“Vive la Révolution,” I say in a rather spectacular A-level French accent.
“Yes, I got that.”
“It’s great copy. Revolutionary design inspired by firebrand ideas with homage to the ideals of freedom and equality. The streets of Montmartre, a model dressed as Lady Liberty, the tricolour. Trust me, it’s soul-stirring stuff, and I know you’ll make it look great on screen.”
“Violet, I don’t disagree that you’re an extraordinary and very experienced copywriter, but where exactly do the barricades and dead bodies fit with luxury designer handbags? I’ve read your voiceover script and it’s beautiful, but it doesn’t fit. There’s nothing revolutionary about the Belle Oaks brand. In fact, we could leave ourselves wide open to ridicule with all the liberty and equality stuff. Her goods are made by Indian children for pennies and then marked up by a thousand per cent.” Freja’s brow furrows and I start to doubt myself. I wonder if she’s right. Did I let Georgie talk me into this? “If you’re going to stick with the idea, then I will do a good job for you, but I just think we could do a lot better.”
“Okay, okay, I get the picture,” I say as my brain reacts to the deluge of criticism with enough defensiveness to choke a hippo. “My campaign is shit. I should have chosen Tom over Georgie and I’m a big scary ogre who doesn’t know how to talk to people.” I stand up from my desk with such force that my chair slams into the wall behind me. Fuck. Could I be any huffier? I close my eyes and take a deep breath. “I’m sorry. God . . . I’m just so tired of fucking everything up.”
Freja stares at me for a few moments. I swear she has x-ray vision that can see my broken heart through my chest, as well as superhuman hearing that can read my thoughts. “You need to talk to him.”
“I’m off my game, that’s all,” I say, my voice shaking slightly. “Oh, who am I kidding? I haven’t been on my game in a long time.”
“Why didn’t you go and see Ethan on Monday night, after you left us?”
My pathetic, stupid eyes start to fill with water and I feel an acute pain in my chest. I inhale deeply and try to summon up some strength, but it’s too late. Freja moves quickly to my side, perching on the edge of my desk, her hand resting gently on my arm. “Hey, what happened?” she says soothingly.
I wipe my face and take a deep breath again. “I got here too late, just like I told you, but what I didn’t tell you was that I saw him leave with Jadine. She was all over him like a cheap supermarket dressing gown.”
“They were alone?”
“No, they were with a bid team from BEST Inc. and reps from JET Financial. They went to the Blue Room.”
“Ah,” she sighs.
“What do you mean by ‘ah’?” I must admit, given Freja’s past with Jadine, I thought she’d be angrier than this.
“There could be any number of legitimate business reasons why they finished the day at the Blue Room. It isn’t unusual to have a few drinks after a late meeting.”
“With Jadine?”
She shrugs again. “She’s the MD’s daughter. You could have joined them. Why didn’t you call Ethan?”
“Because I was too mad. And then I met someone I wasn’t expecting to meet and I got even madder.” I feel Freja’s brown eyes scan my every move as she analyses every word that leaves my mouth.
“Go on.”
“I worked at BEST Inc. for a year. It was just after I finished my MBA at Harvard. I won an internship, then I got a junior staff position. When I was there I fell in love with an older guy . . .” One of her perfectly shaped eyebrows arches as she waits for the expected disclosure. “Yes. He was married.”
“I see,” she says, and I feel terrible when I remember she told me her former fiancé cheated on her.
“I believed him when he said his marriage was over. The problem was he hadn’t told his wife and kids yet and . . . in the end everyone hated me. I was a stuck-up English girl who got her position through sleeping with her married boss. I had no friends there, nobody to talk to, so I left. I literally just packed up my things and flew to London. I didn’t even have a job to go to.”
“And this guy?”
“He’s called Ryan. He’s Dylan Best’s head strategist, and he was here on Monday. I saw him for the first time in four years. We talked . . . and we fought and . . . I kissed him.”
“You did what?” I flinch at the ice in Freja’s tone.
“He kissed me – I think.”
“Violet, you’re not making much sense, honey. Who kissed who?”
“He kissed me. He definitely kissed me . . . but I let him. I didn’t stop him.”
