Just Friends (The Agency Book 1) Read online

  Lucille looks at me with eyes that don’t miss a thing. She pushes her glasses up onto her nose and cocks her head towards her boss’s door. “Best get yourself inside and find out, but word of advice: watch how you go.”

  I hesitate for a moment. I look back at Lucille, but she’s picked up the phone to make a call. I consider turning back, but why should I? The moral high ground belongs to me. I take a deep breath, and into the lion’s den I go.

  Ridley is at his desk when I enter his office and close the door behind me. He looks up from his computer briefly, then returns his gaze to the screen, an insincere smile tugging at his mouth. “Miss Archer, I’m assuming you know why I want a quiet word.”

  I don’t reply. I don’t know what to say. Damn, I needed to see Malcolm again first. How much does Ridley know that I know?

  He leans casually back in his chair. He isn’t worried. There is no anxiousness in his expression at all. He grins, and I notice how white his teeth are. He looks like a poster boy for a toothpaste ad. “I can see you’re hesitating, so let me help you out. I know you know about my relationship with Carly, and if you want the gory details, here they are. Yeah, I was seeing her; no, it wasn’t serious; and no, my wife doesn’t know. Being married to Delfina is like owning a beautiful vase – she’s nice to look at but she’s empty inside. I told you before that I like smart women. Trying to have an intelligent conversation with Delfina is as futile as polishing a turd.”

  Urgh, he’s vile. The only turd in this room is you, I think but don’t dare say out loud.

  Ridley gets up from his chair and walks towards me. I instinctively take a step backwards. He has always made my flesh crawl, but feeling like I want to flay my skin from my body is a whole new reaction. I discreetly scratch my arm. “I’m not worried that you know I was with Carly when she got into trouble. I know you won’t say anything. Do you want to know how I know?”

  I force out a short laugh, but my insides are churning. “I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”

  “If you open your mouth to anybody, I promise I’ll take Malcolm and his entire family down with me. And then I’ll come after you.”

  The cold determination in his tone sends a shiver down my spine, but I force myself to look unconcerned. “What makes you think I care what happens to Malcolm?”

  He shrugs, and his grin widens. Ridley’s eyes are the same shade of light blue as Ethan’s. I wonder what it is that makes Ridley’s gaze so much colder. “I know you care. Despite what everyone around here says, you’re not a cold, heartless bitch.”

  “You’re right. I’m not heartless or cold, but you certainly are.”

  “Yes, I am, but what can I say? They’re both talents that serve me well.”

  “Don’t you care about Carly? You were seeing her and—”

  “Correction, I was fucking her.” I swallow my revulsion as a wave of nausea hits me. He laughs again. “Look, there was nothing I could have done. It was just bad luck. We had a heavy night – sex, drugs, drink . . . more sex. We both know what Carly is. I’ve seen the way you look down on her. You think she’s a cheap slut and I don’t disagree with you. I know she screwed Fraser that night too.”

  “This has nothing to do with me or Ethan,” I say in disgust, recoiling at the way he’s looking at me – his eyes scanning my body as I stand before him trying to keep it together. “I’m here for Malcolm. You have something on him. He has something on you. So, time to call it a day, eh?”

  “Malcolm?” Ridley’s sunbed-tanned skin creases as a frown creeps across his face. Ridley must be approaching fifty and the cracks are beginning to show. “Ah, I see. He’s told you everything, hasn’t he? He’s told you about our arrangement.”

  “He told me you were blackmailing him.”

  For the first time I see Ridley’s demeanour falter, but his composure quickly returns. He dips his head and grins as if this is the best fun he’s had in years. “So Malcolm told you he stole thousands of pounds from the agency and you’re okay with that? What the hell is this? Love a fucking crook day?”

  “It’s not like that. His wife was seriously ill.” I think about Ridley’s wife and I don’t know how he can’t empathise. “Haven’t you ever loved someone that much?”

  His leathery brow crinkles as he raises his eyebrows, his slicked-back hair gleaming under the office lights. “Aside from myself? No, probably not,” he says with a sneer. He moves closer and I step backwards until my back hits a filing cabinet and I can go no further. “Look, I don’t want you thinking I’m a complete bastard, so I’ll cut you a deal. I can think of a compelling incentive for me to back off Malcolm Barrett.”

