Just Friends (The Agency Book 1) Page 4

  “I . . . didn’t . . . know . . .”

  I feel sick to my stomach. This is the second time I’ve been in this position. The first time I was partly responsible for breaking a family apart. Do I need to run a background check on every man I date? Clearly my married-cheating-bastard radar is seriously off-kilter.

  “So, I think we’re clear. Keep quiet, or I make life very difficult for you.”

  My chest heaves and I struggle to breathe, but I’m not going to let her have the last word. “Is that supposed to be a threat?”

  “Yes it is, and I don’t care, because I don’t like you. I’ve seen how you look at me. You have such a ridiculously high opinion of yourself, but you’re not half as smart as you think you are. All you are is a leech, feeding off Ethan Fraser’s success.”

  She storms off and I can’t speak. All I can do is stare after her as she walks away.

  Ridley appears from behind me, his shoulder slamming into mine as he walks past, almost knocking me to the floor. I steady myself against the wall as he spins round and says an insincere “Excuse me.” His grin is as wide as his face.

  I forget about my phone and walk back to one of the bars for a glass of water, wondering if now might be a good time to sneak off home before I kill somebody. Who decided revenge is self-defeating? Happiness is the best revenge, say the people who create internet memes. Or is it success?

  Yeah, well, fuck that. The best revenge is revenge.

  It’s just a shame I’m totally crap at plotting. The only scheme my brain is throwing up is utterly ridiculous. I mean, how the hell do you infect somebody with elephantiasis of the vagina?

  4

  I RUB MY BROW AS my foggy champagne-brain knocks me to one side. Jeez, how much have I drunk? I promised myself I’d go home over an hour ago, but all I’ve done is drink fizz like it’s going out of fashion. I hop off the barstool, but the heel of my shoe hits the ground at an angle and I tumble into someone.

  “Whoa, sorry, Daniel. Um . . . are you having a good night?”

  Daniel Noble is tall, blonde, fit, and very good-looking. I’ve always thought he bears a passing resemblance to Daniel Craig, but with less muscle. “Yeah, great. Well, aside from having to listen to the bravado in Captain America’s corner over there.”

  I look over to see that Stella and Dylan Best are still joined at the hip. “Did you know I used to work for BEST Inc.?”

  “No, I didn’t.” His eyes light up with interest. “How long were you in New York?”

  “A year and a half. I had a great time. New York is an amazing city to work in.”

  “So I’ve heard. Why did you leave?”

  Stupidly, I falter and look at my feet.

  “Ah, I know that look. A guy?”

  “Hmm, you could say that.”

  Daniel takes a sip of whisky. “Can I get you anything?”

  “No, thank you. I think I’ve had enough for tonight.”

  He smiles knowingly and his rugged jaw dimples. “So, you got us a fabulous win tonight. Congratulations. You must be very proud.”

  “Thank you. And it wasn’t just my win. Ethan’s too, remember.”

  “Of course.” He inclines his head slightly. “What on earth is it with Malcolm and Ethan?”

  “You know, we have absolutely no idea. Malcolm hated him long before I started at BMG.”

  “He’s probably jealous. Ethan’s a talented guy, and Malcolm? He’s out of his depth to the point of being a liability. The agency would be on its knees if it weren’t for Stella. She’s been covering Malcolm’s arse with the board for years.”

  “Really?” I like a bit of office gossip and I’m eager to hear more, but I also feel torn. Despite being an ass to everyone else, Malcolm has always been good to me, in an Obi-Wan Kenobi mentor kind of way. Not that Malcolm possesses the advertising world’s equivalent of Jedi powers. The only force that’s strong in Malcolm is the ability to piss people off.

  “Suffice it to say he’s the most inept executive at BMG, and considering Ridley Gates is my line manager, that’s certainly something.”

  I’m about to tell him Ridley is infinitely worse than Malcolm, but as I turn to speak, I notice that Daniel is looking at me in a way he never has before. In fact, his eyes are staring so intently into mine that I feel myself blush and look away. I hope with everything I have that he isn’t looking at me in that way, but I think he is.

