My friend, Xara, looks absolutely fierce. Despite the icy cold weather outside she is wearing a bikini top under a pair of retro dungarees. Her hair is scraped up into a massive messy bun that seems to defy gravity on the top of her head. She looks fresh from painting someone’s bedroom – although squeaky clean, with flawless make-up. Her workshop chic outfit is offset with shoes and a bag that probably cost more than my rent.
Tonight we’re in a super trendy bar called BÆ – no, I don’t know how to say it either – having our first catch-up in weeks. Xara and I met when we worked in the same museum gift shop. We actually quit a matter of days apart, to move on to different jobs, but she's made much more career progress than I have.
‘We really should do this more often,’ Xara says as she gestures at a waiter to come and replenish our drinks. ‘It’s insane, how busy we both are, all the time.’
‘I know,’ I reply. ‘But it’s so nice to see you doing so well.’
‘Aww, thanks, doll,’ she replies. ‘I complain about the hours but I really am loving it.’
Xara is an audience development manager at the super prestigious Ashworth Gallery. It’s her job to get people through the door and, while she is great at it, it’s the Ashworth. People are always going to be walking through the doors. I would love to be doing something like that – especially in such an amazing gallery.
‘I’m working on something at the moment that is going to knock your socks off,’ she says excitedly.
We’re interrupted by my phone lighting up on the table.
‘It’s just Damian,’ I say. ‘It won’t be important. If it is, he’ll text.’
‘How are things at your work?’ she asks.
‘Oh, you know,’ I reply. She does know. I whine to her about Damian all the time. ‘Same old same old.’
‘We need to find you a new job,’ she says.
‘I know but where am I going to find such a good job in the industry?’ I reply.
Xara smiles smugly.
‘What?’ I ask.
‘What if I knew about a job going?’
‘Where?’ I reply in an instant. ‘Not at the Ashworth…’
Xara nods.
‘No! Tell me more,’ I insist. ‘Tell me everything!’
‘We’re looking for an assistant curator,’ she says.
My jaw drops.
‘When were you going to tell me?’ I squeak.
‘Tonight,’ she replies excitedly. ‘I thought I was going to have to get you more drunk first, to convince you to apply.’
As I ponder why she thinks I might need convincing my face falls.
‘They’ll never hire me,’ I say very matter-of-factly.
‘See, I knew you’d say that,’ Xara replies. ‘Why not?’
‘Why would they?’ I reply. ‘There must be so many people so much better suited for the role. People with more to offer than me. I’m basically a babysitter.’
‘For Damian Banks,’ Xara adds. ‘Let me put you forward, I—’
‘Excuse me, ladies,’ a man’s voice interrupts us.
We both look up, expecting to see the waiter, but instead we find a pair of twenty-something twin brothers standing there.
‘Hello,’ Xara says, lighting up. Well, these two are tall, skinny, gorgeous, ultra-cool-looking. They’re identical in all ways apart from their hair. Their style is the same, but one has a bleach blond do while the other’s is jet black.
‘We were just wondering if we could buy you ladies a drink,’ the blond says.
Right on cue the drinks we ordered previously are placed down in front of us.
‘We already have drinks,’ Xara says. ‘But I’m sure we’ll want more, if you’d like to sit and chat with us?’
It’s only after Xara suggests this, ever so flirtatiously, that she glances over at me, silently asking me with her eyes if it’s OK, although I’m not sure what I could do about it now.
I smile at her. I’m more than happy for them to join us, although I am slightly terrified. It’s been a long time since I spoke to a man who wasn’t my boss (or a man doing my boss’s dry cleaning) without a Post-it Note to hide behind.
The twins are called Bry and Albi. Bry, the blond, has sat down next to Xara. Albi has taken the seat next to me. We all sort of chat together for a while before naturally pairing off.
‘So, what’s your story, Sadie?’ Albi asks.
He’s leaning in close to talk to me. So close I can smell his aftershave. He seems really interested in talking to me and that’s just not something I’m used to these days, I guess.
