Just Friends (The Agency Book 1) Page 12

  “It’s like you said. I was just trying to convince Stuart that changing the hashtag was a bad idea,” I say, trying in vain to defend myself.

  “No you bloody weren’t,” he yells. “You more or less told him he was a fucking idiot!”

  “Well, he is a fucking idiot!” I scream back.

  “Alright, his idea was shit, but so what? Anyone can have a stupid idea from time to time – well, everyone except you, that is.”

  My hands go to my hips. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means this isn’t the first time you’ve done this and we’re gaining a reputation for it. Remember Edward Asquith’s client brief for that garden centre chain?”

  “I remember Edward Asquith taking it upon himself to pitch a TV character called Harry Cox, if that’s what you’re referring to.” I groan as I recall the innuendo. “You know as well as I do that all anyone watching that ad would have heard was ‘hairy cock’. It was worse than offensive.”

  “Edward still won’t work with us, Vi. We’ve lost some great opportunities because of your outburst over that. Why couldn’t you have just let it go with Stuart?”

  “I just . . . don’t like him . . . He . . .” Tears well in my eyes and I hope with everything I have that Ethan doesn’t notice, but I see panic of the shit, a woman is crying, what do I do? variety sweep across his face.

  “Is this about Ryan?”

  “What . . . why? How could you even ask me that?”

  He gulps audibly. “Um . . . Never mind—”

  “No, don’t you dare backtrack. You said that for a reason. Why?”

  His angry-face melts away. “Okay, I’m saying this because I’m your friend and I care about you. I only know what you’ve told me about Ryan, which isn’t very much, but all those years ago you had a relationship with a married man . . .”

  I give up all hope of stopping my tears from falling. “I can’t believe you’re bringing this up. You think I’ve got no right to complain about what Stuart did because of Ryan?”

  “No, that’s not what I’m saying at all. I’m just wondering if that experience has made you more sensitive about this one.”

  I sniff back what’s left of my tears. “I hadn’t even thought about Ryan, but thanks for dredging up my past and using it against me.”

  “Vi, that’s bullshit and you know it.” His eyes fix on mine and I know he’s being honest. “I’m just trying to understand what’s made you throw a hand grenade at the bridge we’ve spent all week trying to rebuild.”

  “I guess some of us would rather swim across the river than cross a bridge owned by a fucking twat!”

  “Can you two keep the noise down?” Will thunders into the room. “The entire floor can hear you hollering at each other.” He stops dead and looks at me before scowling at Ethan. “Has he upset you?”

  “Just a difference of opinion, Will,” I say as I wipe the wetness from my cheeks. I curse myself for crumbling. I never cry.

  “Okay, well let me know if you’re looking for a new partner, because Pinkie-Winkie has just insulted the living shit out of Jae-Kwang from Sunta. He straight up asked him if he missed eating dog now he lives in London.”

  “Oh my god, he didn’t.”

  “He bloody did,” says Will. “Jae-Kwang has lived here for seventeen years. What did I do to earn getting saddled with that Yorkshire pudding? He has the social awareness of a fucking potato. Anyway, that’s not why I’m here. Max hasn’t turned up for work and nobody can trace him. Ethan, I’ve called your brother, and I’ve called his idiot friend Marek. Nobody has seen him and Stella is on the warpath.”

  “Has anybody been to his flat?” asks Ethan.

  “Your Rory said he was going to head over now, but he has to be at work by six.”

  “Okay, I’ll chase Rory up, see if he’s had any luck.” Ethan gives me a friendly smile as he leaves the office. I try to return it, but I’m not sure I manage.

  ***

  We spend the afternoon and into the early evening making arrangements for next week’s shoot. At 6 p.m. Ethan’s brother phones to say he’s had to give up his search for Max and go to work.

  “Did you message Max earlier about Carly?” I ask.

  “Yes, but he hasn’t responded.” Ethan picks up his iPhone and flicks through to his notifications. Then he stands up so quickly he sends his desk chair flying backwards on its wheels.

  “What is it?” My pulse starts to race and I hope with everything I have it isn’t bad news.