  “You know, there might be another reason why Malcolm Barrett heaps praise on you but ignores Ethan.” He leans in so close I can almost taste the spice of his cologne – black pepper and a hint of nutmeg.

  “Oh, and what’s that?” I ask with a certain amount of trepidation.

  He pushes himself forward until I can feel his breath on my neck, the smell of whisky tingling my nostrils. “Maybe he sees what I see.”

  Oh, shit, he is hitting on me. “I’m sure it’s just a personality clash . . .”

  He laughs as he swirls the whisky around in his glass before taking another sip. “I’m not talking about Ethan. I’m talking about you. You’re smart, you’re talented, you understand clients’ needs effortlessly, but you’re also so much more than that. How many creative teams do you think I’ve worked with over the years? I know more than enough to see there’s something very special about you.”

  “Well, that’s very kind of you to say, Daniel, but—”

  “Have dinner with me tomorrow night.”

  “What?” I gasp, and every word I have ever known deserts me. Daniel smiles, and his blue eyes sparkle under the bright fuchsia and gold lighting of the bar. I allow myself to feel flattered at being asked out by BMG’s most eligible bachelor, but at the same time this is hellishly awkward.

  “I’d be honoured to get to know you outside of work.” His voice is steady and filled with the self-confidence of a salesman closing a deal.

  “I’m sorry, Daniel. I don’t think that would be a good idea.” I lower my voice to a whisper and hope with everything I have that I’m doing the right thing, but thankfully he doesn’t look disappointed. Instead, he continues to talk to me as if he’s negotiating with a prospective client.

  “Why not? Give me your reasons and I’ll counteract them.”

  “Okay, let’s start with because I don’t date men I work with – colleagues or clients.”

  He raises his eyebrows. “I may be speaking out of turn, but I heard you went on a date with Stuart Inman.” I bristle, and he notices my discomfort immediately. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I was out of line, please forgive me.”

  “It’s fine. I . . . um . . . admit my workplace-dating rule was implemented very recently, and Stuart Inman was a factor in that.”

  “Oh, I see,” he says in surprise. “In that case, not mixing work with pleasure is a good rule to have. I suppose there’s no chance I can persuade Malcolm to fire you before tomorrow night.”

  I shake my head and laugh. He’s taking this well. I’m impressed. “No, I don’t think there’s any chance of that.”

  “Okay. Well, I’ll keep my offer open in case you change your mind. Have a great night.” He stands to leave, and I realise I like him. I wonder if I’m certifiably insane for letting him walk away.

  My watch says its half past midnight: time to head for home. I pick up my stupid glass vomit-on-a-stick trophy, find my coat in the elusive cloakroom and nip through a convenient side exit.

  And then I’m hit by a truck. Not a van. Not a tow truck or a tipper truck. Those vehicles would cause some pain, but they wouldn’t make my heart plunge to my feet, shattering into a hundred shards of broken glass. No, I’m hit by an articulated lorry filled with nuclear waste and a great big steaming pile of shit.

  I don’t know why it’s hurting me so much to see Ethan with his arms wrapped around another woman, but I quickly realise it isn’t the act itself that has blasted my internal organs out of my body – it’s the person his drunk, blind-stupid, sex-obsessed brain has chosen to do it with. In a venue
full of beautiful and successful women, why the hell did he have to pick her? I tell myself I have no ownership over him – we’re just friends – but my body feels like it’s bleeding out. My head is dizzy and my chest aches as the sound of my pulse rings in my ears.

  I watch their bodies slam together, my view partially obstructed by a neat row of wheelie bins, and I try to choke down my horror. He burrows his mouth into hers, his hands moving all over her body, pushing up that same gold skirt that Ridley Gates pushed up earlier tonight. His hands move to her thighs as he sways to the muffled music, his body pressing her into position like a clam to a rock, her lips placing soft kisses onto his neck, her eyes looking into mine as she smirks at me . . .

  Am I doomed to walk in on Carly Hayes every single time she has sex?

  I stumble backwards from the scene, my breathing louder than the wind, and walk towards the street, where I almost trip over a group of guys who have popped outside for a cigarette. “Get out of my fucking way!” I yell at a guy with curly red hair and a rubbery face who does his best to steady me by grabbing my arm.

