She and Jack hadn’t spoken properly for over a week. She hadn’t sought him out after Friday’s meeting, and it seemed he hadn’t looked for her either. Rachel knew the mature thing might have been to talk about it, though she couldn’t see an upside. If they disagreed about how to handle their situation, it would immediately make everything worse – but the alternative was burying the hatchet, perhaps even an attempt at being friends. She would rather have drowned herself in a vat of Angeljuice.
Rachel felt almost as sorry for Greg as she did for herself. He’d found her first thing this morning, wretched and ready to fall on his sword. He blamed himself – said he’d talked up Rachel’s brilliance to everyone who would listen since the takeover, making it clear she was underused and ripe for promotion. He’d even argued that she needed a workmate as bright and talented as herself, never dreaming that Jack might be considered the ideal candidate. Rachel didn’t have it in her to remonstrate with him. She knew Greg’s intentions had been good, regardless of the consequences.
When she arrived at the meeting room, he and Isaac were already there. Greg’s face implied he might as well be in purgatory, and Rachel threw him a resigned sort of smile. She hated that he felt bad about this.
Before she was fully through the door, Jack arrived behind her. Rachel caught a waft of whatever dark, smoky aftershave he was wearing as he followed her inside. It smelled deep and sophisticated, like vintage leather, spices, burning wood … It lingered in her nostrils as she took her seat.
‘Morning, all!’ Isaac beamed, then nudged Greg with his elbow and said, ‘What do you make of my dream team?’
Greg looked ruefully at Rachel, then said, ‘Great. Very impressive.’
Isaac seemed confused for a moment. Rachel assumed he’d never heard Greg answer an open-ended question so concisely.
Brushing off his bewilderment, Isaac began to outline Rachel and Jack’s first joint project. ‘I see you two working almost as a pitching team; you’ll focus on one-off projects that could lead to longer-term business, and also on winning new accounts. You’ll do the groundwork for the new stuff – set the agenda – before handing over to more junior staff. Greg, as our overall head of client services, will want to stay abreast of what you’re doing – but mostly you’ll run this yourselves, and ultimately answer to me. The first thing I have for you is interesting – a proper challenge. All right, I’ll be honest … It’s what my rugby-obsessed son might call a hospital pass.’
And there was me thinking things couldn’t get any worse, Rachel thought. Jack caught her eye and made a face that suggested he didn’t like the sound of this either. She refused to acknowledge she’d noticed it, instead looking down at her notebook.
‘The client is British House and Garden Heritage – or rather its director general, Sir Humphrey Caldwell,’ Isaac went on. ‘They’re after a plan that will help increase visitor numbers to their key historical sites, particularly young people. Humphrey is a … difficult sort of person. Old-fashioned. Struggles with modern developments such as the internet, women’s rights and the fact that we’ve lost the Empire.’
Sounds delightful, Rachel thought, then clenched her teeth for fear she’d say something similar out loud. She could feel Jack looking at her and sensed he was trying not to laugh at her obvious horror. Urgently, she tried to neutralise her expression.
Isaac, however, seemed unperturbed by his characterisation of Sir Humphrey, and apparently hadn’t noticed his colleagues’ reactions to it. ‘I think the key thing with him,’ he went on, ‘is probably keeping your head when he’s unpleasant – reminding yourself that this is all part of agency life. Humphrey is of a certain generation. From a certain echelon of society.’ He turned to Jack and said, ‘You went to Harrow, didn’t you?’
‘Yes,’ Jack replied, nodding and shrugging his shoulders.
‘Good. So did Sir Humphrey. We’ll need to find a way to drop that in.’
‘Is it relevant?’ Rachel asked. ‘I mean, is he also going to be informed that I went to St Agatha’s Roman Catholic Comp in Stoke-on-Trent?’
Greg suppressed a grin, but Jack didn’t bother to hide his. ‘I suspect not, though more fool him for not being interested,’ he said. ‘I get the point: the fact that I’m an “Old Harrovian” has nothing to do with whether we’re capable of delivering good work. But the idea that Humphrey will find it interesting gives me a read on him before we even meet. It’s useful to know.’
