‘Right. It’s better than nothing, I suppose,’ I say, pulling out my own phone and dialling Erica’s number.
She gives my arm a squeeze and smiles briefly, before walking past the receptionist’s desk and towards those smoked-glass double doors.
I immediately go and sit on a chair beside the receptionist’s desk and hold my phone up to my ear. I stare out at the semi-full office floor as I do this. Most of the staff at ForeTech are getting on with their work, but a few keep throwing glances over at me and the boardroom. They know something of importance is happening in there today. It’s probably testament to the way Benedict Montifore runs things that most of them look scared to death. I want to go over and tell them not to worry – it’s not their jobs that hang in the balance today . . . it’s mine.
‘Good afternoon, gentlemen!’ I hear Erica say through the phone. ‘I’m so sorry I’m late.’ The sarcasm in her voice is palpable. God knows what shade of red her hair has gone.
‘Delighted to have you here!’ the voice of an old man says. I have to assume this is Alan Prendergast. He sounds genuinely pleased that Erica has made it.
‘Glad you could join us,’ Benedict Montifore says. There’s no mistaking the venom in his voice. ‘I was just explaining to the board how you and your lackey, Mr Sweet, have lied to all of us.’
I sit bolt upright in the chair.
‘Lied to you?’ Erica exclaims.
‘Oh yes, Erica. I was just telling our esteemed board members how you and Mr Sweet have been fabricating subscriber numbers and website hits for that “Dumped Actually” thing of his. It’s all very sad and very shameful, Erica.’
I jump out of the chair and start to pace up and down angrily.
‘We have done no such thing!’ Erica says, probably speaking directly to the other board members. ‘The success of “Dumped Actually” is there for all to see!’
‘Ha!’ Benedict interrupts. ‘Fine words, Erica, but these gentlemen are not going to be hoodwinked by your falsehoods.’ I suppose Benedict is now addressing the board members as well.
Argh! This is so frustrating! I need to be in there with her, not out here, wearing a hole in the bloody carpet!
Benedict then starts a speech that is designed to paint Erica and me in the worst light possible. He talks about how we’ve consistently falsified the popularity of ‘Dumped Actually’. He tells the board members that we’ve faked all of the emails that have been coming in, and that all the things I’ve been doing for the feature have been completely made up.
He even produces some pieces of paper as evidence. These have no doubt been cooked up somewhere by one of his lackeys, to back up the accusations he’s throwing at us.
Benedict tells the board that we’ve conducted all this deceitful activity just to save our own jobs; never mind the damage this might do to the reputation of Actual Life, and – more importantly – the parent company, ForeTech.
He has absolutely no real proof of any of this, of course – but my God does he sound convincing.
Benedict has not a shred of proper evidence for any of his claims, but he obviously believes he doesn’t need it. He thinks he can just bluff his way through to a vote on the continued existence of Actual Life with his speech and a few bits of paper, knowing that the board will probably acquiesce to his wishes.
I have a horrible feeling he might be bloody right. I’m half convinced he’s telling the truth from out here, and I’m the one whose reputation he’s destroying.
Erica is trying as hard as she can to argue against Benedict, but I don’t think it’s working. She was caught wrong-footed by him today and has had no time to prepare a defence. Benedict has probably been planning this for weeks, and knows precisely what to say, and how to say it. He’s appealing to the reputations of the men sat around that table – going right to the heart of what makes them tick.
Do they want to be associated with liars and charlatans? That’s his plan of attack. Make them think that associating with us will lead to their own reputations being irrevocably tarred.
Of course, the irony here is that he’s the biggest liar of all!
I clench my phone so hard in my hand that I’m in danger of breaking the screen.
How is this fair? How is this allowed to happen? How can one man – more full of shit than a sewage works – be allowed to destroy Actual Life, with nothing more than words and falsified documents?