  “Hey, we were just standing still here. You walked into us.”

  I raise my head and glare at him. “Hey, ask me if I give a fuck.”

  Jesus, what’s wrong with me? Could I be any ruder?

  I head for the taxi queue at the front of the building, my arms wrapped protectively around my body as the cold spring night bites into my skin. I can’t even bring myself to stop walking to put my coat on.

  “Where are you going? You can’t leave now!”

  I turn around to see Max sitting at the bottom of the stone steps leading from the main entrance, his long legs stretched out in front of him. He’s dressed only in his shirt and trousers.

  I stand shivering in front of him, and I can’t think and I can’t feel and I can’t see because my eyes are clouded with water. I daren’t blink because I don’t want to cry. “I’m going home, Max . . . you should go home too.”

  Max’s green eyes glaze over with concern. He tries to stand up, but he’s drunk, and probably high, and he flops back down again, his gangly limbs buckling awkwardly underneath him. I reassure him that I’m fine, and he relaxes, takes a lighter from his pocket and fires up a cigarette. He takes a long drag and exhales, filling the air with an aroma I recognise as something other than tobacco.

  “Max, for fuck’s sake. You know that shit’s illegal.”

  “Yeah, but I’m pissed and I have it. I don’t know how I have it actually. I can’t remember buying it.”

  I sit down next to him and slot my arm through his. “Just be as quick as you can with that thing and get back inside before somebody sees you. There are clients here tonight, for Christ’s sake.”

  “I’ve only got five minutes of it left. Do you want a puff?”

  I look at him and briefly contemplate it – smoking Max’s dirty cigarette might dull the pain, after all – but I politely decline.

  “Where’s your jacket, Max?”

  He starts to laugh and his eyes grow comically wide. “I have absolutely no fucking idea.”

  “Please tell me your mobile and house keys aren’t in it.”

  He looks as though he’s going to be sick. “Fuck. I’m totally fucking screwed.” His head snaps up and he points a finger in the air as if he’s just had a “Eureka!” moment. “That’s it. I’ll call my jacket to find out where it is. I freaking love you. You’re really, really, really so fucking smart.”

  “And you’re really, really, really so fucking high.”

  He puts his arm around my shoulder and plants a kiss on my forehead. “I am, and I’m happy . . . and Jesus, you’re freezing cold. Why is your coat crocheted with wool? There’re holes all over it. Is that the fashion? I’d be a gentleman and give you my jacket to put on, but I’ve lost the fucking thing.”

  “Well, let’s get you on your feet and we’ll go find it. But first, finish that bloody joint.” I squeeze him close as the wind picks up, blowing leaves, rubbish and cigarette butts around our feet. He stubs the remainder of his joint out on the ground, and it joins the swirling debris.

  “Are you going to tell me what’s up?”

  My insides churn as the memory of ten minutes ago resurfaces, but I decide to lie. “Nothing. I’m fine.”

  “You came out of the party looking like you’d seen one hell of a scary-looking ghost. What happened?”

  I can’t tell him. I don’t want to. I huddle closer to him, ignoring his question.

  “Is this about Ethan? I saw him go outside with Carly before I left. They looked to be, um, getting to know each other.” He whispers the words so tenderly, but they still manage to knot my stomach. I keep my head down, refusing to look at him in case I cry. I close my eyes and will the tears to stay put, but two free themselves and roll down each cheek, leaving wet streams behind them.

  “Violet?” Max places his hand on mine, locking our fingers together. “It’s okay. I know.”

  “What do you know?” I’m confused. Is he talking about Ridley shagging Carly? Or our argument? Or Stuart having a fiancée?

  “It’s okay. I know you’re in love with Ethan.”

  I almost choke on fresh air. “What? Max, you’re way off the mark there. I’m not in love with Ethan . . . I mean, I love him, of course I do. He’s my best friend – same as you – but I’m not in love with him.”

  Max stares at me, his eyes burning through my skin. He doesn’t believe me.

