Work Love Balance

Chapter One

I should have taken a Duvet Day.

When I finally emerged from my bed into rush hour, there were delays on the tube due to ‘staff shortages’ (Snow Day) and everyone was grumpy, tutting and shoving each other (Snow Day), and yet there was no snow, apart from a very light dampness in the air which felt more like mist. Everyone in London who wasn’t already working from home had planned on taking a Snow Day, only to wake up and find it was a Grey Day.

It was a gritty journey, but by the time I sailed through the door of EKArts, I looked appropriately zen.

Serenity is my Unique Selling Point, my top attribute on my CV, my ‘core value’– in Communications speak.

Or, at least, looking serene is. I said a cheery hello to Security as I strode into The Hexagon, where I work.

It’s an ultra-modern building with a famous facade formed of hundreds of small hexagonal panes of glass, which means that even on the darkest of winter days, the light is optimised in the lobby.

Unusually, I got the lift to myself and gazed at the mirrored wall as I mentally ran through my to-do list (vlog and socials content planning; reviewing a recent article focusing on the charitable arm of the organisation). So far, so normal.

I knew something was wrong the moment I stepped out of the lift and took off my hat. As I did so, I noticed the expectant hush of a roomful of people who had just stopped talking.

Normally on a Monday morning my team are dissecting their weekends and eating their breakfasts at the same time.

Most of them are in their twenties, attracted by the creative glamour of working for EKArts and its founder, the famous artist Esme Kamin?ka.

I’m a Senior Director of the company, with a seat on the leadership team, but I also like to think of myself as the kind of manager you could speak frankly to.

In reality, the younger ones probably think me as old as their granny (thirty-three is the new seventy-two) only less trendy, because I permanently wear black apart from occasional instances when I wear white.

But that morning I could practically smell the pensiveness in the air.

Maintaining my sanguine expression, I strode through the open-plan area to my glass-walled office in the corner of the room.

I figured whatever was happening, I’d soon know about it.

I was right. Sasha, my PA, reached me in approximately twenty seconds and flung the door to my office shut.

Or, at least, she tried to, but it’s a weighted slow-close door so despite the fact she piled most of her five-foot-two frame behind it, it continued to close at the same rate it always does, in its own sweet time.

Sasha’s eyes were brimming with excitement. ‘So, this is hectic! What’s the backstory?’

My New Year’s resolution not to check my mobile on the journey to work (in favour of reading a book) was clearly proving to be a mistake. I dug around in my bag and got my phone out. When I unlocked it, it lit up like a Christmas tree.

‘Tell me everything you know,’ I said, hoping she was being overly dramatic. Behind Sasha’s head the door continued to close very slowly. Five… four… three… two… one.

‘Esme is getting married to Ajax Banks!’ cried Sasha.

I tilted my head.

‘Ha!’ I said. ‘Good one.’ Ours wasn’t usually a team for practical jokes, but fair enough, Mondays made people do stupid things sometimes, and I guess everyone had been promised snow.

But they’d overreached themselves, because the idea of our CEO and founder Esme marrying fitness influencer, entrepreneur and podcaster Ajax Banks was like suggesting Mickey Mouse was about to be crowned King of England. Impossible.

‘What’s wrong?’ piped Sasha.

‘I’m looking for the hidden camera,’ I said, still holding my phone out, face up.

Sasha’s face fell. ‘I’m not joking,’ she managed in a small voice, her expression earnest. ‘Hasn’t Esme told you? Look at the intranet.’

I was already typing my password in. Beneath my serene expression, my brain was assessing all of my recent conversations with Esme.

As far as I was aware, she didn’t even know Ajax Banks.

Through the glass walls of the office, I became aware of the rest of the team arranged like meerkats.

I lowered my eyes to the computer screen and kept my gaze fixed on it.

Teams opened automatically first, and I saw an array of excited messages from colleagues.