‘Precisely,’ said Isaac. ‘Humphrey has fired the last two agencies who worked for him, so it’s fair to say he needs careful handling. We need to ingratiate ourselves with him however we can – and from everything I’ve heard, Jack is the man for the job. Given their track record, we’ve negotiated with British House and Garden Heritage that they’ll pay a one-off fee for the work you do over the next month or so. That way, if Humphrey throws his toys out of the pram and doesn’t want us to actually deliver what we recommend, we won’t be thousands out of pocket. Having said that,’ Isaac continued, ‘if we were to end up with BHGH as a longer-term client, it would be a massive win for us. For you two, in particular.’
‘Challenge accepted,’ Jack said, smiling and apparently undaunted. Rachel stared at him.
‘It’s not going to be easy,’ Greg said, his voice testy. ‘It’s a tough first assignment. You’re going to need to charm the pants off him. Not literally, though … Based on my brief meeting with him, I think it’s fair to say he’s quite homophobic.’
‘Dear God,’ Rachel said, but Jack grimaced and then smiled again.
‘Yet more useful intel. Thank you, Greg.’
‘I’ll send over everything we have on the client so far,’ Isaac said. ‘I have some of the stuff their previous agencies have done, plus the client’s brief and my notes. That should be enough to get you started with brainstorming ideas. We can chat again in a day or two, and we’ll get a desk move sorted as well – seat the two of you with me and the rest of the pro-social team ASAP.’
Greg rushed off to his next meeting, then Isaac got to his feet and made for the door – only to turn back at the threshold with an embarrassed look on his face.
‘Just one more thing. Humphrey tends to get my name wrong. He often calls me Abraham, and he’s the type of character who’d think I was being impertinent if I corrected him. So if an Abraham is ever mentioned, you know he means me.’
Rachel sighed as Isaac sailed off into the office, ignoring the sound of Jack’s muffled laughter.
‘This guy sounds like an absolute nightmare,’ she said with her head in her hands. ‘This whole thing is a nightmare.’
‘Not at all,’ Jack said brightly, and when she looked up he was grinning. ‘Between us, we’re going to nail it.’
Rachel shot out of her seat, strode past Jack and shut the meeting room door, sealing the two of them in.
‘Am I missing something?’ she asked. ‘What could you possibly be smiling about?’
Jack’s face fell, but only a fraction. ‘Rachel, I know this isn’t ideal,’ he said, ‘but it’s the hand we’ve been dealt. I think we have to play it.’
She scowled at him. ‘This isn’t a game, Jack – but how very you to think of it that way. This is my job, my life – which up until recently was going okay.’
He sighed, stood up as if to try to soothe her, then clawed at his carefully dishevelled hair as he decided against it. ‘I didn’t mean to sound glib. I’m just being realistic,’ he said. ‘I know that what happened – what I did – was totally, monumentally shit. I’ve apologised before and I apologise again, unreservedly. But it was ten years ago, Rachel. I’m not the same man.’
Rachel sank back down into her seat. ‘I thought I could do this, but I can’t,’ she said, her voice thin but resolute. ‘I can’t work with you. Not on winning round Sir Humphrey Horrorbag. Not on anything.’
‘What? Are you going to quit? Hand in your notice?’
‘Why should I do that?’ Rachel cried, incredulous. ‘I was
here first!’
‘Whoa, there, what are we – twelve?’
Rachel felt her face flood with colour.
‘We are two people who will never work well together,’ she said after taking a deep breath. ‘Surely you can see that?’
He sat down opposite her, then raked a hand through his hair again. ‘I can see that this is very uncomfortable for you. But the thing is, I am here – and this’ – he gestured at the space between them – ‘is a professional relationship now.’
Rachel threw him a withering look.
‘I transferred here because I wanted to help develop the pro-social side of the business,’ Jack went on, his voice slightly harder than before. ‘And there’s absolutely no way I’m stepping back from that. If you’re determined not to even try working with me, you’ll have to ask for your old job back. Or hand in your notice. I think either might seem odd, though, given you said yes to this position last week and only started it an hour ago.’
