First published in the United Kingdom in 2019 by Aria, an imprint of Head of Zeus Ltd
Copyright © Naomi Joy, 2019
The moral right of Naomi Joy to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781789543759
Aria
c/o Head of Zeus
First Floor East
5–8 Hardwick Street
London EC1R 4RG
www.ariafiction.com
For my mum, Jackie, and my sister, Charlotte.
Copyright Page
Welcome Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
7 Days Later
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
One Week Later
Chapter 66
One Year Later
Chapter 67
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Become an Aria Addict
TRAGEDY STRIKES TWICE FOR DAVID STEIN
MULTI-MILLIONAIRE PR GURU DAVID STEIN OUT OF HIDING FOR DAUGHTER’S INQUEST
Olivia Stein, David Stein’s only daughter, died of a cardiac arrest following a ‘massive’ cocaine overdose, a coroner ruled today. Discovered ‘slumped over’ at home by her father, it was also revealed Olivia’s blood alcohol level was a significant factor in her death.
The coroner told the inquest, ‘It is well known that cocaine mixed with alcohol is far more dangerous than taking either drug in isolation. The large quantities found in Olivia’s blood, in addition to her underlying heart condition, ultimately caused her sudden and untimely death.’
Her father, David Stein, who tragically lost his wife and business partner Kate Watson to an overdose almost twenty years ago to the day, said Olivia ‘had tried hard to manage her addictions in recent months.’ He went on to say she ‘dreamed of taking over his Public Relations firm one day’ and that he had ‘no reason’ to believe Olivia’s overdose was intentional.
Her death is not being treated as suspicious.
When I think about Olivia, the first memory that hits is the way she smelt the morning after she died. It hadn’t been rank or overly pungent, she hadn’t been dead long, but the early scent of death – cold, lingering and sickeningly sweet – is always what I think of first. Next, I think of the jaunty angles of her stiffening limbs, the way her head had lolled off the sofa, hanging heavy towards the floor, her neck bent double, her black eyes rolling deep into her skull. She’d looked uncomfortable, like she’d been dropped by a puppet-master who’d suddenly snipped her ties. I find myself wondering about her thoughts, too: what had she considered as she’d taken her final breaths? Had she known she was going to die? Sometimes I try to imagine myself in her place that night, heart beating out of my chest, palms sweating, blood pooling in my lungs, travelling up my windpipe, seeking out the light. I’ve often wondered if her final position – lying stretched out across the sofa – had indicated she’d been reaching for her phone. It had only sat a few centimetres from her fingertips. Olivia was a kind, beautiful and fiercely intelligent young woman; she hadn’t deserved to die in such an undignified way.
I clamped my hands over my face, desperate to halt my mind’s furious slideshow, and pressed my fingertips into my forehead, leaving prints behind. I took a sharp breath in, then felt the warmth of my exhalation against my palms. I was sitting alone in the dead quiet of the office, the open-plan space beyond my own glass-walled room completely still. By day, this floor was a hive of activity, by night it was a graveyard. ‘Everything OK?’ David’s voice made me jump, his question accompanied by a firm rap on my open door. David is my ultimate boss, the CEO of Watson & Stein Partners – W&SP, for short – and Olivia’s father. I was surprised he was still in the office and I glanced at the clock as it ticked past ten o’clock. I should have left hours ago. His cat-like eyes narrowed; I was taking too long to respond. He spoke again. ‘You shouldn’t be working this late.’
‘I know, I’m just—’
‘Reading about the inquest?’
I looked at him apologetically. He knew. ‘Yes,’ I replied, avoiding eye contact. David moved into the room and sat silently across from me. The darkness outside had transformed the glass walls surrounding us into black mirrors and David’s face flashed and reflected in every pane. I studied his angular features for a moment, running my stare along his razor-sharp jaw, his carved and cavernous cheekbones, his prominent brow bone and deep-set eyes. No wonder I often felt on edge round him, his face wasn’t exactly ‘friendly’. But his looks weren’t the only thing that made me nervous. He had a terrifying majesty about him. An aura. He was the kind of man you’re warned about: dangerous, controlling, more money than sense. I suppose I’ve always found David a little unnerving but, sat before me now, I noticed the vulnerability in him for the first time too, the fragility. His grief was palpable.
I looked at him cautiously, unsure what to say next. I must have uttered the phrase, I can’t imagine how you’re feeling, a million times since Olivia died. He was probably sick of it. Instead, I let silence fill the space between us, the only sound in the room the monotonous whirr of my computer fan. He didn’t seem to mind the quiet. In fact, he looked deep in thought, his focus on the middle distance. He smoothed a hand down the neat crease of his left suit trouser, ironing it out.
‘I tried so hard to help her,’ he said quietly, pinching the pleat back in line. ‘The best rehab, the best doctors, the best therapies… but nothing worked against—’
He stopped speaking abruptly, unwilling to say the name of the substance that killed his daughter. Cocaine. The stuff had been prolific and readily available at the W&SP offices before Olivia died but, once she was gone, David was determined to cleanse the office of the toxin. Too little, too dead. He’d brought a private firm in to search people’s desks one morning, had fired those caught with it in their possession on the spot. The purge had worked and those unable to get through the day without snorting lines in the toilets had left the company. Personally, I’d never understood the appeal. For me, drugs fell firmly in the same category of No thanks as skydiving, fairground rides, helicopter tours and shark cage diving. I would never understand how an activity with an above-average possibility of death could be considered fun.
