Chapter 4
4
Fuck, fuck, fuck .
My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my skull.
What have I done?
The consequences of screwing over Bancroft are one thing, but the repercussions of going against Susie’s wishes are undoubtedly going to bite me in the arse sooner rather than later. She used to relish my enthusiasm, my willingness to pitch new ideas and go above and beyond my role. Now it’s like she resents the fact that I would ever want any form of career progression. The glass door hisses against the green carpet tiles as I push through it and stomp into the Fate office.
I weave through rows of my colleagues’ work stations, trying not to make eye contact with anyone until I reach my desk and drop into the squeaky wheelie chair.
The computer screen dings with a new message from Bancroft:
EB: When are you free for a run down?
My stomach starts to roil. The last time we were alone together it really didn’t end well. I pull out the magazine Yemi shoved in my bag last night and flip through until I reach the familiar face, homing in on a small box in the corner of the article:
THREE THINGS TO KNOW ABOUT ERIC BANCROFT
He is the son of architectural magnate and notorious party boy, Malon Bancroft, and it seems the apple doesn’t fall far from the multi-million-pound tree...
Eric began his university studies in Architectural Design and Technology but switched to Marketing and Advertising in his second year—rumor has it, much to his parents’ chagrin!
Rumored to be currently dating Margaux Bardin, French heiress and founder of fabulous sunglasses brand Chaleur Lunettes. The pair were first spotted cozying up at the exclusive Matilda’s Bar in February over vodka martinis with a twist: his drink of choice.
He is lending his social expertise to the dating app Ignite. Downloads hit an all-time high on the day of his appointment as Marketing Manager at the Catch Group Inc.–owned company. Not bad for a man who’s never single for more than a week!
Most of this information isn’t new to me, even if it seemed as if our former friendship existed at arm’s length. I felt that gravitational pull he carries with him wherever he goes when we first met. I’m drawn into the memory of our initial encounter. I can still hear how Jessica, Catch Group’s Head of HR, called to me across the lobby, her shiny black hair bouncing as her heels tapped toward us.
“I want you to meet Eric Bancroft, the new Marketing Manager at Ignite.” She had presented him like a shiny new trophy. “Eric, this is Grace Hastings.”
I’d seen pictures of him before but in person he was stunning. As though Hugh Grant and Jude Law had had a lovechild who was raised by an impeccable stylist.
“Hello, Grace Hastings,” he drawled in a whisky-smooth tone. The emphasis on my first name sent a prickly heat through me.
“Hi!” I said, louder than intended, my cheeks flaming as I saw a dimple appear on his left cheek.
“Hi,” he repeated at a far more reasonable volume. “Would you be up for a one-on-one once I’ve settled in? It would be nice to understand the job a bit more.”
A polite smile appeared across his lips and I swear his ocean-blue eyes literally twinkled in the fluorescent office ceiling lights.
“Sounds grud,” I responded breathlessly.
There was a beat, and then his eyebrows scrunched together in confusion. I stood there, clutching my laptop like a life raft as we drifted into an awkward silence. My whole body turned loose as he looked me up and down, as though trying to weigh my character: a predator sizing up whether I would be classified as friend, foe or prey.
“Sorry, my brain couldn’t decide between good and great so I ended up with ‘grud,’” I explained limply, wishing the ground would just open up and swallow me whole.
I still remember the moment his smile curved into a smirk.
Jessica finally saved me from further embarrassment and, helpfully, reminded me that I was on my way to get lunch with Yemi.
“And this is Olayemi Musa, Head of Analytics at Fate.”
“Call me Yemi.” She smiled, stretching a hand out to shake his.
“Hi, Yemi,” Eric replied. “I’d love to book a one-on-one with you as well if you’d be up for it.”
“Sure,” she replied like a normal functioning human.
I don’t think my brain even registered the brief conversation after that; Yemi continued to be her fabulously competent self as I silently nodded along, lips pulled tight in a line.
Finally, he smiled. “Well, it was grud to meet you both.”
Before either Yemi or I could say another word they both strode off toward the row of elevators, Jessica’s shoes echoing around the lobby.
Yemi’s voice jerks me out of my involuntary trip down memory lane.
“Are you OK?”
“Yeah!” I reply a little too quickly and enthusiastically, pushing myself off the desk.
She hums at me suspiciously, sensing that my reply wasn’t at all truthful. “Lunch? I have a table booked.”