  “An incentive?” He’s standing so close to me I can feel his breath on my face. My nausea intensifies. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, now that Carly is incapacitated, I have an opening. How do you feel about filling her position?”

  God. The very thought makes me want to heave. Focus, Violet. Do not let him get to you “I say go to hell.”

  He raises his hand and caresses my face. I shove him backwards, but he just laughs again. “Now, now. Play nicely and hear me out. I like you. You’ve got balls, you’ve got class, and you look pretty good too.” He runs his hand over my arm.

  I jerk my arm away. “Keep your hands off me.”

  “Sleep with me.”

  “What?” My pulse is ringing in my ears and I want to bolt for the door, but at the same time I know he’s trying to break me and I’m not going to let him. “Why the hell would I do that?”

  “Just think about it . . . Malcolm’s worries gone forever, just for one, amazing, thrilling, scandalous fuck. I promise to make sure you enjoy it. You may even want to make it a regular thing – just like Carly.”

  Bile rises into my throat and burns as I swallow it back down. I take a deep, if shaky, breath and look him square in the eye. “I’d rather set myself on fire.”

  He laughs coldly. I have no idea if he’s being serious, or if this is just a sick, twisted game, but I’m not sticking around to find out. I make my bid for freedom, shoving him out of the way and scrambling for the door. I all but run out of his office. Lucille calls after me, but I can’t decipher her words. All I can hear is the rich tone of her voice as it rises above the noise of blood pounding in my ears.

  And god, I feel sick. Not drunk-sick, or ill-sick, but a horrible mix of fear-disgust-rage-sick.

  I clatter through the doors of the nearest toilets, where I find a cubicle, fall to my knees and throw up.

  12

  I HATE VOMITING.

  Thankfully, it doesn’t happen too often. I haven’t had a stomach bug for years and I try to go easy on the drink, so spewing my guts up is a rare event.

  I must have been in the executive-floor toilets for ages, and I don’t feel like leaving any time soon. I tried to front it out with Ridley earlier, but right now I’m anything but the badass I thought I was. I wanted him to see I wasn’t afraid of him. I told myself his threats meant nothing. So why does my stomach feel like it’s going to hurl itself out of my mouth every time I think about him? Why does my skin crawl when I see his slimy-slimeball face in my mind?

  And I know I still need to face Malcolm.

  And I’m still pissed off that I can’t tell Ethan.

  And I still feel like shit.

  And my arse has gone to sleep.

  I carefully get up off the hard toilet seat and go to the sinks, splashing lukewarm water into my mouth to try and wash away the taste of puke. It doesn’t work. I still have the coarse aftertaste from my semi-digested bran flakes in my mouth. I don’t even know how long I’ve been in here. It seems like hours, but my watch says it’s only 10 a.m. so it’s probably been closer to twenty minutes. Is it too early for Häagen-Dazs? The Tesco Express around the corner stocks strawberry cheesecake, and I feel like I could eat a whole tub in one sitting.

  When I arrive at my desk I see Ethan has made it into the office, dragging with him an exhausted face which m
irrors my own.

  “You look like hell,” I say.

  “So says an extra from The Walking Dead,” he replies, rubbing his eyes and letting out a gigantic yawn.

  I sit down and switch on my computer. Will and Pinkie aren’t at their desks, which is good. The last thing I need this morning is those two bickering away like a budget reboot of a Laurel and Hardy movie. “Before the day begins, I need to remind you how lucky you are that my knee hasn’t made contact with the collection of objects in your pants yet.”

  He breaks out into laughter. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “Daniel is what I mean. It appears he’s taking me to dinner tonight.”

  “Just getting you back.”

  He yawns again and I brace myself for news I don’t want to hear. “Good night, then?”

  He shoots me a glare. “Don’t get too excited. You haven’t won your bet. Zoe and I talked and we had a nice evening, but I was done by ten.”

  “Really?” I ask with genuine disbelief. “Ten o’clock? I don’t believe you.”

  “Would I lie to you?”

  “Based exclusively on the three years I’ve known you? Yes, you absolutely would.”

  “I’m sorry I lied about why we broke up.” He scans the room, making sure we’re still alone before continuing. “I didn’t want you to know that Zoe made our break-up all about you. It was unfair of her.”

