Just Friends (The Agency Book 1) Read online

  I swivel my chair around and glare at him. “When have I ever lied to you?” I lower my voice even though we’re virtually alone in the office. “If you want to know Ethan’s business, you’ll have to ask him.”

  “You’re lying to me right now. The whole office knows Fraser can’t keep it in his pants, but you? I thought you had more class.”

  I must have raised my eyebrows as high as they’ll go because Malcolm responds with an audible gulp that makes his neck skin quiver again.

  “What are you accusing me of, Malcolm? Can you actually hear the words coming out of your mouth?”

  “No, I can’t hear anything because I’ve had the chairman and partners yelling down the phone at me since six a.m. and I’m stone-cold deaf. This is bad press for us, really bad press. I need to protect the agency.”

  “Well you can protect it without accusing me – or Ethan.”

  “Fine, if that’s the way you want to play it. The meeting Stella arranged for nine is now an emergency management meeting. You and Fraser will have to sit in for the creative director. When the hell does Diego get back anyway? He must have been away a month already. Who sanctioned him having that much holiday?”

  “Stella did. Diego’s mother died. His entire family are having a reunion in Venezuela.”

  “Did she? Are they? Okay, I didn’t know that.” Malcolm stands to leave, but swings back. “Get Fraser at that meeting on time. We don’t need his usual slack-arsed punctuality on top of everything else.”

  I send Ethan a text letting him know about the meeting. My attention shifts back to the floor as Lurch from the Addams Family makes his entrance. I shit you not – Max Wolf has just surpassed himself in the race for the “looking stupid and dressing stupidly” award he previously won for turning up to work wearing odd shoes. How the hell could you walk out of your front door – sober – wearing one monochrome checked deck shoe and one red baseball trainer? He stalks over to my desk and I wonder . . . why? Just why? I mean, he isn’t renowned for his dress sense. He usually wears a scruffy t-shirt and jeans to work. He keeps a tie in his desk in the rare event a client ever wants to meet him, but as he never comes to work wearing a shirt the gesture is pointless. Well, aside from that one time he put his tie on with his vintage Prodigy t-shirt. Stella Judd threatened to fire him on the spot.

  “Max, what’s with the suit?” I ask as he walks over to my desk brandishing a luminous green carrier bag.

  He stops dead in his tracks and looks down at himself. His left knee bends and I’m sure he’s double-checking that he’s wearing matching shoes. “I thought it would be respectful. Is it?”

  I shake my head. “It’s not really necessary to wear black,” I say softly. “And why is your jacket too short for your arms?”

  “No idea. I don’t know where I got it from, but I lost my other jacket at the party, remember? I lost my iPhone too, so if you need me for anything you’ll have to tweet my iPad because I don’t have a landline.”

  “Max, you lost a tuxedo jacket on Saturday night. If you hadn’t lost it, would you be wearing a rented tuxedo for work today?”

  He shrugs. “I don’t know, but these are the tuxedo trousers. I didn’t have any other black trousers. Do I look stupid?”

  “Yeah, a little bit. Sorry. And dare I ask what’s in the bag?” I hope with everything I have that it’s a change of clothes.

  “Oh, I got you this to thank you for looking after me yesterday. I needed you and you were there for me and . . . well, I missed you this morning.”

  He hands me the carrier bag. I peep inside to find a selection of groceries and a cactus. This is the icing on the cake, and I can’t help laughing. Not just because I have told him every day for the last three years that I don’t drink either tea or coffee and there’s both in the bag. I swear he has a complete mental block on the topic. His brain can’t comprehend the existence of a human being who doesn’t like hot beverages.

  “Thank you, Max. This is very thoughtful of you. I’ll pass the teabags and coffee to somebody who actually drinks tea and coffee, but the rest looks lovely. You didn’t need to buy me anything though. You’re my friend. It’s my job to be there for you.”

