Chapter Nine
‘Why the hell did you do it, Lizzy?’
We were in a bulletproof BMW, crawling through central London, being driven by a scared looking man called Eric.
Ajax’s usual driver was stuck in Covent Garden where he’d been sent to pick up a ‘roomful’ of sustainably sourced wildflowers for Esme.
The happy couple were cuddled up on the back seat, with Olly squashed into the corner, and I was in the front seat, glancing at Eric’s frozen face as Ajax tried to carpet us.
‘Because you were about to blow EKArts’ strategy, and land us with one hundred unwanted headlines,’ I said. ‘Think: “Love is all that matters, screw the planet,” says wellness guru.’
‘Bullshit,’ Ajax said, and I saw Esme’s hand tighten on his arm.
‘She was just doing her job.’ Olly’s voice cut through the air. ‘Lizzy did exactly what I would have done – the only difference being she got to you faster than I did. Next time, you should consider sticking to the plan, unless you want the same thing to happen again.’
I glanced at my phone: a message from Sasha.
Everyone loves the merch! . It’s nearly all gone. Should we re-order for future events? X
I tapped ‘No’ and looked back up. Olly was staring coolly out of the window at the traffic. Esme was grappling with Ajax’s arm like it was a king cobra she was trying to tame. ‘Lizzy,’ she said, her voice wavering. ‘Let’s put this to bed. Apologise to Ajax.’
I turned away and stared straight ahead at the road. I felt so angry I didn’t trust myself to speak. I saw Eric glance at me. He was sucked into the soap opera now, waiting with bated breath for things to kick off.
Luckily Ajax decided to speak again before I could formulate an outburst. ‘I’ve got two degrees, Lizzy. I can handle a few questions.’
‘No one disputes that. But you pay us for honesty, Ajax.’ Olly’s voice was hard.
This was an Olly I’d only seen glimpses of: tough, clinical, his brown eyes drilling into his employer’s face, his voice as cold as an ice floe.
‘Unless you don’t want us here, giving you world-class advice?
I can imagine Lizzy’s got piles of offers and I’ve got one or two myself.
Can’t move for LinkedIn headhunters these days. ’
Man, he really was going for it. I kept my face still and impassive. To add extra coldness to my expression I thought of Jack Dillane. Esme shifted in her seat, her hand locked on Ajax’s arm.
‘Okay, okay.’ Ajax finally gave a little ground. ‘Let’s not get too worked up, Ols.’ He thumped Olly on the knee, a gesture of apology. ‘You did tell me Lizzy would be a firecracker.’
I craned my neck back and looked at them, gimlet-eyed. Olly had the decency to appear embarrassed and turned to look out of the window. Ajax gave me a wink and kissed Esme’s hand.
We passed the rest of the journey in silence, watching the lights of London emerging out of the failing light.
The car sped off, taking Esme and Ajax to their current love nest – puzzlingly, an apartment in Canary Wharf, which didn’t sound like the most romantic place in the world – leaving me and Olly on the grey pavement outside The Hexagon with a keenly sharp wind in the air.
Olly had elected to get out with me, as he wasn’t intending on returning to his own office and he clearly didn’t want to spend another minute in Ajax and Esme’s company.
‘So,’ I said, as the car disappeared around a corner. ‘I’m a firecracker, am I?’
‘I don’t think that was quite the wording I used,’ he said, concentrating studiously on adjusting the knot of his silk tie.
‘Mmm, I probably don’t want to know the language you used,’ I said. ‘And I guess you told Ajax you could disarm me with your olde worlde Scottish charm?’
He looked intensely uncomfortable. Jackpot.
‘Just for the record, Olly, I’m not easily charmed. I appreciate you holding the door for me and all, but it doesn’t make me go all gooey inside.’
He cleared his throat. ‘Noted,’ he said.
‘Also, did I imagine it, or did you pretty much offer my resignation as well as your own?’
He mock-saluted. ‘Certainly did. If it helps, I knew he would back down. Ajax’s bark is worse than his bite.’
‘Is he a good person?’ The question came out before I could help it. I saw his gaze flicker, but he didn’t take his eyes off my face.
‘Aye.’ A quick answer, without thought or invention. ‘I think he is.’
‘Good to know.’ I nodded at him. ‘Are you coming in?’ I glanced at my phone; it was half four.
