Chapter 6
6
LUCY’S NAUGHTY FORTY BIRTHDAY WEEKEND EXTRAVAGANZA!
Cassie: Guys, I’m going to have to create a new chat for this group as Lucy’s sister, Heather, and her husband, Davy, have been invited (by Russell. Not me). We need to pretend that this is a new chat and she was invited all along. Sorry for the confusion.
Marc: Also, I’m taking over Russell’s organisational duties, so the final details can be a surprise for him too.
Cassie: But I’m still in charge. Otherwise it just gets too complicated.
Marc: We’re all intelligent people. I don’t think there’s anything complicated about having me oversee things, instead of Russell.
Cassie: Like I said, guys, I’m looking after all this AS PER USUAL. Now, I’m going to add you all to the new group chat.
Cassie hissed in sheer annoyance as she hunched over her phone and almost sprained a finger as she set up a new chat group with stabby motions.
‘Everything all right, Cass?’ asked Savita, her flatmate, who was waiting patiently for Cassie to be done so they could catch up on The Real Housewives of Salt Lake City .
Cassie and Savita tried to have one evening together each week before Savita, a Monday-morning-to-Friday-afternoon Londoner, returned to her proper home in Manchester. They’d make something delicious for dinner and catch up with each other’s news and, more importantly, on their favourite reality TV. Naomi, Savita’s wife who’d moved them up north when her job at the BBC relocated to Salford, wouldn’t have it on in the house. Though Cassie and Savita both tried to live lean, their annual subscription to Hayu was a non-negotiable, along with quilted loo rolls.
‘Just some absolute power-crazed arsehole trying to wave his dick about,’ Cassie explained with great feeling.
‘Oh my God, which dating app are you on now?’ Savita asked as she delicately selected a prawn from its bowl with her chopsticks. She was small, slight and precise, from her razor-straight, razor-sharp dark bob to her perfectly arched size three feet. A scientist by trade and a baker when stressed, she gave off very self-contained vibes.
Initially her main appeal as a flatmate had been that she wouldn’t be there weekends. However, they’d quickly bonded over Below Deck and Savita’s tahini brownies. It was also good to have a friend who was entirely separate from Cassie’s work life or other social circles. It made the flat feel more like a sanctuary. And was why their little dusky-blue living room (Cassie had been influenced by many Instagram renovations accounts that all perpetuated the myth that small rooms felt larger if you painted the walls and ceiling one colour. Not true) with its sagging two- seater sofa and armchair covered in throws and cushions, and framed vintage Chanel No 5 prints on the walls, was definitely one of Cassie’s favourite places.
In summer, the sun slanted in through the windows and in winter, with thick velvet curtains keeping out the draughts from those same windows, which rattled in inclement weather, it was very cosy.
Savita was small enough to stretch out on the sofa while Cassie sat cross-legged with her back against the armchair, a hardworking fan stirring the stuffy air, a Thai feast courtesy of a supermarket ‘Dine In’ promotion spread out on the coffee table. Castiel, of Saturday-morning yoga fame, swore by the benefits of sitting cross-legged to encourage better breathing, digestion and pelvic-floor function.
‘Not a dating app, a group chat for that birthday weekend I was telling you about,’ Cassie said as she paused from her rage-typing to rage-eat a pork and bamboo-shoot dumpling. ‘Russell … he’s taking a step back …’
‘Again, I’m so sorry, Cass. I can’t believe that Russell is … I still can’t get my head around it.’ Even though Savita was a scientist, all about logic and facts, even she couldn’t say the words out loud. ‘He’s one of those special people that you don’t meet very often …’
‘He really is,’ Cassie sighed. ‘The definition of good people. His one flaw is his best friend, Marc. With a “c”. Because he’s half French. Whatever. He’s a horrible man. Now he seems to think that he’s going to take over the weekend that I’ve been organising because organising parties is literally my job and—’
She paused as her phone pinged.
Marc: I’m still waiting for the itinerary.
‘And now he has the audacity to side-chat me with his demands.’ Cassie couldn’t handle her phone and her chopsticks at the same time.
‘Ugh, I hate it when people do that – unless it’s to bitch about someone in the group chat, then I’m down with it.’ Savita picked up the remote. ‘So, shall we stick on Housewives now?’
‘Hang on.’ Cassie was now distracted by a distant thump. ‘I can hear Koita at my bedroom window.’
‘I’ll go.’ Savita was already on her feet. ‘It’s amazing how he always knows when there’s food about.’
Cassie made several attempts at her icily dismissive reply to Marc as she heard Savita fill Koita’s water bowl and Koita’s increasingly shrill demands. ‘It’s all very well yelling at me but we both know you won’t eat your own food when we’ve got far more interesting things on our plates.’
Koita slunk into the room, back straight, tail up, golden eyes gleaming at the sight of the coffee-table buffet. ‘You can have one prawn,’ Cassie said, holding one aloft in her chopsticks. ‘Just one.’
