Chapter 8
Jude
Relaxed and refreshed, I drive back up to London for the start of the working week.
I’d confessed to Jake over the weekend about Emma—what I thought about her, how she’d made me feel—and asked for help.
He’d been none. In fact, he’d laughed himself hoarse.
But thankfully, he never grassed me up to Sofia, who was busy asking me to ditch my on-and-off-and-on-again affair with a well-known singer who was due back in town any day.
I make no promises. It’s her or a club. And at least I take Lindy out to dinner when she’s in town.
Before any of that however, I walk straight into a shit storm. The culprit: that fucking building and its annoying inhabitants.
“Do you want the list?” Brandon has progressed his complaint shuffle to Strictly Come Dancing moves. “Marchant Smyth.”
My eyes widen in horror. High profile young actor in a TV series. Has an apartment in my building. A few films to his name, and lots of PR around him. Rumoured to have bagged an upcoming role with Carter in his Jameson Bonney franchise.
“The knit and natterers,” he continues, and my heart sinks.
“They got invited by Marchant into the coffee shop. Felt sorry for the old grannies apparently. Thought they were cold, sat drinking coffee in the park. But it wasn’t regular coffee, it was whiskey laced coffee, and he naively invited them into the warm for a latte.
” I baulk at that. There is nothing old or sorry about them.
“They were on their Christmas bash. Whiskey with a dash of coffee is more their style. They were all plastered.” I put my hands over my eyes.
“A riot broke out between the firm of accountants and the knitters. I think the knitters won.” He looks at his list. “I’ve had the Chief Accountant moaning about his team's destruction at their hands. Apparently they won the drinking games. His team never stood a chance.”
I nearly laugh at that, but then he holds a finger up to me, saying tentatively, “But then Marchant's PR team moved in and shit got serious. NDAs produced, threats made on loose lips and knitting needles. Emma Lincoln got all the NDAs signed, and nothing other than a few great pics of Marchant with the cuddly grannies appeared in the press.” He smiles at me. I can’t be more stunned.
“Is this crisis averted? Are the tenants still in situ?” He nods. Fuck me. And it was only midday Monday.
The rest of the week is relatively quiet.
No knitters or natterers. No choir flash mob.
What a relief. But I make sure I glare at that building Tuesday through Thursday, just for good measure.
By Friday my glare-fest ends as I enter the London Construction Conference at a large prestigious conference centre.
I only attend a few a year, otherwise I could spend my whole year flying around the world to all sorts of events.
Keynote speeches; hosting; workshops on leadership, buildings, and architecture; planning and construction—you name it, I’ve attended it over the years.
As it’s a construction conference, a few interconnected companies are at the venue.
My sister's company Rookwood Properties is here somewhere. I intend to stick my nose around the door just to show willing and be able to report back to her that they were there and looked good. I’m not hosting until the afternoon sessions in the architects division next door, so decide to go see Rookwood’s stand first.
More like an aircraft hangar, the huge hall is packed, and the ebb and flow of voices, laughter, and chat is all you can hear. I’ve hardly made it to the first stand when the organiser accosts me the minute she spots me.
“Oh, Mr Greystone,” she flutters around me, “let me show you around and introduce you to anyone you’ve not met yet.” I know her well. She arranges most of these sorts of events, so I allow her to introduce me to all the pertinent people.
We network our way through the first two halls and hesitate at the entrance to the dreaded Hall Three.
No point going in there. Instead, I say my goodbye’s to the organiser and saunter back to the Rookwood stand to grab a tea, when I spy someone eating a pink cupcake.
That would do nicely. Keep my sugar levels high for this afternoon.
“Jude, Jude Greystone. Good to see you again.”
Christ, not more people. I stand and stare at the man in front of me. I don’t know him, and the organiser never introduced him—so he can’t be that important. Although… he sort of looks a bit familiar. But they all blend into one. Standard suit, white shirt and grey silk tie… Nope, still nothing.
“Terry Hughes, Prestige Recruitment Ltd. We handled the recruitment for part of your security and health and safety officers at South Wharf.”