David looked to the floor to compose himself and chewed the inside of his cheek. I imagined the mottled look of it, a line of flesh missing due to his obsessive gnawing. It took me back to the morning I’d told him Olivia hadn’t turned up for our nine o’clock catch up. He’d looked at me askance that day – I’d only been working at Watson & Stein Partners for three months – and cocked his head to one side as if to say: Who are you and what are you doing in my office?
‘Have you tried her phone?’ he’d asked after he’d assessed me.
‘Yes,’ I’d replied patiently. ‘Fifteen times so far…’
He’d started to chew his cheek, just as he was doing now, as I’d waffled on.
‘I just thought maybe someone should check in on her. Do you have a key to her place?’
A shadow had fallen across the room. He’d asked if I’d wanted to go with him. I’d stuttered. No, my gut instinct had screamed, why would you want me to go with you? But I’d suppressed that urge, reasoning it could only be a good thing to get some face time with David.
‘Sure,’ I’d replied. ‘If she’s up to it, we can have our catch-up there. I’ll grab my things.’ I wish I’d listened to my gut.
Now I can’t think of Olivia without light-red froth splattered all over her face, without urine soaking her bottom half, without chunks of cakey vomit caught in her hair.
‘You’d known her for a long time. Do you think she wanted to die?’ David asked, his voice distant. I took a moment before replying. I wondered if part of him wanted me to say yes, but it wouldn’t be the truth.
‘No,’ I answered. ‘But I don’t think she was scared of death, fear never held her back.’
I guess that was the problem.
My mind traced back to a happier time, to university, where Olivia and I had first crossed paths. I remember being in awe that she would smoke without a second’s thought of lung cancer, enjoy carefree one-night-stands unconcerned about the existence of antibiotic-resistant gonorrhoea, pontificate on the meaning of life rather than the meaning of essays and deadlines and exams. For me, the experience was quite different: nothing short of a baptism of fire in growing up. It was where I was first kissed, properly, by a heavy-jawed boy on a rugby scholarship, unearthing the taste of vomit as I’d tucked into the crevices of his mouth. The taste of regurgitated food had hit me more than the kiss itself and later I was sick too: all over a row of yellow weeds in someone’s garden on my way back to halls. I’d gone back the next morning. Little pieces of ham and pea had frosted into the soil, and I’d snuck in through the gate to try and clear up my mess. Olivia had laughed, kindly, when I’d told her about it. Puke is biodegradable, silly, you should have left it. It’s why graveyards are so green: the bodies feed the flowers.
‘She flew too close to the sun; just like her mother.’ David moved his focus back towards my watery hazel eyes. ‘Neither of them ever listened.’
A memory gripped me: Olivia holding my hands in hers, pleading with me to keep her relapse quiet. She’d been horrified a rumour might get out at work and back to her father. He’d put thousands towards rehabilitating her. ‘Please,’ she’d begged, tears in her eyes. ‘He’ll kill me if he finds out.’
At that moment, my phone vibrated into action, the sound not dissimilar to a pneumatic drill as it clanged against the glass-topped table in front of me. I hit the cancel button before it had the chance to ring again, but David had already clocked the panic on my face.
‘Let me guess… boyfriend?’
‘How did you know?’
‘Well, you’re here, stupidly late, reading about the inquest. You obviously don’t feel you can talk to him about what happened… if you did, you’d be at home.’
I was surprised he was passing comment on my private life; he’d never shown any interest in it before. David and I had grown closer in the months following Olivia’s death; I hadn’t imagined us becoming friends exactly, but here we were, tearing down the barriers of our professional relationship with surprising ease. I tried to figure out why: perhaps the inquest into Olivia’s death had reminded David of what we’d shared together that morning not so long ago.
I hesitated for a moment, then had a thought. I decided to let David in.
‘Truthfully, I want to leave him.’ I splayed the fingers of my right hand across the desk, then curled them into a fist. ‘But our rental agreement is too expensive to break out of and I have nowhere else to go.’
I glanced down at the new message that flashed across the screen. It joined a cluster of other unopened snippets of vile abuse.
Don’t bother coming back tonight, I don’t want to smell him on you aga—
I know you’re with him, I know exactly what you’re doing, I always—
This can’t go on. You have to stop work. It’s him or—
I barely recognised the man I once knew in these messages. If I went home now, he’d be sat alone at our sad two-person dining table, his spine curved into a dramatic C as he hunched over his mobile phone, typing furiously. I’d walk in and, at first, he’d choose not to notice. Then he’d tell me he hadn’t eaten: You should have been back in time to cook. He’d pour himself a protest bowl of brown cereal, a child’s brand he’d never dared to progress from, and I’d watch him fill it to the brim with milk. He’d wait until the chunks of puffed rice were white and water-logged, the milk the colour of a filthy puddle, then dig in. I’d sit quietly on the sofa, waiting. Then it would begin, the angry ping-pong of accusations.
