It's Complicated (The Agency Book 2) Read online

  “Yes, but what I’m trying to say is we intended to capture a sense of a revolution in design.” Tamara is flustered by Belle’s obvious anger, which isn’t helped by the fact she’s being forced to sell a concept she hates. “Our model embodies female liberation, innovation and determination, which reflects you – the person behind the brand.”

  Belle raises her eyebrows as she looks around the room. “With respect, that’s utter twaddle. Now, tell me, who is responsible for this godawful mess?”

  “It was my idea,” Georgie says, her voice shaking slightly.

  No way am I letting Georgie take the blame. “I am responsible, Ms Oaks.”

  “No, sweetie, really,” says Georgie, her voice now actively trembling. “It was totally my idea. I know I’ve been overbearing again, haven’t I? I wish I didn’t have to be such a control freak. Oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry . . .”

  “I’m the creative director, so the buck stops with me.” I feel like shit, but I take comfort in the fact that the small amount of courage I possess is enabling me to front this out.

  Suddenly Freja is on her feet. She walks around the back of the room and then hunkers down next to Belle. “The music choices we’ve shortlisted will raise the ad’s emotional impact. The visuals fit the score, and the cinematography evokes a brand that is bold and heroic.” She taps a pencil on the table in a rhythm and starts to sing softly, gracefully acting the music’s crescendo and climax with her arms. I’m impressed by her voice. And her false enthusiasm.

  “Thank you, Miss Larsen,” says Belle. “I understand what you were trying to achieve with this and I can’t deny the ad is beautifully filmed, but the entire underlying concept is wrong.”

  “Let me show you our artwork,” says Georgie, rising eagerly to join Freja.

  “No.” Belle holds out her hand to stop her. “If it’s a model standing on a barricade, hoisting a tricolour, then no matter how lovely it is, it still doesn’t fit my brand.” She turns to address Tamara. “Miss Lockwood, I am very disappointed in you. You sold me something quite different to this in our meetings. I will not be paying a penny for this work. I’m going to call Stella to cancel our contract.”

  Fuck’s sake, I need to save this sinking shit. “We’ll redo it!” Nine pairs of eyes bore into me, but I keep going. “We still have tomorrow. Let us try our back-up plan.”

  Freja, still standing next to Belle, catches on quick. “Yes, we can get to work on our other idea straight away. We have all tomorrow to shoot.”

  Belle looks at both of us. “I’m not sure I trust either of you given the disaster I’ve just witnessed.”

  “Give us one day,” I plead.

  Belle pauses. Her expression is unreadable. “Fine,” she says eventually. “But I’m not paying any of the costs you’ve accrued for that hideous revolution ad.”

  * * *

  Another freezing cold day has turned to night by the time we return to our hotel. Luckily, I was able to take a taxi with Freja, Georgie and Max, as I didn’t relish spending time with any of the others. We spent the entire journey brainstorming ideas to get the campaign shoot back on track, and I feel optimistic that we’ll be able to do it. Georgie apologised for being a “domineering control freak” whilst Freja cocooned her with words of support. Max didn’t help at all. He told Georgie that she’s bossy and continued to call her “Tally”, as in “Tally-ho”. So far this week, the nickname has elicited three tuts, a shove, a couple of frustrated screams and one pretty savage kick on the shin. Still, I’m grateful Max opted to call her “Tally” rather than “Ho”. I’d have placed good money on him going down the more offensive route.

  As soon as we enter the hotel I hear Jadine giggling flirtatiously. She’s been attempting to seduce Pascal, our hunky French cameraman, all week, and it’s getting tiresome. Still, I’d rather she was cooing over him than Ethan. Pascal is on loan from a Parisian TV studio. He came to us complete with Popeye-sized biceps and a rather impressive package (he wears very tight jeans).

  “Erm, Violet . . .” Freja says as I fumble around my bag in an attempt to find my room key.

  “Yeah?” I recheck every pocket and find it sandwiched inside my diary. Then I look up and . . . Oh, fuck. Are you kidding me?

