Chapter 9
NINE
I was still goggling at Jamie, wondering whether I’d heard him right, when his phone rang.
The call gave me a chance to take in what he’d just said.
He’d suggested that I could respond – retaliate even – to what was happening between Sam and Ava by giving Sam a taste of his own medicine, letting him experience first-hand what I was going through.
And that the person I should make Sam jealous of was Jamie himself.
The idea was outrageous. It was cruel. It was unconscionable. But at the same time, I wouldn’t actually be doing anything wrong, just giving Sam the impression that he had something to worry about, even though he didn’t. Not at all. And he never would.
Still, it was crazy. There was no way I’d ever go through with it… but then why did just knowing that it was an option, that there was something I could do about my situation rather than just passively accepting it, make me feel so much better, almost empowered?
I didn’t get the chance to think about it for long. Jamie’s call triggered a flurry of activity – a Premiership footballer needed a stag weekend in Prague organising, and not just any weekend but the weekend starting the day after tomorrow.
Even Jamie was rattled, although he brightened considerably when it emerged that he’d be required to go along to babysit the footballer and his eleven closest mates.
He enlisted my help, and we leaped into action booking flights, restaurants, hotel rooms and – via a call that Jamie conducted on his mobile outside while having a vape, returning ten minutes later looking slightly shame-faced – other forms of entertainment.
He was so busy the next day that I realised we wouldn’t have a chance to chat again until Tuesday, so I banished all thoughts of his plan from my mind.
My weekend with Sam – our first together since he went to visit Ava – passed uneventfully. We visited Molly, Ben and Arthur. We went round to Sam’s brother’s place for a barbecue. We held hands on the bus on the way home.
But we didn’t have sex, and on Sunday morning I found myself unable to ask, ‘What shall we do?’
Sam didn’t mention Ava, and as far as I could tell didn’t exchange messages with her either.
But I could feel her presence hovering over me the entire time, like a petite red-haired poltergeist in our flat.
It felt almost like a relief to lock the door behind me and set off for work on Monday morning.
Until I got there, that is.
As soon as I walked into the office, I could sense that something was up.
Jasper didn’t normally arrive until mid-morning, thanks to his tendency to schedule off-site breakfast meetings first thing.
But I could tell before I reached my desk that today was an exception.
The door of his office was ajar, the scent of his Eau Sauvage aftershave hung in the air and, when I went to make myself a coffee, I found the kitchen in chaos, sugar crunching underfoot and the milk out of the fridge with its lid off.
Jasper must have sensed my presence as quickly as I’d sensed his, because before I could switch my computer on, I heard his footsteps approaching rapidly across the wooden floorboards.
Willing the machine to hurry and boot itself up, I swept the crumbs from Friday’s lunch off my desk onto the floor and hid an empty KitKat wrapper in my drawer.
I could even hear Jasper’s breathing, and that was rapid too.
Reluctantly, I turned my chair around. Jasper had drawn himself up to his full five foot six inches, and his chest was jutting out like a pigeon’s under his pinstriped waistcoat.
Behind his retro horn-rimmed glasses, his eyes were blazing, and I could swear even his moustache was bristling.
I quailed a bit in my chair.
‘Georgia.’ He didn’t say good morning. ‘What the fuck is this?’
As far as I knew, there was no reason for me to be in trouble – but even so, my mouth felt dry.
‘What’s what?’ I asked.
‘This,’ he hissed, virtually throwing his phone towards me.
My hand trembling, I took it and peered at the screen. The TikTok app was open and a video was playing. The sound was off, but helpful subtitles flashed across the picture, which showed the back view of a man and a woman stepping into a lift.
Who is the mystery blonde seen checking into the Ritz with Cormac Kennedy on Friday night?
I read. Gossip Guru can’t say for sure – but we do know it’s not Taisha Clooney, unless she’s been hitting the bleach hard.
Is the celeb romance of the year finally over?