Were you with him tonight?
I was working. There is no ‘him’.
Give me your laptop, your phone. I want to go through them.
That’s really not necessary.
And your underwear. I want to check it.
I’d do as he said, just to make him stop, and hand over my personal effects like a refugee at the Mexican border. He’d try to hide his fury as I brought him what he’d asked for, to keep control, but his wobbling spoon would give him away. Spilt milk would dribble down past his chin, the hair on his jaw soaking it up, the rest running down to the table, a cloudy pool forming below which I’d have to clean up in the morning.
‘Look,’ I said, rising to hand David my phone.
‘Ava, this is…’ I watched as his eyes scanned across the screen, his paternal instinct kicking in. ‘Unacceptable. You can’t stay with this man.’
‘I don’t have a choice,’ I replied.
‘You have to let me help.’
I looked at him nervously, part of me worried I’d taken a step too far. I hadn’t let anyone know had bad things were before now.
‘I should go,’ I said, gathering my coat from the stand in the corner.
‘To him?’ David looked agitated.
I shrugged past him. ‘Like I said…’ Then turned to him before I left. ‘Thank you for checking in on me, it feels good to have someone to talk to about Olivia. I miss her so much.’
He stood, cheeks sunken, grasping for a line of appropriate words.
‘Do you mind if I pop back in the morning? We need to talk about your situation. I want to help.’
I smiled, reluctant to believe him, scared of getting my hopes up. Charlie, my boyfriend, had cut me off from everyone when we moved to London and, though I’m sure any one of my friends would have offered to help in much the same way as David was now, none of them actually had the means. My mother would only have encouraged me to give things another go. So I hadn’t bothered asking. David Stein was the opposite: he had the means all right, I just had to give him the motivation.
*
I arrived back at the one-level-for-every-room rabbit hutch of a flat I shared with Charlie and fit my key silently into the lock. I’d been in and out of hotels this week, trying to keep my distance from him, but my funds were running low and I had no option but to come back here tonight. I winced as the front door creaked when I opened it and took a moment to check it hadn’t woken him. When I was happy the coast was clear, I went inside.
I tiptoed quietly into the hallway and my eyes immediately picked up a trail of destruction that snaked its way through to the kitchen. It was clear that Charlie’s dinner had felt his wrath tonight, and I breathed a sigh of relief that it wasn’t me plastered all over our kitchen walls. Working late certainly had its advantages. A bowl of tomato pasta had redecorated our notice board and, if I wiped away the red stains, I’d uncover a semi-complete shopping list, a few coupons, a wedding invitation and a joint calendar beneath the mess. A fitting metaphor for our relationship, I mused.
I craned my neck round the door and observed that Charlie’s dinner had, after the moment of impact, run sloppily down the length of our kitchen’s formerly white side wall. It was currently settled in a relatively neat pile over the skirting board, a pool of it stuck to the tiles below.
As I lingered in the hallway I smelt cleaning products, strong and bleachy, emanating from the lounge. The hospital scent curled up in the back of my throat, so chemical it made me reluctant to investigate further, but I pressed on. Charlie was passed out, small mercy, the TV on mute, still flickering. He was clutching a half-swigged bottle of vodka in his clammy hand, the sterile liquid slow-leaking across the cheap wooden floor below. My first thought wasn’t of pity, or sorrow, or sadness, but relief. For a moment I thought he might be dead, he didn’t sound like he was breathing, but then I watched, disappointed, as he grunted in his slumber and came back to life, his chest undulating in shallow peaks and troughs. I looked him up and down: yellow sweat-stains covered his T-shirt and clumps of white saliva pooled in the corners of his pale lips. He disgusted me, but at least I wouldn’t have to face him until morning.
I padded into the bedroom, locked the door, and moved over to the window to shut out the night. At that moment, the moon emerged from behind a cluster of bruised clouds, revealing its hard, white surface. Its luminescent rays flared through the window and covered me completely, exposing me, its innocent snow-white face disappointed. Why did you do it? It asked wistfully. I felt a terrible sense of guilt and closed the flimsy blind with a quick flick of my wrist, shutting out the accusation. I crawled into bed, gathered the covers up round my shoulders and turned away from the window but, as I drifted off into a fitful sleep, I could still feel the moon as it glared through the cracks in the blinds. You can’t hide forever, Ava. I know what you did. I know your secret.
I shot my eyes up from my monitor, nearly eleven o’clock. Well, well, well, guess what the cat dragged in: the usually perpetually early and perpetually perfect Ava. Late night, was it?
Others in the office had clocked her tardy arrival too and I watched my colleagues, Josh (6’3, Superman, the future Mr Jade) and Georgette (6’0, Essex, bitchy) eyeball her as she walked in, head bowed, and closed the glass door to her office. She didn’t often do that, not that the transparent panes afforded her any more privacy than usual. I strained my eyes, squinted, and read Georgette’s lips.
‘What do you think all that’s about? Olivia?’