“Tongues?”
“No.”
“How long?”
I’m confused. “How long is his tongue?”
She laughs. “No, how long did he kiss you for?”
“A second. Maybe two.”
Freja straightens her grey sheath dress so she can lean closer to me and rest her hand on my shoulder. “Push it out of your mind and forget it ever happened.”
“I can’t. It’s killing me. I cheated on him, didn’t I? I’m a terrible person . . . a truly horrible, dreadful person.”
“No, you’re a good person who fucked up for one tiny little second. You really need to forgive yourself and forget about this.” She gives my shoulder one last squeeze, then she gets up and walks around my desk. “I have to check our Arri Alexa is working for the Paris trip. I really don’t like using the Arriflex.” I stare at her blankly. “Cameras.”
“Oh, okay. I’ll see you on Sunday.”
“You will,” she says, beaming a huge smile. “But before I go, I want you to promise you won’t tell Ethan about this.”
“I don’t want to keep secrets from him.”
She shakes her head despairingly. “Ordinarily I’d agree, but if you tell him about this, you’re going to hurt him for no reason. What happened was no big deal, so let it go and forgive yourself.”
I reluctantly promise, but when she leaves I spend the next two hours worrying about what would happen if Ethan found out from somebody else. There’s a good chance Ethan’s and Ryan’s paths could cross in London or New York, this week, or months or even years down the line.
Before I know it two hours have passed, I’ve bitten all my nails into oblivion and I’ve eaten half a packet of Oreos, two satsumas and the remainder of yesterday’s cream cheese and chive deli wrap sandwich – which was as gross as it sounds. I check I have my online Eurostar tickets printed out for Sunday, then I double-check my paperwork. I’m the world’s worst self-organiser, so I’m not wasting time.
“Hey.”
I jump at the sound of Ethan’s voice. It’s late and I thought I was the last person on the floor. “Hey,” I reply, my insides already knotting with an unpleasant mix of fear and guilt. “When did you get back?”
“Couple of hours ago.” He walks into my office, folding his winter coat and suit jacket on the arm of the sofa. He leaves a small suitcase on wheels and an overnight bag in the doorway. “I missed you.”
“I missed you too.” My heart thumps in my chest when I say the words out loud. We’ve been apart five days, which is longer than I’ve ever gone without seeing his beautiful smile. His gaze sweeps over me like sunshine, then he turns and unzips the bag.
“I got you something,” he says as he rummages in the holdall. Moments later, he’s standing in front of me, grinning from ear to ear. “I remembered these were your favourite,” he says, proudly holding a jumbo bag of sweets in his hands.
“Swedish Fish! Oh my god, this is the best present ever! Thank you.” I would happily forgo Oreos, Turkish Delight, Hula Hoops and Curly Wurlies for just one packet of Swedish Fish. They’re impossible to track down in London. In fact, I’ve only ever seen them in an American sweet shop in Oxford Street. When it closed down two years ago I descended into full-on sugar mourning.
“You’re easily pleased,” he says.
“And you’re the best boyfriend . . .” The words slide of
f my tongue, then get lost in a hush of awkwardness. “. . . ever.”
“So I’m still your boyfriend then, huh?” His tone is light, but I can hear the hope behind his words. “Just so you know, I’m totally cool with being a ‘cooled-down’ boyfriend if it means I still get to see you.”
Suddenly, a memory of Ryan’s mouth touching mine sweeps over my body. I shiver in revulsion. I can still feel him and taste him. I walk backwards a few steps to the window ledge and rest against it.
“Hey, it’s okay,” Ethan says. “I know we need to talk. You’re away all next week and it’s late, so how about tomorrow? The only thing I had planned for Saturday was a lie-in, so I’m all yours after . . . oh, say one p.m.?” He laughs and it makes me feel ten times worse.
“I can’t wait until tomorrow to talk to you. I saw you with Jadine.”
“When?” His brow furrows with confusion. “Oh, you mean on Monday?” I nod and his face relaxes a little. “Jadine knows Jared Taft from way back. We bumped into her after the meeting and he invited her to join us. Between you and me, I think something could happen between those two.”
