by Karen Swan
The lights stayed red. She sighed and looked impatiently down the aisle, out through the windscreen at the cyclists getting in the way. They were all just standing about lackadaisically, their bikes held up at odd angles, some with the pedals stopped in the wrong position and therefore holding the bus up further.
She could feel her pulse quicken and she looked away again, taking slow, deep breaths and digging her nails into her palms once more.
She would be there soon enough.
That was the problem.
Chapter Five
Lee looked back at her with hopeful eyes.
Nettie gave a wan smile, her eyes falling to a dead, upside-down cockroach in the corner by the radiator. Yes, this was what £350,000 bought in the area now. The influx of TV and music stars, models and Hollywood actors had driven prices through the roof so that it now sat on a par, price-wise, with Notting Hill and Chelsea, but being sought out by those multi-millionaires who liked a cooler, edgier vibe to their des res. Her parents’ house – four floors including the basement, six bedrooms, decent back garden – had been bought for pennies back in the 1970s but was worth a cool £4 million now, even in its ‘unmodernized’ condition. Not that they would sell up now. Ever.
No, £350,000 scarcely bought a parking space in this neck of the London woods, but that was all she’d got – well, the deposit for that grand sum, anyway. She’d been saving up for nearly five years now, and provided the bank would green-light the mortgage their financial adviser had said she could afford, she was good to go.
There were so many reasons why it needed to happen. She was twenty-six. She was fed up with the bemused stares she got from dates when they found out going back to her place meant her parents’ place. Funnily enough, none of them were particularly keen on the idea of drinking cocoa in the kitchen with her dad, and those few who did then had to get past Dan on a Saturday morning, and he was the toughest gate-master of them all – quizzing them on their financial stability, A-level grades and whether they owned their own colander.
Yesterday morning had been yet another case in point. If she wanted to wake up to her hangover in silence and feel sorry for herself, then she was going to have to move out.
She was going to have to. And yet . . . as much as she dreamed of the freedoms that came with having her own place – the ability to take a bath with the door open, keeping the thermostat at twenty-eight degrees and stocking the fridge only with Pinot Grigio, Nutella and cheese strings (her mother never allowed them), she was going to miss the slightly tired, bohemian house that had been her only home.
From the street, it was a standout, one of the square’s ‘painted ladies’, in a bright canary yellow her mother had chosen when they’d moved in. The neighbouring houses on either side were green and pink respectively, but it was their cheery yellow one that fostered so much local affection. She could see it from the end of the street or the other side of the square and she had never, as a child, lost sight of her home.
The magnolia tree that had once dominated the tiny front garden was long gone, but the house was positioned exactly opposite the slide in the children’s playground in the square. She couldn’t see through the windows from that distance, but she always remembered standing and waving at the top of it, her mother’s face appearing like a sun at the bedroom window and waving back.
Most of her childhood had been spent within the safety of its black iron railings, the horse chestnut and birch trees within standing like giants over the kids racing round their roots, playing tag and hide-and-seek in the bushes. She and all the other local children had grown up in the square’s protective enclave – riding bikes, learning to skateboard holding on to the parked cars’ wing mirrors as they glided by, holding fiercely fought running races, before graduating over the years to playing kiss-chase and sneaking cans of beer into the rhododendrons.
Those kids had all gradually moved away over time, of course – their parents changing jobs or climbing the property ladder, others simply moving out to their own places as childhood faded, so that she was the last one standing now and a new generation of kids had claimed the playground as theirs.
The interior of the house was every bit as idiosyncratic as the outside. The hall walls were hot pink – a colour Nettie herself had chosen when she was eleven. Perhaps not the best-advised age, she thought now, for dictating interior-design policy in the family home. But her parents had never seemed to want to change it. The woodwork in the sitting room, which led through a wide arch into the kitchen, was custard yellow, and a turquoise Murano glass chandelier hung from the ceiling, galleried ranks of paintings and portraits and framed prints filling the walls. Thickly piled, brightly coloured Moroccan rugs covered the draughts that came up (along with the mice) through the gaps in the pine floorboards, and her mother had run up new sets of loose sofa covers for the different seasons – a grass-green linen for the summer, orange velvet for the winter.