  A wave of relief washes over me. I’m not entirely sure why, but I sense it would be harder to navigate my newfound terrifyingly confusing feelings for Ethan if he and Zoe had become an item again. He winces and rubs his forehead. “After I left Zoe last night, I called Max. We went out and . . . well, we had a bit of a mad night.”

  “Oh no. How mad?”

  “Well Max hasn’t turned up for work yet, and I have the worst hangover of my life.”

  “Oh shit, I’m worried about Max. He isn’t coping. Does he have a new phone yet? Zoe told me this morning that Carly is on the mend. We need to let him know.”

  “She’s out of the coma?” Ethan asks, his eyes bright with hope. I nod. “Thank Christ for that. No, Max doesn’t have a replacement phone. I’ll DM him on Twitter.”

  I’m relieved for a moment. Then I see Ridley Gates’s face in my mind. I hear his threats, smell his breath, feel him touching me . . . I grab a plastic cup that’s half full of warm water from yesterday and take a sip.

  “Shit, Vi, you look like death warmed up,” Ethan says.

  “I’m just tired. I’ll be fine once I wake up.” I swallow another mouthful of water, willing myself not to be sick again, although I’m sure I’ve nothing left in my stomach to bring up. “So, did you enjoy your night with Max?”

  “Suffice it to say, going clubbing with Max is comparable to hell on earth. I can’t get my head around that scene, Vi. The music is horrendous. It goes right through you and every track sounds the bloody same – thud, thud, thud, thud, thud, thud. Jesus Christ, if I ever have to listen to that shit Euro dance-y trance-y music again I’ll drive a chainsaw through my skull. It’s absolute torture. And that’s before we start on the drugs. Every single person there was high as a kite.”

  I’m only half listening as I struggle to order my brain. I’m exhausted, grossed out, worried sick and suffering from post-vomiting dehydration. All I can hear is noise that I can’t tune out – including the “thud, thud, thud” he’s put in my mind. I flop down into my chair and rest my head on my desk.

  “Are you okay?”

  I don’t look up. “Yeah. I wish I was dead, but other than that I’m okay.”

  “Right, well you don’t have time to kill yourself now. We have a meeting with Stuart Inman at ten fifteen.”

  “What? No, we don’t. No way in hell am I having a meeting with him this morning.”

  Ethan stares briefly at me as if I’ve lost my mind, but then he shrugs. “Daniel signed off on our Quest TV commercial, but we need to present it to Stuart first. I know you’re still pissed with him, but I’ve got your back. You’ll be fine.”

  “I don’t want to see him. Why do I have to?”

  “Because he’s the client and it’s his money we’re spending? What do you suggest I tell him?”

  “Tell him no. Fucking no fucking way!”

  Ethan’s eyes pop. “Vi, this isn’t like you. You can handle Stuart Inman. Your balls are ten times as big as his.”

  I raise my eyebrows. The last thing I want to be reminded about is the size of Stuart’s man-parts.

  “Sorry, I misjudged that,” he says quickly. “Come on, this is work. Stella’s put him back in his box already.”

  “It isn’t just him . . .” I open my mouth and almost spill the beans, but as if from nowhere my brain-to-mouth filter springs into life and stops me. “He’s just a dick,” I say instead.

  “Yeah, I know he’s a dick, but he’s also just walked onto the floor so shush.”

  I turn around just in time to see Stuart stride across the room like a man who doesn’t want the world to know he has an infinitesimally small penis. Ethan beckons him into Diego’s vacant office.

  I follow them and take a seat. Ethan hands both of us a spiral-bound copy of his TV commercial pitch and talks us through it with much exuberance. Stuart listens intently, but I feel his eyes watching me the whole time. My skin boils. I blow a breath onto my face out of the corner of my mouth, cooling the beads of anger-sweat on my forehead. My arms, my eyes, my shoulders are on fire, and I wonder if I’d be forgiven for taking my Ridley-rage out on Stuart by stapling his head to the desk.

  “Okay, great, I’m sure this will work. How many models will you need? What agency are you using?” Stuart asks as he thumbs through the costings in Ethan’s proposal.

