It's Complicated (The Agency Book 2)

by Elizabeth Grey

  I hear him move. He’s no longer resting his head against the wall. Now, he’s pacing the floor, his expression a mess of lines and angles. I breathe as deeply as I can, trying to suck my anguish back inside me.

  “Where does he live?”

  “I don’t know . . . Who?”

  He comes towards me and kneels, grabbing my forearms with his trembling hands. “Listen to me very carefully, Violet. I need you to tell me where he lives.” His voice is vibrating wildly in his throat and he’s starting to frighten me. I’ve never seen him like this before.

  I shake my head as I let my fingers dance against the scratched skin on my wrists. “Please, Max . . . I don’t know who you mean.”

  He stands up with a jolt and raises one leg into the air, slamming it down with an almighty kick into a wicker storage chest. The lid flies open, shoes fly out and I yelp in pain as the rubber sole of a trainer slams into my arm. I start to cry again. And then he’s there, next to me. I feel his arms around me at last as he pulls me into him, mumbling “I’m sorry.” We stay huddled for a few more minutes, the warmth and safety of Max’s arms giving me time to pull myself together.

  Then he starts to talk. “What did he do?” I look at him and see tears fall from his eyes, streaming in rivers down the creased lines of his face. “Please tell me what he did. Did he . . . force you . . . ?”

  My entire body shudders as the extent of Max’s horror sinks in. “Do you mean Cosmo? No, no . . . he didn’t . . . it wasn’t him.”

  The horror in his expression intensifies. “Then who?”

  “I don’t know. A man grabbed me. I was leaving Cosmo’s place. I was so fucking angry with him and I just wanted to get home. Then someone attacked me and tried to steal my bag . . . They got my necklace.”

  “Thank god. Thank god . . .” I feel his arms hold me tighter as he sniffs through his tears. “I thought . . . but Jesus. You need to go to hospital. Or to the police. I can’t bear the thought of someone doing this . . . and you being out there all alone. You must have been so scared. Where the fuck was Cosmo when all this happened? You said you were angry with him. Why?”

  “I don’t know exactly. He was just standing there. I think he was in shock.”

  “We need to call the police.”

  “There’s no point. They’ll never find the guy. I just want to sleep. Can I stay here tonight? I’m so tired, and my feet . . . I think I have blisters on my blisters.”

  “I should call Ethan. Let him know—”

  “No! I don’t want him to know. Please, Max . . . I just want you.”

  He nods silently and kisses the top of my head. Then he helps me stand and hobble to his bedroom. He pulls out a clean pair of pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt from his chest of drawers. Then he sniffs the t-shirt, has second thoughts, shoves it back into the drawer and picks out another. A tiny part of me smiles.

  I change into his clothes and join him on the edge of the bed, slotting my hand into his. He grips tightly and I feel his chest heave as he runs his fingers along my bruised jaw. “Oh . . . my god . . .” he says in heartbroken gasps.

  “It isn’t as bad as it looks.”

  He nods. “I’m sure it’ll look better in the morning,” he says reassuringly. “Don’t go into work tomorrow. Stay here. I’ll stay off too and look after you.”

  I shake my head. “I have things to do. Belle Oaks wants social media work for their new ad, then there’s the JET Financial meeting.” I look into his eyes and get lost in how deeply he’s hurting for me. “I could go in late.”

  He puts his arm around me, and I can hear his heart racing. “What are you thinking, Max?”

  “I’m thinking I’m going to kill Cosmo. He was there when this happened to you and he did nothing? What kind of a man is he? Why were you angry with him anyway? And why were you wearing his clothes?”

  Reality hits. Turning up at Max’s apartment wearing Cosmo’s clothes wouldn’t have looked great. “I was sick on my coat and my dress.”

  “Why were you in his house in the first place? Did you sleep with him?”

  “No! Max, how can you even ask me that?” My voices croaks and cracks as I try to stifle more sobs. “For fuck’s sake, what do you take me for? One minute we were having a good time driving around London. Then I was sick. Then . . . it’s all my fault . . . I shouldn’t have left with him. I had to tell him to get off me four times. Four! I was so fucking mad, I thought I was going to hit him. I wanted to.”

