It's Complicated (The Agency Book 2)

by Elizabeth Grey

  “I understand. Whatever you need.” I link my arm in his and rest my head against his shoulder.

  We start walking back to the Pont de l’Alma port and taxi rank. “Don’t think I don’t know you told Freja.”

  Shit. I knew he guessed. I laugh it off. “You should be pleased. You wanted me to start opening up.”

  “She’s become a good friend, hasn’t she?”

  “Yeah, I really like her. Are you cross I told her?”

  He smiles and a glimmer of recognition lands in his eyes. “No. I’m happy for you.”

  “Georgie knows too.”

  “Fuck. That isn’t as good.”

  “It was kind of accidental. We were all out drinking and . . . well, actually we were playing truth or dare—”

  “Wait! What? Who the hell are you and what have you done with my sweet, innocent, introverted girlfriend?”

  I laugh, and my heart does a happy dance that he’s still calling me his girlfriend. “I’m sorry. Georgie’s great and she’s promised not to blab, but I guess she can be a bit . . . uhm . . . unpredictable.”

  “You can say that again.” We reach the port at the same time as the others emerge from the boat. Ethan lets go of my arm, and I feel the separation instantly. We’re returning to the way things were before, but I don’t know what we were before. I wonder how much space I have to give him and for how long.

  18

  WHEN I WAS A CHILD my favourite story was The Wizard of Oz, but unlike most little girls, I never wanted to dress up as Dorothy. I was a lonely child, but I never found the undying friendship of Toto appealing. I mean, let’s get real here: in the movie Toto is a very ugly dog, and although the jury was out on whether or not he bit Miss Gulch, I reckon he did it. You can tell he’s a biter just by looking at him –short and snappy and ferret-faced. I never wanted any kind of pet as a kid, and that was entirely due to how much I hated Toto.

  But to this day, I firmly believe there has never been a more fabulous character created in any work of fiction than the Wicked Witch of the West. Beautiful wickedness aside, the woman has everything: complexion the colour of jealousy, awesome cackle, fierce magic, and – best of all – her preferred mode of transport is a puff of angry orange smoke. The fatal allergy to water is a bit crap, but I suppose all the best supervillains have a kryptonite.

  The thing I love most about The Wizard of Oz is that you see so much more when you watch it through adult eyes. Take, for example, the poor Tin Man, who is desperate for a heart so he can learn to love. What does the wizard tell him? “I think you are wrong to want a heart. It makes most people unhappy. If you only knew it, you are in luck not to have a heart.”

  And there is no greater truth than that, is there?

  Ethan and I travelled back from Paris together, but given we were surrounded by half the department, we communicated mainly via small talk. By the time we arrived at St Pancras station my mood had been wrecked by sheer frustration. I decided I’d call him over the weekend and suggest we meet up, but while we were waiting in the taxi queue, Stella called to tell him we’d won the JET Financial bid. I was ecstatic for him and wanted to celebrate, but he was ordered back to the office. I think he was there, submerged in piles of contracts and paperwork, all weekend. And I’ve been home, submerged by feelings of exasperation and uncertainty, all weekend.

  Tonight, I’m reluctantly getting dressed for yet another horrendous work party. Lucas Bartle is throwing an impromptu shindig at his St James’s penthouse. It’s meant as a celebration of the JET Financial win, but it’s also a team build. With Ethan as star of the show, and Jadine no doubt making yet another play for him, I’d rather have Edward Scissorhands perform my next smear test than attend the blasted party, but now that I have to make up for last week, my usual trick of crying off with a pretend illness won’t cut it.

  Freja, who was Lucas’s right-hand woman at Diablo Brown, told me that Lucas and Ethan have really hit it off – and we’re talking serious man-crush here. If Stella Judd is who I want to be when I grow up, then it appears Lucas fits the bill for Ethan. And it’s obvious why. Lucas is fifty-something, obsessed with very cool music and films, and he’s married to the very beautiful (and much younger) Vanessa, who also happens to be his secretary. I’m not sure where Jadine fits into the picture, except Lucas didn’t know she existed until she was fifteen, and he’s been lavishing his only child with everything she wants ever since.