“When I saw you it looked like something was going to happen with you, not him.”
His still-crumpled brow gets even more creased. “I hope you’re not accusing me of something.” His Scottish accent has a tense, edgy grain.
I slump against the window ledge again, my watery eyes locked on my shoes. “I overheard Jadine telling Ruby Sloan that she liked you. It bothered me. I want to trust you, but—”
“Why the hell don’t you trust me?” he yells. My heart jumps into my throat. “I’ve never cheated on anyone in my life – not once. If Jadine likes me I’ll add it onto my ‘I don’t give a shit’ list. So fucking what if Jadine likes me?”
A fretful silence hangs thick in the air between us. Is it my turn to speak? My pulse swishes in my ears as I try to think of something useful to say. “I’m sorry.” I roll my eyes at myself. It’s a wonder I’ve carved a career out of words when I can never seem to find the right ones to say.
“I know it’s far from ideal that I have a bunch of women in my past that you have to work with, but you have to stop this. I need you to trust me.”
It hits me then. Painful lucidity. I need you to trust me. Those same words were spoken by Ryan all those years ago. Ryan. Fucking Ryan again.
Suddenly, I feel Ethan’s strong arms around me, holding me tight, and I can’t hold back. I cry into his shirt. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you,” he says.
“I think— I mean, I know . . . this is all my fault.” He releases me and looks into my eyes, searching for answers. I sigh, hoping I can give them to him. “I trusted Ryan and he lied to me. Twice. He made me into somebody I hated. He cheated on his wife and everyone blamed me.”
“Who blamed you?”
“His family. Everyone at work. I had nobody.”
He folds me into his arms again and I breathe him in, savouring the fresh scent of his cologne. “It’s okay,” he says, stroking my hair and letting his other hand draw light circles on my back. “I should have known what happened with Ryan would feature in this.” He draws me in closer to him and I feel the warmth of his neck against my forehead.
“It’s not your fault, it’s mine. I’m sorry for not trusting you.”
“And I’m sorry for snapping at you.”
His hand moves to my face and he gently rubs my damp cheek with his thumb. I feel a rush of emotion deep inside me. There’s silence – an eerie silence, like the calm before a storm. My arms strengthen around his waist and I hold on tight. I’ve missed him. All my body wants to do is melt into him and not let him go.
“Come back to me,” he says as he buries his face in my hair. “I know you wanted to cool things for a wee while, but god, I need you back so much.”
“Ethan . . . I . . .” My voice is consumed by a kiss that takes me by surprise. I need it and I want it, but a surge of Ryan-memories rushes into my mind and I lose any chance I have of enjoying it. I squirm out of his embrace. “I’m sorry. I can’t. You deserve better.”
I watch his eyes watching me: narrow, bewildered, desperate. “Vi, there’s no better person for me than you. It was always you. Life’s too bloody short to be constantly fighting with yourself. Just believe I love you and let the rest go.”
He wraps his arms around me again and I go stiff. Then I wriggle out of his hold, pushing him away. I can’t do this. I can’t forget.
He sighs sadly. “You’re the most important thing in my life, and this place? It’s just where I work. I want you to come back, so I’m going to tell Stella.”
I break down, my chest heaving and my head spinning like I’ve drunk ten bottles of wine. “You don’t understand. You’ll hate me . . .”
His head tilts and his eyes narrow. “What do you mean? I could never hate you.”
Freja’s words ring in my ears – I want you to promise you won’t tell Ethan about this – but the truth haunts me like a ghost, clawing with razor-sharp nails at all that is good. I know me. If I don’t exorcise this thing now, then it will overwhelm me. “Ryan was here a few days ago,” I say, wiping the tears from my face.
“Oh?” A flash of fear lands in his eyes. “How come?”
“Dylan Best needed him to check over something. It was just after I saw you with Jadine. We talked and we argued and . . . then we kissed.”
His face blanches. “You did what?”
He looks devastated. God, I hate myself so much. “We kissed. He kissed me. I don’t know how or why. I didn’t know it was happening until he . . . did it. I’m just so, so sorry.”