  “I contacted a couple of Max’s bonkers Euro mates. Remember that dickhead Dieter who bummed a stay on his sofa for weeks on end last year? He’s just texted to say he saw Max outside Tanzen.”

  “Oh, thank god.”

  Ethan stands over his desk and starts to gather his things. “Looks like I’m going to spend yet another evening in that hellhole of a nightclub.” He shuts down his system and turns to face me. His smile is encouraging, but I can sense he’s anxious. “Don’t worry. I’ll find him.”

  “I’m coming with you.”

  “No, it’s fine.”

  “Are you still angry with me?”

  He pauses, tipping his head to one side and giving me a lopsided smile. “I shouldn’t have said what I said earlier, and I’m sorry. Just go out on your date with Daniel. Try to enjoy yourself.”

  “I’m not sure I can . . . or if I even want to. I’m too worried. I’m not in the mood for a night out.”

  “I’ll keep you posted, I promise.”

  13

  “THAT MUST BE THE TWENTIETH time you’ve checked your phone tonight,” Daniel says. He’s being generous. It’s probably closer to the fiftieth.

  “I’m really sorry. I’m not being good company, am I? I just have something on my mind.”

  “Oh? Is there anything I can help with?”

  I shake my head as I twist the stem of my wine glass between my thumb and forefinger. Daniel Noble must be Barrett McAllan Gray’s most eligible bachelor. At forty years old, he has somehow avoided marriage, but he has a reputation for dating beautiful, successful women. I feel more than honoured to be sitting opposite him in the Michelin-starred Club Gascon, looking into his dark blue eyes that co-ordinate perfectly with the navy of his Tom Ford suit.

  But I’m not feeling it. Daniel is lovely – charming, successful, good-looking and great conversation – but even if my law didn’t exist, I don’t think I’d be interested in him romantically. It’s just not there. I’m also worried sick about Max.

  A waiter clears our plates and pours more wine into our glasses. “Could I bring you the dessert menu, sir, madam?” he says. We both decline.

  “How did you get a table here at such short notice?” I ask. Club Gascon must have a lengthy waiting list.

  “The maître d’ owes me a favour. Plus it’s a Thursday.” Daniel smiles, and I notice how strong and defined his features are – just like a Renaissance statue of a Roman emperor. I imagine him in golden armour for a moment and giggle.

  I have a sip of wine, then my fingers subconsciously move to tap my phone for an update. I catch Daniel’s knowing glance. Busted. I guiltily withdraw my hand and apologise again.

  “It’s okay, Violet. If you need to check your phone, go ahead.”

  I sigh. He’s being so sweet, and I’m being an ungrateful cow. “It’s Max. He didn’t show up for work today and we can’t contact him. Ethan is out searching the nightclubs of south London, where he was last seen. He said he’d send me a message when he finds him.”

  “Oh, I see. Well, out of all our artists, he has always struck me as having the most ‘artistic’ temperament.”

  “You can say that again. I love him to death, but he’s high maintenance.”

  “My accounts team call him ‘the nutty professor’.”

  I start to laugh. “Given what they call me, that’s quite complimentary.”

  “Ah, the Snow Queen, right?” asks Daniel, his Home Counties accent as smooth as the ex
pensive wine we’re drinking. “I do believe one of my account managers could have started that. She may have had a thing for your partner.”

  “Really?” I raise my eyebrows. “Who was it? And why would having a thing for Ethan make her hate me?”

  Daniel clears his throat and takes another drink of wine. “I couldn’t possibly say.”

  “Yes, you could. You don’t have to tell me who it is, just . . . why?”

  I fix my eyes on him until he acquiesces. “Okay, there’s a longstanding rumour you two are an item. I know you’re just friends, but . . . well . . .”

  “Well, what?”

  He forces a smile. “I shouldn’t have said anything, but . . . I have noticed how Ethan looks at you, and it does seem to be more than mere friendship.”

  Oh my god, not again. Just when I manage to get thoughts about Ethan’s recent odd behaviour under control, somebody else insinuates there’s something between us.

