Chapter Four
By the time I got back to my office Sasha was dancing on the spot, like a puppy that needs to be let out for a pee.
‘So glad you’re back,’ she squeaked, as I got my lipstick out and started to reapply it. ‘Esme wants to see you in her office. She asked fifteen minutes ago.’
So the kingpin had finally disentangled herself from the arms of her lover. ‘Relax,’ I said. ‘She can wait a bit longer.’
I thought Sasha was going to burst. Instead, she skittered out and across the office, leaving the door open.
I opened my email, put my noise-cancelling headphones on, and started to draft a resignation letter.
It’s been a pleasure working with you…
I’m proud of everything we have achieved together…
Mopping up after two overgrown teenagers isn’t my bag…
Then, at the end, I pressed Ctrl+A and hit delete, my draft resignation and application for freedom disappearing forever, leaving me feeling very slightly better.
‘Lizzy.’
I jumped and looked up. Esme was standing on the other side of my desk. I lifted my headphones off and hard rock blared out.
‘You need to watch your hearing, babe,’ she said. ‘I’ve said your name three times.’
I smiled frostily. ‘Thanks.’
‘We need to talk,’ she said. ‘But not here.’ I followed her gaze.
Through the glass I could see the staff were desperate to make like meerkats but none of them dared.
They were all working studiously, it seemed.
The only giveaway was that nearly all of them were partially turned towards us, like sunflowers leaning towards the sun.
‘Come on,’ said Esme. ‘Let’s have a champagne brunch.’
I turned the music off. ‘I’m not drinking,’ I said.
‘Of course,’ she purred. ‘Heavy weekend, was it?’
I liked being a mystery in the office. Therefore, Esme had no idea I’d actually spent the weekend lying on my sofa, contributing to WhatsApp conversations with friends and watching a documentary about cheerleaders with my cat.
I raised an eyebrow. ‘Not particularly,’ I said. ‘But alcohol blurs my judgement, and I don’t want to make any promises I can’t keep. One of us has to have a clear head.’
We went to the place Esme always goes to when celebrating: the Teynham (pronounced Tennam), a plush, velvet-seated restaurant just off Piccadilly.
It looked as though it had dropped out of the 1880s: all red velvet, ornate ironwork and poker-faced waiting staff dressed like penguins. Its champagne brunch was famous.
I let Esme order and as usual she chose a galaxy of things: fresh fruit, pancakes, cheese soufflé, figs and natural yoghurt.
Meanwhile, I was mentally trying to construct an argument that would convince her not to go into business with a man she’d known for five minutes.
Rather than looking at her face, I concentrated on unfolding the capacious white linen napkin, so starched that it was entirely self-supporting.
As usual she ignored my no-alcohol request, but when a waiter approached with champagne, I put my hand over the glass and gave him such a ferocious glance he withdrew bashfully. ‘Sparkling water, please.’
‘Play nice, Lizzy,’ murmured Esme. I turned the same high beam on her and she sat back in her seat. ‘And there I was thinking you might be happy for me.’
‘It’s ironic we’re having this conversation here,’ I said. ‘Because it’s where we had our first strategy meeting, three years ago. Do you remember?’
‘Yes.’ She turned her champagne glass by the stem with her elegant, manicured fingers.
Like many artistic people, she was the picture of bohemian edginess, but with expensive accents.
Her dyed burgundy hair looked as though it hadn’t been brushed for days, but her nails had been expertly polished deep crimson with a gold lightning strike across each one.
We looked at each other. I didn’t need to say anything else because we both remembered.
It had been my first week working for her.
We’d begun by speaking about EKArts and her goals for the company, but had slid into talk of her romantic difficulties within minutes.
Beautifully made up, by the time we reached the second course there had been rivers of mascara running down her face.
Her artistic career was going from strength to strength, but her image was a train wreck.
When her love affair with a famous musician had hit the skids, he had overshared to his considerable audience on socials, his rants going viral.
‘I just want to be known for my work,’ she had said, at that lunch. Now, sipping my sparkling water, I wished I had written it down on a napkin and got her to sign it.
The Esme I worked for was the Esme I’d met at the party.
The working-class kid, who’d started making art sitting cross-legged on the floor of her bedroom, charcoal stick on paper.
The talent who had dazzled her art tutors and won a bursary place at the RCA.
The woman who had ploughed some of her millions into subsidised art studios and charitable initiatives.
The artist with a commercial eye for collaboration.
But this side of Esme also co-existed with the other side of Esme: mercurial, impulsive, sometimes maddening.
My priority had been to repair her reputation.