  It’s already 9.30 p.m. when Max arrives in a taxi to pick me up. He lives in south London, I live north, and we’re heading into the centre, but Max would rather drop a fortune on taxi fares than show up to a party on his own. Our media department managed to secure Belle Oaks a last minute full-page ad in this month’s edition of French Vogue. I stayed behind tonight to help Georgie and Max prep the ad for print. Ruby stayed to help too, and the four of us worked together at full steam to get the ad finished before tonight’s party, but we’re still late – which I don’t mind one bit. The less time I have to socialise, the better.

  I go to my wardrobe and search for my Emerald City–green Gucci clutch bag. I must have decided to channel the Wicked Witch of the West tonight as I’m wearing a black above-the-knee sequined shift dress too. I usually wear black to parties because it matches my mood – bleak and expecting the worst. Predictably, I couldn’t be arsed to go through the rigmarole of styling my hair so I’ve just piled it on top of my head, but the make-up is where I reckon I’ve killed it: flawless foundation, perfect lashes, bright red lipstick and dark, smoky, sultry eyeshadow. I fear I may have gone a bit overboard with the black eyeliner, however. I catch a glimpse of myself in my hallway mirror as I leave my flat and I look like Adele’s crazed cat-loving auntie. If Adele’s auntie was Marilyn Manson.

  I spend the entire taxi ride listening to Max complain about Georgie. “Honestly, Violet, I think she’s disturbed. We needed a stock photo for Leeward Bakeries’ banana fruit cake ad, and do you know what she came up with? The Burj Al Arab. Can you believe it? She picked it because she thinks the Burj Al Arab is shaped like a fucking banana! She even suggested superimposing a cartoon banana over a photograph of the thing. I don’t know how she manages to find her way to work every day. Yesterday, she spent half an hour searching for her security pass and she found it in her bloody boot.”

  I stifle a laugh. “Max, seriously, you’re going to have to be more tolerant. Georgie just has that English upper-class eccentric thing nailed.”

  “Eh? What’s up with you? You’re always the first to have a snipe.”

  “That was the old me. I’m a director now, so I have to behave like one.”

  “That makes me sad. Making fun out of people with you is one of my favourite things to do.”

  The taxi pulls up at Lucas’s address in the most expensive part of Westminster. Max and I share a “wow” moment. As far as impressive goes, Lucas’s apartment building is up there with five-star hotels and royal palaces. We give our names to security in the lobby, then we take a lift up to the top floor. Talk about how the other half live. I wonder how much money Diablo Brown turned over to pay for all of this.

  A hired-for-the-night butler greets us, and we’re ushered into a huge living space with a spiral staircase, mezzanine landing, dining area and an offshoot kitchen. There’s an enormous arched window overlooking the city to my left, and to my right is a double doorway leading outside to a rooftop terrace. The open-plan living area is already full of people, and I’m struck by the beautiful dark oak beams which criss-cross the huge gabled roof. A catering team are laying out a buffet of hot and cold finger foods, and a server passes us champagne in tall fluted glasses. Max and I do what we always do – take root in a quiet, discreet corner.

  “Remember you said we’d stay here for an hour then sneak off?” whispers Max into my left ear as his eyes wander over the buffet table.

  “Yes . . .”

  “Well, with all this free champagne and . . . Oh my god, is that Serrano ham and avocado?”
Max picks up a piece of green fruit laden with his favourite cured meat and eats it in two enormous bites. Ham is catnip for Max. He picks up another hors d’oeuvre and I swear he starts to purr. “Oh my god, this is so fucking good. I’m not leaving here. Ever.”

  I twist my face at the intricately folded flaps of meat encased in the oval segment of avocado. “Max, that looks like a vagina.”

  He wrinkles his nose, then eats another in a manner which can only be described as pornographic. My stomach lurches.

  “Ew, Max, that’s really gross.”

  I notice guests are hanging out in little pockets of Lucas’s penthouse with people from their own teams. I spot Will and Pinkie in one corner of the room with Tom, Neil, Bianca and Ruby – my team. I should go over and say hi . . . but maybe in a minute or thirty. Freja’s friend-with-benefits, Harry Hopkins, is cracking jokes and talking animatedly about past ads he worked on at Diablo Brown with members of the new digital team. He seems like a completely different guy to who he is in the office. He’s still rocking his laidback “don’t give a shit” vibe though, sitting on the edge of a sofa with one leg resting on the floor. He’s also drinking from a bottle of beer rather than a champagne flute.

