Chapter 35
Emma
Monday, the start of a new working week, and I think I might be losing my marbles. Or certainly my grip on reality.
How can I be pushing away the one man who only seems to want to give me good things. But I know I am. I know I am keeping him at arm's length.
The proposal in Devon is playing on my mind. I want to say yes. I love him. He loves me. He loves my kids and they love him. I can’t put my finger on what’s stopping me.
I sigh, because if I’m honest with myself, I probably know. And it’s nothing to do with him. It’s all me.
All my insecurities. My past relationships, my marriage, how it ended. How I was forced to reset everything in my world. I’m not sure I’d survive that again. And to be honest, I certainly love Jude more than I ever loved Nigel.
I need to figure it out, or certainly do a bit of soul searching, but my reverie on the drive into work is cut short the instant I walk into the building.
“There’s a queue forming outside your office. There’s treason in their eyes.” Louise looks demented. She’s hopping around me. “I’ll get you a coffee and you can see what they want.” She pushes me into my office, with coffee, and calls the first one in.
“I’m sorry, Emma, but I have to think of myself, my career.” She sounds like she’s reading from a script. “And Nigel and Terry have offered to double my wage for twelve months, guaranteed. I mean, we’ve had no bonuses for months.”
I try to contain the sigh. She won’t listen to anything I say, so it’s not worth playing a counterargument.
I’m also not prepared to lower myself. Not prepared to be a soundbite when they join Nigel and Terry’s workforce.
But what my treacherous staff doesn’t realise is they’re full of gimmicks.
They’ll probably move the goal posts once they're in situ.
One after the other they come through my office. All very choreographed, and I know the architect of this whole debacle.
“Any more?” I shout through to Louise.
She has tears in her eyes. “Good riddance,” she spits out. “We don’t need dissenters. And I’m sure the last one in was the mole. She looked well shifty.” She gives the door a dirty look.
“Well, her spying days are done. I’ve sent them all home, gardening leave. Pay ‘em up and let’s move on.”
But I can’t hide how defeated I feel. I thought I could rely on my staff.
They’ve been the backbone of my journey post Nigel.
The thing I could count on. I think about all the conversations with my accountant.
How I protected them and their jobs, often at my own expense.
But clearly it was not a two-way street.
I’m just a paypacket at the end of the day. No loyalty or friendship at all.
Tuesday. And the good news just keeps coming.
“I’m sorry to hand you these figures,” Louise states the next morning. She purses her lips in disgust, proffering up the roster of client leavers for the last week. The list is as long as the whole of the previous year.
“Well, at least some of these are newish ones, so we should get our exit fees paid.” I’m clutching at any straws and digging to find the positives. “Did we hear anything back from the solicitors? About the others that have gone and not yet paid us?”
I’ve taken legal action on some of the companies that had left to go to Nigel and Terry. They didn’t pay the exit fees we’d negotiated into the contracts. I discount upfront fees, but add penalties if they go. And some of them did go, with huge inducements from my nemeses.
“Nothing yet. But the letters definitely went out, so we’ll see.” We’re both trying to keep to the mantra that the money will come. Trying to stay positive.
I’m still clinging onto my positivity by my fingernails. And I hope for a boost as Evie calls and asks me to go with her dress hunting for the wedding. Even though we are new friends, I’ve missed her friendship.
“Resistance is futile. We need a dress each. I’ve left it as late as I dare.
I was trying to fit back into something in my wardrobe, but it's not going to happen, so I need a new one. I’m only here in London for two days, and I need moral support.
Please say yes. Meet me in ‘The Boutique’ on Bond Street tomorrow afternoon.
I’ve arranged a personal shopper.” I can hear the desperation in her voice.
“Okay, that’s fine. I’m free from one, but I’ve got to sign a client up in the morning. I need all the work I can get.”
“Great, yes, we can do lunch afterwards and you can drink champagne. I can’t wait until I’m not feeding babies and can have at least one drink. Maybe I’ll go wild and have a mocktail.”
She sighs in longing, and I remember that feeling well. Craving the things you can’t have.
Wednesday.
A morning of one resignation. One client signed up and paperwork sorted for some others from the previous days. All signed and added to my roster. For now.
I walk into the store and the shop assistant greets me by name. I know then this is going to be expensive.
