Chapter 17
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
Losing most of the morning to train travel didn’t mean the internet stopped gossipping. From the station, we went straight into the office – back to the business of containing this nightmare.
It felt odd pressing the button on the lift up to Simon’s floor, crowded in next to his colleagues like this was any other Monday, when everything had changed.
A bright orange sticky note sat dead centre of the monitor Simon usually plugged his laptop into. He plucked it off, holding it out to me with an eyebrow waggle.
“Not the usual Monday meeting, I suspect.”
The note said Mel Booker was waiting for us. In her office. Jesus Christ.
I hadn’t watched our film on the train. Couldn’t bring myself to hit play on any of the pop-ups at the end of the headlines, when there was no way on this green Earth it would be convincing.
But Mel Booker would have watched it by now.
And she was probably going to escort us both from the building for doing such a shit job.
Over on the corner of the run of desks, Sev looked up from the triple screen she’d ensconced herself behind. The wheels squeaked as she leaned back in her chair, cradling an oversized travel mug.
“Morning lovebirds.”
I darted a glance at Simon – way too rattled by her tease. The king of cool didn’t so much as blink.
“Well done with the edits, by the way.” He perched effortlessly on the desk, pivoted towards her with one knee crossed over the other. If I tried that, I’d end up falling on my face. “Excellent video.”
“It’s alright, isn’t it?” Sev shrugged like it was nothing, but the glow of pride was there, behind her throwaway attitude.
“How was the rest of your weekend? Did you choose flowers?”
This was why everyone liked Simon. He chatted.
Sev mouse-clicked with rapid-fire efficiency. “We’re having thistles.”
“Thistles?” Incredulity painted clear into my voice. “Isn’t it meant to be all… roses and stuff?”
Sev skewered me with a narrow-eyed death glare. “It’s not supposed to be anything Mr Conformity. It can be whatever we want. And there are going to be roses as well, actually. Orange ones.”
“You didn’t go all black then – mourning your alignment with patriarchy-defined relationship milestones?”
She flung a Biro at my head. Entirely justifiable violence.
“Fuck off. Isn’t that yesterday’s t-shirt?”
Oh, shit. I cleared my throat, like every person ever with nothing to hide.
She knew nothing about anything between me and Simon. No need to body-blush over mutually sating our totally allowable adult desires on our own time. With absolutely no feelings involved at all.
“The – uh, trains were cancelled?”
Simon remained unruffled. “We had to come straight here this morning.”
At least my boxers were clean. Not that she was getting a look at them.
“Mm.” Sev didn’t sound convinced. “I bet you did. Had the place conveniently to yourselves, did you? Simon let you in with his spare key?”
Oh she was talking rubbish now. He wouldn’t have spin-bowled a rock through a window if he’d had a spare key. Would he?
“Do stop stirring, Sev. I don’t have a spare key.” Simon tossed me the shirt I’d spent yesterday repeatedly removing while pretending to be Richard for her camera, and I caught it. “Ben, put that on and meet me up there.”
“Where are you going?”
“To fill my water bottle, if that’s quite alright with you?”
Right. We didn’t have to spend every waking moment surgically attached. I could handle Sev Duman alone for five minutes without confessing everything.
In fact, she’d gone back to clicking rapidly through frames without looking up.
It had to be her latest edit job. Nothing on screen had me or Simon in it. She kept dumping whole chunks of the reel in the bin. It must have taken her all night to concoct something from all the takes of us she’d rejected.
I balled the stupid shirt up, and then forced myself to smooth it out.
I was so done putting Richard’s clothes on and playing his unconvincing body-double, but this morning, Simon was right, I needed that shirt.
Mel Booker had to think I was a liability after the last time I opened my mouth in her presence.
Showing up looking like I’d forgotten what business casual was wouldn’t do me any favours.
“Just so you know, your hovering is making me want to find the only stapler in the building and brain you with it”—not graphic at all—“so if you could come out with what the issue is, babes, that’d be grand.”
“Erm. About the film...”
Sev stopped clicking. She spun her chair to look at me so solidly I regretted being born, let alone asking. “What about it?”
“You really reckon it looks legit enough?”
Sev shrugged. “It’s trending up.” She did big eyes, like that was supposed to be exciting. I could imagine the invisible jazz hands.
“Right. But... it’s. You know, convincing?”
She made a low, vaguely disgusted sound in the back of her throat. “It’s fine. I did a good job.”
I held my breath for a beat. This was me wasting both of our time. “You’d swallow it then - me and Simon?”
