Chapter One
One
He’s done it again.
I can hardly believe it. No, scrap that.
I can absolutely believe it. He does it all the time, actually.
The words in his email roll through me, soaking into my blood system until my limbs are rattling.
I breathe in for three then slowly exhale away the stress for ten.
Amongst the background noise of work chatter, gossiping and coffee machines hissing, I find peace in this modern glass building. I will not let him destroy that peace.
“How do you say, ‘You’re a total dipshit, I hope you and your idea fall into a pit of misery and despair,’ without it sounding unprofessional?” I ask my assistant, Gemma, who looks up from her desk, her hazel eyes blinking over her screen.
“I think it’s ‘I appreciate your interest in this matter. However, the situation is in hand’?” Then in a lower voice, she whispers, “What’s he done now?”
I massage my eyebrows as I stare furiously at my laptop. Gemma is used to these altercations now. She’s a seasoned employee here. “He’s trying to say he can make more money using our cosy lounge area for our VIP customers by putting another hospitality marquee there instead.”
I delete my last comment: Are you actually kidding? Or are you maybe a bit stupid?, and try for something less sassy whilst also retaining that tone of – you’re a sneaky weasel and I’m going to get you back. Professionally, of course.
“Is it direct to Michael?” Gemma asks, a flit of concern in her expression.
I peek across the modern office and notice our CEO, who is the key decision-maker around here, talking to someone in the main kitchen.
Well, at least he isn’t reading his emails yet.
I nod at Gemma, angry-typing as I respond. I write, Thank you so much for your idea. I can see you put a lot of thought into this. However, as you already know, we are far too close to the event to incorporate these changes.
“Yes, it’s direct to Michael,” I say. “And I’ve only seen it because Fiona copied me into a reply. He’s a sneaky…” There are too many rude words to choose from so I trail off, undecided.
Fiona, our Head of Finance, tends to take my side on things, but I’m pretty sure she enjoys fuelling the drama.
She’s always the first to hit the karaoke at work events.
And since she mostly organises them, there is nearly always a karaoke.
Often Abba themed. Her red hair, once fairly natural looking, has been getting brighter by the month.
She mentioned she was battling greys, now in her early fifties, and she’s often trotting off to the hair salon down the road.
I imagine her colluding with the stylist, picking a colour closer to atomic red each time she goes.
“Rajesh has already shown his support of the new idea,” I add with a pained sigh. Rajesh being the Head of Operations. He’s almost impossible to get to respond to an email, so I assume the enemy had to practically lean over his shoulder to get his written endorsement.
I take a deep breath, trying to push down the tight pang of panic building across my abdomen.
I’ve done well to secure Head of Marketing by my thirtieth birthday.
Even if I must say so myself. But it’s taken sheer determination, long hours, magically forgetting I haven’t used even half of my annual leave and networking with the Board of Directors on what some might describe as arse-licking levels.
I have dignity, it’s just not as much as other people.
I’m driven and I know where I want to go.
I joined The Starr Agency six years ago and progressed my way up the ranks by showing dedication to the cause.
We work with local parks in the city, throwing pop-up musical festivals.
The company has been growing fast because we offer a range of options to suit those on a lower budget and corporate clients who want to spoil their customers with a suave dinner in a specially designed pop-up restaurant.
It’s been growing in popularity, to the extent we are now being invited to major sporting events to run mini festivals within their larger events.
It’s great for business. It’s bad for my social and mental wellbeing.
But it’s worth it. Michael Starr, our esteemed leader and creator of the company, has been hinting about making me a director.
Only last week, in my monthly appraisal, he said, “You’re now portraying all the behaviours we’d expect to see in someone even more senior than yourself.
” And the other day, his email to the heads of departments very clearly set out his plan to promote internally since his very strange (incredibly handsy) and elderly uncle stood down from the board.
When I’ve finally shown my worth, I can start reeling in the money in a big way, and all the sweat and tears I’ve committed to this point will be worth it.
Only problem is, there’s a hurdle.
A greasy-salesman-shaped hurdle.
James Boatman.
And he’s a real pain in my arse.
