To Have and Hate

by Alam, Donna

  So why hasn’t she come around?

  Extreme stubbornness is my guess.

  It seems it’s time to raise the stakes.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ It’s not a polite enquiry but rather a demand.

  ‘I found him wandering around downstairs.’ The young girl in the tulle skirt, pink hair, and two cake boxes tied with matching coloured string almost vibrates on the spot with a need to share.

  Me! Me! Ask me!

  ‘He didn’t know how to use the lift,’ she adds with happy gleam.

  ‘It’s rather antiquated,’ I agree.

  ‘Ols takes the stairs,’ the young girl says a touch conspiratorially. ‘She’s frightened of—’

  ‘Thanks, Heather. Do you want to go and put the kettle on?’

  ‘Not really,’ she answers, her smile falling immediately.

  ‘Okay, how about we try that again?’ Olivia says in a tone that’s meant to convey she has this under control. ‘Heather?’

  ‘Yes, Ols?’

  ‘Go and put the kettle on.’

  ‘But I got Mir a skinny cap already.’ She points a black-painted nail at the cardboard cup she’s just placed on the desk “Ols” is standing next to. ‘If you wanted a coffee, wouldn’t you have said before I left?’

  ‘Heather,’ she almost snaps.

  ‘Yes, boss,’ the girl answers with an unhappy twist to her mouth before slinking off.

  ‘What a charming girl,’ I observe blandly.

  ‘Heather has a problem interpreting non-verbal language,’ Olivia says defensively.

  ‘I think she’s quite lovely.’ Even if she’d last less than a day in my office before leaving in a flood of recriminations and tears. ‘Without her, I might never have found your offices.’ My gaze scans the space. The brick walls, the large dome-shaped windows that look approximately a year overdue in their cleaning. ‘And . . . where is your office?’

  ‘You’re looking at it.’ She inclines her head to indicate a nondescript desk, neat in appearance. ‘Are your minions off today? Only, I didn’t hear the usual crack of thunder as you arrived. Or the whiff of brimstone.’

  ‘I thought we might speak in private,’ I reply, ignoring her ridiculousness.

  ‘Then it looks like you thought wrong.’

  ‘Beckett, can I make you a cuppa?’ the young girl calls from somewhere beyond. As I open my mouth to reply in the affirmative because I’d suffer a cup of poison just to get under Olivia’s skin, she answers for me.

  ‘He’s not staying.’

  ‘Aren’t I?’

  ‘I see you’re already on a first-name basis with my intern.’ She folds her arms as she glares at me. ‘Or was it second? I can’t seem to recall.’

  ‘Yes, because I’m here specifically to infiltrate your staff and steal all your secrets.’ Both of our gazes fall to the girl sitting at the desk Olivia leans against, her head moving back and forth between us as if she’s at the finals of Wimbledon.

  ‘You could go out onto the roof,’ she offers, noticing she’s been caught.

  ‘What a helpful suggestion. Thank you . . .’

  ‘Miranda,’ she obligingly supplies.

  ‘It’s nice to meet you, Miranda. I’m Beckett, a friend of Olivia’s.’ I pull out a business card from my jacket, something I wouldn’t ordinarily do, but the occasion calls for it. ‘If you’re ever looking for an interesting challenge, work wise, please give my PA a call.’

  ‘Hey, stop that,’ Olivia protests, trying to swipe the card out of my hand. ‘You can’t poach my staff!’

  ‘It’s a free market economy,’ I reply smoothly, sliding the card into her employee’s hand.

  ‘JBW, the venture capitalists?’ Her gaze rises from the card before darting between Olivia and myself all over again, all kinds of ideas sliding through her gaze. ‘You should take him next door for a coffee,’ she adds quickly.

  ‘I’m not taking him anywhere,’ she complains obstinately.

  ‘Course you are. You obviously have a lot to talk about.’ The conversation between the two is mostly unspoken and like a battle of silent wills, which makes me wonder if the staff here are privy to how close the business is to collapse.

  No, I decide. She’s too stubborn. She’s not protecting them out of the goodness of her heart but rather out of obstinacy. Not because she’s sweet. If she was, she’d fall on her sword to protect their jobs.