It’s a store I’ve normally passed by as too expensive for work wear, which is my normal attire. Even the cricket club Christmas party would not warrant any of these price tags.
Evie’s waving at me from a huge sofa. She has a ring of incredibly well-dressed shop assistants circling around her.
All dressed in beautiful black dresses and the men in black suits.
They remind me of crows freewheeling in the sky around their dinner.
“I’m so glad you’re here. Jonno has been on the phone to them.
Grassed us up, no price limit. So they’ve rolled out the red carpet. ” She sounds exasperated.
“Yes, they’ve just greeted me by name. How do they know who I am?” I’m looking perplexed. “How did they recognise me?”
“Jonno. Sent your profile over. He’s probably bugging the store.
He’ll know if I start being awkward and not like anything on purpose.
” Her phone pings with a text. “Told you.” She nods towards her bag.
As if that must be her brother texting a response.
She shrugs. “Anyway, bonus is they’ve got a fine bottle of champagne out for you.
And that man there”—she points to a man standing with a cocktail shaker in his hands—“is my mocktail maker for the afternoon.” She rolls her eyes. And I am beginning to see her point.
“Ladies.” The shop assistant, who looks like a movie star, comes over with a long checklist. “Mr Greystone has sent over the dress code and list of events you need outfits for. We’re so excited to be dressing you for the wedding.”
I side-eye Evie who has a bland smile on her face.
“Thank god for Mr Greystone,” she states with maximum cheese.
Her phone pings a minute or so later. I look at her again. She lifts her hands in a what can I do gesture.
“Is he really listening in? Is that possible?” I ask with fear in my voice.
“Does it all the time. I’m used to it. I generally call him names a few times a day, just in case he is. He just laughs.” She seems so blasé. I’m shocked. I know Jude said his brother was a bit bonkers, but this is crazy stalker levels.
“Will he do it to me?” I ask, thinking about all the conversations I’ve had with myself in my car recently. I blush. Some of them were quite intimate. And certainly the ones when Jude phones me. And the sexting at work. Oh my god. I can feel my neck heating up. My face must resemble a tomato.
She looks me over. “He will have heard it all before, and then some.” She gives me a knowing smile.
“He’s not that bad. He’s not a voyeur, or a listeneur.
Is that a word? Is there a term for people who listen in on others whilst having sex.
Must be, I’ll google it.” She starts to laugh.
“Don’t worry. It’s only me he’s at crazy levels with.
Everyone else seems to get off scot-free. ”
I can’t believe she’s okay with it. I want to ask her about how she can be so indifferent to it, but we’re distracted with the rack of clothes the assistants pull out.
“Wow, I have never seen such lovely dresses.” I’m touching the fabrics with reverence. As each dress hits my skin, I feel more and more sensual. The finest silks, the softest cashmere. And the underwear—I’ve died and gone to heaven.
Three hours in, I’m slightly tipsy and full of nibbles.
But I do have a collection of clothes, shoes, handbags, jewelry, any accessory that will see me through any event for the next ten years.
I have underwear to match every outfit. And at Evie’s insistence, once she learns underwear is my thing, she has encouraged me to buy additional pieces.
“Right, then, time for food. And more champagne for you. There’s a lovely champagne bar around the corner.” She’s all business, picking up her bag.
“What about all this lot? How will we carry it?” I’m gesturing around at all the bags we’ve accumulated. It looks like a small entourage will be required to get it home.
The shop assistant steps forward. “No, don't worry about these items. We’ll send your travel clothes to your homes. And then we’ll send all the other pieces to Ireland. Mr Greystone has arranged transport. One of my team will go and set it up there, and it’ll be all ready for you.”
Evie starts to laugh. I’m shell shocked. Who has ever heard of clothing being sent on to your destination?
“Mrs Barclay-Russell,” the associate continues, “could I confirm which address to send your travel clothes to. Mr Greystone said to confirm where you would be departing from. London or Devon?”
“Devon. I assume he’s provided all the details.
” She smiles, which widens to a grin as her phone pings again.
“Let’s go eat and drink champagne and mocktails,” she half shouts for full effect.
She knows the incoming texts are from her brother Jonno.
And apparently she’s more than happy to play his game.