The prawn didn’t even touch the sides. Koita curled up in Cassie’s lap. Not affectionately but so he could swipe her hand with a paw each time she tried to manoeuvre a morsel of food in the direction of her mouth.
Savita had cued up the latest episode of The Real Housewives of Salt Lake City and Cassie was still working on her reply to Marc’s imperious demand when she realised the best response was no response.
Much like Koita making short work of his third prawn, let Marc chew on that.
On a sultry evening one week later, Cassie was walking through Lincoln’s Inn Fields on her way to yet another ‘Christmas in July’ event. She always suggested to clients who had to launch Christmas products in summer to allow for press lead times that maybe they could do something that wasn’t ‘Christmas in July’. It was a plea that was more often than not ignored.
They weren’t even halfway through July and Cassie was already over mulled wine, mince pies and stuffing balls. This latest festive hurrah, even though the temperature was edging towards thirty degrees, was for the launch of a premium beauty website’s advent calendar. A sit-down Christmas dinner for seventy people. Just kill her now and be quick about it.
Cassie had used the catering firm numerous times before and they were always on point. The guest list was a great mix of press, influencers and even a couple of celebrities, but her clients were having conniptions, as clients were wont to do, about the scented candles both perfuming the air of the event and in the goody bags.
‘They’re the candles that are going in the actual advent calendar. It feels like we’ve ruined the surprise,’ someone in the marketing department had pointed out.
‘OK, I hear what you’re saying, but the candle is included in the list of contents printed on the back of the box and in all the promo material, so is it really that much of a surprise?’ Cassie had countered.
There had been many emails, so many emails, back and forth, about whether to substitute the winter berry and fig candle with another festive-themed candle that wasn’t in the advent calendar. Maybe the winter spices and rose one?
No decision had been made and the event was due to start in two hours, but to be on the safe side, Cassie had ordered a hundred of the plan B candles from the company’s warehouse. They were meant to have arrived yesterday but had only just been delivered to the venue.
Everything was going to be fine. There were always problems before, during and after events and the wrong scented candle was a very minor issue, but with the venue in sight, Cassie sat down on a bench to take five minutes to gather herself. Her job was stressful, but it wasn’t the kind of stress that kept her up at night. Which was just as well, because what with her usual existential dread and Russell’s terrible news, everything just felt like a lot . Maybe even too much.
Cassie bowed her head so that whatever breeze there was might brush the back of her neck, which was feeling quite sticky. She was wearing a red maxi dress, so she’d be easy to spot in the crowd for when something inevitably went wrong and she’d have to sort it out, but she really didn’t feel she was in a red dress kind of mood.
And then her phone rang.
And then Marc’s name flashed on the screen.
And then it felt like her stomach had plunged all the way down to the soles of her New Balance trainers.
Cassie could just do what she’d done this past week with his WhatsApp messages and, more recently, his emails: ignore them. But you didn’t just phone someone, in a non-work way, unless it was something really important. Something, God forbid, concerning Russell. Though he’d looked fine last Tuesday and that had only been a week ago.
She was going to have to answer this. Speak to him.
‘Hi. Is everything all right?’ Cassie asked on a nervous intake of breath, which almost made her choke.
‘I don’t know. You tell me,’ Marc said in a bland voice so it was impossible to know if she should start panicking.
‘Is everything all right with Russell, I mean?’
‘He’s fine. I just spoke to him.’ He sounded softer, kinder. ‘That’s not why I’m calling.’ That last sentence didn’t sound soft or kind at all.
Cassie lifted up her hair to get more of that faint breeze on the back of her neck. ‘Couldn’t this call be an email?’
‘You don’t reply to my emails, or my messages, so you leave me with no other option.’ His voice was positively wintry now. ‘Maybe I should try carrier pigeon. Or a letter, witnessed by a notary, then hand delivered.’
‘I get the message,’ Cassie said wearily. ‘I’m in the middle of a work th—’
‘I want that itinerary,’ he said. Or rather ordered. ‘Russell has already forwarded me a huge Google document that makes very little sense without the itinerary.’
‘You don’t need the itinerary. I have everything under control,’ Cassie insisted. ‘I don’t know why Russell expected you to get involved.’
‘Well, he did and so I am. We’re just going to have to get along, for Russell’s sake. Now send me the itinerary.’
‘It’s not “getting along” when you’re issuing demands like some two-bit dictator …’
‘The itinerary. Now!’
‘Or I could just turn my phone off and block your number?’ Cassie suggested sweetly, which actually seemed like quite a good idea.
‘I don’t want to have to go to Russell with this when he’s dealing with so much awful stuff. He hasn’t got time to jolly you out of this childish little temper tantrum you’re having.’
Cassie gasped in genuine outrage. Was she really having a very immature and unwarranted hissy fit, or was Marc being his usual arrogant, high-handed self? Possibly, and she hated to admit this, it was a bit of both.