I almost guffawed from my desk. Of course. If anyone could make an inquest into someone else’s death all about them, it was Ava. Clearly she was still milking Olivia’s passing for all it was worth. My see-through stockings stuck to my legs, clammy and irritated. Well, I’d managed to make it into work on time and I’d worked with Olivia for eight years compared to Ava’s paltry one. In fact, Olivia and I had been extremely close colleagues, we’d both joined W&SP around the same time and had spent the years working our way up the slippery ladders of power side-by-side. Ava had joined last year and, as Olivia and Ava had known each other at university, she’d slotted right into our clique – perhaps a little too well. Then Olivia passed away, turning our threesome into a double act, and it wasn’t long before everything turned into a competition between Ava and me: who’d known Olivia better, who’d been more affected by her death, who’d been best placed to take on her clients, who’d step up to try and fill her shoes. Looking back, I was even jealous that Ava had been with David the morning they’d found Olivia’s body; it had only brought Ava closer and pushed me further away.
‘Psst! George!’ I whispered sharply to Georgette, motioning for her to come over.
‘What?’ she mouthed at me from across the room.
‘Come here!’
She moved away from her conversation with Josh and back over to our shared desk. As she clip-clopped my way, I dismayed at her outfit: A T-shirt dress comprised entirely of aquamarine sequins. I decided not to comment on how inappropriate it was – mermaids should never inspire one’s office attire – and made a mental note to bring it up another time.
‘Wot?’ George cawed, her overly contoured face and the near-monobrow she’d created with a few overzealous licks of her brow brush appearing dead opposite me, inches away, like a full-size, full-on jack-in-the-box.
‘Pathetic!’ I exclaimed in a whisper, leaning over the desk so we were closer still. ‘Absolutely pathetic.’
Georgette didn’t exactly spring out of her box to agree. ‘Seeing your workmate the morning after an overdose is probably gonna mess you up for a while, right? The inquest will only have brought it all back.’
I refused to comment, keen to deflect from talking about Olivia’s death. It brought back awful memories for me too; it wasn’t just Ava.
Georgette covered my silence. ‘Josh was just saying he feels really bad for her too.’
My heart sank and my eyes turned a darker shade of green. ‘He said that?’
Josh was mine. Well, perhaps that was going a bit far. Josh would be mine, one day. I knew that sounded disgustingly desperate: a grown-up woman with a tragic crush. But I couldn’t help it. He’d always been mine. It should have been me he was feeling bad for. I’d known Olivia, and him, for years longer than Ava.
I was just about to dive into planning how I could turn the tide and make Josh feel sorry for me instead when I noticed someone unusual approaching in my peripheral vision. My expression clouded and my mouth bobbed open to form a perfectly round ‘o’. David Stein – company CEO who never came onto this floor, ever – had burst magnificently through the double doors and was striding across the office, his dark hair flecked with grey, his expression drawn and steely. Instinct told me exactly where he was headed: Ava.
Georgette followed my stare and swung her chair round to witness the scene unfolding behind her. I flicked my focus over to Ava, oblivious to who was coming her way, and watched, hypnotised, as she gathered the long twist of her hair in one hand, tying the thousands of shades of slightly different blonde tighter and tighter together. In one effortless motion she curled her hair up on top of her head and stuck a pen through it, then David knocked on her door and her pen-bun loosened and fell, as though in shock, each strand of her hair catching the spring light as it did so, rippling like a sandy avalanche as it came to rest against her back. Georgette spun back round, happy shock on her face. George loved office drama, in fact, I’d wager procuring office gossip and disseminating the information was her number one skill. And it wasn’t the worst thing to be good at, at a place like this: information was everything at W&SP.
‘What’s David Stein want with Ava?’ George whispered, turning towards me for just a moment. ‘You think this is ‘cos of the inquest?’
I shrugged, lost for words, and watched as Ava motioned for him to come in, then greeted him with a kiss on the cheek. Well, well, well. Although we were all reeling, Ava didn’t look surprised to see him at all. Had they arranged a meeting? Without me?
My green eyes flashed for the second time in as many minutes – first Josh and now David. My body felt like one of those lightning receptors on top of the Shard or the Empire State Building, just after one billion angry God-like volts had struck. Except I couldn’t survive it. Strike after strike of jealousy coursed through my veins, splitting them open until I was nothing but a heap of clothes on the floor, smoke pouring out of them. ‘Where did she go?’ they’d ask. Would anyone care?
In that moment I made a rash decision: I had to act, I couldn’t just stand on the outside looking in. Ava didn’t own the rights to Olivia’s death, and it wasn’t fair she was using Olivia’s passing to get ahead. Not if I couldn’t use it, too.
I got up from my desk, ignoring Georgette’s bleats – Jade, no, Jade, what are you doing, Jade, come back here! – and pushed forward to her office.
I hated that she had an office. I’d been at the company for eight years and all David Stein had rewarded me with was an area a few metres apart from the communal bullpen, opposite a woman who dressed like a toddler and painted her face like a clown.
I knocked twice at Ava’s closed door, my angry breath forming furious bullseyes of condensation against the glass, and watched as her face fell when she saw it was me. In that moment, the resentment I had for her swelled and I could scarcely believe what I once saw in her as a friend. We used to have lunch together, talk about the ways we could change the company for the better. We’d been a sisterhood at one point. A unit. A team. But ever since Olivia had died and David had taken Ava under his bony wing, favouring her over me in almost every conceivable way despite her vastly inferior experience, the barriers between us had started to stack up and, rather than help me, she relished in every opportunity to kick me back. To make matters worse, David had put us both up for the same job, a glittering promotion which I deserved tenfold over her: Team Head.