  ‘Okay,’ she eventually mutters, making her way over to her desk as though en route to the guillotine. I stifle a smile as her assistant does the same, adding a lift of her brows and a slight shrug.

  ‘But I’m only doing this to get you to leave,’ she complains as she stomps past me.

  I follow her out of the office and down two flights of stone stairs, her feet tapping out an angry tattoo as she pushes open the door at the ground floor, not bothering to see if I’m following.

  This is a less than salubrious part of Hoxton. Down at heel, I suppose. She ignores the old-fashioned looking coffee shop next door as I lengthen my strides to catch up with her.

  ‘You can’t outwalk me, you know.’

  ‘I wasn’t trying to,’ she mutters. ‘I was hoping to do a Pied Piper and get you to follow me to the river.’

  ‘Oh?’ She doesn’t need a pipe; the sway of her hips is enticement enough.

  ‘So I could drown you down there,’ she continues, deliberately ignoring me.

  ‘And would that be a mercy killing?’

  ‘For one of us, at least.’

  ‘I doubt there would be many to mourn me.’ Just my investors, I suppose. ‘But you should definitely marry me first. Think of the money.’

  ‘I think that’s what they call living off immoral earnings.’ Her gaze cuts my way, her cheeks pink and her eyes blazing. It’s easy to see what she thinks of my proposition. ‘Stop looking at me like that,’ she mutters, looking away again.

  ‘You think marrying me would be tantamount to prostitution? If that’s the case, half the wealth of England would be in the hands of the immoral.’

  Oligarchs and their streetwalkers, earls and their tricks, high-flying businesswomen and their male escorts. Money and sex make the world go around, just as they say.

  ‘Just . . . stop talking,’ she mutters as we approach a bakery on a corner advertising takeaway coffee. She strides straight past the plate glass window.

  ‘You really weren’t joking, were you? I’m sure there are easier ways to murder me. It’s quite a walk to the river. I imagine those shoes must pinch.’

  Her heels are electric blue, pointed at the toe, and sharp at the heel. They can’t be comfortable for a lengthy stroll, but I’m not complaining. I’m not the one wearing them, but I am the one who gets to appreciate the sight of her in them. The way they force her back ramrod straight and the effect they have on her smooth calves. The way, as they hammer against the pavement, they demand your attention and leave you wondering what she’d look like wearing them and little else.

  I also appreciate how they make her a little taller, bringing her under my chin. Her skirt swishes as she strides, floral and diaphanous, the fabric falling from a thin blue belt, the colour matching her footwear. She wears a plain black T-shirt with girlish puffed sleeves and a scooped neckline, the soft cotton betraying the rise and fall of her breasts with each step. As always, she looks very pretty. But something about the determination of her expression makes me want her all the more.

  We pass a dozen shopfronts with faded and worn signages. There appears to be a distinct lack of shoppers about, though one or two miscreants looking to either commit thievery or perhaps score linger. I had wondered if she was leading me somewhere a little nicer, but now I see her point is the opposite as she begins to slow, pushing on the door of what appears to be a café.

  Not like any café I’ve been inside in a long time.

  The red paint on the doorframe is faded and peeling in parts, the overwhelmingly pungent scent of fried vegetable oil almost assailing. Ins
ide, a handwritten menu is tacked to the wall, offering the great British staples; a full English breakfast—a heart attack on a plate—plus burgers, and other things, all delivered with chips. Hence the smell.

  ‘Tea?’ Olivia asks as she reaches the glass counter, the likes of which I seem to recall are usually found in a butcher shop. All manner of sad-looking sandwiches sweat it out in plastic wrap as a fly swarms around, trying his luck. ‘Or would you like a coffee?’ She drops a handful of coins against the glass.

  ‘You can wipe that evil look off your face and order me a black coffee, preferably in a takeaway cup.’

  She has the audacity to chuckle. ‘So you’re not worried about the state of our environment, then?’

  I glance around pointedly. ‘I’m concerned about the state of the environment I’m currently in. But I’m more concerned for the state of my constitution. And try not to slip anything untoward in my cup,’ I add over my shoulder as an afterthought.

  ‘The temptation is great,’ she calls back, causing me to turn at her tone. ‘But, according to my friend at the pharmacy, she can only legally offer me laxatives.’