I minimised it and opened the intranet, buying some time by putting my lapis-blue glasses on.

It loaded slowly, because someone had headed the article with an enormous picture of Esme and Ajax Banks.

They both looked slightly flushed and dishevelled in a very particular way.

There was a headboard behind them. A post-coital selfie, really?

And one loaded at such high resolution you could see the sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of Esme’s nose which then crashed the web page.

I made an indiscriminate noise, which possibly sounded like ‘no’.

‘Dawson said Esme insisted on making the post,’ Sasha said, in a faint voice, in defence of our web editor.

So it came straight from the horse’s mouth. Esme had once had a very famous song written about her: helpfully entitled ‘Esme’, it had referenced her red lips and smoky eyes. Those smoky eyes were now staring at me from the intranet and the expression in them meant trouble.

I blinked several times, trying to wake myself up from this ridiculous dream-slash-nightmare.

Eventually the page loaded, and I read the text below the photo with a sinking heart.

A confidential announcement from Esme and the business.

The charity was protected and could not be touched.

But my side of EKArts, the business side governing Esme’s work as an influencer and her many collaborations in the design world, that was a different thing.

Careful to keep my expression neutral, I picked up my phone and voice noted Esme: ‘Please call me immediately.’

Sasha was returning at that moment, carefully carrying my cup while teetering on vertiginous high heels. She looked at the screen. ‘She even spelt discreet wrong,’ she said, supportively.

I glanced at her. I wasn’t entirely au fait with the work of Ajax Banks, but the statement definitely had a joint feeling about it.

As in, they jointly wrote it while smoking a joint.

Something had gone awry for Esme to have been happy publishing such a 90s-pop-lyric imbued splurge which practically had two-become-one as its headline.

Normally I wrote her scripts, even her comments on socials; she had made faux pas in the past leading to near-cancellation, and was self-conscious about her dyslexia.

‘It’s not a mistake,’ I said. ‘She – or they – meant discrete as in a separate unit, not discreet as in quietly tactful.’

‘Oh.’ Sasha gazed at me as I sipped my coffee.

When her phone chimed she glanced at it and tapped a reply with gel nails so long I was surprised she’d been able to do any basic tasks.

One of my close friends had once had such a manicure and I’d had to button her coat for her.

As she stood there, her ankles wobbled from the height of her shoes.

‘What’s with the stilettos, Sash?’ I said, clocking the tightly fitted bodycon dress she was wearing. She normally wore some combination of t-shirt, trainers and jeans. So far, so parallel-universe.

‘Ah,’ she said, flipping a straightened strand of hair behind her ear then wincing as she accidentally scraped herself with one of her nails. ‘I’m back on the dating apps. Thought I’d try a new approach, have a bit of a makeover.’

‘As long as you’re enjoying it,’ I said. She was a decade younger than me, and new to London; as a result, I felt instinctively protective towards her. ‘You’re fantastic as you are, obviously.’

‘Thanks, Lizzy.’ She smiled perkily. ‘Oh.’ She glanced at her mobile. ‘Esme would like to see you on the green floor. In ten minutes. And’– she cleared her throat, showed me the phone screen in a gesture of transparency – ‘Ajax will be there.’

So Esme was going through Sasha rather than responding directly to me.

At least I was dressed for battle. Along with my usual black tailored trousers and heeled boots, I was wearing a black Chloé silk-chiffon blouse trimmed with lace (Vinted), which made me look like a Victorian widow mourning her fifteenth husband, or a witch ready to do some magic, depending on your point of view – either worked for me.

‘Right.’ I took another sip of my coffee, took off my blue-framed glasses, and applied a top coat of Ruby Woo to my lips. Then I stood up, straightening my shoulders and rocking my head gently from side to side to relax my (already tense) shoulder muscles.

‘Lizzy,’ Sasha said, in a small voice, ‘you look a bit scary.’

‘Do I?’ I said, smiling. ‘Good.’