“Absolutely.” I rise, reaching for my bag.
“Darling, do you really have time for a leisurely lunch right now?” Susie’s piercing tone permeates the space between Yemi and me.
She never fails to notice me even attempting to take my entire lunch hour. The last time I took it all was for an emergency dentist appointment to fix a cracked tooth. After an eye-watering, wallet-cinching sixty minutes she sent a text with her coffee order, assuming I was out running errands.
“Umm, no. I guess not,” I say, sinking back into my chair. I swallow the guilt I know I shouldn’t be feeling and shoot Yemi an apologetic, tight-lipped smile. “You go, I’ll grab a sandwich later.”
Yemi eyes Susie incredulously. Being a head of department means she doesn’t have to take shit from Susie, but begrudgingly has a level of respect for her as the founder and former owner of the company. She also knows putting Susie in a bad mood will only serve to make my day worse. Sometimes this job feels as if I’m trapped in a cold, dark lake, gripping on to the edges trying to escape. The water-clogged mud slides through my hands and slippery tufts of grass release from the ground when I pull on them too hard. Sometimes my head goes under, and sometimes I manage to stay afloat, but no matter how close I come to getting out, I always end up back where I started.
As Yemi leaves, Susie turns back to me. “There are some things we need to discuss.” She clip-clops in her heels toward her office, assuming I will immediately follow.
I do.
Her layered multicolored necklaces jangle as she swans into her beautifully designed office, which looks more like a swanky private club lounge than a place for business. Her thick floral perfume pervades the space, which is full of pastel-toned mid-century armchairs and chic brass lamps that she uses to light the place as she despises ceiling lighting. There are decorative book bundles from some high-end furniture store dotted around on various surfaces, and I’m certain their pages have never seen the light of day.
“I want to talk about the meeting with Catcher,” she says, lips pursing.
I nod my head curiously, trying my best to act as if I don’t know what she is about to say. She looked surprised and then annoyed when I agreed to his proposal, and one of her few flaws is never being able to keep her opinions to herself. She sighs and flops back nonchalantly in her white bouclé fabric desk chair behind a pristine glass desk.
“I really don’t think you’re going to have time for it, darling.”
I am enough, I belong here, I deserve to be here.
I remain tight-lipped as she continues.
“Your schedule is already so busy: your daily reporting, your evening events, working on partnerships, all your... lunches.” She pauses for effect and looks me up and down. “You won’t have time to do this too, you’ll never have a moment for yourself.”
Not like I had time before.
“Well, ummm, maybe I could...” My fingers tighten around my notepad. “... drop some of my... assistant-level duties in the meantime. Like submitting your expense reports?”
The silence sits on my chest until it feels as though my lungs are going to collapse and a cold sweat runs down my back.
I am enough.
I belong here.
Susie stares at her pristinely manicured nails as she replies. “Do you really think I would have time to take on your tasks as well as my own? I have so much going on at the moment. All this... Ditto stuff”—she waves her hand in front of my face—“it’s just a waste of your time.”
She pulls a bright pink Charlotte Tilbury lipstick and compact mirror out of her Louis Vuitton carry-all and refreshes her makeup while continuing to talk at me.
“Darling, I’m late for a meeting. While I’m gone, I want you to think about where your priorities and loyalties lie. Let me know when you’ve come to your senses and see things clearly.”
She snaps the mirror shut and looks at me pointedly. My cheeks turn as hot pink as her lips with a swirl of shame, guilt and ungratefulness.
Do I deserve to be here?
I nod so violently my neck twangs.
She pivots on her heels and goes to leave the room. “And those influencer contracts.” She gestures at a stack of papers neatly piled on her desk. “Go through those and find that girl we worked with a couple of years ago.”
She clicks her fingers, trying to summon the name out of me.
I furrow my brow. “I’m not sure who you mean.”
“She had that little yappy dog with her at all times. You’ll figure it out, darling.” She breezes out the door with a huff.
I guess this is the punishment for this morning then.