So, here I was. Fighting for my career.
I didn’t wait for her to beckon me in.
‘Is everything OK?’ I asked, pushing my way into their clandestine one-to-one. ‘The news about the inquest was pretty tough reading yesterday,’ I said matter-of-factly, closing the door behind me. ‘Olivia would have hated everything being so public.’
‘Jade, could you give us a moment?’ Ava asked curtly, brushing me off.
There she went again, acting as if there was no way I could possibly have been affected by Olivia’s death. It was like she didn’t even remember what we went through together.
‘It’s just—’
‘We’re fine, thank you Jade,’ she repeated, raising her voice.
Before I could speak again, David spat out a rhetorical question aimed at me.
‘Jade – do you mind?’
His words hit like a punch to the gut and my cheeks blazed. Embarrassment opened its mouth and swallowed me whole. I hadn’t expected David to be so rude. Had Ava been busy poisoning him against me? Nevertheless, I didn’t need telling twice and I left in a hurry, floored once again by how Ava had managed to turn an inquest into a way to get ahead at work. I skulked, defeated, back to my desk.
‘Jade, what were you thinki—’
I cut Georgette off. ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
I sat down, staring straight ahead at nothing in particular, unblinking, thinking. I was supposed to be Team Head this year. That was the plan. That had always been the plan. But since Ava had turned up it was as though my years of loyal servitude to this company had all been for nothing: not now a blonde-haired damsel-in-distress with less experience than a toilet brush and the constitution of a ferret had entered the fray. No, I couldn’t let it happen. I had to do something, I had to stop this situation running away from me, I had to reverse the trend, put myself back into the ring. Play dirty, just the way Ava was with me.
*
I wasn’t sure how much time had passed when I became aware of Georgette calling me from across the desk.
‘You gonna answer that?’
My phone was ringing, but my thoughts were still a million miles away, and I sat staring at the black hole of my screen, wondering what my therapist would make of this latest development. Why do you think you react so strongly to female competition, Jade? Comparing yourself to someone else isn’t very helpful. We’re all different. You must rise above it. Tread your own path.
I imagined myself opposite her now, explaining exactly why she’d been wrong in our last session: Your clichés don’t stack up. The whole point is that there’s only one path: the path to the top. And Ava and I are both on it. If I want to get to the end before her, I can’t be ‘different’: I have to be better. And you know how they’ll decide who gets there first? By comparing us. By weighing us up, side by side. Evaluating myself against her couldn’t be more relevant. In fact, you know what? You’re fired. You just don’t get it.
‘Jade!’ Georgette barked, making me jump. ‘What’s up with you today? Honestly,’ she huffed, handing me the phone.
I shook myself back to the present and took the receiver from her tan-stained grasp, checking the caller ID. I recognised the number immediately. On the other end of the line was W&SP’s most important client: Kai, marketing head of AthLuxe, a high-end new range of activewear that was completely impractical for anything actually, you know, active. Ava and I were both on the account and we’d been jostling to assert seniority on it ever since we landed the business – together, unbelievably, back when we were on good terms. Ava had been especially quick to position herself as the main point of contact with Kai, but now that she was holding a more important meeting in her office, he’d had to resort to calling me. This was good, though. Impressing Kai was of the utmost importance. Him having a high opinion of me would be crucial to securing the job as Team Head and I intended to blow his bloody brains out with how fantastic this call was about to be. This was my chance to win him over. I cleared my throat, said a silent prayer.
‘Morning Kai, how can I help?’ Kai didn’t answer my question right away, instead he began our conversation with an expletive-fuelled rant about not being able to get through to anyone but me. I brushed off the implication. ‘Ava’s not taking calls due to a personal issue,’ I explained. I heard a sharp intake of breath, followed by a dramatic pause for effect. Kai told me once he’d attended drama school instead of a regular secondary and I knew better than to interrupt this moment. He was quite fond of practising what he’d learnt there.
‘I’m sorry.’ He paused again, and I imagined one hand flying to his forehead, mouth open wide. ‘Did I hear you correctly?’
This time, Kai’s outrage was exactly the reaction I’d hoped for. No client likes to be told they’re second best to anything, let alone ‘personal issues’.
‘I know, and I’m sorry. But I’m more than happy to take your calls while Ava’s… incapacitated. What did you want to go through today?’ I skimmed my notes for something to say, some area of the launch I could usurp from Ava and stamp my authority on instead: front-row guests, ticket sales for select members of the public, media attendees, coverage, security to protect all of the above. I started with the most interesting. ‘How about front-row attendees?’
‘Well, yes, I suppose. I was hoping for an update on that. Go ahead.’
It had worked, my question and utmost professionalism had placated him and, even though this wasn’t my area, I felt confident blagging as I trotted through Ava’s documents, reading her notes as though they were my own. I listened with an attentive ear as Kai weighed up paying A-list celebrities versus cheaper bit-part reality stars and advised him that we shouldn’t pay up for anyone he wasn’t completely comfortable with. He agreed: we should hold out for top-end media and absolute stars only. And AthLuxe shouldn’t have to pay. I smiled as I told him to leave it with me. I would make his wish come true.