Amusement crinkled lines at the corners of her eyes. “I wouldn’t say swallow it, no. Have a nice night did you?”
“What?” Stealth mode eluded me. My whole face combusted. “No. Why? What did he say?”
“Nothing babes. But he’s predictable, and you can’t lie for shit. I knew he’d dick about with you in the end.”
“No – nothing happened.” Worst Liar in the World award goes to Ben Cooper. “He didn’t seduce me or anything. And he doesn’t date, does he?”
She blurted a laugh. “Oh sweet summer child. Did he tell you that?”
“What?”
She gifted me her full attention for a swift once over, then threw her hands up.
“Not my place. Look, I’m busy, mate. Trust me - you’d be a lot happier if you got over your wangsty existential crisis about whether some Stan in his underpants thinks you look good together, and got on with enjoying whatever overly-complicated situationship you two have got yourselves into so you can both avoid the slightest suggestion of vulnerability. ”
My jaw hinged open. “That’s not—”
“Bang on? Spookily psychic? You’re so very welcome. Now, please piss off. I’ve got actual billable work to do.”
Mel Booker’s office was at the very top of the building. Sunlight streamed in through the wall of windows behind her, without hitting one single floating particle of dust. A glass bottle of mineral water from halfway across the world sat on her otherwise empty desk.
Simon, in his suit, still didn’t have a crease on him. Despite Richard’s shirt, I was a mess. Crumpling it up hadn’t helped. Unsurprisingly.
“First off,” Mel stalked back and forth across the wall of windows like tiger at the zoo, “you’re officially suspended.”
She marked the point with her well-manicured thumb. I suspected there was going to be a list.
Simon straightened, growing at least half an inch taller, eyes on me as I fell into interpreting for him. “May I ask why?”
“Oh catch up Simon.” Mel made a dismissive gesture. “We cannot be seen to be propping you up when you’ve been misusing client homes. And the alternative is that it really is Richard, and we’ve created an elaborate, highly fantastical ploy to convince the world otherwise, instead of firing you.”
She raised an eyebrow.
That was absolutely not what we wanted anyone to figure out. It looked bad enough before we released a fake sex tape on the world.
“But that’s entirely laughable,” she continued.
It didn’t sound like she was laughing. It sounded a lot like she was telling us she knew exactly what was going on.
“No one in their right mind would sanction this kind of cover up. Least of all Mapp and Green. So, you see, your conduct’s being investigated.
And you’re suspended. Do not make me use air quotes. ”
Simon dipped his head, giving that the due contemplation it deserved.
“Yes. I do see.”
“Second.” Her forefinger came out from her palm. “Your names and your faces need to be everywhere. Together. Sort it out. Press statements. Exclusives. Photographs. Why can I not find any pictures of you on Social?”
Oh I really hadn’t thought any of this through. This really wasn’t going to be as simple as claiming to be in the film and faking footage.
Simon cleared his throat, one finger tugging at the collar of his shirt. “We’ve—um. Been keeping it private.”
“Have you indeed?” Mel hummed, unconvinced. “Three! Give me a reason to believe, and give us a big bloody reveal, before someone starts poking holes in it. Your story’s about as lacy as a French tart’s knickers, and I hate lacy underwear. It chaffs.”
I winced at the visual. Mistake. Mel’s glare was heart attack inducing. Having a shirt on really wasn’t doing anything to make this meeting go more smoothly.
“Let’s not forget your job is on the line, Simon. If everyone out there decides they’re more convinced by the version in which you got it on with an ex-rugby player instead of Benedict here, you’re finished.”
“It’s Ben.” Simon practically growled my name. As if what Mel decided to call me was the most important thing to focus on.
“Excuse me?” Mel gave no monkeys what I was called. Not even flying ones. How had I ever thought any of this was a good idea?
“It’s fine,” I said, and then Simon was the one glaring at me. But Mel ran the company. She did not have to know my name. He did not have to clarify anything about me.
“It is not fine.” Simon stood firm. “He’s Ben, not Benedict. Just Ben.”
Discomfort flared up the back of my neck. This story would sell better with a Benedict in it. Benedict was interesting enough to compete with Richard. Just Ben made everyone confused about why the hell someone like Simon would even look twice. God knows I couldn’t figure it out.
“Wonderful for him.” Mel fluttered an uncaring hand at the pair of us. “You’re still fired when the general public decides I sanctioned AI-ing him into existence.”
Simon’s face stalled to neutral. “Not much risk there. He doesn’t have three thumbs.”
Mel did not laugh.