ve walked in on a conversation that I’ve no right listening to. Probably because that’s precisely what’s happened. “Mitchell and I have an open relationship.”
Freja laughs. “Since when?”
“Since I went to Africa for the second time. It wasn’t fair on him the first time, so that’s what we agreed.” She scoots the tray of drinks in Freja’s direction. “Therefore, in answer to your impertinent question, no. I have never cheated on Mitchell. He’s . . . well, he’s a fixture, isn’t he? Or a piece of furniture, like an armchair. Yes, a rather nice armchair that you don’t necessarily notice, but if you’ve been away, you remember how comfortable it is as soon as you come home.”
“He’s more like a pile of dust under the armchair. Something you don’t want or need, but it’s always hanging around,” Freja says under her breath.
Georgie looks hurt. “It’s no secret that you don’t care for Mitchell, Frey. But he’s been there for me most of my life. He’s a good friend.”
“So keep him as a friend. Don’t tie yourself up.” Freja picks up a cloudy vodka shot, says “Dare,” and downs it. Then she pushes the tray of drinks over to me.
“I’m not tied,” says Georgie, gesturing with both hands. “We have an open relationship. A bit like you and that Hopkins creature. If I’m tied to Mitchell, then you’re tied to Hopkins.”
“Harry knows our relationship is purely sex – I told you: no dating, no sleepovers and no mess.”
“That’s gross,” says Georgie. “You deserve better than Hopkins.”
“And you deserve better than Mr Toboggan!”
I clear my throat. “Toboggan?” Please don’t let that be a euphemism.
“Mitchell toboggans for Great Britain,” Georgie says, as if that were a perfectly ordinary vocation.
“Is that his job?” I ask.
“Partly. He spends every season in the Alps, but he’s a journalist too. I won’t see him until March now. Unless I decide to spend Christmas in Val Thorens.”
Christ alive. It’s a whole different world.
“Now, Violet sweetie, it’s your turn.” Georgie twiddles the tray of vodka shots in front of my face. “And you’re not allowed to say ‘dare’.”
“Why are you offering me a choice of shots if I’m not allowed to drink one?” My brain feels like it’s trying to chisel its way free of my skull as it is. I need to go home.
She grins and her eyes turn into dark-brown almonds. “Just say ‘truth’. Then you can share all the sad thoughts that are making your beautiful face so tense and serious.” She tucks her hair behind her ears and rolls up the sleeves of her cream blouse. “We’ve only just met, but I can tell you want to be somewhere.” Her eyes scan mine. “Or is it that you want to be with someone?”
“If you can tell she wants to go somewhere, maybe you should let her go,” says Freja.
Georgie gasps. “You know, don’t you? You know the story and you’re keeping it from me. Oh, please tell. Everyone I worked with in Rwanda was either married or old. I had nobody’s love life to interfere with out there. It is a guy, isn’t it?”
“Okay, yes. And I . . . well, I need to go talk to him, but I don’t know how and . . .” The sensible part of my brain knows I probably – no, definitely – don’t want to be sharing my secret with somebody I’ve known for an hour. But the vodka-soaked part of it is reminding me that I’ve been promising myself for the past six months I’d open up more. Hiding my feelings has got me precisely nowhere. “I’m seeing someone at work, but it’s complicated. He used to be my partner, but now he’s my boss and—”
“Oh my god, who is it?” Georgie shrieks so loudly that the entire pub stops to look for a moment. She lowers her voice. “Is it the blonde sales guy who looks like Brad Pitt? Or the Scottish guy who looks like Ewan McGregor? Oh, wait, I know . . . you’re Creative, so if he used to be your partner, it must be the Scottish guy. Wow, he’s nice. He met me at reception this afternoon and showed me around the studio.” Her animated expression suddenly cracks into a huge frown. “I also met a rather weird German fellow. He looked like he’d been teleported from a Nirvana concert via the Rocky Horror Picture Show. He was wearing this strange little leather vest that was too short for him. And a purple plastic bangle. I wasn’t overly keen on him. He’s very odd. He kept squinting at me.”
Oh, no. Poor Max. I knew she wouldn’t take to him.
“Remember when you asked me to tell you when you were being pushy, George?” Freja reaches past her friend to grab the tray of drinks from in front of me. “Dare.” She downs the one that looks like a cup of donated sperm. My stomach heaves, but she doesn’t flinch. “You’re being pushy, George.”
“It’s fine,” I say quickly. “I shouldn’t be sharing this and you mustn’t tell anybody, but yes, that’s him. We’ve been together six months, but today I decided to cool things down because there are too many complications. He’s my boss now so it isn’t allowed.”
“Do you love him?” Georgie asks.
“Yes.”
“Does he love you?”
“Yes.”
