The voice seemed to grow louder and stronger in the silence of the empty flat. Anna had plans with Will tonight, and she was obviously already gone. There was a faint whiff of her heady date-night perfume in the air.
Rachel sighed, shucking off her coat and scarf and setting her laptop bag down on the kitchen floor. She wandered over to the fridge to assess her dinner options. Two-day-old mac and cheese would do, she decided – and there were enough leaves left to make a decent side salad, even if the avocado and cherry tomatoes lurking in the crisper had seen better days.
In the door of the fridge was a mini-can of G&T – train-picnic leftovers from a couple of months ago, when she and Anna had taken a very windy day trip to Brighton. Without pausing to muse that slurping gin from a tin was definitely somewhere towards ‘pathetic’ on the spectrum of solo V-Day behaviours, she opened it.
It was only when she turned away from the fridge, having resolved to wait a while before microwaving her supper, that she saw it: a package on the table, wrapped in brown paper, her name on the outside in huge Sharpie’d letters.
What now? she wondered.
After several enthusiastic pulls on her can, Rachel sat down and began to strip the sellotape off the join between folds of parcel wrap. Once the package was open, she laughed aloud. Inside was a DVD of The Blair Witch Project – the only horror film she’d ever watched, and which only one person in the world knew had given her nightmares for a fortnight. With it was a packet of what looked like dog mess. Its label informed her that it was in fact Premium Chocolate Poop. Written on the back of the packet was: Because I think you’re The Shit.
There was a card too, which she opened eagerly. It was disgusting: an A5 glitter-covered pastel monstrosity with a cuddly bear clutching a sign that said Happy Valentine’s Day. The words Valentine’s Day had been crossed through, however, and the word THURSDAY written in black marker across the bear’s snuggly stomach.
Rachel giggled as she opened the card to read the message inside. There were more crossings-out – a sentimental cookie-cutter message struck through in favour of something more personal.
Because it’s just another unromantic day, and I know how much you hate it. (Also because I’m hilarious.) T x
Later that evening, Rachel messaged Tom.
Rachel: So Valentine’s Day blows, as ever. But it turns out dog poo is surprisingly tasty
She added a photo of her half-eaten packet of chocolate.
A moment later his reply arrived.
Tom: Glad to hear it
Rachel: Yeah, despite another grand gesture from Laurence …
Tom: WTF???!!!
Rachel: I’ll explain next time I see you … Headlines are: he sent an embarrassingly huge bunch of flowers to me at work, but at least didn’t turn up himself.
Tom: Seriously, that guy’s creepier than the Blair Witch.
Are you free this Saturday morning, by the way? I’ve managed to book space for the first exhibition shoot – it’s with our friend the white T-shirt influencer. He’s up for a face to face chat too.
Rachel: Deffo, wouldn’t miss it! Send me the address.
Also nothing is creepier than Blair Witch, which I am obviously NOT watching.
Tom: Haha, I reckon Loser Loz comes close. I’ll watch with you again sometime if you like, it’s important to face one’s fears etc.
See you soon … Tomorrow I guess?
Night x
Rachel: Night night. And thanks again xxx
Rachel went to bed feeling far happier than she’d expected to a few hours earlier, and only partly because she’d gorged on sugar.
She might not have a boyfriend this Valentine’s Day, but she had a boy friend; one who’d thought about her, wanted to make her smile and had found a way to show he cared without making her cringe.
It was weird but true, Rachel thought, that a packet of fake faeces could seem more thoughtful than a hundred gorgeous roses. Yet there it was.
16
The BHGH office was near Chelsea Embankment: six miles and half a world away from Stroud Green’s shops, takeaways, crowds and constant traffic. The organisation’s London HQ was a four-storey red-brick terrace within sight of the Thames – elegant and striking against a cloudless, turquoise sky.
As Rachel made her way towards it on Friday morning, she spotted Jack leaning against a tree reading something on his phone. He was wearing a suit for the first time since the day the Mountaintop takeover had been announced, and even from this distance it was a lot.