‘Fine,’ she said thinly. ‘I’ll send you the itinerary but only for reference. I don’t need you—’
But she was talking to dead air – Marc had already terminated the call.
It was quite hard to be the unflappable, never-knowingly-fazed Director of Experience at one of your most prestigious client’s events when you were absolutely fucking fuming.
It wasn’t until hours later, when Cassie emerged from a successful event with a surfeit of winter spices and rose candles and said goodbye to her team, that she was able to check her phone.
There were the usual messages in the family chat – currently they were all absolutely obsessed with The Traitors Australia. Savita had had a trying day being a scientist and had stress-baked a raspberry layer cake. There were several memes from Fleur and Joni, and a message from Lucy including links to three swimsuits. And – Cassie checked again to make sure her eyes weren’t deceiving her – twenty-three messages from Marc.
They ranged from the high-handed (‘Must substitute something else for this very poor quality champagne’) to the helpful if Cassie hadn’t already thought of it first and anyway, everyone had satnav (‘You’ll need to provide detailed directions’) to the autocratic and completely overstepping (‘Let’s scrap the scavenger hunt altogether’).
Because she’d been working late and she had four boxes of candles with her, Cassie got an account car home. Was eleven too late to message Marc back?
When she’d first heard of him from Lucy and Russell, they’d described him in ways that had yet to enter the mainstream. He was a ‘disruptor’ and an ‘agitator’ who’d made a mint ‘investing in cryptocurrency’. Now, those descriptors were a sure-fire way of sniffing out a complete wanker, but back then they’d seemed edgy and cool.
It stood to reason that Marc was still one of those finance/tech bros who probably went to bed early so he could get up at four o’clock in the morning to spend an hour in a cryogenic chamber before running a couple of Iron Man marathons, then drinking a specially blended smoothie made from the tears of all the women he’d wronged.
Just the thought of Marc smugly asleep made Cassie want to fire off twenty-three messages of her own and wake him up. Then she saw sense. It was never a good idea to message when angry and also, by this time of night he’d have his phone set to Do Not Disturb. Instead she’d go home, eat too much raspberry layer cake, then be too wired to sleep.
The next morning, bleary-eyed after yet another fitful, restless night when Cassie had done more catastrophising then sleeping, she did five minutes’ stretching on her yoga mat and a five-minute meditation to clear her head and focus her mind.
Then she was just about to type out an absolute rocket of an email when she realised that she’d been sent yet another missive from Marc.
Or rather, she’d had an email from someone called Marie-France Vartan, who was apparently Marc’s executive assistant.
From:[email protected]
Subject:?Urgent action needed!
Greetings Ms Scott,
Marc asked me to coordinate on this project. Please see the attached document, which requires your immediate response.
All best
MFV
Cassie could actually feel her blood pressure rising. She wouldn’t have been surprised if she had a stress-related heart attack before she even opened the attachment.
It was a work plan. Very similar to the work plans that Cassie and her team used for planning events.
Three columns to a page. The first column contained the task objective, such as ‘Source a better brand of champagne’. The next column along was so that Cassie could show her working, then the last column was where Cassie would place a tick once she’d completed the task.
Fifty-seven tasks on the work plan. Fifty bloody seven.
Cassie forgot that she had an early meeting. She forgot that she was meant to take the bins out. She forgot that she never sent out emails when she was angry.
From:[email protected]
Subject:?Are you fucking kidding me?
Marc
I repeat, ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?
Regards
Cassie Scott
She was so angry that she didn’t even sign off with ‘kind regards’ as usual. Let that be a lesson to him. And to Ms Marie-France Vartan too.
Then Cassie heard the rumble and thud of the refuse collection lorry and had to grab the food recycling bin and run outside with it.
Three minutes later, she had a message from Marc.
Marc: These messages and emails should probably be a meeting. I have a window at noon on Sunday.
Cassie: I don’t have a window.
Marc: The quicker we sort this out, the quicker we can send out details and stop leaving people hanging.
The delay in sending out the finalised schedule and information for the weekend wasn’t Cassie’s fault. Russell had been incapable of making any firm decisions, which was understandable given the circumstances. If Cassie had been left to her own devices, she’d have sent everyone the trip details ages ago. Now, for whatever reason – probably because he enjoyed making her life a misery – Marc had decided to get his sticky hands all over her finely tuned plans. He wasn’t going to fade away into the background, but when had he ever?
Cassie: I can do 11 on Sunday.
(She could actually do noon, but she wasn’t letting him have all the power.)
Marc: I could come to you?
She didn’t want Marc in her neighbourhood, ruining her favourite coffee shops and hangouts for evermore. Cassie knew that she was being incredibly petty, but knowing wasn’t the same as being able to do anything about it.
Cassie: No need. I’ll come to you.
Marc: I’ll drop you a location pin.
Cassie: Fine.
Marc: Great.
But it wasn’t fine and it certainly wasn’t great.