“So why’s that complicated? Just disclose your relationship to HR. I’m sure they’ll be fine about the boss–employee thing.”
Freja catches my eye and gives me a knowing look. “In a way, she’s right, Violet. Do you think Ethan is the one?”
I don’t have to think
longer than a millisecond. “Yes. I’m just afraid . . .”
“Of?” says Freja.
My head is buzzing so much that I can barely think straight. Alcohol is never a great aid to thinking. “I’m afraid we were better as friends, and now that we’re more, I’m afraid we can’t go back.”
“You can’t go back.” Freja has that knowing look on her face again. Like she’s crawled inside my skin when I wasn’t paying attention and got to know everything about me. “If you love, then you have to love.”
“Do you want another shot for the road?” Georgie says.
I look at the remaining drinks and decide I don’t. I have the constitution of a baby bird when it comes to drinking, and my head is already very fuzzy. I take out my phone and send Ethan a text asking where he is. Two minutes later he replies that he’s still at the office, meeting with Jared Taft and a bidding team that Stella has had flown over from New York. Jeez, she really wants to win the JET Financial account. Talk about pulling out all the stops.
I order a cab. I don’t know where I’m going, but when it arrives I get in and head for Canary Wharf. I leave, not really sure if when I get there I’m going to hop on the Tube for home or head for the office to see him.
* * *
Fifteen minutes later I find myself scanning my pass at security and heading through to Tribe’s reception. Of course, I have absolutely no idea what I’m going to say or do once I’m there. I can hardly barge my way into a room on the executive floor and ask to speak to Ethan if he’s in a meeting with Jared Taft and an army of hotshot American deal-closers.
I’m also definitely pissed on vodka shots.
Maybe I could pretend I’d left my phone behind? Or my house keys? Yes, that would work. I head for my office, but just as I walk onto the creative floor and the double doors shut behind me, I hear voices and footsteps. I hang back from the door, but hold it slightly ajar.
I knew it would be Ethan even before I heard the sound of his laughter echoing down the stairwell. I close my eyes and try to focus on his words, but my sloshed brain is blurring my listening skills. I think I hear him suggest having “a few whiskies” before turning in for the night. Then I hear some cajoling and mention of the Blue Room, a trendy bar next to Canary Wharf station. I hear a few American accents and a few British. All male, I think.
I peer through the gap in the door as the group of dark tailored suits and corporate haircuts lead out from the corridor and into the reception.
And then I see her. Jadine.
The stylish floral dress she had on this morning is now teamed with a dark wool coat. Her long golden hair cascades down her back in thick waves, and I’m mesmerised, yet again, by the fact that her legs must be twice as long as mine. She casually hooks her arm through Ethan’s, and my insides ache as she’s swept away in the crowd of admirers like she’s Marilyn Monroe in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes.
Do gentlemen really prefer blondes? My heart chokes at the thought. I know Ethan loves me. I know he does. But I also know Jadine has set her sights on winning him back. Why did I have to bottle it? I stare at the door, hoping with everything I have that cooling things down with Ethan hasn’t given Jadine Clark a chance to warm them up.
13
FOR REASONS APPARENT ONLY TO my subconscious, the shock of seeing Ethan and Jadine waltzing off to the Blue Room together has inspired me to reorganise my office. Crazy, eh? Like that’s going to take my mind off the fact my sort-of boyfriend is spending the evening in the company of a woman who not only looks like she models for Botticelli whilst floating naked on a scallop shell, but also has the serious hots for him.
My stomach hasn’t stopped churning with insecurity since I saw them together. If I were a character in a chick-flick, then I know he’d choose me – his soulmate. But chick-flicks are written to build up the underdog. In the cold light of the real world, men go for the obvious, don’t they?
I give in to the tears as I tidy, feeling like a crazy person. My head thuds as I start unloading my paperwork, rearranging my files in alphabetical rather than date order. I check my handbag for paracetamol . . . and find an empty foil-backed packet with no pills inside. Typical. Just bloody typical! I dig deeper and find a quarter of a pack of Polo mints. That’ll have to do. I pop one in my mouth, and I’m instantly thankful the strong flavour disguises the lingering taste of those weird vodka shots I drank earlier.
My brain sends me nightmarish visions as I sort through my files. I wish it would stop, but the sinking, twisty feeling in my stomach is compelling me to imagine the love of my life screwing another woman. For fuck’s sake, Violet, what’s wrong with you? Why are you doing this to yourself? I know I’m being pathetic, but then why on earth was Jadine with the JET Financial bid team tonight? She’s only been a TV producer for a day and before that she was a production assistant. This means she’s experienced in organising props and making tea – I think – so what could she possibly contribute? Oh god, listen to yourself! This is tragic. I need to distract myself.