  Ethan is sitting in a lime-green bucket chair in the lobby, surrounded by Jadine, Tamara, Ruby and Tom. They’re all in high spirits and the conversation seems to be about tomorrow’s crisis film shoot. Georgie and Max walk over to join them. I’d follow, but I don’t have the strength to pick my jaw up off the floor. Why the hell is he here?

  “Remember what I told you,” Freja whispers in my ear. “Give him space.” She takes my elbow and guides me over to the group.

  “I didn’t expect you to fly over so quickly,” says Tamara. My stomach instantly burns with anger. Is this her doing?

  “I’d like to say my schedule was clear, but I’ve had to put the next chapter in the JET Financial bid on hold to fix this clusterfuck.” His voice is very Scottish, meaning he’s agitated. He also seems incapable of looking me in the eye.

  “What’s going on?” I ask. Everyone falls silent and I feel like public enemy number one. I discreetly check my back to see if a knife is sticking out of it.

  “I’m here to ensure our client’s needs are met.” The cold snap in his tone matches the bitter weather outside.

  “We should leave you to talk,” says the always hyper-intuitive Freja. She ushers everyone towards the hotel’s meeting room. Jadine seems unwilling to move until Freja gives her a death stare. Then she picks up her coat, hat and scarf at a snail’s pace and reluctantly follows the rest of the team. I hate her so much.

  “I think I should stay behind,” says Tamara.

  “You’ve done enough,” I say.

  “No, I’d actually quite like to clear the air, Violet,” she says. “I called Ethan first thing this morning because I thought the shoot had gone to hell, and I was right.”

  “Mistakes have been made, but I know how to correct them,” I reply. Ethan looks at me like I’ve let him down, and I feel actual pain. Like someone is sticking red-hot pins into my skin.

  Tamara laughs. “Do you? I took plenty of heat in that meeting this afternoon, but none of this was my fault. You fucked up and you put my career and reputation on the line.”

  I don’t stop to consider whether she may have a point. “We’ve already had this discussion, Tamara. It started with me telling you you’re self-centred and it ended with you telling me I don’t deserve my position.”

  “No, Violet, that conversation started with me telling you your ad doesn’t fit my client’s brief. How it ended was down to you.” Tamara stands and folds her heavy coat over her arm.

  “Regardless, you shouldn’t have gone behind my back. I thought you were better than that.”

  “Tamara did the right thing,” says Ethan.

  A bitter sting of betrayal hits me in the centre of my chest and my voice dissolves into a weak whisper. “How do you know? You weren’t there.”

  His stern expression changes briefly. A flash of . . . something . . . crosses his face, but then the seriousness returns. “Tamara told me what happened, and Belle Oaks backed up her story in a telephone call to Stella. That’s good enough for me.” All I can do is stare blankly at him, my mind racing with words I can’t say in Tamara’s presence. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go and steer this ship in the right direction.”

  He heads for the meeting room, Tamara following behind him.

  I don’t know whether I should join them or take the Eurostar back to London. But then I hear Freja urging me to give Ethan space, and I manage to dig deep enough to find a teeny-tiny scrap of hope that there’s still a chance for us. Now all I need to do is get over the fact that Ethan is refusing to listen to me. And that he’s speaking to me with contempt. And that he’s looking at me like I’m the worst enemy he’s ever had.

  * * *

  I stare at the clock in my room, willing the first number
to say twenty-three rather than twenty-two. Our meeting lasted until seven, and then we had dinner followed by drinks in the hotel bar. Ethan didn’t speak one word to me. He laughed and joked with everyone else, then he escaped to his room. I left shortly after him and I swear time has stood still ever since. I stare up at the bare ceiling, then I close my eyes and attempt to count wildebeest running over the savannah. I don’t know why I do that as it never bloody works. Wildebeest may run faster than sheep, but I’m sure counting fast things rather than slow things makes my brain speed up and stay awake longer.