  “What do you make of him?” I ask Max.

  “Huh?” he mumbles. His face is full of ham.

  “Harry Hopkins, the Australian guy.”

  “Don’t know yet. He seems to have won Daniel Noble over though. He’s been invited to co-pitch at his meeting with Klein & Co next week.”

  “Klein & Co? As in Lord Klein?”

  “Yeah, that’s him. He wants a huge overhaul of his online presence.”

  Lord Leonard Klein is an outspoken peer who writes a controversial conservative newspaper column. I think back to the conversation I overheard between Harry and Freja a couple of weeks ago. I learned Harry was ambitious, but my word is he moving fast.

  After standing in the corner with Max for ten minutes I finally spot Ethan. He leaves the company of Lucas and a host of clients, including Park Jae-Kwang and Jared Taft, and heads over to the opposite corner of the room, which is home to the drinks table. I leave Max to eat and I casually walk over.

  Unfortunately, Jadine Clark has the exact same idea at the exact same time.

  “Violet, you’re here,” Ethan says, greeting me with an absurdly formal handshake. He turns to Jadine and gives her a friendly peck on the cheek. For fuck’s sake, why does he have to be such a moron? I’m going to be overthinking the significance of a handshake versus a peck on the cheek all bloody night now. Jadine smiles sweetly and I decide her mouth is too wide for her face. But then I realise I have to try with her. Ethan would want me to try.

  “Your father has a beautiful home.”

  “Yes, he does, thank you,” she replies without looking at me. Her eyes are fixed on Ethan, and I feel like a spare part. Oh god, don’t go down that road again. It never ends well.

  Ruby and her artsy friend Penny approach us with freshly topped-up drinks. They all start talking, and I realise I’ve joined the group in the middle of an old conversation. I don’t know what to say or do with my hands. I look at my watch. I glance at Ethan. He smiles at me, but then he looks away. Should I have come over to say ‘hi’? Clearly he’s still getting his shit together.

  “So how big is the third bedroom?” Jadine asks the other two girls.

  “It’s a good size, isn’t it, Penny?” Ruby nods eagerly, her dark eyes sparkling. I guess she’s talking about the house they share.

  “Yeah, I think it’s slightly bigger than the room I have.” Penny Piper joined Tribe last week from BMG. She took a good deal of persuading; she’d worked with Max for five years, so obviously she wasn’t keen. Max has taken credit for recruiting her, but she wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for Ruby. I like Penny. She’s not gossipy or shallow and she has an infectious splash of rock-chick edginess about her. Tonight, she’s wearing black silk leggings and a backless sequined top which matches the roots of her fluffy bobbed platinum hair.

  “What are we talking about?” interrupts Freja, who looks like she’s as drunk as a poet on payday. She props herself up against a bookshelf and readjusts her black off-the-shoulder top. It occurs to me that I don’t think I’ve ever seen Freja wearing a colour. She’s always dressed in black, white or grey.

  “Jadine is moving in with us,” Ruby replies, her mass of thick curls bobbing as she talks excitedly.

  Freja raises her eyebrows and takes another sip of champagne. I can’t help but grin as I watch her expression. I grin even wider when I see the look on Jadine’s face.

  “What’s funny?” Ruby asks.

  Freja looks up from her drink. “Nothing. Just . . . good luck with that.”

  And off she goes.

  “I don’t understand her,” Penny says with a bit of a worried laugh.

  Jadine’s colour pales and her freckles darken. And then . . . oh god . . . she starts to cry, and I cringe. Thankfully, Ruby and Penny are here to coo around her so I don’t have to do or say anything, but Jesus Christ, what a drama queen! Jadine’s body shudders as she talks through her sobs. “I’ve tried so hard with Freja. For years. She just doesn’t like me and I don’t know why.”