I wipe my clammy face with an equally clammy hand and mull over Susie’s words. She gave me this opportunity. She is the reason I’m here. She took a chance on me when I was nothing but a lowly Fate marketing intern on minimum wage with a weekend job waitressing at a chain restaurant. She brought me under her wing, always giving me the work of a higher-paying role because she knew it would give me the experience I needed to get further in this industry. Susie is the only person I can credit for me getting this far, so I do the grunt work for her, I cover for her. Sometimes I forget how much our relationship has soured over the past couple of years, ever since Catch Group acquired the company. Her brilliant, fiery spirit and powerful but approachable energy was the reason so many people wanted to work for her when she first launched Fate out of a studio apartment in East London. Her willingness and enthusiasm to champion anyone she saw who had “potential” was a rare trait in the male-dominated, nepotistic tech industry. She was an amazing mentor to me and so many others—until she wasn’t.
Maybe this project will convince her that I can run things on my own. That I can be trusted, as she used to trust me. I heave the pile of printer paper from Susie’s office and drop it onto my desk. If I won the Ditto promotion, I’d never have to work in a tiny overflowing cubicle again. The thought of not being in constant competition with Bancroft is also something to consider. I’d be burning one bridge in exchange for clearing the rubble of another.
A few hours later a brisk melodic knocking sound startles me so violently I give myself a paper cut on the stack of reports.
“Shit,” I say under my breath and squeeze my finger until a small edge of blood emerges from the cut. I glance up to find the source of the sound. My eyes adjust from the lamp-lit white pages to the warm sunset glow flowing through the Fate office’s windows, gliding up until they perform a full eye roll at the tall figure standing in the dimly lit doorway.
The early-evening light frames Bancroft’s shoulders as he appears at the glass entrance. He isn’t wearing his glasses, so his eyes are even brighter, and they carve through me as he leans against the doorframe. In his hands are two black coffee cups with “Wilfred’s Cafe” printed across them in embossed white letters. I watch in silence while one of them lifts to his mouth.
“Sorry to disturb you,” he says in a soft, unfamiliar tone. How long have I been sitting here? And when did everyone else leave?
“Yes, you are disturbing. What do you want?”
I type something extremely important out on my keyboard, staring intently at the random series of letters appearing on the computer screen. He doesn’t respond, just steps into the room and paces toward me, gauging my reaction to his every step. As he approaches, I spot the copy of Societeur Magazine open on the page about him. The devil horns and a big arrow pointing to his smiling face with the word “prick” written in thick black ink clearly visible. Leaning over the magazine to hide it from his viewpoint, I use my elbow to slide it off my desk. It lands in my bag on the floor as I shuffle papers to cover the sound. He immediately surveys the desk like a wild cat looking for mice. He looks briefly disgusted as he examines the crumbs, paper balls and old Kind bar wrappers littering my desk before landing on a picture frame showing a Fate success story: a couple posing with their newborn baby; he grins in patronizing amusement. I flip the frame over and scowl in his direction.
He counters with a smirk. “Working late again?”
“No, I just like to stay here for the fluorescent-lit ambience and sounds of Ronnie the janitor singing along to heavy metal,” I reply, thudding the rubber end of a green Fate-branded pencil on the desk impatiently. “What do you want?”
He looks so out of place in this fluffy, feminine office. I’ve never been to his, even when we were friends. I always try, whenever possible, to avoid walking via Ignite’s letchy Product team who haven’t seen an actual in-the-flesh woman for months. You can always tell when they have recently been in the building’s lift because entering the space after them is a full-on assault on the nostrils. Thankfully, when Catch Group acquired Fate Susie fought to keep the two offices separate to “preserve the magic.” I used to think Bancroft liked working here with me, and that getting away from the Ignite bubble was for his own sanity. But whenever he comes here now, instead of our late-night must-meet-deadline-panic reporting sessions, it’s clearly with the sole purpose of tormenting me. I’ve never been in his office, but I’ve always imagined it looks as though Matthew McConaughey’s office in How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days had an interior-design child with Don Draper’s office in Mad Men . Overtly masculine but classically styled, vintage Playboy covers on the walls, quilted leather chairs and smelling like that cologne he wears every single day. Not overwhelming but a distinctive scent that lingers after he leaves the room, as though he wants you to think about him for hours after he’s gone. The complete opposite of the developers. Some of the girls in the office have had a bet going on what cologne he wears for close to a year now. Eau de Lucifer most likely.
“You really need to get an office of your own,” he declares, his tone back to its familiar sarcastic drawl.
My eyes roll out of my skull into a pile of notebooks and used Tupperware. If it was as easy as he makes it sound I’d have a whole floor by now, instead of this stuffy room with ten white desks slotted together like the most boring Lego set imaginable.