  What would happen if I just packed my things right now and headed for the train station? Maybe I should do what I did in New York – just pack up and leave and never go back. It worked out for the best last time I ran away from all my troubles, but back then I was leaving a huge mistake – this time I’d be leaving my soulmate. I decide to seek out the best giver of advice I’ve ever met – Freja. Maybe I’m choosing her because I know she’ll tell me to stick it out. I probably subconsciously need to hear that. I pull on some leggings and a sweater, but by the time I get to Freja’s room, I’m already having doubts. She must think I’m a fool for weaving this much hysterical drama into my life. But I’ve nothing to lose. I knock lightly on the door, half hoping she’s not there. There’s no answer, so I knock a little louder.

  “Qui est là?”

  What the hell? Have I got the right room? I check the room number: 108. Shit, that’s the right one. Oh . . . okay, I know what this means. I start to tiptoe away, but after just three steps her door creaks open. I turn around and find her wrapped in a bed sheet. “What’s up?” she whispers. Her usual sleek and shiny orange hair looks like it hasn’t seen a brush in a month.

  “Have you got a man in there?”

  Her tongue sinks into her cheek and a huge, lopsided grin appears on her face.

  “Freja, qui est là? Reviens, chérie,” says the mystery voice.

  “Oh my god, who is it?” I’m shocked and impressed. She moves very fast.

  “Pascal,” she says with a giggle. “What did he just say?”

  “You’re kidding me. If you don’t understand French, how did you even . . . ?”

  Her eyes grow wide and the enormous smile reappears.

  “Ugh, I don’t want to know.”

  “So don’t ask. Just translate. Please.”

  “He wants you to go back to bed.”

  “How do I say ‘five minutes’ in French again?”

  “You speak five languages. How don’t you know this?”

  “I speak Danish, Swedish, German, Dutch and English. There’s no room in my brain for French.”

  I shout “Cinq minutes!” into the darkened room.

  She grabs her coat and room key. “So, what can I do for you?” she asks as she sits down on the floor, strategically arranging the sheet around her legs.

  I laugh. “Erm . . . shall we go to my room?”

  “Why?”

  I lower my voice to a whisper. “Because you’re wearing bed linen in public.”

  She waves her hand dismissively. “I’m Danish. The world expects me to have lots of wild impromptu sex.”

  “Sounds fun,” I say, wondering if life would be easier if I had the same carefree attitude. Freja certainly seems to be enjoying herself more than I am at the moment. “So, how was it?”

  “I was phenomenal, as always.”

  I laugh until my sides hurt.

  “Oh, were you wondering about Pascal?”

  “Yeah,” I say between giggles.

  The look on her face says it all. “Meh, let’s just say he’s okay.”

  I think about Pascal’s Popeye-sized biceps, tight jeans and discernible bulge. What a waste.

  “But enough about him. What do you need me for?”

  “Advice,” I say, crossing my legs in front of me. “And I’m sorry for coming to you again. You must be sick of me.”

  “Never,” she says, taking my hand and holding it tightly. Her expression floods with compassion. “We’re friends, remember?”

  I lean my back against the hard wall and take a deep breath. “I’m thinking about leaving Paris, and Tribe, first thing tomorrow.”

  “Today was bad, wasn’t it?”

  I nod. “The worst.”

  “I understand, but I know you well enough to know you don’t really want to leave. Ethan would be devastated if he arrived on set tomorrow and found you were gone.”

  “If I don’t go now, things will only get worse.” I let go of her hand and wrap my arms around my knees for comfort. “I don’t even care that I fucked up the ad, Freja. I know how to fix it. I only care that he can’t bear to look at me.”

  “We all have times like these – times when we think we won’t survive. But you will survive, and when you come out the other side, you’re going to appreciate how much these last few weeks have shaped who you are. We learn more from the bad times than the good.”

  “You sure about that?”

  She smiles warmly and her kindness tingles my skin. “Yeah, I’m sure. Now you need to get out there and be your own hero. Embrace what you’ve learned about yourself this far and keep on going.”