He was a living, breathing Burberry advert: classically handsome, slender, almost aristocratic-looking … But just tousled enough to look stylish rather than staid.
He stood up straight to greet her, brushing the back of his navy overcoat clean.
‘Morning.’ He smiled. ‘Isaac’s just messaged. He and Greg are in a cab, apparently – they should be here soon.’
‘Cool.’
Rachel didn’t know what to say or where to direct her gaze; it was a little like trying not to stare directly into the sun.
‘You look lovely, by the way,’ Jack said.
Rachel shifted her weight from one foot to the other, resisting the urge to say ‘So do you.’ In the end, unable to come up with anything better, she murmured, ‘Oh.’
Jack rolled his eyes at her obvious confusion. ‘You are literally the only woman I’ve ever known who reacts to compliments with such surprise. Your mystery man clearly needs to up his game – perhaps pay you a few more in between bouquets.’
Rachel made a noise that sounded like Fffffft. She felt like laughing. In light of recent events, the idea of Laurence saying anything genuinely nice to her was ridiculous. Pushing the urge to giggle away and refusing to be drawn on the identity of her Valentine, she said, ‘Er, maybe. Thanks, anyway.’
In truth, she’d put on a high-necked voluminous midi dress this morning so as to shield her body from close inspection by Humphrey. Her hair was loose, though, falling past her shoulders in soft red-gold waves that even she could see looked like something out of a Pre-Raphaelite painting.
She’d left it unstyled for the sake of not wasting a good hair day and because the weather seemed settled – unlikely, for once, to render her head an explosion of tangles and frizz. Only now did she remember that Jack had always found her hair wildly romantic when it wasn’t scraped back in a sloppy bun. She felt him looking at her again and tucked it behind her ears.
He shook his head at her fondly and asked, ‘You feeling good about this morning?’
‘As far as our work is concerned, I feel great … Though I can’t say I’m looking forward to actually presenting it.’
‘We’ll be fine,’ Jack said with an airy wave of his arm. ‘Humphrey will see things our way; he’ll love the plans we’ve put together.’
‘Oh, to possess the supreme and unwavering confidence of an Old Harrovian,’ Rachel retorted, only half-joking.
Before Jack could reply, a black cab pulled up beside them. The kerbside door opened and Greg and Isaac spilled out of it onto the pavement, an urgent mass of smartly dressed arms and legs.
‘Morning, guys, sorry we’re a little late,’ Greg said, pulling Rachel in for a quick hug as Isaac paid their fare. ‘You’re going to be brilliant,’ he whispered into her ear. ‘I have every faith you’ll impress the snooty old bastard.’
Rachel smiled as Greg turned to Jack, nodded his head and greeted him – a polite but comparatively cool acknowledgement, Rachel noted. She felt warmed by Greg’s loyalty, and her smile widened a fraction.
‘Are we ready, then, Dream Team?’ Isaac gushed, his boyish cheeks apple-red and round, shining with open excitement. ‘It’s time to go and win this account!’
‘It is,’ Jack agreed, checking his watch. ‘Five minutes until showtime. We’d better head inside.’
Isaac pushed open the heavy, glazed front door of the building with Greg close behin
d. Jack made way for Rachel and she followed them, her feet heavy as breeze blocks – clearly reluctant to walk towards another encounter with Humphrey.
Delicately, as if to steady her nerves or steer her in the right direction, Jack placed a hand at the base of her spine. Rachel froze, shocked – not sure whether she wanted to lean into the touch or jerk away in horror.
Before she could decide on an appropriate reaction, he’d moved; Isaac had turned around and was hissing something at them frantically, clearly needing to make his point before they were within earshot of anyone who worked for BHGH.
Rachel stepped further forward, straining to hear him and struggling to push her heart down from her mouth, back into her chest where it belonged.
‘Don’t forget,’ Isaac was saying, grim-faced. ‘I answer to Abraham here. So try to avoid calling me by my actual name this morning, if at all possible.’