‘Well, I’m not from London, I’m a northerner,’ I practically confess. I didn’t have a strong Yorkshire accent to begin with (not in Yorkshire, at least) but, living in London for so long, working with people who all had the same accent, it wasn’t long before I adapted out of necessity to try and remove all traces of it. I do feel like a bit of a fraud though.
‘My brother and I are Italian,’ Albi says. ‘Well, a quarter Italian, on our mum’s side. We were born here. You can probably tell by looking at us.’
My drink is more Italian than Albi and Bry, but I don’t say that of course; I smile and nod.
‘Oh, yes,’ I start, but I don’t get to finish. My bloody phone is ringing again. It’s been ringing and buzzing constantly while we’ve been chatting. When it first rang, I pulled it out from my bag and quickly silenced it when I saw that it was Damian. I told him that I was out tonight so he shouldn’t be calling me. But then he tried again, and again, and again.
‘Do you need to answer that?’ Albi asks. He sounds a little frustrated.
‘No, no,’ I insist. I leave it at that because I’m not sure the truth does me any favours.
‘Anyway, you were saying?’ he prompts.
‘Yes, I was saying… what was I saying?’ I wonder out loud.
As my screen lights up again, this time with a message, I look down at it almost suspiciously. Could something actually be wrong? As I lift my phone to see who the message is from, my Face ID unlocks it, revealing the message for both me and Albi, who is still sitting intimately close to me. It says:
Any luck finding us a prostitute?
I know Albi has read the message too because he instantly pulls away from me.
I just lock my phone and place it back down on the table, although I'm not sure I'm going to be able to style this one out. Well, I’d try to explain, but I’m not sure he’d believe me.
‘Er, bro, let’s, er, let’s go get another drink,’ Albi prompts his brother.
It takes a couple of seconds for the twintuition to kick in.
‘Right, yeah, OK,’ Bry replies.
‘Well, that was weird,’ Xara says once we’re alone again, not realising that was probably my fault. ‘What’s their problem?’
‘Put me forward for that job,’ I say confidently. ‘Do it. You’re right, I should go for it. I can’t keep working for Damian.’
‘Yey!’ Xara squeaks, doing a little dance in her seat. ‘You won’t regret this, Sadie. You deserve better.’
Yes, I do. I still can’t imagine them choosing me – because it’s such a competitive industry and I’m just, well, me – but I have to try. I feel as if I’ve sold my soul to Damian. This could be my way to get it back, to get my life back. That’s got to be worth a shot, even if I am terrified. Things can’t go on as they are. It’s time something changed. Whether Damian likes it or not.
5
Sitting on a massive sofa, with a home-made porn star martini in one hand, a Hawaiian pizza on a plate on my lap, Netflix on the massive 150” screen in front of me – this is the life.
It isn’t my life, of course, it’s Damian’s.
I was halfway home from work when he messaged me, saying he had an emergency, asking me if I could pop back and let myself into his flat, because he had to go out right away but had an important delivery coming. I sighed and immediately turned around. At least he pays me generous overtime, and it’s not
as if I have a thriving social life, is it? I’m sure you won’t be surprised to learn that Albi, the guy I met last night, never came back.
I remember, six months ago, when Damian was looking for a new place to live. Of course, he needed me to help him, because he struggles to make any decision on his own these days. It’s as if the longer he goes on without putting any work out, the more he questions everything he does.
We were flat-hunting between Knightsbridge and Belgravia. Obviously I knew that property was going to be very expensive, but I had no idea just how little your millions get you in terms of square footage in that area. After viewing all the places the agent had to show us in Damian’s price range we both chose a favourite and, of course, we picked completely different places.
My favourite was the two-bed cottage, quietly situated in a quaint pedestrian mews in Knightsbridge. It was so spacious, boasting gorgeous oak flooring on the ground floor, a separate kitchen with large skylight – it even had a little garden. Upstairs it had two bedrooms and a bathroom. It was exactly the kind of house I would love to live in, if I could afford it, which, let’s face it, is never going to happen. It’s nice to dream though.
