Chapter Fourteen
SARA: Zoom later? Breakfast meeting for me, dinner meeting for you? Message me when you can talk.
I smiled at the message and replied with a thumbs up which – despite Olly’s chiding – I knew she wouldn’t be offended by.
Sara is my best friend, and also my most distant friend in terms of miles, since she moved to Australia five years ago.
In our younger years in London we’d shared a rented house, part of a much wider circle of friends and acquaintances who’d nearly all scattered to the winds since.
Me and Drew (another housemate) were the only ones left in London, although Drew’s home was much nicer than mine, and peopled with many pets and small people along with his delightful wife, Charlotte.
I loved them, but I found the cosy glow of their domesticity occasionally unbearable, and would suggest meeting for a drink in town rather than a trip to their gorgeous home where I would eat their homemade sourdough and question my life choices.
It was the same faint twinge I’d had when I’d imagined Olly in cosy domesticity. Not for you, Lizzy. Why did life seem so effortless for some people?
On other days I was quite sane and understood that everyone had their own issues, even if they were out of sight, hidden behind a glowing, filtered Insta account or cheery voice notes.
Also, it wasn’t as if I’d been all-in on building a personal life. At the roulette wheel of life, I’d very much piled my chips on the work number.
My phone summoned me.
DAD: Too cold for snow. Issues with Alex’s benefits. Can we speak later? I’m worried.
In a fantasy moment of shared responsibility, I’d given Dad access to Alex’s Universal Credit account.
I checked the Journal section every week, where issues or updates were recorded, but recently Dad had taken to looking at it every couple of days, even though any ‘actionables’ were delegated to me.
I suppressed a wave of nausea at the idea of sitting on the phone for hours waiting for a harassed employee of the Department of Work and Pensions to pick up.
LIZZY: I’ll sort it at the weekend xx
DAD: You won’t be able to ring them at the weekend, love. So sorry but if you could call this morning or log on and look at the Journal.
I put on my thickest winter coat (vintage Jaeger, nabbed amid fierce flames of competition on Depop) and a fake fur snood, which objectively should have looked ridiculous but weirdly suited me. Leant to kiss Pebble, who ducked. And on the way out, dialled my father.
By the time I arrived at the office I felt as though I’d been awake for twelve hours.
Part of that was discussing with Dad the labyrinthine possible reasons why the DWP was asking to re-assess Alex in case he was ‘fit to work’.
Clearly whoever had flagged him had never witnessed one of my brother’s meltdowns, a fury so intense and elemental that it usually involved smashed furniture or, at best, a glass or plate.
He could occasionally say a word but often didn’t; and the fact that he wasn’t officially classed as non-verbal – an oversight I’d never been able to have corrected – had made a civil service employee tip their head to one side and wonder out loud if we were lying shirkers.
My brother was not a shirker. Ordinary life was intolerable and incomprehensible to him. He could not work. At the thought of the many hoops we would have to jump through to prove that, I had to swallow back barely suppressed fury.
The seething expression must have still been on my face when I walked into the lobby of The Hexagon and saw Olly, Jacob and Amber – the Finance Director of Resilience Needs – laughing at something.
‘Good morning,’ said Olly, nodding at me briskly, hands clasped behind his back.
‘Hey, Lizzy,’ said Jacob.
‘Morning, all.’ I gave the group a brief smile, adjusting my expression to my usual serene blankness, looking everywhere but at Olly’s face as I swept past.
Jacob fell into step beside me as I walked towards the lift. ‘Everything okay, Brinks? You had a face like thunder when you walked in.’
‘I’m fine.’ I managed another smile, while pushing the lift button. Do not think about last night, I thought, thinking about last night.
Jacob lowered his head towards me. ‘I have to say, I do envy you getting to work with the lovely Oliver so closely. That man is hot with a capital H. It’s lucky I’m married otherwise I’d be giving you girls a run for your money.’
‘Girls, Jacob?’ I said. ‘I’m a fully grown woman, thanks very much.’
‘I never doubted it, darling,’ he said.
A peal of laughter made us both turn back. Amber was laughing at something Olly had said and was clutching his arm as she did so.
Jacob patted his heart. ‘So sweet. Giving it her best shot.’
‘This is the slowest lift in the world,’ I hissed.
Of course he would be making Amber laugh, I thought as I finally got into the lift.
Because the camaraderie we have is nothing special.
The man is charming. Not only has he spent the last few years working in Communications and schmoozing everyone, he’s been in the Army, so he knows the importance of building team spirit and cementing alliances.
All of our backchat is part of a strategy to create a professional bond between us, and therefore meaningless to him.
Good to get that sorted, then.
The lift opened. Head back, and grateful I’d managed to apply a full face of make-up while kicking a toy mouse around for Pebble, I finally exited the lift and strode into my office.
On the centre of my desk sat a silver-coloured gift bag. Inside, peering up at me like beautiful harbingers of trouble, were a dozen red roses. Plush, deep crimson, and trembling as though they were scared of my laser-like gaze.
I sat down at my desk and, as though ripping a plaster off, pulled out the tiny envelope with my name written on it.
I meant it when I said you looked good. JD.
First feeling out the gate: disappointment. A weird dip in my stomach. Right, I thought, they’re not from Olly. So I was relieved, yes? Why on earth would Olly send me flowers when I’d told him we were a definite no-go? Not disappointed. Relieved. Disappointed. Some kind of cocktail of both.
Second feeling: twenty-four carat gold rage. This, I could handle. Jack Dillane, toying with me again like a cat playing with a mouse. Or rather, attempting to toy with me. Thinking he was toying with me when actually I didn’t give a rat’s arse because his spell had been broken long ago.