My mouth curves into a sickly sweet smile as I shuffle in my seat, pulling down the skirt of my dress. “When I get this promotion I’ll be sure to ask for one.”
He lets out a deep, condescending laugh and shakes his head. “Listen, about that...” he says, voice softening again, making me instantly suspicious of where this conversation is about to go. “If you’re not actually OK with the... arrangement then there’s no hard feelings.”
He takes a tissue out of his pocket, wipes the edge of my desk clear of crumbs and places the second coffee cup in front of me, then folds his arms and leans against the glass wall opposite me.
“We don’t have to do these ‘dates’ together.” His fingers wave in the air, mocking the concept of the word. “I can use my contacts; you can use yours. We don’t have to work together at all.”
I can tell he’s attempting to mask a devious smile with empathy, so I give him a blank expression in return.
“Or...” He drags the pause out, his bottom lip pouting as though he’s pretending to come up with this idea on the spot. “I can just take this project on solo.”
“And why would I agree to that?” I ask in a deliberately innocent tone.
He shrugs. “Because I’m, as you once put it, ‘all gin and no tonic’?” His voice takes on a devilish lilt that gives me goose bumps.
I swallow down the nostalgia. “Sure, being in your presence brings me out in hives, but at least I’ll be promoted at the end of it.”
The one thing working alongside him brings to the table is his family’s extensive black book of founders, CEOs and industry powerhouses. I can’t compete with generational nepotism on my own and if I agree to work apart I’d be handing him a gold medal before the race has even started.
I watch his throat bob as he takes a slow sip from his cardboard cup. When we used to have our catch-up meetings at the chic cafe looking out onto bustling Charlotte Street, he would always insist on paying for mine too. There’s no way in hell I will accept his pity coffee now, no matter how delicious.
“Hastings, you’re obviously uncomfortable spending time alone with me after...” He winces as if the thought of my discomfort causes him genuine distress. He doesn’t need to finish the sentence for me to know exactly what he’s talking about. It hangs over every moment of conflict between us like a guillotine with fraying rope. As though he has an invisible ace he never plays, but we both know is up his impeccably tailored sleeve. The threat of him saying it is almost as great as actually uttering the words.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I snap back, eyes fixing on my computer screen as though I’ve just been sent an email with the subject You’ve won a year of free coffee at Wilfred’s!
Pretending I have no memory of it is my only option of defence against him because he usually doesn’t bring it up directly, just dances around it. He’s bringing out the big guns today, which tells me he must be internally freaking out at the prospect of having his precious project taken from him. Especially by me.
He tilts his head and some emotion I can’t place enters his eyes as he looms over the desk. I look away, trying to force aside the memory of how his breath against my cheek felt as he sheltered me from the cold.
“Hastings.” The slow, sensual way he whispers the word makes me hate my own name. It hasn’t always made my skin crawl. I used to find it almost endearing. Considerably better than the “Gracie” people seem to naturally nickname me. We used to sit at this same desk, scarfing down takeaway Chinese from a place three streets over. Cracking fortune cookies, swapping office gossip and stressing about deadlines. Now, him coming over here always has some nefarious, ulterior motive.
I don’t say a word to his cat-got-the-cream face. Instead, in a move that is way more ballsy than I’m used to, I pick up the receiver of my phone and call the extension for Martin Catcher’s office. Pressing the speaker button to slice through the silence in the room with a high-pitched jarring ring.
A now familiar, chirpy voice picks up with a pleasant singsong tone: “Mr. Catcher’s office.”
“Hi, Harriet, it’s Grace.”
“Hi, Grace who?”
I falter. “It’s Grace... Hastings? I saw you this morning?”
“Oh, from your meeting with Eric.”
He raises an eyebrow at me and my ears burn in frustration.
“Yes. That one,” I say through my clenched teeth.
“How can I help you?” she chimes.
I lean on my elbow and look Bancroft dead in his squinting, icy eyes. “Please pass the message on to Mr. Catcher that I’m so excited to get started on this project and already have ideas for some amazing... um... test runs.”
“OK, Grace... Hastings... excited about... the project. Test runs,” she says slowly, writing it down. “Got it!”
“Thanks, Harriet,” I say, pulling the phone away from my ear and slamming it down dramatically to end the call.