  I shake my head before giving one of the plastic-covered tables a cursory glance. I pull out a rickety-looking chair. Olivia follows me presently, sliding a reasonably clean-looking mug my way.

  ‘Your conscience might not worry about the landfills, but mine does.’ She ignores me as she pours tea from a stainless-steel teapot into a cup balanced on a thick saucer. She then sets about doctoring her tea with milk from a tiny white jug until it’s the approximate shade of the thick brown stockings I recall my nanny used to wear as part of her uniform.

  ‘I see you’ve embraced the great British tradition,’ I murmur, turning my mug of blackness around until the handle is in the right spot. Or I might be looking for signs that she’s already doctored this one.

  ‘Tea is mostly Indian, isn’t it? And Sri Lankan? It’s nothing to do with the British, really.’

  ‘The taking of tea is a tradition.’

  ‘The taking of anything is a British tradition,’ she mutters almost under her breath. ‘Ask any of the colonies.’

  I sigh as though bored. ‘Really? You want to talk about history?’

  ‘Your fault,’ she grumbles, bringing the steaming cup to her lips. ‘You started it.’

  ‘I was making polite conversation.’ She grumbles something behind her cup I don’t quite hear. ‘Besides, your grandmother is British, isn’t she?’

  She smiles as though she can’t help it. ‘Very. Tea probably runs through her veins. It’s because of her that I drink it.’

  ‘You were indoctrinated at a young age, I take it.’

  ‘When I was a little girl, maybe five or six. It started as a treat, a cup of tea in one of her delicate flowery cups, along with a biscuit or two. A very English biscuit,’ she adds with a fond smile. ‘Yet always out of a packet. A bourbon or a couple of chocolate fingers. Sometimes, she’d serve afternoon tea; Darjeeling and delicate sandwiches with the crusts cut off, and little cakes she made just for my visits. But mostly it was just like this.’ She tilts her cup a little to show me the brick-coloured beverage. ‘Builder’s tea, she calls it. Strong enough to stand your spoon in.’

  ‘She sounds utterly charming.’

  ‘She wouldn’t say the same about you.’

  ‘There aren’t many who would.’

  ‘She’d definitely make short work of you.’

  ‘Are you trying to charm or annoy me? It’s hard to tell.’

  Her body vibrates with her scoff. ‘I’m telling you how it is. She’s got a will of steel, my gran.’

  I don’t think she’s ever sounded anything other than American up until now. ‘You must be very fond of her.’

  ‘I am. She’s the bomb.’ And then very American again.

  As she returns to her tea, I peel the bottom of my mug from the floral plastic tablecloth and take a tentative sip, scalding my tongue with the acrid taste of very hot instant coffee. Olivia chuckles at my grimace. ‘You didn’t need to use poison, apparently.’

  ‘It can’t be that bad.’

  ‘You only brought me here to make me uncomfortable.’

  ‘Not true,’ she murmurs unconvincingly, her gaze flicking to the yellowing ceiling and the matching walls. ‘So.’ Her gaze returns to me.

  ‘Here we are.’

  ‘Are you here to say “I told you so” or to appeal to my better nature?’

  ‘Do you have one of those?’

  ‘Probably not where you’re concerned. But why are you here?’

  ‘Because, as much as it pains me, I need your help.’

  ‘Not this again,’ she murmurs despondently. ‘Why me? I’m sure there are dozens of women who’d marry you for a few months.’ This doesn’t remotely sound like a compliment, confirmed as she adds, ‘If you paid them enough.’

  ‘Including you.’

  ‘What did I ever do to you? Apart from falling over your foot and giving you a little snark?’

  ‘You were already in trouble before you fell over my foot.’

  ‘So that’s it? I fall, and I’m it for you? Easy prey. Like a gazelle who stumbled and became lunch for the lion.’

  ‘I knew as you stared up at me that you weren’t as nice as they made you out to be. A nice girl with a vaguely interesting business.’

  ‘What?’ At this, her expression slackens, firming quickly as she sits forward in her seat. ‘Vaguely interesting? And who said I was nice?’

  ‘I seem to remember you saying as much.’

  ‘They, Beckett. Who are they?’ she demands, her green eyes suddenly furious.