Sir Humphrey Caldwell looked more walrus-esque than ever this morning, in a jacket that was so tight under the armpits it made his short, chubby arms seem to flail when he moved them, independent of the rest of him. Flippers, Rachel thought, and stifled a smirk. She assumed this suit must have been made especially for him on Savile Row – some years and many indulgent dinners ago.
He took her hand when she tried to shake his, turned it over and kissed it wetly, then allowed his eyes to meander downwards from her face to take in the rest of her. She fought the urge to cry, ‘Eyes UP, you old perv!’, instead sitting down and discreetly mopping her moist knuckles against the fabric of her dress.
Rachel had expected Humphrey to be flanked by one or two other BHGH bigwigs – one of whom might even be a woman. He was alone, though; clearly the decision to appoint a new digital agency rested only with him. She realised this shouldn’t have surprised her.
The room they were in was large but sparsely decorated, and cold. The walls were painted a bog-standard magnolia and the floor was carpeted in some dark synthetic stuff. There was no furniture except for a large antique-looking table and the six matching chairs that surrounded it. A single, lonely picture stared down from one wall: a portrait of the Queen from sometime in the 1970s.
It was a waste of gorgeous space, Rachel thought; the light in here was beautiful, flooding in through a huge sash window bordered by traditional wooden shutters and looking out over the street towards the river. It was the perfect room for an intimate wedding ceremony, she mused – then realised that her mother’s endless marriage chat must be getting to her.
After a few moments of pleasantries, and while Jack was setting up his laptop to project, a young woman with long blonde hair, caramel-coloured skin and long, designer-jean-clad legs brought in tea, coffee, milk and sugar.
‘There’s a good gal, Cressy – thank you.’ Humphrey leered. The woman, who Rachel thought must have been twenty-two at the outside, retreated from the room without reacting. ‘Cressida is one of our volunteers,’ Humphrey said. ‘What d’you call them these days? Interns. Graduated from St Andrew’s last summer, according to her grandfather – old friend of mine. Just getting some experience in the charity sector before going on to have a glamorous career as a Kensington housewife, I should think. HA!’
Isaac and Jack chuckled courteously, Greg pretend-coughed to cover his disgust and Rachel stared so hard at her coffee cup she feared her eyes might bore holes through the china.
‘There,’ Jack muttered, after plugging a final twisted lead into the nest of wires and sockets in the centre of the table. He sank down into the chair next to Rachel, evidently relieved.
She wished their seats weren’t so close together; there must have been no more than three inches between them. She also wished he didn’t smell so good, or feel so warm next to her bare, goose-pimpled forearm.
‘Shall we begin?’ Humphrey said, addressing Jack. It seemed to have passed him by that Rachel’s name was also on the opening slide of their PowerPoint deck.
‘Absolutely, Sir Humphrey,’ Jack replied. It had become clear during their few weeks’ acquaintance with Humphrey that he liked to be addressed as ‘Sir’ whenever his name was used, which Rachel thought was absurd – indicative of a need to elevate himself above the plebeians he so evidently despised. She’d resolved early on to avoid addressing him directly if possible, fearful that the temptation to refer to him as plain old ‘Oi, you’ would prove irresistible.
Jack launched into their preamble, setting the scene for the new strategy he and Rachel had devised. His style was engaging and familiar, but deferential – respectful of the client/agency relationship in just the right way for a stickler like Humphrey.
Rachel took over from him to explain the rationale for the storytelling approach they’d taken. As planned, she showed off the content she’d mocked up for Hartwell Abbey; she’d had it designed and animated so that she could model how a visitor might click through an interactive app. Humphrey nodded soberly, and Rachel wondered how much of what she’d said he actually understood.
Jack picked the presentation up again as it neared its end, pointing out the particular appeal of their strategy to younger people and the potential for a linked programme of events that could build partnerships with schools and colleges.
Humphrey, genial and smiling, clapped his hands together the moment Jack finished speaking. Aside from questions about the likely cost of developing some of their more high-tech ideas, there was nothing he felt the need to discuss further.
‘Well, you’ve done it,’ he said, leaning across the mahogany tabletop to shake Jack’s hand. ‘I knew a man of your calibre would come up with the goods. Inspiring stuff, just excellent.’