  Her words feed my wounded soul. How does she do that? I let this woman get close from the day I met her. That’s something I’ve never done before. Why do I find it so easy to open up to her? She puts her arm around me and I snuggle into her thick padded coat. And then it hits me. She talks to me in the same way my sister used to. Laurel never bought my parents’ condemnation. She loved me for who I was – just like Freja. They even have the same caramel eyes.

  “I wish I could open up more. I never want to talk. That’s what screwed up our relationship.”

  She nudges my shoulder and grins. “Well, you’re talking to me, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah,” I say wryly, returning her smile. “I don’t know how I talk to you as easily as I do. I’ve never really had a female friend before.”

  “Really? Not any?” she says. “Why not?”

  I freeze for a moment as images flash through my mind: Laurel holding my hand as we walk to school, her laughter filling our kitchen at dinner time, her always forgiving me for being me. My hand shoots to my chest and I find the necklace Ethan gave me the day after I told him about her – the one he had engraved with a laurel branch. I clutch it tight and take a deep breath. “I had a sister. She died. I haven’t tried to have a female friendship because it always reminded me of what I lost. Laurel was my best friend. She didn’t see me the way everyone else did . . . she loved me unconditionally. I thought Ethan did too.” I look into Freja’s eyes and my words get lost in how much she cares. She’s practically a stranger, yet here I am talking to her about Laurel. It took me three years to tell Ethan. “He said he loved me just the way I am too, but he doesn’t.”

  “No, he’s had his feelings hurt, that’s all. He’ll come back to you when he’s ready.”

  “What if he doesn’t?”

  “What would Laurel say to you if she were here right now?”

  My eyes tear up at the mention of her name. “She’d tell me to fight for him, but you said I’d push him away if I did that.”

  “Leaving Ethan to come to you is fighting for him.” she says tenderly.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You know I observe people?” she asks. I nod, noting how easily she reads my emotions. “Well, I watched Ethan in the meeting and I watched him over dinner: the way he couldn’t stop looking at you, the way his face flushed when you caught his eye, the way he puffed out his chest and focused his voice to hide how he’s feeling. He still loves you. He’s hurting and he needs time, but he loves you very much. You have found someone who doesn’t give a damn about your quirks or your flaws, so don’t give up on him. People who love people for who they are don’t leave them. And if they do, then they weren’t the one.”

  I detect sadness in her voice. I wonder who she’s lost. I wonder who she’s walked away from. “Yo
u remind me of Laurel a little.”

  “She must have been a truly amazing person then,” she says, giving her hair an exaggerated flick.

  I wipe a stray tear. “She was.”

  She gives my arm one last squeeze, then she stands up. “I should be getting back to my amorous Frenchman,” she says, rearranging the bed sheet. “What are you going to do?”

  “I honestly don’t know. I think I need to sleep on it. See how the world looks tomorrow.”

  “For what it’s worth, I love you for who you are too. You have a beautiful heart.” She slides her key card into the reader and opens her door. “And I’ve never been wrong about anybody.”

  17

  ETHAN TOOK CONTROL OF TODAY’S shoot from the start, and I had to force a smile onto my face for the rest of the day. His presence told everyone I’d lost control and I was incapable of doing my job. I don’t truly believe there’s any point continuing. I have absolutely no idea how to resurrect my career at Tribe. I don’t even know if I want to.

  Freja filmed a standard black-and-white advert on the banks of the Seine, and Georgie shot a series of classy photographs that I’m sure will look swish in glossy magazines and Sunday newspaper supplements. There was nothing cutting-edge about their work, but that’s fine. The client demanded ordinary, so that’s what we delivered.

  As for mine and Ethan’s relationship? It’s deader than Jacob Marley after the last nail was hammered into his coffin. So the very last place I want to be right now is cruising the Seine with him on a bateau mouche.

  Yet here I am.

  It’s our last night in Paris and – thankfully – Belle Oaks was over the moon with her bland-as-boiled-rice ad campaign. To celebrate, and to make up for the Les Misérables misery, Stella is paying for this evening’s dinner cruise, complete with a string quartet and free bar. Unfortunately we have to share the boat with a rowdy French telemarketing team and a group of American tourists.