Chapter 9
THE NEXT TWO days are dedicated to endless meetings, draining arguments, and a tour of the Wouters department store.
Matthew guides us in through the main entrance, which opens up into a lobby with four escalators leading toward the floor above.
The marble floor and all the elegant features wouldn’t look out of place in a majestic country house.
I can hardly believe my eyes as we glide our way upstairs.
I feel like I’ve stepped into Buckingham Palace.
The ceiling is supported by columns covered in swirly motifs and chandeliers cast a warm glow on the floor below.
By contrast, Val doesn’t seem impressed at all—his focus is on his phone. He stares at the screen as we walk along, eyes wide, with the occasional concerned glance my way. Then suddenly, he bites his lower lip and gives us an apologetic look. I’m sorry, but I have to go, he says.
I feel an unexpected twinge of disappointment in my stomach as Val slides his phone back into his pocket. I don’t understand where that came from—I would have expected it to feel like a breath of fresh air to be rid of my boss for a little while.
Something came up, he says, buttoning his coat. Please continue the tour without me, though. I’ve seen the store before, of course. He turns, hurrying toward the exit.
Out of the corner of my eyes, I notice one woman after the other stare after him hungrily. I startle when I feel a warm hand on my shoulder.
Shall we? Matthew suggests with a friendly look in his brown eyes.
Matthew quickly establishes himself as the perfect colleague. He’s been working for the company for a year now. He’s kind, he makes me laugh, and he’s bursting with information about the other board members.
You need to watch out with Ronald, he tells me in confidence. I’m not sure exactly what’s going on, but I do know that he consistently hires female assistants, who never stick around for more than three months. He goes through assistants faster than we go through printer ink.
I give him a quizzical look. What do you think that’s about?
His expression turns sad as his eyebrows draw closer together.
Hmm . . . Let’s just say I suspect he’s been violating professional boundaries.
I think one of the women came close to disclosing why she was quitting, but she decided against it at the last minute.
His furrow deepens as he shakes his head.
I know it’s bad form to disparage a colleague, but I have very mixed feelings about Ronald.
I overheard what he said to you the other night. That’s why I wanted to let you know.
He leads me through a large door and we enter into a space that’s swirling with the aroma of chocolate and baked goods. It’s mouthwatering.
Why is he still here, then? I ask.
It’s taking every bit of strength to keep my focus on our conversation and not get distracted by the massive amounts of chocolate on display in the glass cases.
It reminds me of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.
Behind the counters, employees in sharp uniforms and little hats are loading bonbons into luxurious little boxes for eager customers.
Matthew’s expression is incredulous, like I just asked him to explain why water is wet. Because he’s on the Board of Directors and there have been no official complaints. He shakes his head, seeming defeated. In any case, now you know.
I already had an icky feeling about Ronald, but now it’s entirely clear that I need to stay away from him.
Is there anything you’d like to taste? He nods at the chocolatiers who are hard at work.
I watch as one of them pours melted chocolate into a chocolate mold, before adding creamy filling from a large piping bag.
Personally, this is the best chocolate I’ve ever tasted, he says.
My opinion might be skewed by the fact that I really don’t eat chocolate that often.
But the look on your face right now tells me you’re not as biased.
He chuckles, watching me stare at all the delicious treats like I’m some kind of hungry hippo.
He wanders over to one of the sales associates, pulls his wallet from his pocket, and starts to point out various chocolates. When he returns, he’s holding a fancy box in his hands. I chose the most delicious ones, he says, proudly lifting the lid so I can pick one to try.
I pop the bonbon straight into my mouth before letting out a quiet moan. Matthew was not being hyperbolic. These chocolates are without a doubt the most divine thing I’ve ever tasted.
He looks pretty pleased with himself while I seem to be experiencing my first ever mouthgasm.
I’ll feel a lot more confident moving forward when I tell people that our chocolate is the best you can get, he says with a twinkle in his eyes.
Something tells me you’re a true connoisseur.
I know someone who works at the London Eye who loves these things.
Every once in a while, I trade a box for a free ride on the Eye.
Our box is empty by the time we reach the Valentine’s department. Robin’s new messaging has just been rolled out and I feel almost offended reading the new slogan plastered above the open doors: Be sexy. Be you.
A horny teenager could have come up with that nonsense.
Robin’s genius plan more or less amounted to moving the lingerie department from one floor to another.
A move that came with quite an egregious price tag, knowing Robin’s rates.
The traditional items are still out on display, but they’re wildly overshadowed by red lace and babydolls.
Matthew takes it all in with a shake of his head. Such a shame, he says sadly. It could have been so lovely.
If I’m being honest, I was surprised to see you return to London, Matthew says with a crooked grin—and dimples, I can’t help but notice—as we make our way toward the exit.
What do you mean? I ask in surprise.
Um, well, none of Val’s previous assistants ever joined him more than once. This is your second visit, right?
That’s right, I reply. Thinking back to his conclusions about Ronald’s patchy track record when it comes to assistants, I’m quick to clarify.
Val has never crossed any lines with me, though, if that’s what you’re thinking.
Sure, he’s grouchy as hell and he could probably send SpongeBob into a depression spiral, but he would never make inappropriate advances like that.
Matthew laughs, but he’s briefly distracted from our conversation when he swings open the doors and we step out into a wintry landscape. The street is covered in a thin layer of snow. As snowflakes float down from the sky, they latch onto my copper curls.