Rachel, apparently irrelevant to the proceedings, pressed her lips together and balled her hands into fists.
‘Truly an exceptional idea,’ Humphrey went on, addressing only Jack, ‘to humanise the houses – certainly I can see that the masses need direction to appreciate these fine old places. Not everyone has our innate appreciation for tradition, art and architecture, of course.’
Rachel stared at a crack in the ceiling, fixing her eyes on it so she wouldn’t roll them. She’d expected to be in the back seat when it came to driving today’s pitch, but this felt like being cast out of a moving vehicle partway up the M6.
Isaac and Greg were silent, though Greg’s face wore an expression that Rachel decoded as ‘aghast with a sprinkling of appalled’. Jack was nodding and smiling as if nothing were amiss, and Rachel felt a fleeting urge to stab him in the thigh with her biro.
Humphrey was still gushing. ‘How lucky we are to have found you at last,’ he said. ‘The right chap for the job. I think we can safely say that we’d like to go ahead with some version of this, subject to agreeing schedules, budgets and so forth. Abraham, bravo for bringing him in.’
Isaac started, remembering after a few seconds that Humphrey meant him. He grinned to cover his delayed reaction and said, ‘We’re certainly happy to have him as part of our London team, Sir Humphrey, and I’m thrilled we’re going to be continuing our work with you.’
Greg shot Rachel a wide-eyed, remorseful look. She knew he was galled by Humphrey’s ignorance, but understood that as client services director he couldn’t see the benefit in arguing. After all, they’d just won their pitch.
She shut her eyes as a familiar heat behind them warned her that angry tears were forming. Clearly her annoyance wanted expression – and crying was apparently its preferred medium, since ranting at her client and colleagues wasn’t an option.
‘I must protest, if I may.’ Rachel started as a hand settled on her left shoulder. Jack’s voice was careful and affable, his charm dialled up as high as it would go. ‘We’re forgetting Rachel in all our excitement. The focus on people rather than objects was her idea, originally – stories, not stuff, as she puts it. It’s her we should be praising for the fundamentals of this new plan, which I couldn’t have come up with alone.’
Rachel felt her mouth fall open and Isaac dropped his fountain pen on the floor with a d
ull thud. Greg’s eyebrows quirked up, powered by some combination of disbelief and approval.
Humphrey harrumphed and hawed, then said, ‘Of course. Mustn’t overlook the lovely lady. Marvellous work, my dear.’
It was hardly an in-depth review, but it was some acknowledgement of Rachel’s efforts and she was glad he’d been forced to make it.
Jack’s hand fell away from her and she turned to him with a small smile. He nodded slightly – a gesture that said We’re on the same side. Their eyes met, candid and careless, for the first time all morning, and something cracked inside her, a shell suddenly threatening to shatter completely.
Jack turned back to Humphrey and Rachel started breathing again. There was more hand-shaking, promises that a timeline, staff plans and costings would be worked up and sent over, and then the R/C team was outside again, gathered on the pavement debating the best way to get back to Islington.
‘Drinks later,’ Isaac announced as they folded themselves into an Uber. ‘Absolutely no excuses. This is a huge win for us – a glass of something fizzy is mandatory after work tonight.’
Greg had somehow commandeered the front seat of the cab, while Rachel and Jack were relegated to the back. Isaac was wedged between them, beaming like a child on his way to a seaside holiday.
Jack held up his hands, acquiescing easily. ‘You’ll get no resistance from me. Rachel, you’ll come, won’t you? Greg?’
‘Er …’ Rachel began, ready to protest that her Friday night was already spoken for. But Greg was nodding and smiling, and she wavered; she should join her colleagues for one celebratory tipple, surely?
She resolved to text and tell her friends she’d be late to the Hope, praying that Anna wouldn’t make any assumptions – especially not ones that strayed too close to the truth.
Jack glanced over the top of Isaac’s curly head at Rachel. His eyes were soft again, green and deep and ridiculously lovely, and she couldn’t bear to look at them.
Rachel Ryan's Resolutions Page 17