Had they? Of course I know Prestige now, but for different reasons. This is the scumbag stealing from Emma Lincoln. My expression doesn’t betray my knowledge as I push a fake smile on my face and shake the outstretched hand.
“I’m sorry, it’s a while since I’ve seen you. Apologies. But yes, thanks, the team are great. Have you branched out into construction?” I wave my hand around the large conference centre, playing dumb.
I never even noticed his stand. Was too focused on Rookwood’s.
But Christ, it’s brash and tacky as hell.
Gaudy red and a shitty brown. A single stand, not even a double.
No wonder I missed it. All companies in the main hall doubled up.
Apparently not him. The usual fair of pens and badges scattered across the tabletop.
Cheapskate couldn’t even provide power packs or notebooks.
The staff, all in suits, are sweating in the heat.
The hall is always like an oven, and everyone knows about the unseasonal temperatures in this sort of place. I’ve worn linens.
“Yes, so if you need us to find you construction staff, let me know. It’s a relatively new venture for us, but we’ve already supplied to Langford Plastics, Galdots, Morrisons. All the big players of course. We could set you up, get your business up to the next level.” He grins like a moron.
I decide to be a dick. “Really, what level would that be?” I stand and look at his grinning face.
It drops when he realises his error. My expression has gone totally flat as I wait, and wait some more, for his comeback.
It doesn’t come, he doesn't have one. No substance at all. He’s twitching in embarrassment.
“Let me get you my card. Ring me directly. I always believe in the personal touch,” he coughs out eventually.
I huff out a laugh at that as he forces his card into my hand. I pocket it not to be rude. His staff are now flocking around me, and I can hardly move. Eventually I escape, citing my desperation for tea and toilets.
The organiser points me in the direction of the toilets. Hall Three, at the bottom end. Jesus, I’ll never get out alive if anyone knows me in there. I feel like I’m a can of full sugar soda plonked in a wasps nest. I can almost smell the desperation oozing out of the hall.
I roll my eyes and get ready to run the gauntlet of Hall Three.
Fitness? Check. Been at the gym three times this week. Cardio on point.
Eyes front, no eye contact? Check. Added my glasses, which were mainly for effect. But I could feign blindness if someone shouted out to me.
Poker face? Check. Look mean and moody, and they’ll be too scared to accost me.
Three deep breaths. Pfft, pfft, pfft. Go.
I set off at a literal jog. Eyes front, head down, looking so pissed off, I even scare myself.
I hit the toilet entry and breathe a sigh of relief.
Not one rugby tackle. I looked so angry, no one dared.
And hitting me up in the toilets would really be the pits, but people like to wallow in the dirt, so I shoot into a cubicle.
I can’t even use the urinals at conferences. Learned that one the hard way.
I overhear some chat coming from the sinks. The men are laughing and joking, clearly they’re not in this hall.
“This Hall Three is the depths of desperation,” one of them says.
“Only decent thing in it is the cupcakes,” another answers. “Going to get one then scoot back to civilization.”
As I exit the cubicle, I hear their gasp of excitement. Fuck, I’ve been recognised. I side-eye the young guys, both in suits, as I make quick work of washing my hands.
“Hi, you're Jude Greystone. Can we get a selfie?”
“In a toilet?” I stare at them both, pretending I’m surprised. I’m not.
“Er no, sorry, outside if possible. We love The Bowman Group, trying to get jobs there. Could we have a chat about it?”
They're brash, I'll give them that.
“I have a recruitment team. Contact them, they’re really good. Ask for Kim.” I throw them a bone as we walk out of the toilets side by side, both getting their phones out.
I’m hit by a sea of pink. Pink walls, pink people. Pink books, pens, power packs, notebooks—the whole gamut. And there on the side, with a crowd around them, pink cupcakes. I grin. Whoever did those was a genius. But really? Hall Three? Next to the toilets? Must be the worst pitch in history.
It’s then I spot pink, shiny, wig hair. My mouth drops open as I take in the whole workforce. Oh my God, no fucking way. Blue sea glass eyes that have gone turquoise. Cheeks pink, skin white. Fuck me. It’s Emma Lincoln and Synergy Recruitment Ltd.