  “We’d only need to hire two or three for a couple of days. I’ll give Lucinda at Siren a call and see who she can get for us. Obviously, we have our own TV production team – one producer and a crew of four,” says Ethan.

  “Great. Our CEO will have to rubber-stamp it, but I don’t see any issues. We’re looking for something more adventurous this season – something that sets us apart from our competitors – so the Lake District location will be ideal. The USP on this is originality, so stay away from cost and quality in the copy, Violet. Focus on the unique. I think it could be a good time to change the ‘Quest for Life’ hashtag to maybe . . . ‘Quest for Adventure’ or ‘Quest for Freedom’ across all media. ‘Quest for Life’ has had its day.”

  I feel like he’s just killed one of my children.

  “That’s absolute bollocks,” I snap. “How do you think that would work? I can’t believe you’re suggesting we modify a hashtag that already has consumer presence and is almost a brand itself. Quest for Life features on every single one of your current ads, not to mention social media outlets, your website, a clothing range and even a pair of bloody bendy buses!” Stuart scowls at me and I can see he’s biting his tongue. Ethan clears his throat nervously, and I wonder if I’ve gone too far. But, Jesus, do I care? In my war against all men, this guy is the idiot who started the ball rolling. He shot Franz Ferdinand and invaded Poland all in one weekend, so I’m not scared to tell him what I think of his shitty idea.

  “Okay, let’s just see what you both come up with,” Stuart replies, a smug smirk plastered across his lying, cheating piece-of-shit face.

  “Well, I can tell you right now we won’t be coming up with that,” I bite back.

  “Um . . . we’ll look at all the possibilities,” says Ethan, clearly in appeaser mode.

  Stuart rises from the chair, straightens his suit and bundles up his paperwork. His gaze flits to me as he chews the inside of his cheek. My narrowed eyes and clenched teeth challenge him to dare open his mouth.

  “I’m truly sorry about our misunderstanding, Violet,” he says.

  “Which misunderstanding was that? Blaming me for your lacklustre bedroom skills, using me to cheat on your fiancée, or trying to get me fired?”

  A nerve at the base of Stuart’s ch
iselled cheekbones starts to pulse and an angry red vein bulges in his neck. “The bedroom skills are debatable,” he says in a hushed, embarrassed tone.

  “Debatable or not, none of it was my fault, and pulling me off your campaign was a dick move.”

  “I did that because you threw a drink over me. It was unprofessional.”

  “You deserved more than a drink on your head, Stuart.”

  “I’m trying to apologise, Violet. Adele and I have broken up for good. We were all but over last week, so I wasn’t really cheating. I like you. I . . . um . . . I’d like to make things up to you . . . Maybe we could talk later?” He glances over at Ethan, who clears his throat and makes a should-I-leave-the-room hand signal. I shoot him a don’t-you-even-fucking-think-about-it glare.

  “We have nothing to talk about, Stuart. Don’t kid yourself that you weren’t cheating on your fiancée last week, because you were. How low would my self-esteem have to get and how desperate would I have to be to get into a relationship with a known cheater? If you were the last man on earth I’d demand a recount. Oh, and one last thing, your marketing plan for Quest Living is shit. You’re going to destroy your brand if you leave us.”

  Stuart stares at me for a moment. My heart thuds in my chest as I wait for him to speak, but a deathly silence fills the office. His face is fully charged with tension, but he says nothing, gathers up his things and walks out of the room.

  The second he’s gone, Ethan spins around and lets me have it. “What the hell was that?”

  “What was what? Are you serious?”

  “Yes, I’m serious,” he says, his eyes wide. “Look, I know you’re pissed at Stuart, but you’ve just blown any chance we had of keeping Quest, and I’d really like it if you considered my career once in a while.”

  A pang of betrayal settles into my gut. “I thought you’d have my back,” I say, my voice breaking.

  “I do have your back, I’ll always have your back, but when you’re out of line I’m going to tell you. This isn’t how we work. How many clueless clients have we had over the years? How many shit briefs have account directors passed us? You know what we do – we listen, we nod our heads, then we do our magic and convince everyone we know best.” He stands and starts pacing the room. He’s furious, and my stomach sinks. Deep down, I know I’ve overstepped the mark, but my head is in a mess and all I want is to close my eyes and have it all go away.