  ‘I sat in on a meeting. Luke took us through the pitch you emailed. The partners decided it wasn’t of interest, but Luke, to give him his full due, fought to get you an in-house pitch. It was Mark, his stepfather, who explained that Luke had gone to university with you. That you were a nice girl. I suppose we were to infer from that what we would.’

  ‘Infer what? That because I’m nice, he should do me a favour and take my meeting?’

  ‘I’m not quite sure that’s how it went. It became obvious Luke had some kind of romantic interest in you. I’m sure you can work it out.’

  ‘You’re saying Mark Jones decided to throw me a bone . . . so Luke could bone me? No, sorry, that’s not believable. That a bunch of rich suits would take a meeting in order to get the boss’s son laid?’

  ‘You’d be surprised how cruel people in this business can be. But as it was, other than Mark, no other senior partners were present for your pitch.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘I’m next in seniority. I wasn’t officially there.’

  ‘So I was never a serious option?’

  ‘For Luke, you were.’

  ‘That . . . shit! How—how dare he! He really painted that kind of picture of me? That I was withholding sexual favours in order to get a meeting as though I’m some scheming courtesan?’

  ‘I’m sure it wasn’t explained as explicitly as all that. But in a nutshell, I’d say you have a good grasp on how it went.’

  ‘I really never had any chance,’ she whispers, dazed. But then her head comes up, her gaze steely and hard. ‘But then I tripped, and you decided I wasn’t nice at all. But they weren’t really saying I was nice. They were calling me a whore.’

  ‘You were . . . unexpected.’ Desirable. Bright. Passionate.

  ‘You can’t expect someone to be civil when they’re injured. I tripped—I had a shock. I was in a hurry, and I was obviously a bitch to you.’

  ‘Shock, yes. You didn’t have time to sugarcoat your response. What I saw was the real you, and that’s what I want. I want the real Olivia to help me while also helping herself.’

  ‘But you’re mistaken. That isn’t me—neither of those are me. I wouldn’t fuck anyone for financial gain. I’m trying to keep my business from sinking because people rely on me. I was late and anxious, and you judged me from an encounter that was no
longer than a few seconds.’

  ‘That’s all it takes. I’m a good judge of character.’ And you’re hungry enough to help me with this.

  ‘You . . . have a very high opinion of yourself.’ She leans back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other.

  ‘And you’re sick and tired of hustling. You want your life back.’

  ‘I don’t know how you know all this, but yes, that’s true. But it doesn’t make me a bad person to want to spend twenty pounds on sushi for lunch instead of making do with polystyrene containers of ramen. Sure, I want my bank balance to look like it did so I can buy a four-hundred-pound pair of shoes for no good reason other than I want to. But this isn’t just about me. I have employees who rely on me.’

  ‘Even if you’re tired of the responsibility?’ She shrugs. ‘I can help you with all that. I’m here to revise my offer. Whatever money you’ve sunk into E-Volve, I’ll reimburse you, direct into your bank. In fact, I’ll give you more. I’ll also give you the capital you need to take the company all the way to your exit plan. And I’ll help you get it to that stage. You can’t lose, Olivia. Your capital plus a viable business to walk away with.’

  ‘All for just a twenty percent commission, right?’

  ‘No, I’m not offering you financing in the usual form. I won’t expect you to pay me back my investment. In fact, I won’t take a penny from you. Not in commission or stake or interest. I’ll help you get this company where it needs to be, and then I’ll sign away my rights to all of it as part of a prenuptial agreement, where I’ll set aside the monies to invest on your behalf. A new career direction for you, as it were. I’ll make you a very wealthy woman.’

  ‘I don’t understand why you would do this.’

  ‘Several reasons.’ And all of them centred around me. ‘First and foremost, I want to own JBW, as I’ve said.’

  ‘I also don’t understand how I can help, not that I’m saying I am helping or that I’m in, but what could I possibly do? I have no connection to any of this.’

  ‘Mark Jones, Luke’s stepfather, is convinced I’m not the right man for the job and refuses to allow me to buy a controlling stake. He’s of the opinion that I’m too much of a loose cannon, despite my uncanny ability to make the wealthy wealthier. He thinks this is just a passing phase for me and that my background and personal wealth will someday lead to my losing interest. Make me complacent. Which, quite frankly, is ridiculous, and a reflection of his opinion on my private life.’