Just Friends (The Agency Book 1) Read online

  I feel a rush of panic in my gut, and my blood pressure rises for reasons I don’t want to confront. “What does she say?”

  “She wants to meet up tonight. She says she wants ‘resolution’. What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  I clear my throat nervously. I know this is down to me and I wish I hadn’t meddled now. When we added the betting element to our no-shag pact yesterday, I didn’t think I’d feel so strange about the possibility of a win that could only occur if Ethan slept with one of our colleagues or clients.

  I also didn’t think Zoe would be so quick off the starting blocks.

  “What are you going to do?” I ask him.

  “I’m going to meet her. I mean, I can’t say no, can I?” he asks, his brain clearly ticking away as he reads and re-reads the message on his iPhone. I chew on my lip just as Ethan looks up at me. “Wait a minute, is this down to you?”

  “I bumped into Zoe at Juicy Lucy’s earlier. We had a bit of a chat.”

  He groans, then he gets up and walks over to me, perching on the end of my desk. “I applaud your Machiavellian skills of manipulation, but you’re not going to beat me this early in the game. Zoe’s a nice girl, but I never pray at the same temple twice.”

  “Temple?”

  “Yes, and don’t question my adjectives.”

  “Metaphors.”

  “Whatever. How did you get her to do this?”

  I stop flicking through the open windows on my screen and turn to face him. “As much as I’d love to take full credit, it isn’t down to me. We just started talking—”

  “About me?” His smile begins to fade. “What did she say?”

  Where do I start? Probably best to totally skip the part where she admitted being jealous of me and then asked me if I was in love with him. “I know you didn’t tell me the truth about your break-up.”

  His eyebrows dip and he turns to gaze out of the office window. “She told you?”

  “She told me why she ended things with you, yes. Why didn’t you tell me how she felt about us?”

  Ethan nods his head in resignation, but he doesn’t look at me. His eyes turn their attention from the city skyline to his shoes. “Zoe didn’t understand us, and I know we — I know I hurt her.”

  His regretful tone makes me draw in a shaky breath. He turns to face me and our eyes lock for a moment. Instinctively, I reach for my silver pendant and twirl it between my fingers.

  “I’d never let anyone come between us,” he says, and my entire body cries out in response, a warm heat surging into my belly. “We’re best mates, right?”

  He gives me a friendly bump to my shoulder before sitting back down at his desk. I dip behind our cubicle wall to hide as my mind starts to race. What the fuck just happened there? He managed to turn it around at the last minute with the ‘best mates’ comment, but I’m not an idiot. I know that conversation was layered with meaning. What was he trying to tell me? Could it be . . . ?

  No.

  No, it couldn’t.

  Jesus, Violet don’t even go there.

  ***

  The four of us work at our desks until 7 p.m., when Ethan leaves for his get-together with Zoe. Will heads off for his weekly pool game at the same time. That leaves me and my new neighbour, Pinkie, who spends the next hour and a half bombarding me with information I have never had any reason to Google in my twenty-eight years of life. By eight thirty, I know all about the gestation of an orca, the French Salic law of royal heredity, and how many characters in Harry Potter have alliterative names. Useful, eh?

  Pinkie finally heads home to feed his cat, and when I power down my computer at 9 p.m. I’m very much aware of how late it is, how famished I am and that I’m the last person on the floor. I gather up my scarf and cardigan and head for the lifts. I’m still straightening the folds of my scarf when I hear a familiar ping followed by the swish of the lift doors opening. I put one foot in front of the other and almost walk straight into Ridley Gates.

  “Excuse me,” I say as I move to one side. He looks at me like I’m dog shit, and a rush of annoyance surges through me. “What your problem?” I blurt out, then instantly wish I hadn’t. Ridley might be a slimy dickhead, but he’s also an executive director and head of department.

  He spins around to face me, his heels clicking on the tiled floor. His hair is slicked back into its normal greasy style. He shoots me one of those up-and-down, who-do-you-think-you’re-talking-to looks, but says nothing.