Music was always blaring through the house – usually Pink Floyd or Lou Reed – and the smell of bacon and black toast fragranced the rooms in the way that gardenia wafted from scented reeds in Jules’s. The roof leaked above the landing – it had done so for eighteen years now, but not so badly that her parents had ever been impelled to get it fixed; they simply kept a saucepan in the airing cupboard and brought it out when storms were forecast. The wind also blew in through a thumb-sized gap in the spare-bedroom window, making ghostly noises, which had convinced Nettie for years that the house was haunted.
It had been a scruffy, bohemian, slightly oversized house to grow up in, which was precisely why she wasn’t thrown by the sight in front of her. When Jules had been looking to buy, she hadn’t considered anything that wasn’t newly plastered, right-angled and whitewashed, with beech worktops and a ‘damned good’ laminate floor. But Nettie wasn’t fazed by the damp patch in the bathroom or the signs of mildew on the kitchen curtains. The lino floor looked level at least and would be easy enough to rip up.
She walked over to the window, which appeared to be painted shut. She was on the second floor of three, so there was a chance she could be disturbed if the neighbours upstairs were noisy, but on the other hand, it wasn’t a basement or garden flat, which would please her father. It had been his one condition.
She looked out across Princess Road – the painted-shut windows seemed to do a good job of insulating the flat from road noise. From where she was standing, she could just glimpse Primrose Hill itself, and through the leafless canopy of beech trees, she watched the last of the day’s walkers come down it with jaunty strides, dogs and children running ahead as they enjoyed the downward momentum.
‘The view really is extraordinary,’ Lee said, ignoring the mechanic’s garage on the opposite side of the road and following her skewed eyeline to the Hill. ‘If the flat wasn’t so . . .’ he hesitated and she knew he was looking for a euphemism for ‘dilapidated’, ‘tired, this would be in the high six figures. I’ve taken you round enough properties to know this one’s a prime development opportunity. No sweat, no diamonds, am I right?’
Nettie nodded. Lee, alone, must have taken her round over thirty flats, not to mention the other estate agents in the area. Jules had thought it was fun, at first, coming with her and looking for the ‘potential’ in the starter flats they were shown, but eventually the litany of reasons why they ‘weren’t right’ meant she’d stopped coming and had asked simply to be notified by a change-of-address card.
‘And three fifty’s an incredible price,’ he said again. ‘If this goes onto the market, it’ll go for five, five fifty no problem. Even if you did nothing structural to it and just painted the whole thing white, you’d still be guaranteed to make a profit on this.’
‘So why would they accept three fifty from me, then?’
Lee smiled sympathetically. ‘The trustee involved owes me a favour.’
And he was doing her one, she knew, spurred on by the pity that everyone in the area reserved for her family. She’d be pr
actically robbing him to buy at this price. She had to do this. Grasp the nettle. It was now or never.
‘I’ll offer three thirty-five,’ she said firmly, turning back to face him. ‘Obviously, with the amount of work it needs . . .’ she shrugged, glimpsing his shocked expression.
Lee looked uncomfortable. He was putting himself on the line for her. ‘They won’t take less than three fifty, Nettie. That’s the rebuilding cost, the lowest they can go. Anyway, I know you can afford it. I’ve taken you round properties that cost significantly more than this.’
She shifted her weight, remembering the red-topped electricity bill that had landed on the doormat last week. ‘Well, we’re all feeling the squeeze, aren’t we? I’ve had to revise my sums a bit. Three fifty is my top-out budget now, and there’s no point in me getting this if I then can’t afford to do anything with it. Let’s be honest, it’s uninhabitable in this condition. I’m sorry, but that’s the highest I can go to.’
Lee looked disappointed. ‘Well,’ he said slowly, ‘if that’s your offer, I’ll do my best, but . . .’ His voice trailed off as he rooted around in his pocket for his phone.
‘What will be will be. I’m a firm believer in that.’