‘I’ve had an idea.’
The clipped and confident tones of David Stein filled the room as he walked into my office. Well, he didn’t just walk, obviously, he strode, like a bony gladiator, a few silver streaks visible in his stubble. Perhaps he hadn’t slept well and hadn’t had time to shave. Or perhaps he’d been lying awake all night thinking about how to help me. I glanced out nervously through the glass, expecting to see a few pairs of raised eyebrows, but my colleagues knew better than that: they tended to whisper rather than stare. Except Jade Fernleigh, of course, who looked like she was performing a one-woman re-enactment of the eruption of Mount Vesuvius over at her desk.
‘So,’ David said. ‘You need somewhere to stay while you sort out this mess with Charlie.’
‘Right,’ I answered, touched by how quickly he’d come to my aid. He looked at me fondly and smiled, our eyes locking inappropriately like potential suitors across a busy bar in downtown Chicago, jazz dancing in our ears, bourbon sticking to our teeth.
‘Listen, I know you’ll have your reservations, but hear me out.’
He hesitated as we both heard a knock at the door at the same time.
It was Jade, red faced and short of breath. Was she running from the ruins of a collapsing city or just desperate to muscle in on a meeting she thought should include her? It was difficult to tell. She let herself in and said something about Olivia’s inquest. David and I exchanged a look. I tried to give her an opportunity to excuse herself but, when she kept on blabbering, David snapped.
‘Jade, do you mind?’ he growled, irritated. He waited until she’d closed the door to speak again. ‘What was that all about?’
‘She’s harmless,’ I said, trying to diffuse the situation.
He shook his head. ‘She’s a loose cannon. I’ll have to have a word. Anyway, where was I?’
‘You were saying I was about to have my reservations…’
‘I think you should move into Olivia’s place.’
My body clenched at the sound of her name, the all-too familiar four-syllable arpeggio whistling in my ears, every fibre of my being rejecting the suggestion. ‘I can’t do that, David,’ I replied, horrified he’d even suggested it.
‘It’s Pimlico,’ David said. ‘Near the office. And it’s just sitting there at the moment, dormant, waiting for someone to breathe some life back into it. I think it’s time to move on now that the inquest is over. It’s been months. She’d have wanted you to, honestly, as long as you need.’
My first thought, of course, was the way her body had smelt the morning we’d found her three months ago. Then guilt, the things he didn’t know, the rumour mill in the office. David picked up on it as the thoughts flashed across my face.
‘What’s the matter?’ He crossed his arms, slotting them into the perfect grooves either side of his chest.
‘The last time I was there was the day we…’ I trailed off.
‘So, bring some happiness to the place again, it needs it. Plus, it would do you good to confront that memory, don’t you think?’
I couldn’t think of anything worse. I wrapped my arms round my chair, as if David might have to prise me from it like a limpet from rock.
‘The place is worth millions, Ava, it wouldn’t exactly be a hardship.’ His molars set to work on the inside of his cheek. He thought I was being ungrateful.
‘People will gossip,’ I said quickly, thinking of anything to stop him suggesting I go back to the building I thought about every night before I fell asleep. ‘What if Charlie follows me back there? He’d break in, he’d destroy everything, at least in a hotel he can’t do that.’
‘So I’ll put in a CCTV and alarm system and hook it all up to the police. When I’m done with it, Olivia’s will be far safer than a hotel. Anyone can get a keycard to a hotel room if they say the right things or pay the right people.’
I didn’t answer. David waited patiently for me to accept. ‘I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself if something happened to you. At least at Olivia’s I know you’ll be safe.’ He put one hand deliberately on the desk and moved the other to my cheek, pushing the hair that had fallen loose round my shoulders behind my ear. ‘I couldn’t save Olivia, but I can try to save you, Ava.’ I shivered, his sensitivity taking me by surprise. ‘I’ll go with you. I can help you settle in, if you like,’ he said softly.
I took a deep breath in, feeling myself about to accept. Did I have a choice? This was what I wanted, wasn’t it? ‘All right,’ I said, forcing a smile.
‘You just need to get over the hurdle of seeing the place again.’
I nodded and went to stand up, pressing my palms into the table in front of me.
‘You must let me pay you rent.’ I said. ‘Just tell me how much or take it out of my paycheque if you like.’ I rose to standing, leaving two sweaty handprints behind on the wood.
David shook his head.
I moved to the door but David didn’t budge. His arms folded determinedly. I recalled an article I’d read a few years ago which valued him into the hundreds of millions. I knew he wouldn’t take the money, but I wanted to offer, I didn’t want to feel doubly indebted to him. ‘I’m serious, I don’t want you to feel I’m taking advantage of your kindness.’ I reached out to him, pressing a hand to his arm. The lady doth protest.
‘Look, Ava, darling, I don’t need your money, and I don’t want it.’ I smiled at him. Thank God. ‘Come for a drink with me tonight,’ he said after a moment’s pause. ‘To celebrate.’