  “I just wanted to say thank you. Anyway, it isn’t like I pushed out the boat. I went to the mini-market outside Brixton Tube station. They’ve started stocking Eastern European food as there are a few Poles and Romanians living in my street now. I’ve told the owner fifty times already that I’m German, not Polish, but she keeps forgetting, so I still feel obligated to buy her Polish food. That’s why you’ve got those weird spongy biscuits. Sorry about that.”

  “Well, I’m sure they’ll be lovely, and I’m very grateful.”

  I turn back to my computer, but Max remains behind me, hovering like a confused hummingbird. I turn back to face him. His eyes are fixed on his shoes. “Max,” I say, cocking my head to the side. “What is it?”

  “Hmm?” His bright green eyes dim with unease, and I get a flashback to the way he was over the weekend. “I was wondering if you’d heard anything.”

  “Not yet, but there’s an emergency meeting at nine.” I stand up and clasp my hands around his forearms. He sinks into me and I swear he drops a few centimetres in height. “Don’t worry. If I hear anything about Carly I’ll tell you straight away.”

  “Do you promise?”

  “Of course,” I say, reassuring him as sincerely as I can. He turns around and walks in the direction of the art studio. I hope he’ll be able to buckle down and get on with work, but I think there’s more chance of Malcolm giving Ethan an Employee of the Year trophy.

  ***

  Of course I knew he would be late.

  At two minutes to nine, I make my way to the conference room, cursing Ethan under my breath. I curse him even more when I turn the corner and walk headlong into Ridley Gates.

  “Ah, Violet, can I have a quick word, please?” Ridley beckons me into a corner behind one of three huge potted palms that line the corridor of the sixteenth floor.

  My gut is saying “fuck off”, but I take a deep breath and reluctantly join him.

  “I just wanted to make sure we’re of the same mind on how to handle what happened on Saturday night,” he says as a gigantic half-moon grin fills his face. He looks like a demonic incarnation of the Cheshire Cat.

  “What particular event are you referring to?” I ask with fake innocence.

  Ridley grins again and leans in so close that the overpowering scent of his cologne – Eau de Slimy Shithead – fills my nostrils. “You know what I’m referring to, and nobody else needs to know about it.”

  Unfortunately for Ridley Gates, my married-cheating-bastard tolerance level is so low even an ant couldn’t limbo under it. “Are you asking me not to tell your wife you were screwing around on her?”

  Ridley’s composure doesn’t falter. “I am, and I shouldn’t have to remind you that you were screwing around with somebody else’s fiancé last week.”

  What the actual fuck? If I had a glass of wine in my hand right now, Ridley Gates would be wearing it. “Not that I give a shit what you think about me, Ridley, but I didn’t know Adele existed until Carly told me on Saturday night.”

  “Sure you didn’t,” he says with a wink. I fight the urge to knee him in the balls.

  “As I said, Ridley, I don’t care what you think, and I have no reason to lie. You and Stuart have a lot in common. I suppose you’re going to steal Stuart’s line and insist you and Delfina are having ‘relationship difficulties’ too.”

  Ridley sticks his tongue in the hollow of his cheek as he looks me up and down, his eyes lingering for a moment on the outline of my chest. My skin crawls, but I suck in a breath and square my shoulders.

  “Delfina still pleases me in every way a wife should, except for the empty void between her ears. What can I say? I’m attracted to smart women.” His eyes wander south once more before he moves away. My stomach lurches as he enters the conference room and I follow behind li
ke a prisoner passing through Traitor’s Gate.

  We wait for Ethan to arrive, but Malcolm, full of hell and bluster, gives up after ten minutes and starts the meeting. “Okay, first things first,” he begins with an air of urgency. “I’m sure it won’t surprise any of you to learn that the CEO of Quest, backed by Stuart Inman, is seeking ways to terminate our two-million-pound advertising contract with them. Our legal department has responded with a statement of our intention to hold them to their commitments, but we’re on shaky ground. There’s a contractual get-out clause if either party – client or agency – brings the other’s commercial reputation into disrepute.”