He lifted his chin a little so the sunlight streaming through the window bounced bright across his cheekbones. God damn him and his fucking perfect bone structure.
‘I can’t just leave,’ Rachel said through gritted teeth. ‘But you could. You could just stay in the job you already had in Manchester – cancel your move. Then we can forget we ever knew each other.’ She sounded surly now, like a moody teenager, and she hated herself for it.
‘That’s not an option,’ Jack said flatly. ‘And not just because it’s unreasonable for you to ask. I can’t be in Manchester any more; I didn’t just want this transfer, I needed it. Believe it or not, I have as much at stake here as you do.’
Before Rachel had a chance to start decoding what he’d said, he went on: ‘I can’t change the past, but I’ll do whatever it takes to make things easier for you right now. Just tell me what you need.’
His eyes were wide, sincere and fully focused on her face. They looked a shade darker today, almost moss-coloured, against a plain black V-neck. Rachel wondered whether Jack might agree to wear a paper bag on his head during office hours; that might help.
‘I’ve never forgiven you,’ she said stiffly. ‘I’m not sure I can.’
‘I never expected you to. I still don’t.’
‘I don’t think you have any idea what it cost me to let you in,’ Rachel said in spite of herself, her voice almost a whisper. ‘To open up, to tell you things that even now I never talk about. We are never going to be friends.’
She felt her eyes begin to prickle and wished she hadn’t shown weakness – but if Jack noticed that she was on the edge of tears, he pretended not to.
‘I understand,’ he said. ‘We don’t have to be. But given we’re at an impasse, perhaps we could try to be colleagues? Just … see what happens if we behave like civil teammates between the hours of nine and five. Hate me as much as you like during your evenings and weekends, obviously,’ he went on, chancing a tentative smile. ‘Buy a Jack doll. Stick pins in it. Do your worst.’
‘What makes you think I haven’t cast a spell on you already?’ Rachel asked, feeling her lips twist into a half-hearted smirk. She lifted her face to look at him.
‘Good point,’ Jack said, holding her gaze. ‘Perhaps that ship has sailed.’
Rachel let out a loud, long breath, feeling the will to fight on leave her. ‘You won’t quit, and for now I can’t quit. So, sure. Let’s see how it goes,’ she said.
‘Thank you.’ Jack sighed, and stood up. ‘I guess we should be getting back. This meeting room’s probably booked.’
Rachel nodded as he reached out a hand to her. She assumed he meant for them to shake again, this time on their flimsy peace accord – but when she took it in hers he held on gently, pulling her to her feet. She stumbled slightly as she rose and ended up too close to him, almost headbutting his chest.
Jack placed his hands on her upper arms to steady her and she caught that fragrance again. Rich. Intriguing. Sexy, she had to admit. It smelled like a night out with Don Draper – like tobacco and old-fashioneds in a backstreet New York bar.
‘Sorry to interrupt,’ said a thin, nasal voice. ‘I can see you’re hard at work. But we’re supposed to be in here now.’
It was Donna, with a terrified-looking man in tow. As Rachel skittered backwards, away from Jack and into a chair leg, she thought she recognised him as the wholesaler who supplied the agency’s tea, coffee and snacks. No wonder it was Donna’s job to negotiate with him on the cost, she thought. She couldn’t imagine anyone who’d drive a harder bargain.
‘Of course,’ Jack said, turning to Donna with a megawatt smile. ‘We’ll get out of your way. Rachel, I’ll set up a time for us to talk tomorrow, shall I? Give us both a chance to read through the stuff Isaac sends.’
‘Fine,’ Rachel said, shuffling after him towards the door.
Donna looked her up and down with a smug leer, unable to contain her joy at witnessing what Rachel knew she’d report as a passionate embrace. She made a big show of checking her watch, then said in her signature artificially sweetened tone, ‘Close the door, would you? We need to get on.’
Rachel left the room and stood just outside for a moment feeling tired, bruised and sore. Then she stood up straighter and resolved to get on with her day.