I stuttered and, just as I considered spinning David a lie, some reason why I was far too busy or far too tired to go with him, I realised he hadn’t really asked me to go for a drink: he’d told me.
‘OK,’ I agreed, playing his game. ‘I’d love to.’
As David’s eyes silently interrogated me, I felt the light from my computer screen intensify until I was bathed in it, the stark brightness exposing every twitch and every tell in my expression. I held his gaze. If I broke eye contact it would be over. The light burned whiter still; I know what you’ve done, it hissed, and the heat crawled up my neck, my heel bouncing up and down like a manic wind-up toy. Then, just as soon as it began, it was over: the bright-white died and David’s lips returned to a satisfied line as he left.
My phone rang and Ava’s name flashed up on the caller ID. I stole a look into her office; she was rubbing her forehead as if distinctly irritated.
‘Yes?’ I asked impatiently. ‘I had a missed call from Kai, he said he was going to try your phone instead. Did you speak to him?’
I grinned. I started to line up the pens scattered round my desk in order. ‘I did. He was worried about the attendees we had in place for the front row. I said I would handle it: top media and A-list only.’ I felt smug; finally it was me calling the shots on the account. I pulled the final pen in line: a row of plastic fingers.
‘What?’ she asked, her voice agitated. ‘Why would you agree to that? You know we can’t afford A-list at this launch; his budget is about five pounds.’
My confidence in my decision ebbed but I persevered, trying my best not to be put off by Ava’s condescension. ‘He told me he wouldn’t pay them anything, actually, he just wants people there who care about the brand.’
‘Excuse me?’ she asked, seemingly flabbergasted. I held the receiver tighter in my hand. Had I done something wrong?
‘Jade, what were you thinking? AthLuxe hasn’t launched yet. No one knows the brand exists, let alone cares about it. And, even if it were established, everyone is paid, Jade. Always. No matter the celebrity, no matter their status. Surely you know that? Haven’t you done a launch like this before?’ Truth be told, no. She continued as I shrank in my seat, grateful no one else could hear this conversation. ‘Why are you even getting involved in this area, anyway? This isn’t what you’re supposed to be doing,’ she ranted, exasperated. ‘Stay in your lane, Jade. You’re making a fool of yourself—’
‘And where exactly does it say you’re in charge of telling me what to do?’ I snapped. ‘You act so high and mighty but if you’d done your job by taking Kai’s call instead of holding some secretive meeting with David then none of this would have happened. This is on you.’
Georgette’s eyes sparkled as they appeared above her monitor.
Ava paused. I was onto her. Then she hit me with a threat I wasn’t expecting: ‘I don’t think David would see it like that.’ The way she delivered the line, with such cold, callous precision, hit me right where it hurt. I puckered my lips, reaching for a comeback, but it was too late and Ava carried on as I flailed. ‘Anyway, I don’t want to get petty here, it’s not about who’s telling who what to do: it’s about what we agreed. You knew not to get involved with attendees but you did it anyway. Now I’m going to have to spend the rest of my day fixing your mess.’
‘Well…’ I mumbled.
‘Which I could really do without.’ I could taste the glee in her voice, sticky-sweet, delighted to receive the ammunition I’d just handed her on a silver serving platter. ‘I’ll call Kai later, explain that you made a mistake—’
My eyes widened. ‘No!’ I blurted desperately. ‘I’ll do it, I’ll call Kai,’ I said firmly, trying to claw back a couple of scraps of my dignity. ‘I’ll fix it, I promise.’
She faltered. Let me back in. ‘OK,’ she said, like a parent talking to a toddler. ‘But if it’s not done tomorrow, I’m taking over, understand?’ And with that she hung up on me, the dial tone left ringing in my ear.
I was furious with myself, my inability to stand up to Ava once again rearing its nervous little head. Why did I let her talk to me like that? Rolling over for Ava must be one of my specialist skills. She wasn’t better than me, but proving it seemed impossible sometimes.
‘What was that about?’ Georgette yapped as soon as I put the phone down, her painted brows arched impossibly high.
‘Nothing, it’s nothing. Just leave it,’ I said, knowing full well she’d do anything but.
I put on my headphones to make it clear I didn’t want to talk. I watched Ava running her fingers through her hair and scowled. Good PRs see glass. Bad PRs see other people. When I got the job as Team Head – a positive mental attitude is half the battle – my first order of business would be to move into her crystal-cut room and watch how she dealt with being stuck on the outside looking in. I watched her closely as she picked up her phone, her expression changing from fierce to friendly in a millisecond, and a series of dark thoughts crossed my mind. Ava and I had always had an understanding not to get personal at work – there were certain topics we knew were off limits – but now we were competing against each other, was she shifting the goalposts and leaving me in her wake? As if it wasn’t enough to convince David I deserved the job on my own merit, now I had to worry about Ava burying me in order to make sure she won.
I pressed my nails into my palms as I plotted my next move: I had to play Ava at her own game and, if she was busying wrapping David round her little finger, I needed to ensnare a Stein of my own. Which was far easier said than done, of course, especially as I’d been desperately head-over-heels for the other Stein in this office ever since he first flew through W&SP’s imposing double doors and landed on my team all those years ago. We’d worked together back then as I’d shown him the ropes and helped him to fit in.