‘You absolute fucking arsehole,’ I muttered to myself, completely silently as far as I was aware.
‘Nice flowers. And even better expletives.’
My second worst nightmare after the flowers. Olly was standing in my office, clearly having jogged up several flights of stairs. As straight backed and perfectly groomed as ever.
‘Still sneaking up on people, then,’ I said, trying to sound cheery but landing on snarky.
I saw from his face that the jab had landed and I automatically regretted it.
‘Everything okay?’ he said. When I looked back at him, his expression was unreadable, his gaze dark and steady.
I started moving papers on my desk and jabbed at my keyboard.
Because I was very important and I didn’t have any time to look at him.
Important and keyed up. Perhaps it was me who needed the gym membership.
‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Aren’t you meant to be moving in on Thursday?’
‘That’s the date the boxes arrive,’ he said. ‘But since all of my meetings are here, I’ve already co-opted a desk upstairs. Hope that’s acceptable?’
I looked at his set expression, which indicated he wasn’t really asking.
‘Of course. I hope you’ve done your officially mandated workout this morning.’ More snarkiness – snarkiness beyond my control.
‘6am. I needed to clear my head.’ There were undercurrents in his voice, but I refused to be pulled under: I smiled blandly and finally managed to raise my eyes to his face again. But he wasn’t looking at me. He was staring at the flowers.
‘They’re from Jack effing Dillane,’ I said. Somehow, I needed Olly to know they were about as welcome as a swan attack at a wedding. ‘He’s having a dig.’ I handed him the card in a gesture that I hoped conveyed full disclosure.
‘Or trying to get back with you,’ said Olly, reading it and handing it back. His eyes had iced over.
I gave a hollow laugh. ‘Believe me, not on the cards. Do you want them? Maybe for one of your dates?’
The silence felt beyond awkward. We looked at each other for a long moment, both of us expressionless. ‘It’s just that I want rid of them,’ I said, lamely.
‘Allow me,’ said Olly brusquely, picking them up.
‘I’ve sent you a calendar invite for 11am.
A potential interview for Ajax and Esme.
See you then.’ He strode out of the office.
As he headed for the floor exit – presumably to jog up approximately fifty steps to his new office – he lobbed the flowers into the bin.
‘Tell me, then. What’s so interesting about them?’
The face of Cali George, celebrity interviewer par excellence, loomed as wide as the moon on Olly’s computer screen.
That is, if the moon had access to the best skincare and beauty treatments available to mankind.
Cali had to be well past sixty and she looked like a daisy freshly picked on the first day of spring.
I considered asking her what shade of eyeshadow she was wearing.
‘Come on, Cali. Five-point-two million Instagram followers combined, that kind of interesting.’ Olly was throwing a small, leather covered blue ball from hand to hand, with no thought of usual Zoom etiquette.
This soldier was off duty, and I could see from Cali’s expression she was intrigued by him.
I sat forward in my chair, still and attentive, trying to capture the mood and assess what Cali needed from us.
I also raised my eyebrows when he quoted the figures: Esme had one million followers, Ajax four-point-two million.
I guessed people cared more about working out and life hacks than they did about art. The kind of newsflash I didn’t need.
I had to admit it was a real coup of Olly’s to have got ten minutes with Cali, having heard on the grapevine she had a gap in her interviewee schedule because a well-known film director had dropped out.
In an age of clickbait, Cali’s interviews, released each Sunday, were appointment-to-read whether digital or printed in the Sunday supplement of the broadsheet newspaper she worked for: funny, insightful, occasionally snarky.
Defying whatever any algorithm would predict, her no-bullshit style attracted devoted younger readers as well as the older demographic.
Cali was such a celebrity she even went on chat shows as an interviewee.
Above all, her words brought attention, and that was what Ajax and Esme wanted, although I couldn’t quite fathom why that was such a focus for them.
It made some sense – they’d attract more attention for the app, perhaps more investment – but why did they want to be the story?
Olly was quoting some epic figures to Cali about Ajax and Esme’s appearances in the media. Reach of articles. Percentage of clickthroughs. All of them apparently committed to memory, because he had no notes, speaking serenely to Cali’s impassive, ring-lit face.
‘You know me,’ she said, when he’d finished. ‘Figures are great, but I need to be intrigued. As in, I need to be interested.’
‘It’ll be no holds barred,’ said Olly. ‘And no copy approval. Ask them whatever you want.’
I gave him a flinty glance. He shrugged in reply and focused on the screen.
‘They’re on board, Cali. Go wherever you want to on this.
Whoever else tells you that? And you’ve got to admit’– he leaned forward – ‘it’s all a bit weird, no?
Who would have put them together? It’s like they come from different universes. ’
Cali bit her lip and I knew the deal was done. ‘You might have convinced me,’ she said. She was playing it cool, but I could see the excitement glittering in her eyes.
‘They’ll get the cover, of course?’ I chimed in, naming a celebrity photographer who could be guaranteed to produce a flattering image (and who, conveniently, owed me a favour).
‘Bloody hell,’ huffed Cali theatrically, unable to hide a smile. ‘It speaks. Yes, darling, there’ll be lovely pictures.’
I smiled at her. We knew each other of old. ‘Thank you.’
‘I consider this a favour though,’ she said. ‘I don’t normally do couples.’ She said couples in the way you would say deplorables.
‘Two for the price of one,’ said Olly. ‘We won’t charge you this time.’
‘Cute,’ she said, and ended the call without saying goodbye. A signature Cali move.