Surely, she reasoned as she walked back to her desk, the worst part of it was already over.
11
When Rachel left the office building just before 6 p.m., she found Laurence lurking outside. He was leaning against a lamp post, trying to appear casual but clearly waiting for her.
He looked up and saw Rachel immediately. Damn it. If she’d had the time, she’d have crept back inside and asked Frank if she could leave by the side door.
Laurence smiled at Rachel sheepishly and thrust his hands deeper into the pockets of his navy trench coat. She tried to smile back but her lips refused to cooperate, instead contorting themselves into a weary sort of pout.
‘What are you doing here, Laurence?’ Rachel asked. She didn’t want to be unkind, but the last thing she felt like doing right now was rehashing her reasons for finishing with him.
‘I was worried about you,’ he said. ‘I’ve sent you texts and emails, and I left a voicemail for you last week. I got concerned when you didn’t reply to any of it. I thought something might have happened.’
Rachel resisted the urge to say, ‘Actually, something has happened – not that it’s any of your business.’
Instead she mumbled, ‘I’ve just been busy. Work has been pretty intense. And without wanting to be mean, you and I have broken up. I kind of don’t have to reply to you any more.’
‘I never said you did!’ Laurence cried, looking affronted. ‘I just care about you, muffin. And you know I want to talk things over. I’ve been asking to meet for a drink for weeks. Honestly, I think you owe me that.’
Rachel cast her eyes skyward and then brought them back to his face, which was set and sulky. ‘I really don’t see what good it’s going to do,’ she said. ‘And I have asked you repeatedly not to call me muffin.’
‘Let me say my piece,’ Laurence insisted, ‘and then, if you never want to hear from me again … I suppose that’s fine. Please.’
Rachel dug the heels of her hands into her eye sockets, not caring if they smudged her mascara. Fucking hell, Laurence! It was bad enough that he felt the need to harass her with this ‘Ghost of Relationships Past’ routine … But to wheel it out today of all days … She sighed.
‘One drink,’ she said. Her brain asked her mouth what on earth it was doing.
You’re saying yes because you don’t want to be cruel, Rachel told herself. Also, she figured that once she’d heard Laurence’s speech and still didn’t want to be his girlfriend, he’d have to accept they were over.
This would be like ripping off a particularly sticky plaster, Rachel reasoned: unpleasant for a moment, then done with.
They walked together towards Angel, Laurence always slightly ahead of Rachel and occasionally loo
king back, as if to make sure she hadn’t absconded. They turned off the main road and, a few minutes later, stopped outside a wine bar.
‘Is here okay?’ Laurence asked.
‘Fine,’ Rachel said.
‘What’ll you have?’
‘Er – red wine, please. Just a small glass. I’ll get a table.’
Rachel looked around. The bar was small and stylish, with wood-panelled walls painted a dark shade of some Farrow & Ball blue. There were candles and hurricane lanterns flickering from every shelf, alcove and tabletop. Old black-and-white movie posters and theatre bills adorned the walls, and an enormous vase of yellow roses stood at the end of the marble-topped bar.
Rachel’s heart sank. This wasn’t the kind of place you just happened upon, nor somewhere you’d bring a woman if your intention was merely to seek closure on the recent demise of your relationship with her. Rachel felt her sympathy for Laurence diminishing in inverse proportion to her rising annoyance.
She took her coat off and sat down at a small square table, deliberately shunning the far fancier booth a short distance away. There was a row of them against the back wall of the room, and they were all small – designed for intimacy. The one Rachel could see into had a fabric canopy and plush velvet-covered benches topped with squishy-looking jewel-bright cushions. She would gladly have sat there with someone she actually liked – but under the current circumstances she thought it best to avoid putting herself anywhere that might remind Laurence of a bed.
Rachel pulled her handbag from underneath the table and dug for her mobile. Laurence was at the bar now, already being served. She opened WhatsApp and wrote a message to Anna:
Rachel: Do you think I’m being punished for committing some cardinal sin I’ve forgotten about?
Two blue ticks. Thank God, Anna had her phone on her.
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