But that’s clearly the way this is going to go. I can tell that, even though I can only hear what’s going on. Erica is losing this fight. Her words sound like they are falling on deaf ears. These old farts are quite prepared to accept Benedict’s version of the story, given that he’s managed to terrify them with the prospect of being connected to such deceitful bastards as Erica and I are being made out to be. The vote will go ahead, we will lose . . . and I will have to stand out here and listen as my life is taken away from me.
Because that’s what ‘Dumped Actually’ is. That’s what Erica is, for that matter.
My life.
Both have seen me through the heartache of Sam’s loss, and both have helped me understand myself better, and grow as a person. Without them, I’d still be mourning the end of yet another relationship and hiding in the dark somewhere . . . rather than jumping out of a plane and finally seeing the light.
I would also not have changed the relationship I have with my parents for the better, because I wouldn’t have known there was anything that needed changing. I’d still be looking at them on a pedestal, rather than as the lovely human beings they actually are.
Without Erica, without Actual Life, without ‘Dumped Actually’, where exactly would I be?
For the briefest of moments, I flash back to being on top of that car park and leaning out over the edge, with tears in my eyes and very dark thoughts in my heart. This time, though, in my mind’s eye, I don’t push back. Instead, I lean out more, past the point of no return, and I—
‘Fuck this,’ I say under my breath, turning to face the smoked-glass double doors, with my head up and my shoulders square.
The receptionist – who has clearly been watching me all this time – rises from his seat. ‘You’re not allowed to go in there!’ he barks at me.
I glare at him.
For a moment, it seems like he’s going to say something else, but the look in my eyes is all he needs to know that he’s far better off just sitting back down again.
As he does, I look at the double doors and take a deep breath.
I’ve been going through a lot of doors recently. And I’ve mostly done it kicking and screaming – and probably crying.
Everything in my life has been difficult. Painful. Challenging, you might say. I’ve had to face many things that brought me grief, and I’ve been reluctant to do so on every single occasion.
Not this time, though.
This time, I’ve never wanted to do anything more in my life.
I start towards the smoked-glass doors, just as I see a load of arms shoot into the air beyond them. The vote has started.
With one hand thrust out, I stride at the doors, hitting them dead centre. They both fly open, and I walk into the boardroom like I own the fucking place.
‘Stop!’ I roar as I take in the room for the first time. A long oak table, covered in sheets of paper, full of charts, numbers and lists, is surrounded on three sides by a series of cookie-cutter old white men in dark suits. I think I recognise a few from Sheldon Brook.
Erica is stood off to the left-hand side of the room, looking sick to her stomach, and Benedict Montifore is at the head of the oak table, staring down on his board with barely concealed glee as they make their decision about the future of Actual Life – having been convinced by the gold-plated arsehole’s lies.
I see at least nine arms in the air. More than enough to seal my fate.
Benedict immediately straightens when he sees me, with a look of unbridled rage on his face. ‘Get out! This has nothing to do with you!’
&
nbsp; I return his look of rage with 1000 per cent interest. ‘Oh, fuck off, Benedict,’ I tell him, earning me a few gasps from some of the board members.
Erica looks like she’s just seen her cute puppy turn into a wolverine.
‘You’re not allowed in here!’ Benedict roars, moving towards me, spittle flying from his mouth.
Usually, people move out of his way when he comes at them like this.
Not today, though.
I stand my ground.
But as Benedict comes at me, I feel one leg start to shake. He really is quite a big man. Far bigger and stronger than me, without a doubt.
I shouldn’t be doing this. I shouldn’t be here. Benedict is right. It’s just better for me to let all of this happen, and to try to pick up the pieces afterwar—
Then I see Erica’s apologetic, hurt expression again, from our conversation back in the car, and my leg stops shaking instantly.
Come on, then, you son of a bitch. Come and test your worth against mine.
As he gets within two feet of me, Benedict’s expression changes. This is not a man who is used to people standing up to him. He doesn’t know how to deal with it.
Is that . . . Is that doubt in his eyes? Maybe even a little . . . fear?