  “Ethan and I are best friends. It is possible for two people of the opposite sex to be great friends and work together without falling in love, you know.”

  “Forgive me, I shouldn’t have commented. I just wanted to know where I stood.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Daniel’s gaze is fixed to his wine glass. The crisp white tablecloth in front of him is clean, aside from a small daub of sauce from his main course. He moves his thumb over it in a futile attempt to remove it. “I know you’re not here because you changed your mind.”

  I shift nervously in my seat. No, forget that – I squirm in my seat. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because you have live location sharing on your Facebook and the message you sent at two a.m. came from Soho, not Kilburn. Of course, you could very well have been staying at Ethan’s place last night, but I figured it’s more likely he knows your login.”

  Double, triple shit. Busted again. “So why did you . . .”

  “Why did I play along?” he says with the confidence of a man who has the upper hand. “I’ve had a lovely evening with you, so it was no hardship. I am intrigued to learn the truth, however.”

  “Okay, I didn’t know Ethan was going to do this, but remember I told you about my law?” He nods and I continue. “Well, Ethan decided to do it too, and we’re in competition to see who can keep going the longest. He wants to win, so he . . . well, that’s why he messaged you.”

  Daniel downs the dregs of his wine and dabs his napkin to the corners of his mouth. “I’ve got to tell you, that’s the last thing I expected you to say.”

  He looks around the restaurant and catches the eye of our waiter, giving me time to think about how horrible I am. I should never have done this. What on earth was I thinking? I take my credit card out of my purse. “I’m paying for dinner,” I say decisively.

  “Don’t be silly,” he says with kindness I don’t deserve. “I told you I already knew you hadn’t changed your mind. I’ve had a lovely evening, but I think we should cut it short so you can help Ethan find Max.” He stands and picks my credit card up off the table, offering it back to me.

  “I really think I should pay, Daniel. It would make me feel better.”

  He takes hold of my hand, places the credit card in it and closes his fingers around mine. He smiles as he holds me for a moment. “You haven’t done anything wrong. I reserve the right to give Fraser a solid kicking in the Lakes next week though.”

  Crap, I forgot he’s coming on the shoot too. Awkward much?

  I text Ethan for his location while Daniel pays the bill and asks the maître d’ to call me a taxi. I wish Daniel goodnight, and he offers a neutral “You too” in return.

  Great. Yet another person I have to work with who hates me.

  ***

  The charmingly named Dance Sewer is located underground on Brixton Road, not far from Max’s flat. Two ten-foot-tall bouncers guard the door of the hidden-away nightclub, which is sandwiched between Bob’s Burger Bar and a pawnbrokers. A group of six teenagers barge their way through the doors in front of me wearing clothes last seen on a beach in Ibiza. I, on the other hand, am wearing clothes last seen in a Michelin-starred restaurant. For the first time in my life I curse my favourite Donna Karan cocktail dress and wish I were ten years younger.

  I enter the club to the sound of thud, thud, thud, thud, thud, thud. Ethan was right – the music goes right through you. The dry ice catches the back of my throat as I descend a metal staircase and almost get carried into the crowd of people who aren’t so much dancing as jumping. Some have whistles, others have luminous glow sticks, and the guy in front of me has come dressed as a horse. I kid you not – he’s wearing a horse’s head and he has a tail sewn onto his cycling shorts. I can’t imagine why he thought purple Lycra resembled a horse’s arse, but there you go. Maybe he doesn’t own any brown trousers.

  More dry ice is pumped through the air as I trudge over the moist, sticky carpet on my hunt for Ethan . . . and hopefully, Max. A cocktail of aromas lingers on the air: sweaty bodies, weed and cheap alcopops. I conclude there is no better name for this nightclub than Dance Sewer.

  The DJ shouts into his mic. There are cheers, but he’s as coherent as Charlie Brown’s schoolteacher, so I don’t have a clue what he’s saying. The music changes to a slower-tempo track. Arms are raised in the air, the horse-guy neighs to a round of applause, and then the music ramps back up to a different, yet exactly the same, version of the previous song.

  Absolute torture.