  “That’s fucking bollocks and you know it, Malcolm,” says Stella Judd, her voice strong and commanding. “Quentin Hibbard had a heart attack, and the Hayes girl binge-drank herself into a coma. How the hell is any of that our fault?”

  “Because it happened on our watch. The awards show party costs the agency six figures to host each year, and this year’s event ended up as a cross between a seedy drugs den and an orgy, culminating in a young woman almost choking to death in a pool of her own vomit. I don’t blame Quest for wanting to cut ties. Their shares have already nose-dived on the FTSE, so it’s basic damage control.”

  “What happened on Saturday night was tragic,” chips in Daniel Noble, his sparkling blue eyes hidden under a serious frown. “But the responsibility for Carly’s condition has to be placed with Carly.”

  “Damn right, it should,” Stella says. “They don’t have grounds to sue or terminate, so they can fuck off.”

  “Would you suggest I tell them that?” seethes Malcolm.

  “Of course I wouldn’t.” Stella retrieves a silver cigarette case from her purse. “But Daniel and I have already spoken about this and we’re in agreement. We shouldn’t accept blame as an agency.” She stands and walks towards the door. “If you’ll excuse me, I need a cigarette before I blow. I don’t know why we’re even having this conversation.”

  Stella swings the door open to leave at the same time as Ethan saunters into the conference room. “Killer timing as usual, Mr Fraser,” she says as she goes.

  Ethan takes a seat next to me and makes a roadwork-related apology. Surely he must be aware by now that every single one of us knows he makes up a traffic incident whenever he’s late.

  Malcolm wraps up the meeting as quickly as he can, noting that he and Ridley are going to Quest’s offices to pay their respects on behalf of the agency. As he leaves, he instructs Daniel to complete the client brief for the Quest Living launch and asks me to work on copy that will “blow Stuart Inman’s socks off”. He ignores Ethan entirely.

  ***

  I follow Ethan out of the conference room, my shoes sliding over the thin carpeting as I rush to catch up with him. I grab his arm and he spins around. I can see he’s pissed off and I assume it’s because of Malcolm.

  “How are you? I’ve been thinking about you all weekend.” I have so many questions I want to ask him, but I need to know if he’s okay first.

  He takes my elbow and leads me into one of the smaller meeting rooms to our left. I close the door behind us.

  “I just needed to spend yesterday on my own. I didn’t see anybody, didn’t listen to music, or play guitar . . . I think I’m good though.”

  “You don’t look or sound good.” I look into his eyes, seeking for a hint of his usual sparkle, but there’s nothing.

  Then a faint smile pulls at the corners of his mouth and I feel myself relax a bit. “I’m fine. Honestly. I just needed to get my head in the right place. And I’m sticking to what I said on Sunday morning. I’m turning over a new leaf, just like you. From now on, I don’t shit where I eat. I’m pinching your law.”

  “Great, welcome to the town of Celibacy, population two.”

  He smiles at me and my heart melts. God, I love his smile. “I’m totally onboard with this, Vi. I’m tired of having one-night hook-ups with never-see-you-again nobodies.”

  “I believe you,” I say, although I don’t think for one second he’s going to be able to stick to it. “So why were you late this morning? You didn’t reply to my text.”

  “I had to pick something up.” He dips his hand into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulls out a small black box. “It’s for you. I wanted to thank you for telling me about your sister. I know it was hard and I know you did it to help me. By the time I got home yesterday I’d already made peace with my guilt over Carly, but I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

  My breath gets caught in my throat. I don’t know what to say. He hands me the box, and my stomach flips. I can’t open it. I just hold it in my hands, my fingers digging into the cushioned fabric. It’s as if I’m holding his heart but I’m afraid to unlock it. Shit, is that what’s happening here?

  “Aren’t you going to open it?”

  I clear my throat and feel my eyes water as I open the box. Crap, tears are the last things I need. I summon some resolve.