  I walk into the lift, muttering “Fucking wanker” under my breath, but as soon as the doors close I realise I’ve forgotten my bag. Shit and bollocks. I press the button to reopen the doors and I make my way back to my desk.

  On my return journey I’m drawn towards raised voices inside Diego’s vacant office. I hover outside the door for a moment.

  Have you ever heard the saying that nothing good was ever learned from eavesdropping? Yeah, well I’ve always disputed that. I know it’s wrong and I know I’m nosy, but I can’t help myself if there’s a chance of overhearing something juicy.

  “Don’t you dare bring that into this. I’ve known you since you were a kid, Ridley, but this? This is a step too far and you know it,” says Malcolm Barrett’s authoritative, yet weaselly, voice.

  Ridley bites back. “You owe me, Malcolm. I’ve kept quiet for years. I need you to do this for me. I’m calling in my chit.”

  “I’ve already paid you your dues more than once,” Malcolm says.

  “Yeah, yeah, you have my undying gratitude.”

  “All I ever asked from you was loyalty, Ridley. But this isn’t loyalty. Blackmailing me every time you want something – that’s not loyalty. You’re responsible for Carly. You were with her, she almost died, and you did nothing. I’m not giving you a fake alibi while that girl’s lying in a hospital bed fighting for her life. Have you thought about what happens if she doesn’t wake up?”

  “Yeah, that’s why I need the alibi.”

  “I’m not lying to the police for you, Ridley. I’m not living like this anymore.”

  I’m so shocked that I stagger backwards against the outside of the office wall. My heart bangs against my chest when the heel of my left shoe clatters against the skirting board. Why? Why did I have to be so nosy? And why the hell did I have to be so noisy?

  I move my feet as quietly as I can over the thin carpet, walking over the softer edge and avoiding the grey-blue centre, which is thin and well worn through years of footfall. I look over my shoulder as I pick up pace. What should I do? If I were braver I’d turn back and confront them both. I open the door to the lobby and look behind me one last time.

  And then the bottom falls out of my world.

  Ridley Gates is standing in the middle of the corridor. His arms are folded and he’s staring straight at me. I shudder as I feel the walls close in around me, and I can’t move. But I’m not going to let him beat me.

  I stare back at him until he walks away.

  11

  I WATCH RIDLEY WALK OFF, but for some stupid reason my feet are carrying me back to the scene.

  I guess I’ll decide to ask myself why I’m doing this after I’ve done it.

  I duck my head around the open doorway to Diego’s office. Malcolm is sitting at the desk with his head resting on his hand, flicking through a bundle of files. I knock lightly, then enter.

  “What did you hear?” he says without lifting his head.

  I stare at him for a few moments, my stomach flipping over until I need to inhale sharply to settle it back down into position. “I heard everything. I’m sorry. What did Ridley do?”

  “He left these in here for me.” He points to the files.

  “What are they?”

  “Evidence.” He runs his tongue along the edge of his moustache and then looks up into my eyes. “You know, Violet, I saw something special in you right from the start. For three years I’ve championed you. I like you – you’re switched on, you’re talented and you’ve got great potential.�
� He looks away again and starts clearing up the desk. “Just tell me what you want.”

  “Me? What do you mean?”

  He raises his eyebrows. “Don’t tell me you don’t want anything? I would distrust you if you didn’t. So what is it? Money, a promotion, my firstborn child?”

  “No, what . . . ? Malcolm, what do you take me for?” I take a step back. I wonder what on earth is running through his mind. Is he so used to being blackmailed? “And your firstborn child is older than I am, for Christ’s sake.”

  A faint smile tweaks the edges of his silver moustache, but his eyes remain filled with sadness.

  “Why is he doing this to you, Malcolm? Just tell me.” I take a seat opposite him.

  He closes the files and stretches an elastic band around them. “It’s about money. I took some money.”

  “You did?” My heart sinks. Do I want to know any more? “Who from?”

  “From the agency.” He looks at his hands, then locks his fingers together and bows his head. “Emily’s cancer returned. I needed money fast for experimental treatment. All my funds were tied up in property, and the investments I’ve made over the years haven’t worked out. Neither the NHS nor my private insurance would fund what we needed. I wanted the best for her.” He raises his head and looks me straight in the eye. “None of us thought she’d beat it a second time, but she did, so I’m not sorry. I’m halfway clear to paying the money back.”