  I watch with horror as Ethan places his hand on her back, rubbing soothingly. What the hell is he thinking? He knows she wants him back. What kind of signal is that going to give to her narcissistic brain? Ruby and Penny make comforting, validating noises and . . . I don’t want to be here. I can’t. I can’t be here. I tell myself over and over that he’s just being kind and friendly. I tell myself that I’m being jealous and unreasonable . . . again. But am I?

  “I’m sure Freja doesn’t realise she’s upsetting you,” says Penny.

  “You’re her friend, Violet, what do you—”

  I can’t stand it for another second. I leave Ruby’s question unanswered and stalk off to find Max. Over-emotional, self-absorbed women crying? That’s not my scene. My boyfriend cosying up to his ex-shag? That’s not my fucking scene either.

  I pick at the buffet, popping a neat triangular biscuit loaded with pâté into my mouth. I make sure I avoid the vagina-shaped hors d’oeuvres. My gaze returns to Ethan. He’s now alone with Jadine. It’s like I’m rubbernecking a car crash. I study his facial expression as he talks to her, his eyes fixed on hers, his hand gripping her elbow as he leans in to whisper in her ear. Then I scrutinise the way she tilts her head back as she laughs, giving him the best view of her cleavage – or rather her lack of cleavage. At least that’s one thing I have on her – much better tits. My legs are short skinny stumps compared to her armpit-high limbs, but in the manufactured competition between us, tits beat legs.

  He turns and catches my eye. He smiles and raises his glass to me, but I don’t smile back. I look away in disgust, then I close my eyes in a puerile attempt to erase what I’m seeing. I look at my watch. Eleven o’clock. Another half an hour maybe, then I can go home. I might cry when I get there. Not because of him – or her – but because of how frustrated I am with myself.

  As I get another drink from the kitchen island countertop I spot Lucille sitting on a plush velvet sofa. She has a full plate of buffet on her lap and her feet are tap-dancing away to the music. I take a seat next to her.

  “You know, I haven’t had this much fun since my husband Eric’s funeral five years ago.” I gasp and she looks at me curiously. Then her face creases as she realises what she’s said. “Oh goodness, I didn’t mean it like that. I meant his funeral was lovely. He’d suffered for such a long time, you see. I was happy when he was safe with the Lord and free from pain. The day I buried him both of us found peace.”

  I smile and my heart aches for her. “You were very lucky to have him. How long were you married?”

  “Thirty-eight years,” she says warmly, the good memories adding a sparkle to her eyes. “You need to find yourself an Eric, my girl. After everything that happened at BMG, you deserve a nice man in your life.”

 
; I smile again and my heart aches even more. “I’ll never forget what you did for me back there, Lucille. It was very brave of you.”

  Lucille waves off my compliment. “Good Lord, it was nothing. And nobody in this room is as brave as you. I remember what that sleazeball Ridley Gates did to you.” She leans in close and grips my arm. “Thank you for getting me away from that awful man. Mr Fraser is an absolute darling to work for in comparison.”

  “Excuse us for a moment, Lucille.” My stomach leaps as Ethan grabs me by my elbow, pulling me away from Lucille and into a vacant corner of the room.

  I yank my arm back and shoot him my best “what the fuck?” glare.

  “I don’t know how you dare look at me like that. What the hell’s wrong with you?”

  My heart sinks. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You know damn well what I’m talking about. Or rather your face does.”

  I raise my eyebrows and he glares at me. “Maybe this is just what my face looks like.”

  His skin turns red. “Violet, just so you know, I’m not doing this tonight. We’re not doing this. Jesus, just when I was starting to forget . . . We’re not going down this road again. I can’t keep second-guessing how you’re going to react whenever I talk to a female employee.”

  I finish the dregs of my drink and plant the empty glass back on the countertop behind me with a thump. “You know fine well that talking to your female employees is not the issue here, Ethan.”

  He turns away from me, physically biting his tongue as if he’s trying kill words he doesn’t want to say, and I have to work hard to hold back tears because I was genuinely trying to not overreact tonight. I watch him walk away, but then he shakes his head and turns back. “You don’t have to do or say anything. I can see it written all over your face. You want me to feel guilty for showing someone some compassion? Why? Would that make you feel less guilty for what you did? And you know what? You’re right. That is the way your face always looks and I’m tired of it.”