  “Wait. Slow down.” He closes his eyes for a moment as what I’ve just told him registers in his brain. “You had to tell him to get off you? You’re kidding me. Now I will kill him.”

  “Max, it’s my fault. I told him I wasn’t interested, but I still left the party with him.”

  I listen to myself make excuses and a spark flickers in my brain. No, it bloody isn’t my fault. I’m allowed to go see the Oxford Street Christmas lights with a colleague, for crying out loud. I know I didn’t give him mixed signals – or any signal. Or did I? No. No, I didn’t.

  Max pulls my head into the crook of his neck and I feel his cheek on my forehead. He sighs and I hug him close. “Please, let’s stop talking about it,” I say, my arms tightening around his middle. “I feel like I could sleep for a hundred years.”

  He helps me climb into the bed and tucks his lumpy duvet around me.

  “Will you stay with me?” I ask.

  He doesn’t hesitate. He peels back the duvet and lies down next to me. I turn so that my back is pressed against his stomach and snuggle into him. He drapes his arm around my middle and reaches for my hand, holding it tight.

  We stay like that until morning, and when I wake up I feel safe.

  21

  I’M BEYOND SURPRISED THAT I managed to get into work so early. Its 11.43 a.m. on a miserable, drizzly Tuesday. Max slept next to me all night and didn’t budge until I woke up. Not for the first time in my life do I appreciate that man’s friendship. In fact, I don’t know what I’d do without him.

  I finally get to my desk after spending a good half an hour attempting to disguise the bruises on my face with make-up. I hear a shuffle of feet and I look up to find Ethan hovering in my office doorway. A shiver sweeps over me and settles in my spine. His back is resting on the doorframe and his arms are folded. Everything about him looks perfect, from the way he’s styled his hair to the suit he’s chosen to wear.

  “I’m sorry about what I said. At the party,” he says softly, testing the waters.

  “Hmm?”

  “You know, about you being cold. You’re not cold. And I’m not sick of you.”

  I don’t look up from my console. “It’s fine. It’s forgotten.”

  He shuffles awkwardly against the doorframe. I know he doesn’t believe my lies. “So . . . uhm . . . good night last night?”

  “Not particularly.” Is he having a dig?

  I meet his gaze. He’s smiling with every part of his face except his eyes. “What happened to your face?”

  I give him the response I’ve been practising all morning. “I fell down the steps to my flat last night. I was a little bit drunk.”

  His lips purse. “Ouch.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “So, what’s the deal with Dapper Dan, then?”

  “Who?”

  He tilts his head to one side and raises an eyebrow. “You know who. Cosmo.”

  “There is no deal.”

  “Oh, well that’s strange.”

  I flop back into my chair and sigh. I hate riddles and I hate thinly veiled accusations even more. “What exactly are you asking me, Ethan?”

  He shifts from one foot to the other. “Max has been texting me since six a.m. demanding I move Cosmo out of the art studio. The guy only started working for us yesterday, so I’m wondering if you may be able to shed some light, given you appear to be friendly with both of them.”

  My heart leaps into my throat and my limbs start to tremble with dread. Dozens of horrible unhinged-Max
scenarios flash in my mind. Damn him! I told him to behave. “Why? What’s he said?”

  Ethan takes his phone out of his suit jacket. “First message says, ‘Cosmo Hines is a fucking creep and I want him off my team’. Second message says, ‘Either you get rid of him or I will’. Third message is unintelligible, something about how I owe him one. Fourth message is full of insults about how Stella shouldn’t have made me a partner because I don’t have any balls. Fifth message, an hour ago, says, ‘If you don’t get rid of that prick today, I’m going to stick a knife in his head’. Sixth message says something about the sandwich shop at Canary Wharf station not knowing the difference between ham and bacon . . . that one’s irrelevant. Oh, and then, twenty minutes ago, number seven arrived. Five words – ‘Have you done it yet?’”

  How didn’t I know this was going to happen? “Have you replied to him?”