‘Of course you are.’ He patted her arm, again sympathetically. ‘Let me see what I can do for you.’
Nettie watched as he wandered towards the kitchen, phone clamped to one ear, his other hand jammed in his pocket. She absently leaned against the radiator, but of course it was as cold as bone and she shivered as she stared into the sky, a skein of ice threading through the fat, congested clouds, which carried more than the threat of rain now that the wind had dropped. The temperature had been falling sharply all week – ever since they’d come back from Lausanne, in fact – and the Topshop duffel coats and Isabel Marant donkey jackets that had been the postcode’s autumnal uniform had long since been turned in for heavy-duty Canada Goose jackets and Prada mitts.
She watched as a battered Volvo estate parked on the street below, a Christmas tree tethered to its roof. A man jumped out, followed by two little girls in the back, clapping their gloved hands as he stretched to release the bungee ropes and lift down the tree. A woman came out of the house to help him, a tea towel flung over her shoulder, and Nettie watched intently as they stretched to carry it into the house, her breath fogging the glass so that she had to wipe it clear again.
She looked around for other signs of Christmas, realizing how many she missed at street level. The area’s new ‘heritage’ Victorian-style lamp posts – which her father’s local pressure group had managed to get the council to buy – had miniature Christmas trees secured on shallow ledges, and giant hoops like over-scaled door wreaths straddled the shopping streets. It looked bucolically pretty.
A bus crawled past, the top-deck residents at eye level with her, and she recoiled slightly as they glided past in the late-afternoon traffic, weary shoppers resting their heads against the steamed-up windows, bags pooled at their feet.
‘Well, well, well, I never would have thought it.’
Nettie turned as Lee walked back into the room; her breath caught. They’d agreed?
‘I’ve spoken to the vendor. It’s not a complete victory, but . . .’ he paused for dramatic effect, ‘if you can go to three thirty-seven and a half, you’ve got yourself a deal.’
‘D’you know what this is about?’ Nettie asked anxiously as she caught up with Jules in the lift the next morning.
‘No clue.’ Jules yawned, gripping her double-shot coffee even tighter. ‘He’s probably just having another of his hissy fits.’ She checked her hair in the copper-tinted glass just as the lift arrived and the doors opened.
They stepped in.
‘But he’s never called an emergency meeting before,’ Nettie said anxiously.
‘That’s because there’s no such thing. It’s an ego trip is all.’ Jules reached into her bag and pulled out a copy of Grazia. ‘Much more important – did you see this? He’s a bad boy. Really bad.’ She winked. ‘I like it.’
‘Huh?’
‘Lover boy!’ Jules said, tapping the page. ‘Looks like it’s going to take a bit more than sliding down a wall of death to hold his attention.’
Nettie felt her stomach drop. ‘He’s unfollowed me, then?’ She’d hoped for at least a week of kinship.
‘No, I’m talking about her! Look!’ Nettie looked down at the photo of Jamie Westlake and American starlet Coco Miller stumbling out of Mahiki together, his hand closed tightly around hers as they battled their way through the assembled paparazzi to their waiting car. ‘Tough act to follow.’
Nettie stared miserably at Coco’s LA legs – yoga-honed and tanned – emerging from a diaphanous pink silk negligee-dress and worn with high-tops for a bit of urban edge. A Chanel Lego bag dangled from her wrist (no yellow bucket for her, Nettie thought hatefully), and a punky (but still two-carat) diamond crescent followed the upper curve of her ear, her dark blonde hair swept back into a side ponytail and worn low at the nape of her neck.
‘Ugh,’ she groaned, thrusting the magazine back to her friend. ‘I wish you hadn’t shown me that.’
The lift doors opened and they stepped out into the bright whiteness of the office, the grey plastic-topped desks and blue nylon carpets tidied and cleaned for another week. The space itself was generous for such a small company – Daisy and Caro’s desks were a good paper plane’s throw across the room – with light pouring in on two sides through bland plate-glass windows, and posters from the agency’s various clients – White Tiger, Astra healthcare, Phoenix chemicals – Blu-tacked to the wall in an overt display of loyalty.