I looked over at my target now, his laid-back laugh and dimpled cheeks radiating warmth across the room. My Stein was Josh Stein, David’s adopted son, man of my dreams and, following a successful six years at the company, now a major influence on promotion-related decisions. And his star was only set to rise: now that Olivia was no longer around, David would elevate Josh up through the ranks, grooming him to take over the firm eventually. Nepotism was alive and well here at the offices of W&SP, that’s for sure. If I could just marry into the family, I’d be golden… So, enough dilly-dallying, enough procrastinating, enough ‘waiting and seeing’. I’d officially run out of time. Now being with Josh was more important than ever before and I had no time to waste getting on with it. I lost myself in thought as I planned phase one of my operation. First, I’d sidle up to his desk, cranking my pencil skirt just a fraction higher, and bend down next to him, resting on my heels, my elbows on his desk. I’m sure I’d heard that putting yourself in a naturally suggestive pose, i.e. at waist height gazing up, would make your target subconsciously think of you as a potential sexual partner. I’d open with something relaxed. How’s life? How’s it going? How’s tricks? That was the one, I decided. How’s tricks? Offbeat and stand-out. He’d remember it. Next, I’d ask him for help with something—Josh liked to fix things. I’d tell him my Wi-Fi signal won’t reach my bedroom and that I… get bored at night. Was that too forward? Yes! OK, I wouldn’t say that. I’d figure something out.
I picked up my pocket-size mirror and checked my make-up was still in place. The office bustled in the reflection: Georgette was now at the printer smacking it through a malfunction like a renegade pony, and a meeting was taking place in the area behind me, which seemed to be mostly gesticulations and impassioned facial expressions rather than anything productive. I angled my mirror back towards my face and studied my own image. My eyes were my only notable feature: green, a striking, contact-lens worthy shade. I was always being asked if the colour was real. ‘It’s Celtic!’ I’d say, citing the 13 per cent Irish ancestry I’d uncovered thanks to a dubious DNA test I’d taken three years ago. From the bottom of my razor-sharp black fringe, they shot out now with renewed purpose, like the eyes of a leopard stalking its next meal. I clapped the mirror shut and changed my focus, eyeing my prey over the top of the screen, waiting for the perfect moment to pounce. He’d just finished a conversation with the sales drone next to him (5’5, horsey, obvious) and had turned his attention back to his monitor. I’d checked his diary this morning, no meetings scheduled for the next hour. It was the perfect time. I rehearsed the opening line in my head – Hey Josh. How’s tricks? – then rose, determinedly, from my chair and flattened my palms against my thighs to smooth out my skirt, pulling it slightly above my knees.
I used the back of my wrist to dab my face free from shine, paying particular attention to my top lip, then strode over, placing one foot carefully in front of the other like I was walking the runway at Paris fashion week, reminding myself to channel confidence, strength and power. Something moved in my peripheral vision, on high alert as I closed in. Ava was standing up behind her desk. If she came out and tried to corner Josh before me my plan would be ruined. Did she know what I was up to? I upped my pace and locked my eyes on him. He was leaning back casually in his chair, his lightweight, long-sleeve jumper hanging perfectly off his sculpted shoulders. The window behind channelled the sunlight onto his back, casting a lemon-yellow halo around his Adonis-like frame. I wondered what he smelt like today? Usually it was a kind of just-washed shower smell with notes of charcoal and sandalwood. I shivered with pleasure as I imagined sucking in a long, slow breath of it. I shot my gaze towards Ava’s office, she was sitting back down and, as I met her stare, she clipped her head in the other direction. I’d beaten her. I felt like I’d won an Olympic gold medal. My palms glistened and I wiped them once more on my skirt as I approached him. I was ready to do this.
‘Hey tricks!’
I looked at him. He looked at me. The world stood still, the office fell silent, I turned to stone and all I could hear in my head was hey tricks, hey tricks, hey tricks, hey tricks, on repeat, swirling, building in speed and sound, like I was being brainwashed by those two stupid words. Was he going to think ‘tricks’ was the nickname I used for him? Could I start again, please? Rewind that moment? I stammered as if I was suffering the early signs of a brain-altering seizure.
‘I mean—’
He smiled at me. It was a lifeline: I’d hit a rock when I was sure I was about to crash over Niagara Falls.
‘Can I help?’
His voice was like honey and I was drenched in it, sticking to each silky syllable. I dropped down on my knees and stuck my elbows on his desk, just as I’d planned.
‘What do you know about Wi-Fi?’
I gazed up at him adoringly.
‘I’m not much of a texpert but fire away…’
‘Right, yes, well my Wi-Fi won’t reach my, um, bedroom area and it just gets sort of weak…’
I traced my finger round his notepad as if to indicate a bad Wi-Fi connection. It made more sense in my head and it didn’t look as sexy as I’d intended.
‘Have you tried rebooting it?’
He was so assured in his advice, but things weren’t quite going according to plan. His suggestion was very Microsoft Windows ‘98 and it made me seem like the world’s most unstoppable of morons.
Of course I’ve tried that.
‘No, I have not tried that.’ I blinked slowly a few times, embodying the airhead I had decided to channel into my Josh persona.