  “Yes. I told him that as Cosmo’s an artist, the art studio is the only place I can put him.”

  “Okay. Leave it with me.”

  “You sure?” he asks. I nod. He turns to leave, but then his body swings back and he re-enters my office, closing the door quietly behind him. I gulp because I know how persistent he is and I really don’t want to do this now. If ever. “Remember back at BMG when you kept quiet about Ridley Gates harassing you and I ended up beating the shit out of him?”

  “How could I forget?” I say, my stomach stirring uneasily at the memory.

  “You promised you wouldn’t keep anything from me again, but I know you’re not being straight with me.” There’s seriousness in his eyes and determination in his voice. “I know we’ve had a tough time these past few weeks, but I need you to talk to me.”

  “If you remember, I dealt with Ridley Gates all by myself – after you got yourself fired for beating the shit out of him – so if there were something up, I only need rely on myself to fix it.” His face blanches, and I’m angry with myself for saying words I don’t want to say.

  “Okay, well if that’s how you want to play it, I will leave it with you.”

  Our conversation is interrupted by Stella Judd’s entrance. She looks like she’s spent all morning roasting her face on a spit. She storms into my office, hands on hips and jaw clenched tight. “What the hell have you done?”

  At first I think she’s talking to Ethan, but then I realise her eyes are trained on me. “I’m sorry . . . I don’t understand.”

  “Oh, don’t play fucking innocent with me. Media just sent me a copy of the Belle Oaks ad you sent to French Vogue.”

  My stomach loops the loop. “I still don’t understand.”

  “You forwarded the wrong ad!”

  I just stare at her. What does she mean? Have I sent Leeward Bakeries’ banana cake print ad to Media instead? “I sent the file Georgie gave me.”

  “No, you sent them that fucking French Revolution monstrosity!” I shake my head. I couldn’t have. “First you waste thousands of pounds on that thing. Now Belle Oaks is going to sue the living shit out of us. You’ve been a liability to this agency from day one.”

  I’m stunned. Shit, crap and hell. Did I check and double-check before I forwarded the artwork? I personally took a hard-copy proof, together with all the relevant paperwork, to the media department yesterday evening, before the party. “Stella, I sent the correct ad. I’m sure of it.”

  Her face turns almost the same shade as her red power suit. “Well, obviously you didn’t. How the hell do you think Media would have got hold of the wrong ad if you hadn’t sent it to them? You’ve landed us in a huge pile of shit. It’s too late to halt the print run.”

  “I . . . I’ll find out what happened.”

  “I’ll help,” says Ethan. “I’m sure this can’t be down to Violet.”

  “No, I have another job for you. I’ve just received a call from HR. It seems Cosmo Hines resigned this morning citing an inability to work alongside Max Wolf.” She runs her hand through her cropped hair, “For crying out fucking loud, Ethan. I warned you about that man. You assured me his temperament wouldn’t be a problem. Cosmo is an award-winning graphic designer. We can’t afford to lose him.”

  “I’ll sort it,” Ethan says decisively. “I’ll go see Max right now.”

  “No, I’ll go.” I stand up and start walking to the door. “Ethan can investigate what happened with the Belle Oaks ad.”

  “With all due respect, Violet, people skills is Ethan’s domain, not yours.” says Stella.

  “I know, but not with Max. He’ll talk to me.”

  Ethan doesn’t protest. Stella looks at him as though he should. I’m too busy to care whether I’m stepping on toes. I’m the only person who knows what all this is about.

  “Okay, I don’t care what you do, but just get it fucking done. Sort it out between the pair of you. I need to go and call Belle and promise her the earth with a fucking cherry on top.”

  * * *

  I find Max in the brainstorming area, sitting on a high stool, hunched over a pile of drawings. His skin is red and clammy and the veins in his neck are bulging. I stifle the urge to wring his neck as I climb up on the stool next to him.

  “Max, you promised me,” I say gently.

  “I don’t care. I fucking hate him.”

  “He said he resigned because of you. Please tell me you haven’t done anything illegal.”