Bancroft unfolds his arms, takes a seat at the empty desk next to mine and places a leather Armani brogue on the white surface. “You’ve finally become interesting, Hastings.”
I would tell him to put his feet down but Hannah, the owner of said desk, would swoon that any of his body parts have been where she sits all day.
“Interesting? I think Mr. Catcher preferred the word ‘vital,’” I say in my best attempt to match his easy confidence as I swing my chair to face him, cross my bare legs and rest my chin in my hand. “We both know he doesn’t trust you to do this without me.”
His jaw twitches as he glances down. I internally celebrate hitting a nerve. I still know all of his tells. Unfortunately, that means he probably still knows all of mine. I subtly move from an insecure forward lean to a relaxed lounge in my chair, resting my hands in my lap triumphantly.
“Let’s not speak too soon, OK? You don’t know the full breadth of this project yet.” He runs a tense hand through his sandy hair, leaning back to match my position.
I gesture to him with a sweeping palm. “Please, enlighten me.”
He picks up a multicolored ball of elastic bands from Hannah’s desk and throws it into the air, catching it with one hand as he explains: “I... Well, we need to partner with companies to create sponsored date packages for the Ditto users, based on a range of lifestyles and interests. Creating the dates is one task, but we have to convince brands and companies to work with us. The launch won’t land without backing from a handful of strong partners.”
Dread lances into my stomach at the idea of taking on such a task on my own. For a second I’m impressed he was already in the process of doing it but shrug off the feeling. He throws the ball higher with one hand and catches it with ease.
Bag over her shoulder, Yemi walks past the glass wall outside the marketing team’s portion of the office, most likely to come and pull me from my work trance and force me to go home. But when she notices who I’m talking to, she shapes her hand into a loose fist and shakes it back and forth at the back of Bancroft’s head, mouthing the word “Wanker.”
Bancroft notices my smile and cranes his neck around just as Yemi resumes walking past the glass wall toward the elevator. He turns back to me, clearing his throat and placing the elastic band ball back on Hannah’s desk with a thunk.
“I have something booked with a major hotel chain in a few weeks, enough time to gather a strong list of complementary brands beforehand. And I’ve already had an initial meeting with a hiking trail company, but I was going to test the route this weekend.” He sighs. “So I suppose you will have to come with me.”
He’s relenting. He knows I’m right: there is no way Mr. Catcher would leave this project in Bancroft’s hands alone; the dates would probably end up at a high-end strip club or pheasant shooting at a country estate.
“And, like Catcher said in the meeting, we need to write a brief report for each experience to collate our data. I’ve already created a spreadsheet with him so he can track our progress. Can you get a date lined up soon, or have you got too much of Susie’s work to do?”
A sly smile that reaches all the way to his eyes scans me for outrage. Patronizing prick.
“Of course I can!” I lie again, gesturing to the Google doc littered with a chaotic assortment of vowels and consonants.
He blinks. “Hmmm, sure. We should organize two or three each, to split the workload.”
“That’s great because I already have at least three potential leads.” Tapping the vacant screen with my pen.
“Well, I look forward to whatever they are. But on Sunday morning, we’re going hiking. Please wear something... appropriate.”
Ugh, hiking. Morning hiking. The only thing worse than being outside is being outside in the morning. And the only thing worse than being outside in the morning is being outside in the morning doing exercise. And the only thing worse than being outside in the morning doing exercise is doing it with him .
“Why would I have anything ‘appropriate for hiking’?” I ask, mocking his deep, well-spoken tone. “Why would anyone sane want to go hiking?”
He lets out an irritated groan. “Just suck it up, Hastings. I would quite happily do this without you.” His jaw clicks as he pushes off the desk; he’s getting agitated with me, so I relent, not in the mood to feel the wrath I’ve seen his poor-performing team members receive. It’s annoying that people actually respect him, and that he’s able to put his foot down without being labeled bossy.
“Fine, since Mr. Catcher said you really need my help to execute his dating world domination plan, I guess I’ll help you out.” I triumphantly shrug, taking my first sip of coffee. “But if you turn up in those weird barefoot toe-shoe things, I’m going home.”
He shoots me a fake smile as he stands to leave the office. “I’m so looking forward to it.” His fingers curl around the edge of the doorframe. “Open or closed?”
“Closed.”
He breezes off, leaving the door wide open.