I drag my desk around the room until it’s facing the left wall. If Freja has window envy, I should start appreciating my view. On the wall in front of me I have quite a nice abstract print of the London skyline: scratchy, inky impressions of landmarks such as St Paul’s, the Gherkin and the Shard all lined up along a bridge dotted with red buses and black taxis. The background has a cubist feel, consisting of huge blocks of red, black, pink and white paint. I walk over to it and attempt to straighten it up, but I think I’ve made it worse. I try again. Crap. Yes, I’ve definitely made it worse. I’ll have to fix it when I can see straight.
I check my desk’s position is perfectly aligned. It’s skewed left, so I straighten it up a little. Then, I try to shut out the pain by thinking of all the great things I have going on in my life right now: fabulous “very important” job; just spent the night with two new friends, who I like; lovely office with a view – and a sofa; no new grey hairs in the last year; front-row seats for La Traviata in January; a boyfriend who could be screwing another woman because I “cooled” things with him . . . Fuck!
Why am I still so fucking agitated? I wish I were drunker. No. I wish I were braver. I wish I had the balls to call up Ethan and demand to know why Jadine Clark was hanging around his neck like a ridiculously long and skinny scarf half an hour ago.
I hate her like I’ve never hated any woman before in my entire life. And I hate that I hate her. And I hate that I can’t stop thinking about her. And I hate that my head hurts. And I hate . . .
“Violet?”
I turn around and my eyes fix upon the man at the door. What the . . . ? Am I dreaming? I don’t trust what I’m seeing. I blink. I wonder how much I’ve drunk. I wonder if I’m asleep or . . . shit, am I in a coma? Did I leave that funny little pub in Greenwich, trip on the pavement and knock myself out? Do you dream when you’re in a coma? Maybe I’m dead. No, don’t be stupid, Violet. You definitely don’t dream when you’re dead.
I blink again.
Nope, my eyes are still seeing him. Shit. How can he be here? Why is he here?
He walks inside my office and I can’t remember how to breathe. I feel my chest spasm, every particle of oxygen blasting out of my lungs. I inhale sharply . . . spontaneously . . . unsure how I’m even managing to look at him. That face – I’ve tried to forget it.
“I heard you worked here. My god, it’s amazing to see you.”
I realise this is real. His voice rattles around my brain, and I realise it feels like home. How can that blue-collar Boston accent still feel so familiar? It’s been four years.
“Ryan . . . what are you doing here?” My throat turns dry. What I wouldn’t give for another one of those vodka shots.
His head dips and his face breaks into a warm smile. “You know BEST Inc. owns part of Tribe, right?”
My vision, blurred with alcohol and shock, finds his eyes. They’re still so bright, so intense. They’re a darker blue than Ethan’s, but they sparkle with the same kille
r confidence. “I knew Dylan Best was an investor. Are you here with him?”
His pale face crinkles in a hundred different places as his smile widens. Ryan’s red hair, fair skin and freckles are a sign of his proud Irish roots, but the wrinkles are testament to the fact he spends far too much time running in the bright Central Park sunshine without sunblock.
Ryan walks farther into the room. “Dylan wanted fresh eyes looking over his investments.” He scans my office, then he stops and looks at me. His face crinkles again. The translucent white of his skin shines bright as it catches the light from the skyscrapers outside my window. “God, it’s really great to see you.”
I wish I could return his enthusiasm. My earlier surprise at seeing him has now gone full circle. Ryan Rafferty is a good memory in the same way my university-era addiction to Curly Wurly chocolate bars is a good memory. One resulted in a broken heart. The other in a filling and a root canal. Both were painful and very unpleasant experiences.
“I was just leaving.” I straighten up my in-tray then pick up my bag.
“Do you have plans tonight?” His voice is strong and confident. “How about tomorrow? I’m here for a couple of days and I’d love to catch up. How have you been? When you left, I didn’t know . . . I didn’t get a chance—”
“You didn’t get a chance to what? Beg me to stay? Admit you lied to me? Tell me you were sorry?”
My mouth takes me by surprise, which admittedly isn’t all that unusual. I thought I was done with Ryan, but a fiery ball of rage is burning in my gut, so I guess I’m not. I swing my bag over my shoulder to indicate I’m ready to leave, but my stupid drunk brain follows up the swinging motion with a sway on one heel. And then I hiccup.
Ryan gives me the once-over and an amused look spreads across his face. “Have you been drinking?”
I chew on my bottom lip. “I was out with friends tonight. I came back here because I forgot my phone.”
His blue eyes crease at the corners. “You have friends now?”
“Of course I have friends.” I try to sound self-assured, but inside I’m shuddering at the person I used to be – the one he remembers. The fact I was an introvert alone in New York made me perfect prey for swallowing his dickhead behaviour. I’m not the Violet he used to know.
It's Complicated (The Agency Book 2) Page 12