  I pull my phone from my bag, and I’m about to send Ethan a “where the hell are you?” text when it’s knocked out of my hand by a tall black guy wearing knee-socks and a tutu. He apologises; at least I think he does – I can’t hear a bloody thing. I bend down to rescue my phone and finally locate Ethan. He’s standing at the bar, yelling at Max’s friend Marek.

  “You’re a moron, Marek! I told you to keep him here,” yells Ethan as I approach. “He’s off his head,” he shouts into my ear.

  “Max has gone home, he’s good . . . let him work it out . . . peace, man,” Marek blabbers. His light-brown eyes look like they’ve just made a return trip from Mars. In fact, calling Marek spaced out would be an understatement. He’s dressed in jeans that are three sizes too tight, with a rope belt clinging to his waist. His frayed shirt is opened to his chest, displaying a medallion made out of seashells. Is this what the kids wear these days? I have no idea. Max is three years older than Ethan and I, but Marek is barely in his twenties. He shares a flat with three other Eastern Europeans and works in an Oxford Street sports shop.

  “I said very clearly that you were to keep him here, you dipshit!” Oh no, Ethan’s accent is getting more Scottish – therefore more angry.

  “He’s home, he’s good . . .” repeats Marek, and I have to take Ethan to one side before he starts laying into him.

  Marek meanders into the crowd, half dancing and half jogging. “Fucking idiot,” Ethan mutters as he goes.

  “Why don’t we go to Max’s flat?” I yell into Ethan’s ear.

  He turns to answer, but just then a stoned guy with luminous white skin and dreadlocks that look like they’ve been spun from the pubic hair of a camel comes up to us, shoves his face into mine and shouts “Rrrrooooaaarrrrr!”

  Before I know what’s happening, Ethan has dreadlocks-guy by the shoulders and is screaming in his face. “What the fucking hell was that? What’s wrong with you?”

  Dreadlocks-guy does his best to escape from Ethan’s hold whilst shouting “Do you know who I am?” and “I’ll have you barred for this.” Is he a DJ? Or a barman?

  I can’t get near Ethan to pull him off the guy. A sea of people rush forward shouting “Fight!” as bottles and glasses fly off the bar. I try to squeeze through an opening, but I’m shoved backwards against a steel pillar. I fall to the floor, and a searing pain flashes across my head as it lands on broken glass.

  I manage to pick myself up with help from three people I don’t know, only to see Ethan being hauled away by one of the hu
ge bouncers. I follow after them, hearing my own pulse mix with the thud, thud, thud, thud, thud of the techno music.

  When I get outside, I follow the sound of Ethan’s yelling to a taxi rank, where three bouncers are trying to persuade him to get into a taxi and go home. “My friend is still in there! I need to get her!”

  “No way are you going back in there, mate. Now get yourself home or we’ll call the police.”

  “Ethan!” I shout as loud as I can, but my head is hurting so much it feels like a family of woodpeckers have taken up residence inside it. Do I have concussion? No, I’m conscious, I can’t have it. Wait . . . you don’t have to be unconscious, do you? Does this mean I could just fall unconscious at any moment? No. That’s narcolepsy. Don’t be stupid, Violet.

  When Ethan sees me, he pulls out of the bouncer’s hold and runs up to me. “Are you okay?” he asks, his eyes frantically searching mine.

  “I hit my head and I got knocked over. I’ll be fine. I just want to go home.”

  “I’ll take you. Get in the taxi.”

  Ethan takes my arm and guides me to the waiting black cab. “But what about Max?” I say.

  “Fuck him. This is all his fault anyway.”

  ***

  It takes just over half an hour for us to get from Brixton to my flat. I spend most of the ride with my eyes shut, trying to block out the pain in my skull. When we get inside, the first thing Ethan does is go to my bathroom to get a pack of paracetamol. He also gets a tumbler of cold water, a bottle of wine and two glasses. The absolute last thing I want right now is alcohol, but apparently the wine is for him. He fills a glass and downs it in one.

  “Jesus, what a night.” He refills his glass and sits down next to me on the sofa, rolling up his shirt sleeves to inspect his arms for bruises.