  He shakes his head then nods. “Depends what you consider illegal.”

  “Usually the law decides that.”

  “I told him I’d destroy him – tell everyone what he did to you. I said I’d denigrate his professional reputation and make his life hell on earth unless he fucked off and never came back. He didn’t say much. He knows what he did.”

  “Max, it wasn’t your place to say anything. You’ve just made things ten times harder for me. I didn’t want anybody to know.”

  A flash of guilt spreads over his face. “Cosmo resigned because of me. That’s the story.”

  “But it isn’t the truth.”

  He jumps down from the stool and picks up his papers and pens. He’s still the colour of a snapping lobster, but the deep frown and stress lines have relaxed. “The blame has already been signed, sealed and delivered at my door.” He cocks his head and offers me an awkward smile. “I can’t work with him, Violet. As soon as I walked into the studio this morning and saw him sitting at his desk dressed up in his ridiculous clothes like a fucking Victorian Gothic vampire, I knew I couldn’t work with him. Not after what he did to you.”

  “He came on to me, that’s all. It happens – he was drunk. We both were.” I do the best I can to trivialise what happened. I need to do undo this for both our sakes.

  “It was far worse than coming on to you, and you know it. Plus, he did nothing when that guy jumped you. What if he’d had a knife?”

  “But he didn’t.” I rest my hand on his arm. “You’re going to have to call him and get him to come back.”

  He pulls away from me. “No. Uh-uh. Not a chance.”

  “Max, if you care about me, then you’ll do this.”

  His expression softens, the angry lines on his face slowly melting away. “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure.”

  “Fine. I’ll ask Georgie to do it.”

  “Okay. But first, me, you, Georgie and Ruby have some firefighting to do.”

  * * *

  After an hour of scrambling to find the tiniest scrap of anything to cover our arses, we resign ourselves to the fact we don’t have much. Georgie sent me a total of five emails yesterday. Four of them included an attachment of the right Belle Oaks ad at various stages of completion. But, somewhat horrifyingly, Georgie accidentally attached the Les Misérables original ad to the other email. I sent both to Media, but the final email I sent contained the correct ad along with the words “This is the final proof”, so in my book, that should absolve us from blame.

  Ethan, Max, Georgie, Ruby and I are summoned to the fourth-floor boardroom at noon. Stella is seated at the head o
f the table, with a stack of documents in front of her, and her red jacket is draped on the back of her chair. A pair of black-rimmed glasses sits on the end of her nose. She barely looks up when we enter the room. I take a seat at the polished oak table, feeling ready to fold in on myself like an imploding star.

  “Now that we’re all here, I’ll cut straight to the chase. What the fuck is wrong with this department?” Stella looks at each one of us in turn and I feel instantly guilty for everything I’ve ever done in my entire life, including rubbing chilli powder onto the collar of Juliet Teller’s Girl Guide uniform when I was thirteen. “Belle Oaks is consulting solicitors. Cosmo Hines is consulting solicitors. Oh, and I’m pleased I had other commitments last night, because the highlight reel Lucas gave me from his party is making me have serious doubts about the positions and responsibilities I’ve given some of you.”

  “We all had a bit too much to drink. That always happened at BMG parties too,” says Max. He’s swinging backwards on his chair, setting my teeth on edge. Clearly he didn’t receive the same private school education as me, because if he’d swung on his chair like that during any of Sister Annalise’s lessons at Saint Winifred’s he would have had a blackboard rubber thrown at his head.

  “I don’t give a monkey’s balls how any of you behaved at BMG. Tribe is my agency. Your behaviours reflect on me. Clients were present at that party, including Jared Taft and Park Jae-Kwang. I swear if any of you behave like that again, you’ll be peeling yourself off the pavement – after I’ve thrown you off the roof. Do I make myself clear?”

  All of us nod except Max, who looks utterly terrified. Stella looks at her watch and grimaces. “I’ve only got five minutes before I’m due to meet our lawyers. What have you got?”

  Georgie shuffles in her seat and clears her throat.

  And if I believed in God I would start praying.