  I flop backwards in the chair, my heart breaking. Malcolm and Emily have been married for over forty years. I don’t blame him for doing everything he could to save her, but stealing? “Why don’t you just come clean, Malcolm? Surely it would be better than this.”

  “Because I don’t want to go to prison, and I don’t want Emily to find out,” he says quietly.

  I nod my head, trying to imagine myself faced with the prospect of losing someone I love, maybe Max, or Ethan. “I won’t say a word.”

  “Thank you Violet,” he says sincerely. “I trust you, and whatever you want in your career, just tell me and—”

  “No! Malcolm, seriously . . .” I lean forward on the desk and take a moment to gather my thoughts. “I don’t want anything from you, and I promise I won’t say a word about the money, but . . . okay . . . Ridley and Carly – that’s a whole different ball game.”

  Malcolm’s skin greys. “No, you can’t say anything about that either. If Ridley’s wife found out about him and Carly, he’d turn on me. You have to believe me, Violet. You can’t.”

  My heart feels like it’s being torn in two. Malcolm needs my protection, but Ethan and Max need to know the truth and I want to tell them. My thoughts fight against each other, but the fear in Malcolm’s eyes chills me to the bone and seals the deal. “Okay, I won’t say a word about any of it. Not to anybody.”

  I stumble out of the office in a daze.

  I have always hated Ridley Gates, but now I know what he’s been doing to Malcolm, I have an overwhelming urge to ram his head through a brick wall and make him eat a wasp sandwich.

  ***

  The streets are dark and empty when I leave the building and head for Bank Tube station. As I change to the Bakerloo line at Oxford Circus, on autopilot, the sound of trains rattling through the tunnels jangles inside my head. I decide I need my friend.

  I pull out my phone to call Ethan, but then I remember he’s meeting Zoe tonight. This makes me feel even worse. Are they on a date? Will I turn up to work tomorrow and find out they’re back together? My stomach twists itself into a knot, making it clear that these feelings I’ve been having for the past few days aren’t going to go away unless I confront them . . . head-on.

  I put my phone back in my bag and go home.

  ***

  I glance at my clock for the twentieth time and see that the number three is flanked by a hideously menacing forty-four. Shit, this is bad. It’s nearly 4 a.m. – the point of no return, the time when I may as well get up and go to work early. I’m still wide awake. I tell myself my body will survive if I miss one night of sleep, as long as I catch up tomorrow.

  Why did I have to do it? Just fucking why? I always do shit like this. I’m a chaos-and-crap magnet. Just look at the last few days: despite my brilliance with words, I couldn’t produce a plausible excuse to miss the AdAg Awards and I had the worst night of my entire life as a result. And now? Now my gigantic nose has landed me in a pile of steaming shit so colossal that I’m going to need a bulldozer and an industrial excavator to get myself out of it.

  Why couldn’t I have just got my bag and gone home? My heart is telling me to ring Ethan at stupid o’clock and tell him everything I know, but I can’t. Aside from the fact he’s probably humping Zoe Callaghan, I need to speak to Malcolm again first. I want to help him get out of this. Maybe if we put our heads together we can think of a way to fix it. I wish I could think of something . . . anything . . . but as my brain whirrs and my stomach churns, I can’t forget my promise to Ethan. I told him I wouldn’t keep anything from him ever again, so why aren’t I picking up my blasted phone?

  I want to kill myself.

  Not violently kill myself.

  I couldn’t throw myself off a bridge onto a motorway, but if someone offered to suffocate me in my sleep, I might be tempted.

  I turn over, close my eyes for the five hundredth time and start counting wildebeest. It’s so much easier than counting sheep because they move faster, but occasionally you have to let a lion catch one for reasons of authenticity. It may be bloody, but I swear it totally works.