“No,” he says, shaking his head. “No.” His eyes are dead and he looks like he’s going to be sick.
“It didn’t mean anything,” I say quickly. “He wanted to see me again, but I told him no.”
“You kissed him?” He spits the words out of his mouth as if they were poison, but follows up with a cold laugh that cuts right through me, making me shiver. I walk towards him, but he puts out his arms to stop me. Then he walks to the sofa, picks up his jacket and drags it up his arms with such force that I think he might rip it apart. “You may not have trusted me, but I trusted you. You make me feel guilty for doing absolutely fucking nothing with Jadine, then you tell me this?” He picks up his coat, bag and suitcase and walks into the corridor.
“Ethan, you’re not listening to me. He kissed me. I was upset . . . I . . .”
“Did you kiss him back?”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“What the fuck does that mean?” His face is pure hate and I see tears glisten in his eyes.
I don’t respond. A ball of nausea rises in my throat and I want to scream that it wasn’t my fault, but I can’t. So I stay silent.
“I was about to give up everything for you,” he says.
Then he walks away from me, and I know I’ve lost him forever.
15
“AMÉLIE IS DEFINITELY VISITING OUR set later this week.”
It must be the fifth time Max has told me this. In fact, since we arrived in Paris last night, he’s talked about little else.
“I still think I could persuade her to let me take her out. I remembered to pack my best shirt.”
“Shirt or not, the last time you saw Amélie she said she wanted to kill you.”
He waves away my very valid point. “So? You tell me you want to kill me all the time.”
“And when I tell you that, I always mean it.”
He looks at me with a horrified expression on his face. “What’s up with you? You weren’t any fun on the train yesterday and you wouldn’t have dinner with us last night. Are you on a weird diet or something?”
I roll my eyes. “When have you ever known me to diet?”
“Never, but you’re not getting any younger, and women go on pointless diets when they reach a certain age, don’t they?”
There must be something about standing frozen at 5 a.m. in a miserabl
e Montmartre street that lowers my idiot-tolerance level to zero. I pull my coat around me and scowl at him. “Could you be any ruder?”
“It’s true,” he protests, pulling his black bobble hat so far down over his face that it covers his eyes and his ears. “Well, it’s true for everyone but my sister. Hedda is forty next year and she practically lives on griebenschmalz. She’s taller than me and has the exact same shaped figure as a piece of string.”
“Max, I fear I’ll regret asking this, but what is griebenschmalz?”
“Spreadable pig fat.”
My stomach heaves. “Ew, why? That’s the most disgusting thing I’ve ever . . . Excuse me while I hurl.”
“It’s quite nice actually. Hedda inherited my grandmother’s secret recipe after she died, and she makes jars of the stuff to sell at the local Christmas market. The legendary Wolf family griebenschmalz mixes fat, raw pork sausage and fried crackling.” He lifts one edge of his hat and a cold, reddened eye peeps out. “Oh, and salt.”
“Sure, because salt makes it far less revolting.” I sink my hands into my pockets and look up to the sky just as a snowflake lands on the end of my nose. Great, that’s all we need. Fucking snow. I look over to the set as Freja, Jadine and the film team scurry around to weatherproof their equipment.
“Snow wasn’t forecast, but I suppose it could look pretty on film,” says Max. He throws his head back, opens his mouth and lets the snow fall onto his tongue. He grins like an excited greyhound.
“There’s nothing pretty about snow. I hate snow and I hate the cold.”
“Christ, you are in a bad mood. If you’re missing Ethan already, what are you going to be like by Friday?”
“Ethan and I broke up.” Did we? I’m not even sure. But I don’t like how final that statement just sounded. Or how easily I said it.
Max pulls his hat off his head and clutches it to his chest. “Why? When?”
A lump forms in my throat as I think back to the last time I saw him. “Friday.”
“What did he do? Did he hurt you? He did, didn’t he? I swear if this is down to him I’ll . . . I’ll . . . kick the shit out of him, then douse him in honey and throw him into the bear cage at London Zoo. And I know what you’re thinking – that I couldn’t get the better of him in a fight – but I’m crafty; I’d find a way.”
It's Complicated (The Agency Book 2) Page 14