There was another cheery message from Sasha.
‘Going to measure up your new office?’ An area on the floor above mine, previously used for hotdesking, had been allocated to ‘key members of the Resilience Needs staff’, and they were due to move in in ten days’ time.
‘Just to get things off the ground,’ Esme had said, deliberately vaguely.
‘Er, no – I’m heading off.’ He put his hand out and a taxi appeared, seemingly from nowhere, something which has never happened to me in my entire life.
I blinked at my Insta notifications then back up at his face to see him grimacing.
‘I’ve got a date,’ he said, looking as though he’d rather have a dentist appointment.
‘A date?’ The image I had of Olly’s home life crumbled. ‘Oh.’
‘Yes.’ He looked vaguely wounded. ‘Don’t look so surprised. I’m thirty-four, not ninety-four.’
‘An excellent age,’ I said, thinking mine, next birthday. ‘And I’m not, I just thought—’ My phone pinged again as he leaned into the window and named a private members’ club in Soho.
‘Also’– he emerged from the cab window – ‘what was the deal with Jack Dillane? Is he an old acquaintance from footballer days?’
I compressed my lips. Calculated whether I could lie, and decided it wasn’t worth the bother.
‘He used to be my boyfriend,’ I said.
Olly’s jaw literally fell open and looked as if it was going to stay that way, until the taxi driver asked him whether he was getting in, mate. He yanked open the door and climbed in, then popped his head out of the window at me. ‘I have supplementary questions,’ he said.
‘I think we’ve had enough of those for today, don’t you?’ I said. ‘Have a good evening.’
He sat back hard in the seat as the taxi took off, a strange look on his face.
Feeling slightly dizzy, I watched it spin off towards the West End.
Blood sugar dip, I thought, blinking. I obviously needed to eat something.
Not almonds or purple gloop. And it was probably best if I didn’t think about Olly going on a date because it was making me feel… weird.
I looked at the message on Instagram.
Hey flower girl. What gives? JD.
I deleted it, blocked Jack Dillane’s latest incarnation on Instagram, and began mentally planning what I was going to have for dinner.
That evening, eating cheese on toast with a packet of mixed-leaf salad (so glamorous), I raked out a heap of gardening magazines from under my bed and started going through them, the radio playing in the background.
For the sake of my stress levels I put Classic FM on, and Pebble was uncharacteristically mellow, watching me as I wielded my scissors, cutting out images of plants and flowers I liked, to paste into my garden inspiration scrapbook.
‘Shall we do the road garden again?’ I asked Pebble. ‘Or is this just for the scrapbook?’
Pebble showed zero interest in what I was saying, but I liked to think she was gazing at me in solidarity rather than with the eyes of a hunter.
The year before, in a burst of inspiration and community spirit, I’d planted up a tiny scrap of land to the right of the entry to the flats.
It was basically a triangle measuring three cats by three cats, but I planted some African daisies, lavender, and verbena.
My mum had been an amazing gardener; my happiest memories were of being with her in the garden, surrounded by swathes of white and purple flowers, the sounds of bees buzzing and birds singing.
I often visualised the garden I wanted one day, but the road garden had been a physical thing: doing something with my hands, and the earth.
The other residents had thanked me and it had flourished pretty well, until someone mounted the kerb and drove over it one evening.
By the next morning a group of kids had decided to finish the destruction, pulling up a few squashed flowers to take elsewhere (hopefully to their beleaguered mums).
I hadn’t touched it since, occasionally wondering whether I should start it again.
Someone else had taken to hanging tin cans planted up with violets to lampposts the summer after, with the words ‘water me’ perkily written on the side.
I’d noted this cheeriness, and wondered how people kept it up.
I sat still, cross-legged on the floor in my pyjamas, magazines spread around me, wondering what Jack would say if he could see me now.
Something scathing, something dismissive.
He’d tell me I was boring, burnt-out, beyond help.
‘I just always thought you had more of a spark to you than that, Lizzy-Lou.’ He was a master at conveying his disappointment that I wasn’t what he thought I was.
Never quite enough. It had come as quite a shock, after the first three months of our relationship, when he’d love-bombed me relentlessly.
No. I was not letting him back in my head.
‘Maybe just for the scrapbook,’ I said to Pebble, taking her unblinking gaze as agreement.