My goodness, I didn’t mean to suggest anything of the sort, Matthew says, waving off my rebuttal.
It’s no secret that Val can be a ticking bomb at times.
He gets that from his father, apparently.
I suppose it just struck me that he seems to treat you with a lot more kindness than any of your predecessors.
You’re not the first to notice, I say. And I’m not sure what prompted the change. I do know he hates conducting job interviews. Perhaps that’s what motivated him to push fewer assistants to tears.
He gives me a pensive look. Hmm, I wonder if that’s it .
. . he muses, tapping his chin with his index finger as his brow furrows.
He shakes his head, then, and takes a look around.
Hey, do you have anything lined up next or would you like to go spy on the competition?
There’s an exaggerated sly expression on his face, as if we’re concocting a top-secret plan to ambush the Russian secret service.
I feel the corners of my mouth pull up. I most definitely have time for that, I reply, before dramatically pulling on my gloves, like Catwoman heading into a hazardous mission.
We take the Tube from Covent Garden to Knightsbridge, switching lines at Piccadilly Circus.
It’s wildly crowded. Men in suits, tourists, students—they all pile on top of each other in front of the sliding doors, hoping to snag a spot among the throngs of people.
The train is full, is not an expression that Londoners seem familiar with.
When one boy tries and fails to squeeze onto the train, his backpack gets stuck between the doors, but he simply waits until we reach the next station, then calmly takes a seat that was just vacated by someone on their way out.
I’m wedged tightly against Matthew, who’s holding onto one of the metal grab poles in the middle of the train.
He casually gazes ahead as if it’s just an average Thursday afternoon.
People bump and jostle along with the train, not even bothering to apologize when they nearly knock you over.
And here I was, thinking Utrecht was a busy place, with its narrow bike paths running along the main shopping street.
Every stoplight there is a whole new opportunity to suck in the exhaust fumes of yet another idling moped.
The subway jolts again, smashing me cheek-first into Matthew’s chest where I feel the buttons of his shirt press into my skin. I look up apologetically, directly into his cheerful eyes.
You alright? he chuckles. After this ride, you’ll officially get to call yourself a true Londoner, he adds with a wink.
When we finally arrive at Knightsbridge, we have no choice but to let ourselves be swept along by the crowd. I imagine it’s less dangerous to stand in the middle of a highway, than to attempt to walk upstream into a mass of working-class Londoners with their minds set on an after-work pint.
We walk along Brompton Road in the direction of Winthrops and I notice the neighbourhood is a lot fancier than the area around Covent Garden.
We stroll by shops selling exclusive designer clothing and Swiss watch brands.
Everything about this street exudes luxury, from the people walking by to the merchandise on display.
Snow crunches under my feet as snowflakes tumble down at increasing speed.
It’s getting dark out and the wintry lights strung across the street flicker on, shining a white light on the pavement below.
When we see Winthrops rise up between all the other buildings, I gaze up at the majestic structure, eyes wide. Attendants in green uniforms and top hats flank the entrance, kindly greeting customers as they arrive.
I can see why we’re struggling to compete, I say, looking up. I mean, if this is what we’re trying to beat . . .
Val wouldn’t like hearing that, Matthew replies with a crooked grin. The Winthrops exterior might look grander, but I personally believe we have much more to offer when it comes to merchandise and our in-store design. And their chocolate is nothing compared to ours.
Sounds like this isn’t your first spy operation, I chuckle.
You’ve caught me red-handed.
He gives the door attendants a friendly nod as we step inside.
Winthrops looks gorgeous, but I have to agree with Matthew: the Wouters interior is much more impressive.
There are some similarities, sure, but the team at Wouters paid more attention to detail.
Our chandeliers are more beautiful and the flooring looks much more elevated.
Hey, what’s going on over there? I ask, nodding toward a crowd.
People are taking pictures and I even see some selfie sticks make an appearance. A few girls proudly hold up envelopes while they make duck-lips at the camera lens.
Not a clue, Matthew replies with a curious gaze.
He draws me along toward something that must be some kind of installation.
People step aside as we make our way closer to the middle of the crowd.
When I lay eyes on the attraction, my breath catches in my throat—one of the walls of the Valentine’s department has been transformed into a replica of Juliet’s balcony, including an ivy vine for a desperate Romeo to climb when he’s banned from entering through the front door to kiss his girlfriend goodnight.
Below the balcony is a wall covered in a mosaic of letters.
There are envelopes, Post-its, little love notes written by hand.
All people who felt compelled to declare their undying love to someone special.
I spot two girls, scanning the envelopes with intrigue.
Wait, that’s my name, Maya, one of them says, mesmerized by one particular envelope, like a cat drawn to a laser beam.
Maybe Harry Styles finally answered your fan mail, her friend cheers, clapping her hands.
The girl turns her back to the wall to proudly take a selfie next to the envelope with her name on it.
Ho-ly shit. I grab my phone, type #winthrops into the Instagram search bar, and discover one post after the other featuring this damn wall. Some of the pictures have basically gone viral. I give Matthew a wide-eyed look and he seems just as perplexed as I am.
How the hell did this happen? I wonder out loud, scrolling back to the first few posts about the wall. I scrunch my forehead in confusion. The first posts only popped up yesterday. They added this wall after we had our board meeting.
I blink a few times as I let my mind settle on the only logical explanation for this fiasco: someone leaked the details of our strategy meeting.