I know I said her business might end up in the toilet, but it was a figure of speech. Not to be taken literally. My mouth is opening and closing like a goldfish in a tank. Her face is getting redder and redder.
“What on earth are you doing here?” I blurt, gesturing around at the stand and its position.
She looks shocked at my question. And angry. “Promoting my company. What do you think it looks like?” Her voice is dripping with sarcasm. Deserved.
“In the toilets? Surely you could get a better pitch.”
She looks as if death is about to cosh me over the head as she rises from her chair like a goddess. I’m awe struck. Her pink polo top is pulled tight across those tits that have been haunting my dreams. I’m such an unprofessional bastard.
I take a step back, thinking I might need to make a quick exit here.
But no, it's worse. Instead of her usual boring knee-length ‘A’ line, her black skirt is short, mid-thigh, and flared. And are those tights with built-in fucking garters? Fuck me. My eyes are ogling, and I’m being so obvious she’s going to slap me with a harassment suit any minute.
“Well I should have been in the Grand Hall. But someone,” she heavily accents the someone, “called up on Monday and cancelled my attendance.
So my pitch was given away. And I've ended up here at the back next to the toilets.” She looks distressed.
And my heart roars to life. Every sinew is firing.
“But I suppose you know all about it?” Her eyes are turquoise fire aimed at me.
Huh? Why would I know about it? I look at her, openly confused by her declaration.
She comes up to me and gets in my face. “Don’t try to make out you don’t know who has this sort of power.”
She gestures to the shit-hole of a stand that she has, likely offered as a consolation when the organizers realized their mistake. But to be honest it has more people around it than the ones in the Grand Hall. Due to her cupcakes. And there is no euphemism intended.
“And to think I actually fell for your holier-than-thou, I don’t play dirty pitch. Well, no more Mrs. Nice guy.” Her voice drops dramatically. So much, I’m expecting a cupcake to the face any minute.
I recover myself quickly. This is not the time and place for this. Who the fuck does she thinks she’s telling off? I grab her elbow and steer her around the back of her stand. She tugs at me to let go, but I don’t give a fuck. I manhandle her out of earshot of everyone.
“How dare you accuse me of industrial subterfuge. I told you, yes I want the building, but not by any means. Fair enough, I may have been a bit out of line mentioning your current unfortunate state of affairs, but at the end of the day, it’s true.
It’s a fact. But I have not and do not intend to get involved with your business.
In any way, shape, or form.” My face is bright red and hers is pale, but she still looks belligerent.
“My ex-husband told me all about your little deal. In cahoots with him and Prestige. Well, stay away from me. Stay away from my building. It is not for sale. My business is not for sale and I am not for sale. Goodbye, Mr Greystone.” She tries to move past me, but I block her exit.
“Not so fast.” I need to get to the bottom of her insinuations before this gets out of hand.
“What deal? I am not in business with your ex-husband or former business partner. Nor do I intend to be. Get your facts straight before you start accusing me of things. Just because he said it, doesn’t make it true. ”
Crowding into her personal space, my anger flares, driving my intimidation tactics.
We’re nose to chest, and she’s blowing air through her nostrils like a bull about to charge.
It’s fucking adorable. Her pink top rising and falling at a rate of knots.
And I can’t concentrate on my anger. I can’t concentrate on anything but her.
“I tried to do a deal with you, but you told me to fuck off.” I've dropped all the acts now, and quirk my eyebrow at her, waiting for her to contradict me.
She doesn’t. She can’t. Because she did do that. Hell, I might even be flirting a bit at this point. But then, I’m a shameless bastard and have undoubtedly got a few kinks.
She shuts it down. “Stay away from me,” she seethes, and pushes past me.
I’m left stood alone, her scent swirling in my face.
Strawberries and cream, with a kick of spice.
Delectable. My tongue is hanging out of my head as I try to process what I’ve just seen.
And to think, I thought she was boring. I flail my arms around.
What the hell is going on here? Fuck me.
That building is going to be the death of me. And if not it, her.