‘I said, you have to get out!’ he tells me again, his voice actually cracking a little.
‘I don’t think so,’ I reply. ‘I’ve listened to you lie about me from out there, and there’s no way I’m going to let you get away with it. These fine gentlemen are going to hear my side of the story.’
‘No!’ Benedict retorts. ‘You know what you’ve done! I’ve told them all!’
‘You’ve told them all lies and bullshit,’ I say, taking a step forward.
This causes Benedict to take a step back . . . and something fundamental realigns itself in the universe.
‘I’d like to hear what he has to say,’ one of the board members says.
I turn and nod. ‘Thank you, Mr Prendergast,’ I say, hazarding a guess. He responds with a warm smile.
‘Yes. Let Ollie speak!’ Erica adds, moving forward herself to stand at my side. ‘He’s been as slandered as I have today. He deserves the right to reply!’
The raised hands of the board members all go down again slowly, and they stare at Benedict. A few of them look chagrined in the extreme. Those are probably the ones loyal to Benedict, no matter what happens. The rest are looking at him with a mixture of concern and suspicion, though.
He stares right back at them for a moment, before wiping his jacket sleeve across his face to remove the thin film of spittle from his mouth. ‘Go on, then, you little bastard. Say your piece. None of them will believe you over me.’
I smile at him. It’s a broad, dangerous smile. One I both love and hate at the same time. ‘We’ll see, Benny. We’ll just see.’
Oh, he hates being called Benny. Just look! How fantastic!
I gaze at the board members and draw myself up to my full height. It’s still quite painful to do this, as my spine really isn’t used to it. ‘Gentlemen, you’ve been told a lot of lies here today, just so Benedict can convince you to liquidate Actual Life. He’s tried to tell you that we’re lying about the website’s popularity, and that things aren’t going as well as they appear to be. And . . . to tell the truth . . . I can understand why you’d believe him. After all, he is the CEO of this company, and has made you all an awful lot of money over the years.’
The board all nod in a self-satisfied way when I say this. God, what a bunch of old monsters. Only Prendergast has the decency to look a bit shamefaced.
‘But lying to you he is, whether you like it or not. Actual Life is doing better. It is making money again, and it does have many more subscribers. Benedict here doesn’t want to get rid of it because he thinks it’s unprofitable, or because Erica and I are going to ruin your reputations with our skulduggery.’ I look at Benedict again, this time with a loathing I no longer care to suppress. ‘He’s doing it because he tried to force Erica to have sex with him on this very table, and she turned him down.’
Gasps. Loud gasps from the board.
‘Ollie!’ Erica exclaims.
‘Lies!’ Benedict screams. ‘I never did anything of the sort!’
‘Yes, you bloody did!’ Erica shouts back at him.
‘No, I didn’t! You lying bitch!’
I move forward again, pinning Benedict against the edge of the oak table, forcing him to lean back over it. ‘Not nice when someone makes accusations against you with no proof, is it, Benedict?’
‘I’ll kill you, Sweet,’ he says in a low voice.
‘No, you won’t, honey,’ I reply, dismissively. ‘I’ve got the measure of you, Benedict. I know what kind of man you are.’ I lean into him even more. ‘You know what kind of man I am?’
He doesn’t answer, but just glares at me defiantly.
‘I’m a man who likes to write,’ I say. ‘And I do a pretty good job of it. And despite what you’ve claimed here today, people do like what I write. They like it a lot. And they listen to me, Benedict. They believe what I have to say. Thousands of them. Hundreds of thousands. They believe me, because I’ve been honest with them about myself. About the things I’ve done wrong. About the things I’ve learned. About my experiences.’
Benedict’s eyes widen. I think he’s starting to get the point.
‘And all of this would make a fine last story for “Dumped Actually”, wouldn’t it, Benedict? Just think about how all those thousands of people would love to hear about what’s gone on here today . . . about all the things you’ve said . . . about all the things you’ve accused us of.’