Has Cormac been up to no good? And why did room service bring a bottle of Veuve to their room at ten thirty the next morning?
Gossip Guru will bring you more when we have it.
Normally, I’d have been fascinated by such scurrilous revelations and possibly even gone so far as to install TikTok on my own phone in order to keep up to speed, eager to share the low-down with Jamie.
But this was my most prestigious client whose illicit shenanigans were being plastered all over social media – and my boss was practically breathing fire down my neck.
‘Blimey,’ I said weakly. ‘Is that actually Cormac, though? You can’t really tell—’
‘Any doubts I might have had on that score,’ Jasper replied icily, ‘would have been dispelled when I saw the email he sent me last night after someone alerted him to this trash. He is not happy – and it goes without saying that neither am I.’
It might have gone without saying, but I knew from experience that Jasper would say it anyway, at great length and possibly with a side order of a written warning.
But I’d done nothing wrong, and I was determined to fight my corner.
‘The Ritz’s lobby is a public place,’ I said reasonably. ‘Anyone could have seen Cormac and… whoever she is, taken the photo and shared it online. And anyone who saw it could have passed it on to Gossip Guru—’
‘Strangely enough’ – sarcasm dripped from Jasper’s voice – ‘that did occur to me. And, surprising though it may seem, I did take the opportunity to mention it to our client. He hasn’t sacked us – yet.’
‘That’s good,’ I said, wishing I didn’t sound terrified and – because of my terror – almost one hundred per cent guilty.
‘I’m sure I don’t need to remind you, Georgia,’ Jasper went on, ‘that the reputation of Devereaux Partners stands or falls on our discretion. If our clients are not able to trust that absolutely and implicitly, they will take their business elsewhere. And if we lose business, jobs will be lost. Are you following me?’
I nodded mutely.
‘In this instance,’ he continued, ‘it seems plausible – as you so astutely pointed out – that the photograph could have been taken and shared opportunistically. For now, Cormac has accepted that explanation. But should it emerge at any point in the future, in connection with Cormac or any of our other clients, that stories about them are being leaked from this office, I shall have to take action.’
‘Of course. I understand that. But, Jasper—’
He looked at me, one eyebrow menacingly raised. But despite the threat that at any moment he could really, properly lose his shit, I needed to fight my corner. My personal life was in ruins – I couldn’t have my career crumbling beneath my feet as well.
‘There’s no reason for me to pass on information about Cormac’s whereabouts. There just isn’t. I like my job, and I know how you’d react if I did something like that. I’m not stupid. I’m not unprofessional. And to be totally honest, I don’t think it’s fair of you to suggest I am.’
I finished this little speech slightly out of breath, surprised at the words that had come out of my mouth.
But not as surprised as Jasper – he’d never seen me go into assertive chief-stewardess mode before.
He didn’t know there was a side of me that had stopped guests from jumping overboard for fun at midnight after too many tequila shots, stood up to furious knife-wielding chefs and told billionaires’ wives that no, there were no facilities on board to dry-clean their mink coats.
I wasn’t on a boat any longer, but the wind had been properly taken out of Jasper’s sails.
‘I’ve never had any complaints about your work, Georgia,’ he muttered.
‘That’s good,’ I said and gave him a stare that I hoped he’d interpret as meaning, So don’t start now.
‘We’ve got the team from Walkerson’s Elite, the estate agency, coming in to talk about a short-term lets collaboration. I suppose I’d better give the kitchen a tidy,’ he said, seemingly subdued.
He retreated, and I turned back to my screen.
The fear had left me and so had the anger, and all that was left was puzzlement.
It was quite true that any random person who’d happened to spot Cormac and his mystery overnight guest could have passed on the photograph.
So could Irina, my contact at the Ritz, or any of her colleagues.
But Irina had no reason to put her job at risk any more than I did. Any more than Jamie did.
So it followed that it hadn’t been them, same as it hadn’t been me.
Didn’t it?