I’d done all the usual Comms stuff, working on Esme’s story as an artist, getting to know her really well and identifying her core values and the messaging she wanted to put out.
Subtly placing mentions of her in the press, and leveraging my contacts to get her a couple of interviews in premium publications where she could talk about the charity she was in the process of establishing.
But I’d done a lot more than that. Before long, I was working on company strategy.
Accompanying her to meetings with collaborators as she branched out.
Coaching her on her communications style.
The list went on, and on. I didn’t even have words for the level of my involvement.
Moreover, I’d given too much of myself to the process.
‘I guess I did my job too well when the shit hit the fan last time,’ I said. Esme was now operating from a place of security, provided by me. She was bored with it.
She stayed quiet as the fresh fruit arrived.
When the waiter withdrew, she spoke. ‘You don’t get it,’ she said, and put her hand on her heart while I speared a chunk of honeydew melon.
‘When I started talking to Ajax, it was like the first time I met you.’ I looked up at her face and she held my gaze.
‘Like someone understood me, at last. The real me.’
High-gloss gym bro Ajax Banks had a soft, sensitive, artistic side? Somehow, my brain still couldn’t fit those puzzle pieces together. ‘I know you’re in the midst of a whirlwind of very strong feelings,’ I said. ‘It’s called infatuation.’
She raised an eyebrow, spoke firmly. ‘This is golden, Lizzy. It won’t tarnish. And remember, this is my life. It’s not just business.’
‘It’s both,’ I said. ‘Your relationship, of course, is your own affair.’ Although I had to preside over the burning embers of the last one, I thought.
‘It’s the business side that’s worrying me.
Bringing the two companies together – when they’re so different?
Art is your bag, and now you want to dilute that with a dating app?
Esme, we’ve worked so hard to get your brand, your company, to this place. Do you really want to sacrifice it?’
‘It’s not a sacrifice,’ she said. ‘It’s a marriage. The app is art-centric. Love and art. Can you think of a better combination?’
I could think of plenty of better combinations.
Mournfully, I thought of my relaxed team in their jeans and smart trainers, their headphones and lunchtime yoga sessions.
Then of the Resilience Needs staff, which if Olly and Ajax were anything to go by, was all sharp suits and step counts.
‘The companies aren’t a good combination. ’
‘We won’t merge them yet,’ she said. ‘We’ll do it after the wedding. Carefully. When things are established. For now, we’ll be working on Chroma as a fifty-fifty collaboration. It’s going to be huge. EKArts will benefit.’
I pressed my fingers to my temple. I didn’t want to go too sledgehammer and tell her that it was trivialising her talent.
At least the charitable side was safe, although I could imagine the gloomy faces of the trustees at the idea of Esme going off on this tangent.
‘Won’t it require a restructuring of the business side?
’ I pushed back the thought of redundancies.
She shook her head and toyed with a freshly arrived cheese soufflé with her knife.
‘No. We’re doing it old school; Ajax says it will be like the early days of Silicon Valley.
A small team. Exciting, fresh, no such thing as a mistake kind of feel.
We’ll handpick from both companies and bring some new people in, too.
He already has a lifestyle app, so we can use his technical team. ’
I suppressed a sigh, cutting into a pancake. ‘This isn’t Silicon Valley in 1990, Esme.’
‘Come on, Lizzy,’ she pleaded. ‘This isn’t like you.’
I thought of my deleted resignation email.
The thought of leaving my job felt too exhausting to contemplate, my long list of financial obligations too pressing.
I sliced the pancake into ribbons without eating anything, and this clearly disturbed Esme.
She put her hand over mine. ‘I know what we’re asking of you will be a big change,’ she said.
‘But change is good. Give it six months. Promise me you won’t go. I need you, Lizzy.’
There were tears in her eyes. Actual tears. Oh God. I felt the pull of guilt and obligation.
‘I promise,’ I mumbled.
‘Excellent!’ She clapped her hands and smiled through tear-spangled eyes, her distress evaporating. At once, I wanted to take my promise back.
My phone chimed.
DAD: Where’s the snow? That’s what I want to know.
‘I have to get back to the office, Esme,’ I said.
I left Esme contentedly eating brunch and answering emails on her phone, and went out onto the buzzing pavements of Piccadilly, crammed with tourists, suited office workers and art dealers.
I was wondering if a quick canter through Green Park might put me right – I might be an adopted Londoner, committed to urban life, but I’m devoted to its green bits – when I was stopped in my tracks by a message from Sasha.
SASHA: I just saw we’re going to do a dating app! So exciting!
So the word was out. I turned on my heel and headed for the underground.