If I lean in any closer to the man, I’m going to have to either kiss him or headbutt him.
‘And then, I could tell them all about what you tried to do to Erica on this table. And what she did to you. How she fought you off. How she rejected you. Yeah . . . I bet they’d be really interested in hearing all about that.’
Somewhere, deep down inside of me, Troy the Elephant is beating the shit out of that demon.
‘And think about what that would do to the reputation of this company. If all of this came out in one final glorious chapter in the story of “Dumped Actually”. And I write fast, Benedict. I bet I could have the story out there by the end of the day . . .’
Benedict tries to straighten up. I don’t let him.
‘Go ahead! Write what you want!’ he spits. ‘I’ll sue the shit out of you! How dare you think you can come here and threaten me like this! How dare you talk to me like this!’
My eyes flick up over his shoulder, and stare directly at the board of directors. ‘Oh, I wasn’t talking to you, Benedict.’
The faces of eleven terrified old men stare right back at me.
I will take the look of horrified realisation on Benedict Montifore’s face to my grave – along with every other momentous occasion that I’ve found myself a part of on this strange journey.
These old men know exactly what kind of damage a story about all of this could do to their reputations. The very same reputations that Benedict tried to play on to get them to vote his way.
I don’t really need to say anything else. When you turn the tables on someone, it’s vitally important you get out of there before they get a chance to rotate them back.
I straighten up and move away from Benedict swiftly. ‘So, gentlemen, I think I’ve taken up more than enough of your time for one day. I’ll allow you to take your vote without any further hindrance from me.’ Then I give them all a very meaningful look. ‘I’ll be down in the car . . . waiting for the result.’ The smile I give them doesn’t touch my eyes. ‘And thinking about what my next – or maybe final – story might be.’
I swivel on the ball of my foot and start towards the door. As I do, I catch sight of the look on Erica’s face as she watches me go. Her mouth is agape.
I give her a little wink and march out of the boardroom, with that shark’s smile still on my face.
&n
bsp; Once I step into the lift that’ll take me back down to the car park, though, the strength goes out of my legs completely. I managed to keep the pretense up for long enough, but now I’m on my own, and don’t have to perform for anyone any more, reality is reasserting itself.
My hands start to shake uncontrollably, and I can feel my heart hammering out of my chest.
What the hell did I just do?
You took a stand, mate. And it was glorious!
Maybe so, but I’m now in severe danger of having an accident in my underpants.
The lift reaches the lower ground floor, and I emerge from it on wobbly legs. I make it back to the BMW and am incredibly grateful to find that Erica forgot to lock it in the rush to get upstairs. I collapse into the passenger seat and take several deep breaths.
All the techniques I learned at Lizzy Moore’s mindfulness classes come back to me, and within ten minutes or so I have control of my body back.
I look up again as I hear the lift bing open and see Erica hurrying over to the car.
I climb out as she reaches it and go to meet her behind it. There’s a hectic look on her face, and her hair has gone the deepest shade of red I think I’ve ever seen.
‘They’ve . . . They’ve voted,’ she says breathlessly.
‘And?’
She shakes her head in disbelief. ‘Nine to three against closing down Actual Life!’ she cries with joy, and throws her arms around me. ‘You did it, Ollie! You did it!’
‘We did it,’ I reply, my head buried in the wealth of her auburn hair.
Erica moves her head away, but doesn’t release me from her embrace. ‘I’ve never seen anything like that. I’ve never seen anyone stand up to Benedict like that.’
‘You did,’ I tell her. ‘You stopped him on that boardroom table.’
‘Well, maybe. But I’ve never shouted him down like that. I’ve never turned the tables on him like that, either.’ She smiles at me. ‘Who are you, and what have you done with Oliver Sweet?’
I smile back. ‘Still me, I assure you. I nearly crapped my pants once I got out of there.’
Dumped, Actually Page 27
