Chapter Forty-Two
Afterwards, I would remember the upturned faces, some of them nonplussed, some of them annoyed. The exact sound everyone made when I announced that both Ajax and Esme were ‘indisposed’: half groan, half comprising the sound of a bunch of people muttering ‘what the fuck?’ to each other.
The lens of the camera, filming the meeting, to be livestreamed to the offices in London. Later intended to be used for content.
I did my best ice queen impression for the first five minutes, because I knew I needed to keep their attention and, preferably, their respect.
Cold-eyed, unblinking, stance upright and inflexible, softened by the occasional smile.
If I could have co-opted some snakes for hair I would have done.
But the whole point was, I shouldn’t have been the story.
I played a short demo film for Chroma which had been cobbled together back in the UK and sent over that morning.
It was slickly done, but there was no hiding that it was a bunch of stock material which included crashing waves and sunrises.
The phrase ‘Art is Love’ vibrated on screen; I saw the colours from the film on the faces of the front row.
One man looked at another and mimed a ‘cut’ gesture across his throat. The other sniggered.
Film over, I read through the spiel about Chroma and said I wouldn’t be commenting on Esme and Ajax’s personal lives, but that they would be working on this project together.
That we were hopeful everyone here would want to be part of this story at its inception and that we would be reaching out to each of them individually about whether they would like to invest.
Finally, taking a big breath, I opened the floor to questions, still staying poker-faced. The first hand raised was one of Ajax’s contacts. He was smiling.
‘Considering Ajax posted five minutes ago on socials, telling any haters to go and eff themselves, isn’t it a bit rich to expect people to take his advice on love and positivity?’
I felt the colour drain from my face. And I knew they would see it, too.
‘Noted,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’
The next person I asked to speak was well-known to me, a contact of Esme’s from the art world, who had a diverse portfolio.
‘More of a comment than a question,’ he said.
‘Okay,’ I said, attempting a smile.
‘This is an absolute fucking shambles,’ he said. ‘So I won’t be investing.’
And so it went.
Afterwards, I found the quietest corner of the smallest, darkest café I could find, and ordered coffee with biscotti.
OLLY: I saw the meeting. What a bear pit. I can only apologise for Ajax’s post.
LIZZY: Has it been deleted now?
OLLY: Yes. I would have got to it sooner, but I was at home with my family, took a day off to see them. Bad timing.
I blinked back tears. I hadn’t even thought of that, I was so wrapped up with Esme and her difficulties.
LIZZY: I’m sorry this debacle interrupted family time.
OLLY: It’s fine. Over and out.
I nodded to no one in particular. Wrapped in my coat, my laptop bag dumped at my feet, I dipped the first biscotti into the coffee and then took a bite. Its deliciousness barely touched my misery. My phone vibrated on the table.
DAD: Morning love. Just spoke to Natasha, my account manager here. The service charge is going up. She needs to have a chat with you. Thanks
Natasha the account manager could do one, I decided, practically feeling my blood pressure rise.
LIZZY: Hi, Dad, she already has my phone number and she shouldn’t be bothering you. I am in Venice, I will call her tomorrow.
DAD: Could you let me know when you’ve done it? X
The kiss at the end meant he was really worrying.
I swore under my breath. I was doing that a lot recently. It was only a matter of time before I started swearing out loud when alone, then a slippery slope to me being one of those wild, ranty people that stand in the middle of the pavement shouting while other people carefully avoid them.
Tears came to my eyes for the hundredth time.
Was I going to have a nervous breakdown in Venice?
I finished the biscotti and coffee, paid, and went out to walk back to my hotel.
I could feel the phone vibrating in my pocket with message after message.
There would be work queries, and I was sure the Comms team were dealing with fallout from the Skirmish article.
There would probably be a furious, sarcastic missive from Jacob asking if the lilies had been gold plated and was Esme planning on taking a cruise ship home from Venice.
There would be HR asking to set aside time in the diary to resolve the Sasha issue, and whether I had kept a log of what had happened. There would be Dad worrying.
Everything urgent, everyone anxious, nervous, annoyed, and looking to me.