  ***

  I hit the snooze button on my alarm clock fourteen times, from 5 a.m. to 6.10 a.m. I’ve had two hours of sleep and an hour of dozing. I feel like shit. My head is begging for more sleep, my eyes feel like they’ve been forced open by a medieval instrument of torture, and my common sense has disconnected from my brain, meaning I’m thinking of calling in sick. I drag my zombified carcass into the shower instead. A blast of hot water and some minty shower gel might bring me back to life.

  It’s 8.35 a.m. when I arrive at work, step into the lift and get a Facebook message from Daniel Noble.

  Glad you came around. I’ll pick you up at your place at 7.30. Looking forward to it.

  Shit. What the actual hell have I done and when did I do it? Did I sleep-mail Daniel Noble? I scroll upwards and find another message apparently from me, except it isn’t:

  Hi Daniel, I’ve been thinking about your proposition at the weekend. All of this business with Quest is really taking its toll and I need to let my hair down. What do you say to dinner tonight?

  Two things:

  I really need to change my Facebook password.

  I really need to kick Ethan Fraser’s head in.

  I take a deep breath as the lift takes me to the executive floor. The soft hum of the cold metal box sets my teeth on edge. I make the exact same journey every day, yet today is different because my stomach has climbed so far into my mouth it’s threatening to get wedged in my throat.

  When the lift doors open, my whole body is shaking. The noise from the offices is louder than normal. Hushed conversations sound like yelling; footsteps against the soft carpet sound like galloping horses’ hooves at the Grand National.

  My heart pounds as I approach Malcolm’s office and see Zoe sitting at her desk outside. I don’t know whether it’s pounding because I’m worried about Malcolm or because I don’t want to see evidence that Zoe got laid last night. I check her over as I approach: make-up immaculate, clothing different to yesterday, and no post-sex bed hair. Phew!

  “Wow, Violet, you look wrecked. Are you okay?”

  I rub at my cheeks to wake my face up. “I didn’t get much sleep last night – worked late.”

  “Here, drink this.” She passes me a bottle of mineral water.

  I thank her and take a drink. The cool liquid does little to soothe my nerves, but at least it eases my stomach back into position and I no longer feel like I’m going to choke.

  “What can
I do for you? Is it Quest-related? I’m not sure if Malcolm can take any more bad news.”

  “I need a private word with him. Is he in?”

  Zoe shakes her head, and I’m instantly relieved. “He’s in a meeting with the board right now, then he has a meeting scheduled at Quest’s head office at ten thirty, then he has a finance meeting pencilled in with Karen Mark, but he’ll probably rearrange that. He hates finance meetings and you know what Karen is like.”

  I nod in recognition. Karen Mark, our always-serious head of finance, protects her budgets like a fire-breathing dragon. I don’t think I’ve ever heard her laugh.

  “Okay, can you let me know the second he’s back in the office? It’s quite important.”

  “Of course,” replies Zoe with a smile. “Hey, have you heard the good news? Carly is out of danger. They say she’s going to make a full recovery.”

  “Oh, that’s brilliant news,” I say, and then immediately ask myself if I mean it. Yeah . . . I do mean it! Hoorah, I’m not a sociopath.

  “Ruby and I bought a get-well-soon card for her on behalf of everyone. Will you sign it?”

  Jesus, no. Carly hates me. And yet the rules of etiquette and not being a sociopath compel me to write “Glad you’re on the mend, V x” inside the card. Genius! My greeting could be attributed to Victor in CGI, Vinnie in payroll or Vanessa in accounts.

  I’m just about to make my way to the stairwell when Ridley Gates’s secretary, Lucille, calls me over.

  Lucille’s eyes slowly rise above her glasses as I approach her desk opposite her boss’s corner office. “Mr Gates says he wants to see you.” Despite living in London for most of her life, Lucille still has an unmistakeable Caribbean accent which evokes happy images of rum cocktails and calypso music. Her voice is like sunshine and I love talking to her. “He’s been in a foul mood since he got in this morning, so don’t be expecting no manners from him.”

  I feel sick. I don’t usually give a damn about confronting people – particularly when I’m in the right – but what can I do? I’d rather drink bleach than have to speak to him. “Do you know what he wants?” I ask, forcing my voice to stay strong.