This property wasn’t Damian’s favourite. It was actually his least favourite. Damian wanted something modern, high up, with big glass windows and absolutely zero charm.
In the end he went for a contemporary two-bed corner apartment with an open-plan living space. Which is where I am now. It is gorgeous, with floor to ceiling windows, and views overlooking the River Thames. It’s undeniably amazing, especially with all the tweaks he’s made, and all the cool tech he’s installed. It’s not an awful place to do overtime consisting of nothing but enjoying the facilities and waiting for a delivery.
I was ever so slightly annoyed when the important delivery arrived and it turned out to be a new TV – God knows where for, because he only bought his living-room TV a couple of months ago – but I’m having a great time eating pizza and watching an absolutely gripping true crime documentary. Why are we all so obsessed with true crime TV at the moment, and why is it that, the crazier the story, the more we love it? Things like Tiger King and Don’t F**k with Cats are the new water cooler talk – forget Game of Thrones and Killing Eve. No one wants to talk about fiction when real life is even wilder.
I’m currently watching ’Til Death Do Us Part, a five-part documentary about a man called Terry Mackie. The show follows in his footsteps as he prepares to marry his fiancée, Joanna. Terry is in his late forties while Joanna is in her late twenties – but that isn’t the most remarkable thing about their relationship. Joanna is actually Terry’s fourth wife, because the previous three all met their grizzly ends shortly after tying the knot with him. There is no denying that, in each case, the deaths were incredibly suspicious, but despite it seeming as though Terry might have something to do with the demise of each wife (either because he killed them, or because he’s some kind of jinx at the least), no one has ever been able to charge him with anything. Terry is a really interesting chap. He’s a self-made multimillionaire, living in a monstrously huge house – he could give any woman the most amazing life… until they wind up dead, obviously. The documentary follows Terry and Joanna in the run-up to their big day, planning their wedding, going through the motions. It’s such a compelling watch. You can’t take your eyes off Joanna; you’re just waiting until she has a skiing accident or falls down the stairs or has some other freak accident…
It’s such a tense watch that, when Damian unexpectedly arrives home, the sound of the door opening gives me the fright of my life.
‘Jesus Christ, Damian!’ I say as I hurry to pause the documentary. I place a hand on my chest and take a deep breath. ‘Are you trying to give me a heart attack?’
‘You’re jumpy,’ he points out, hovering in the doorway.
I can’t help but notice that he’s dressed up.
‘How was your emergency?’ I ask him. ‘Your TV arrived.’
I’m sure he’s already realised that, given how massive the box is.
‘Oh, sweet,’ he says, hurrying towards it. ‘It’s for the bedroom.’
As soon as he moves away from the doorway, I spot the tiny brunette who has been standing behind him this whole time. She must be in her twenties; she’s wearing a tiny pink dress but no coat – doesn’t she know it’s December? She can’t be more than 5’4”, which is probably why I didn’t notice her in the first place.
Damian pushes his TV box towards his bedroom. The girl comes in and sits down next to me on the sofa.
‘Hi,’ she says.
‘Hello,’ I reply. I try to sound friendly, but this is so awkward.
We look at each other for a moment.
‘I’m Kelsey,’ she eventually says.
‘Sadie,’ I reply.
She wiggles awkwardly in her seat.
‘I’ve never done it with a couple before,’ she tells me.
‘A couple of what?’ I ask. I immediately know the answer. ‘Oh.’
Oh my God, tell me he hasn’t brought an escort home with him. And not even a good one, this one must be fresh out of escort school. And I think she thinks I’m a part of this.
‘I just work for him,’ I point out quickly.
‘Oh, cool,’ she says. ‘How long have you worked for Damian?’
Too long.
‘A year,’ I reply. ‘How long have you… erm…?’
‘Oh, I don’t work for him,’ she says. ‘I don’t have a job at the moment. We were on a date.’
Thank God I didn’t try to pay her to leave.
So, the reason Damian went out was to go on a date and the reason I’ve been here all evening is because he was having a new TV delivered for his bedroom. Fantastic. And now I’m sitting here with one of his floozies. At least she invited me to join in, I guess. Pretty sure I’ll pass though.