Back at the hotel I packed my masked ball outfit back in its wrapping: it was due to be collected from reception. Borrowed, not bought. Luckily, I hadn’t spilt punch over it.
I packed my suitcase, decided to leave for the airport sooner rather than later. I couldn’t stand rushing. As I waited for the boat, I answered some of the emails – those that just needed a simple response.
I watched the light on the water as the boat zipped its way to the airport.
I still loved Venice. I hadn’t seen a single piece of art, visited a church or seen the Murano glass.
But I’d been bathed in this beautiful light, I’d felt joy alongside my sadness, and although I knew I would be glad to get home, I felt suddenly wistful leaving it behind.
I remembered Olly saying ‘let’s come back’, and that was impossible, because we were over.
That gave me the kind of lovesick feeling I last had when I was a teenager.
My phone buzzed. It was Jacob. I prepared myself for a stream of annoyance.
JACOB: Are you okay? I can’t believe Esme sent you into that. When you’re back let me buy you lunch, darling.
His kindness unlocked my emotion in a way his anger never would have done. I wiped away a tear, puffing out a breath in an attempt to hold things in, typing ‘Thank you x’ and stuffing my phone back in my pocket.
In this Venetian light, I was ready to look at hard truths.
I’d been skating over reality for years.
Giving the best part of me to my work. And that had been fine, absolutely fine, but time was ticking on.
Work was not loving me back. The life I had built didn’t feel like a real life, a full life.
At work, I was great – or had been great; at home, I was hanging on.
The brief moment of joy that I had felt in Venice with Olly had reminded me of what happiness looked like.
We might have crashed and burned before we’d even got off the runway, but he’d shown me a different way that was possible. He had been my wake-up call.
The driver asked me if I had enjoyed my stay. I managed to say yes, smiled, thanked him, tipped him.
After I’d checked in at the airport, I opened Dad’s thread.
DAD: When are you back from Venice Lizzy?
DAD: I’m worried about things.
I absorbed his stress, felt it in the centre of my body, the punch of failure.
LIZZY: Hi Dad. Messaging isn’t the best way to sort these things. Let’s have a cup of tea when I get back.
The moment I sent it, I felt afraid that he would be upset by it. So I opened another message.
LIZZY: Take care Dad. Love you loads xx
DAD: Okay x
Okay was fine. Okay was normal. He’s fine, I told myself. Stop worrying. My daily mantra when it came to Dad and Alex. Listlessly, I checked my emails again, flipping between work demands and a couple of professional networking sites where I looked at job adverts.
One certainty had emerged from my tired mind. I needed to change. Somehow, tiny degree by tiny degree, my life had become untenable. I was the archetypal frog in a pan of cold water, sitting there as the water heated to boiling point. It was time to leap out. But how?
They were calling my flight when my phone buzzed again.
OLLY: Hi.
It took me milliseconds to reply.
LIZZY: Hey.
OLLY: Can we reconnect when you get back? I really don’t want to be on bad terms. It’s been great working with you.
Great working with you. The jolt I felt was harder than the one Dad’s message had given me.
Reconnect? Like we’d had a minor disagreement in a meeting, or he’d accidentally broken my favourite work mug.
But I took it like a pro, standing stock still in the middle of the airport, my phone in my hand.
Looking like any other person, reading a work message. So what if I felt… desolate. Bereft.
My tired mind flicked through a thousand options like the departure boards above me.
And the answer it gave was… I’d been right.
Right the first time we’d kissed, when I’d said we shouldn’t get involved.
Work relationships like ours were messy things, muddying the waters, risking reputations and professional fallout.
Olly and I had been reckless. And if he’d recovered his sensible head, then I should, too.
The flight call went out again, spurring me to make a decision. I typed a response and sent it without even re-reading it. Because I didn’t want to send it. But it was the best thing to do.
LIZZY: Thanks, but there’s no need to reconnect. This was a mad situation and it sent us both a bit mad, too. No hard feelings here. All the very best.
I put my phone on airplane mode, and set off for my departure gate.