A red foam sofa was positioned by the water cooler, and the curling, out-of-date magazines on the coffee table opposite it were supposed to encourage the team to sit and relax occasionally, taking time out of their busy days to recharge; but given that it was set right outside Mike’s office, the girls far preferred congregating behind the giant potted yucca plant by the photocopier instead – much to Mike’s chagrin.
The slatted blinds showed that the team in the events management agency opposite had yet to arrive at work. Lucky things.
Caro and Daisy were already at their desks as Jules and Nettie trundled in. Daisy stopped applying her lipstick and cast them both quizzical ‘WTF?’ looks.
Jules just shrugged and threw her bag down on the floor beside her desk. ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’
‘Seriously? An eight o’clock meeting?’ Caro demanded, offering them all a stick of gum. They declined. ‘What the . . . ?’
‘Ego trip. Ego trip,’ Jules said again in her best bored voice, just as Mike’s office door opened and he marched down the corridor towards them. It was as if he’d been waiting for them.
‘Ladies. Shall we?’ he asked without stopping, and making a beeline for the conference room.
The girls watched after him in open-mouthed amazement. What was going on?
They trooped in slowly and took their usual seats at the table. Mike was perched on the table at the far end – no custard creams, expression inscrutable – and Nettie felt her nerves gather. Friday’s meeting had, after all, ended with a warning for her.
They settled into unusual silence, unusually quickly, and he clapped his hands together.
‘You might be wondering why I’ve called this emergency meeting.’
No one responded. They didn’t want to feed his ego with curiosity and questions.
‘Well, I’ve been in crisis talks with White Tiger all weekend.’
‘Crisis talks?’ Jules echoed, but there was a slight quaver to her voice that Nettie immediately caught. White Tiger were the agency’s star clients, the big tickets that had drawn them to the attention of their other accounts. It had also been a White Tiger event at which Nettie had . . . achieved a certain notoriety. ‘Yes, that’s right. Crisis talks.’
Mike puffed himself up, building the moment, feeling the power. ‘It would appear,’ he said slowly, ‘that the clip
we viewed of Nettie’s accident on Friday afternoon, in this very room, has been leaked.’
‘No!’ Jules gasped with dramatic gravity. She was a truly brilliant liar. It was incredible to watch sometimes.
‘So?’ Caro asked, jaws pinging up and down.
‘So,’ Mike said, adding great weight to the word, ‘it’s gone viral.’
‘Viral?’ Daisy echoed. ‘But who . . . ?’
‘Who indeed, Daisy?’ Mike said, swinging his gaze over to Nettie. ‘Of course, it was simple enough to work out. The thief didn’t try very hard to obscure her tracks.’
Thief? Nettie swallowed at his choice of word. That was overstating it, wasn’t it? She wouldn’t have called it ‘stealing’ necessarily.
‘In fact, the film was uploaded with a link to a Twitter account, @BlueBunnyGirl, which White Tiger’s IT team had no problem tracing back to the linked email address.’ He arched an eyebrow directly at her. ‘Had any broadband difficulties this weekend, Nettie?’
She blinked back at him, seeing her career flash before her eyes. This was it. She was going to get fired.
‘Nets did it?’ Caro exclaimed in shock. ‘Christ, I’m most shocked that you even knew how.’
‘Actually—’ Jules said, clearing her throat.
But Mike put a hand up to silence her.
‘Naturally, White Tiger’s board are highly concerned at this breach. They own the copyright to the event – and therefore of the film. This is industrial theft. Not only that but their branding is all over the footage. It is only by the grace of God that the accident ended fairly happily, but the fact remains that had it not, they would have been severely embarrassed, their reputation damaged, in fact.’
Nettie took a gulp of air. Theft? Damages? Oh God, what had she done? Why hadn’t she thought of this on Friday night? Of course she couldn’t just steal someone else’s footage of someone else’s event and get away with it. She closed her eyes, trying to stay calm. If they could just fire her and not sue . . . she’d take that; she’d be grateful for that.