Right on cue Damian walks back into the room.
‘Right, that’s out of the way,’ he says.
I hope he means generally, rather than because he has something weird planned that he needs the floor space for, because there isn’t enough overtime in the world…
‘Well, I’d better get going,’ I tell them. I reach for the remote to turn off the TV.
‘What’s that you’re watching?’ Damian asks me curiously.
‘It’s just a TV show,’ I tell him. ‘You wouldn’t like it – it’s a documentary. No sex, no explosions…’
‘Look at his eyes,’ Damian says as he walks over, plonking himself down on the sofa between me and Kelsey. ‘He’s got such a darkness in his eyes. What’s his deal?’
The TV is paused on a talking heads shot of Terry Mackie. He’s looking into the camera, which makes it feel a bit as though he’s looking right at you, and it’s horrible. Throughout the series I’ve never been surer that Mackie killed his wives than I am right now.
‘Basically everyone he marries winds up dead – always in suspicious circumstances,’ I tell him. ‘He’s about to marry his fourth wife.’
‘He’s got three dead wives? He looks like a creepy boy.’
‘He’s a really nice guy – on a paper. Almost too nice, which just makes his niceness come across as creepy. He’s friendly, generous, very softly spoken – all things that make him seem so unlike a murderer that it actually makes you start to think that he might be a murderer.'
‘Absolutely fascinating,’ Damian says. He continues to stare at the TV.
‘Anyway,’ I say, pulling myself to my feet. Damian grabs my hand and pulls me back down.
‘We need to watch this,’ he says. ‘All of it.’
‘What, us? Now?’ I reply.
‘Yes,’ Damian replies excitedly. ‘This is what I’ve been looking for. This is what I need. This is the kind of person I should be shooting – someone with something going on behind their eyes.’
‘You said you’d take my picture,’ Kelsey chimes in hopefully.
‘Yeah, yeah, that’s great, but this is work,
’ he tells her dismissively.
Kelsey pouts.
‘You want to shoot Terry Mackie?’ I say in disbelief.
‘Like he’s one of his wives,’ Damian jokes. He turns to Kelsey. ‘I’m really sorry, some work has come up.’
‘You’re… you’re just going to watch TV,’ Kelsey points out.
‘Yeah, but for work,’ he replies.
‘Do you want to stay and watch?’ I ask her. I don’t really know what else to say.
Damian frowns. It’s obvious now, to me at least, that he regrets bringing her here and wants her to leave. It’s always business first with Damian.
‘This is not what I thought we were going to be doing when I came back here,’ Kelsey says. I’ve seen that disappointed look on many a female face thanks to Damian. ‘I could’ve got on board with a threesome but I’m not watching serial killer documentaries with you.’
‘Suit yourself,’ Damian says, still staring at the TV. He can be so cold sometimes. ‘I’ll text you.’
He definitely won’t.
Kelsey has a face like thunder. She sees herself out.
‘Well, she seems lovely,’ I say sarcastically.
Damian laughs as he takes off his shoes.
‘Seriously,’ I continue, because I’m pissed off. ‘I think she’s the one.’
‘She seemed to like you too,’ he jokes dismissively.
‘Hmm, that’s new,’ I reply. ‘Anyway, I’m going.’
‘Wait, we need to watch this,’ Damian insists.
‘I thought that was just your excuse, to get her to leave?’ I reply.
‘Obviously I wanted her to leave,’ he says. ‘She was clearly just using me.’
Damian doesn’t trust women at all. Mostly because they do all always seem to be using him, but he makes no real effort to meet regular people, he just keeps dating models in the hope that, one day, one of them will be sincere. I’m not saying sincere models don’t exist, but obviously they all want their photo taken by the great Damian Banks, and his wealth and status are always going to make him London’s most eligible bachelor.
‘I really do want to shoot him. I think he’s exactly what I need to get my edge back,’ Damian insists.
Stuck On You Page 3