I growl as another email comes through. Gemma sits taller, rolling her chair back to stand and make her way to the kitchen.
She knows how I like my coffee and I’m guessing she’s sensing an incoming implosion.
The machine rumbles to life, hissing the liquid into my mug.
Our little kitchen is mostly a cupboard with a sink beside our cubicle.
I got it installed so I didn’t have to waste time going to and from the main kitchen all day.
“Michael’s just replied suggesting we discuss James’ idea further in this morning’s meeting.
But what is there to discuss? Seriously?
We’re three weeks out from the event and we’ve sold seventy per cent of the VIP tickets.
We’ll easily sell the rest. What do we do for those who’ve purchased it already?
Downgrade them? That’ll go well.” I suck in a big gulp of air for mental strength before pressing my fingers to my eyelids.
“Why is everyone trying to make me cry? Why can’t Gloatman just back off this one time! ?”
James’ surname is Boatman, but since he makes a point in the end-of-month company “show and tell” to make a huge song and dance about every single bloody sale he makes, it was my genius idea to call him Gloatman.
Ok, so it’s not particularly clever.
It was annoying when he found out what I was calling him, and instead of being incredibly offended, wrote it at the top of his sales board as if he was proud of it.
I don’t know what he calls me, but I’m sure he does call me something.
Oh god, there’s a prickling behind my eyes. I shake out my limbs. I will not allow myself to cry. Part of being a successful businesswoman is being able to offset the tears in a moment of weakness and let them flood out at a point when nobody can see.
Which, admittedly, is becoming increasingly frequent.
“Drink this,” Gemma says, placing a milky coffee down in front of me. It’ll have three sugars in it. The rich aroma wafts into my nostrils in a sensational way.
My battle drink. My sweet kick of fury. My caffeine booster.
I nod, murmuring a thanks to my loyal colleague as she returns to her desk. I roll my shoulders, slap my palms together a few times and sip in between aggressive typing. Then I hit print on our ticket sale statistics for last week.
Once I’m ready, I leave our corner of the skyrise office opposite Liverpool Street station and head towards the other side where Michael’s conference suite resides.
I try very hard not to bristle when I spot James already sitting in the chair closest to Michael’s, leaning back casually as if he hasn’t purposefully beaten me by arriving seven minutes early.
He has his usual classic salesman appearance.
Matt-black hair gelled immaculately. Gleaming shoes.
A fine, expensive-looking three-piece suit with a teal tie that brings out the blue in his eyes.
I’ll give him something, he has a nice nose.
It’s long, with a little bump in the middle.
James’s appearance oozes with an irritating confidence that I’ve always thought gives off Matthew McConaughey vibes.
“Gloatman,” I say.
He smiles, but it’s not a friendly smile, more calculating. I imagine he’s saying my nickname in his head. The fact that I don’t know what that is only irritates me to the extent that I want to turn this building upside down in order to retrieve it.
But no… deep breaths. Deep breaths.
Finally, his smile fades as he turns his chair back towards the table where he has a notepad. He fiddles with it in his lap, using his long fingers to spin his pen. “Felicity.”
“It’s Fliss.”
“I know,” he replies without looking at me.
Then say, FLISS!
My christened name is Felicity and nobody except for my parents (and Gloatman) have called me it in about twenty years.
Granted, it was an error on my part. James started at Starr a few months before me, and on my first day, as I was being shown around and introduced to everyone, my nerves got the better of me.
I said my name was Felicity. And he’s never forgotten it, even though I sign off my emails as Fliss.
I take my seat opposite his. This way I’m close to Michael if not exactly closest thanks to the oval shape of his office.
I’m a stark contrast to James, in his dark tweed suit, with my flowery patterned dress that flares from the waist down to my knees.
My dark brown hair, which I attempt to straighten every morning into a semi-acceptable state, is naturally thick, pulled neatly backwards by my fuchsia Alice band.
My nails are currently painted a pastel blue, my kitten heels are from Irregular Choice and are exactly that, covered in sequins.
James always looks as if he’s about to step onto an episode of The Apprentice. Whereas I look more like I’m going to a summer wedding.
“Did you see my email?” he asks, raising an eyebrow in a telling way.