  “Max, I’m being honest here. I’m not in love with Ethan.”

  “Okay, I’m sorry. Why are you so upset then?”

  Good question. Why am I so upset?

  “I’ve just had a horrible couple of nights. I had a fight with Carly, and I’ve just found out Stuart Inman has a fiancée. Max, you know what happened in New York. I would never, ever do that again. Not intentionally.”

  “Oh my god, the bastard. I’ll kill him!” He stands up with fists already balled, but as soon as he’s upright he starts to sway and I have to tug him back down before he falls. He puts his arm around me again. “None of this is your fault,” he says, resting his head gently on mine. Another tear escapes and he catches it, smoothing the wetness off my skin with his thumb.

  “What’s wrong with me, Max? I’m not stupid, so why do I always date lying, cheating bastards? I turned down a date with a lovely guy tonight because I don’t trust myself and I made a stupid personal law, yet I’m so sick of being alone.”

  “If you were less smart, less talented and less beautiful then I’d fall in love with you myself.”

  His weird logic makes me smile. “Max, that makes no sense.”

  “I know, but it’s true. You’re too special for just anybody. You need to fall in love with someone who makes you thankful you are who you are, because who you are is amazing.”

  “Thank you. You’re a sweetheart.” I give him a squeeze and a kiss on the cheek. “You won’t say anything, will you? About Stuart.”

  He bats my arm playfully. “Of course I won’t say anything. What do you take me for?” Then he grabs my sequinned handbag from the step next to us, opens it up and pulls out my mobile.

  “Now, give my jacket a call. I’m freezing my fucking balls off sitting out here.”

  ***

  We head back to the party, but Max can barely stand, so I leave him in a chair while I head back to the cloakroom. Ten minutes later I give up the hunt for his jacket. It isn’t in the cloakroom, and I’ve tried calling it from five different locations with no response. I return to Max with the sad news, but he’s disappeared. The seat I left him in is empty and . . . oh, for the love of god, no . . . I can hear raised voices.

  I shut my eyes for a moment, my heart thudding in my chest as I decipher the shouts and the swearing – some of which is in German. Then I decide to kill him.

  I track the commotion to one of the bars, where a throng of people are crowding around Max and Stuart.

  “You fucking piece of shit. You mess with m
y friend and you get me in your face!”

  “Max, Max, just calm down,” says Stuart in a patronising tone, which is not a great idea given Max has the temper of a tired toddler, and that’s when he isn’t pissed and stoned.

  “Leck mich am arsch. Fick dich!”

  I have no idea what he’s saying, but some of the audience must know German profanities because they’re laughing and cheering him on.

  I charge through a fence of suits to get to Max just as he’s stepping closer to Stuart with his fists bared. “Max, don’t you dare!” I yell, but he takes no notice. He might be six foot four, but he’s built like a lamppost and I’m worried for him. I’ve seen Stuart naked, on the other hand, so I know he could throw a weighty punch if he had to.

  “Max, for crying out loud, what are you doing?” I shout again.

  “Giving this piece of shit what he deserves.”

  Stuart holds his hands up and laughs. “Okay, I get what’s happening here.” He turns to look at me. His skin is reddened, but his demeanour is surprisingly composed. “Violet, if it makes you feel any better, Adele and I are having some problems and—”

  “Max, no!” I scream . . .

  . . . but it’s too late.

  He lunges at Stuart, grabs him by the lapels of his jacket and attempts to head butt him. Thankfully he misses and they both land in a heap on the floor. A group of guys, led by Will, manage to stop laughing for a moment to help them to their feet. Will looks at me and hand-signals that he’s going to remove Max from the scene of the crime. I sigh in relief.

  With Max ushered away, that should have been an end to it, but as I turn to go home, Stuart calls after me. “I’m sorry about last night, okay? I was telling the truth about Adele, but if I knew you were going to be a crap shag anyway I wouldn’t have bothered.”

  The best way to describe what happens next is to liken it to a demon possession. I lose control of my brain and my hand grabs the first thing I see: a full glass of white wine. Before I have a second to think, I’ve already thrown the contents of the glass over Stuart’s head.