  “Hey, it’s okay.” He pulls me into him, resting his chin on the top of my head. I take the delicate silver pendant out of the box and grip the disc, which is engraved with a laurel branch. My Laurel. A huge lump forms in my throat. Nobody has ever done anything like this for me before. He helps me put on the necklace, and for a split second I wish I could kiss him. But then my brain takes up arms against my ridiculous heart again and forces the thought away. Whatever this feels like, it’s friendship – and it can never be anything more. “Thank you. I have the best friend in the world.”

  He shoots me a wink. “No, you don’t. I do.”

  8

  THE NEXT DAY ARRIVES WITH a bang. Literally.

  I wake to the sound of my mobile ringing, reach over to my nightstand to pick it up, stretch too far, lose my balance and whack my head on my bedpost. I’m still wincing in agony as I scramble, blinded with pain, to answer the call.

  “What? . . . What time is it? . . . Urgh . . . what do you want?”

  “Sorry, did I wake you?” Ethan asks as I groan some more. “What’s up? Do you have a bloke staying over?”

  “What? No! I’ve just banged my stupid head on my stupid bedpost. And I’ve sworn off men, remember?”

  He laughs. “Sorry. It was just the noise you made . . .”

  “I was groaning in agony. If that resembles the sex noises you elicit from women, you might want to work on your technique.”

  “I’ve never had any complaints in that department. In fact, there was this one time I was with this girl, and I was under the sheets giving her—”

  “Oh my god, shut up now! Please. My head feels like I’ve been drinking all night. The last thing I want to hear about is you fumbling around some poor woman’s chuff like an unqualified gynaecologist.”

  “Ew!” he says, laughing even harder. “You’ve spoiled my happy memory now. Why did you do that?”

  “Just tell me why you called and make it quick. My forehead is in desperate need of an ice pack.”

  “Jeez, you’re as soft as shite, Vi. It can’t be that bad.”

  “Says the man who cried for a day when his mum’s puppy nipped his scrotum.”

  “I’d give you that, except Angus isn’t a puppy; he’s a fully grown dog.” he says, protesting a little too hard.

  “He’s a Highland terrier – the smallest and most puppy-like of dogs.”

  “He’s a fucking bastard is what he is. I hate that dog. And I hated him long before he morphed into a heat-seeking missile and attached himself to my family jewels. The evil bloody thing nipped clean through my jeans and my pants. I had to prise his jaws off my balls.”

  “I know, it was terrible,” I say with mock sympathy. “But why are we talking?”

  “I have good news and bad news. What do you want first?”

  My stomach dips. “How bad is the bad?”

  “Not as bad as a dog biting your bollocks, but worse than a bump on the head.”

  “Okay . . . give me the good,” I say as I stumble out of bed
and head for the bathroom.

  “Quest’s legal team have spoken with ours, and they concede there’s no concrete grounds for termination. So we get to complete the TV commercial for their new winter range, but after that, we’re done. No Quest Living brand launch.”

  “Despite our big win at the AdAg Awards?”

  “Yup. And despite the hours of work the Strategy department has done in preparation for the campaign. They won’t even view our planning or market research. They want to hand the contract to another agency.”

  “Shit.” I hover over the sink, inspecting the red mark on my forehead in the mirror. If I get a bruise I won’t be pleased. “Okay, let me get into the office and we’ll get to work on Daniel’s brief.”

  “You don’t want to hear the bad news?”

  “Quest ditching us isn’t the bad news?”

  “Erm . . . not exactly. There’s no easy way of saying this, but Stuart Inman has sacked us. Well, not us – you. He’s demanding Stella appoint another creative team immediately.”

  “The fucking prick! Seriously?”

  “Yes, seriously. Sorry. Stella wants to see us at eight thirty.”

  “How mad is she?”

  “Volcanic eruption imminent, so strap on your lava boots.”

  ***

  I make it to work on time and head straight for the executive offices on the fourteenth floor. I wish I could say I’m feeling cool, calm and collected, but I’d rather eat a hedgehog smeared in Tabasco sauce than face Stella Judd this morning. I’m also starving. I didn’t stop by Juicy Lucy’s for my usual morning smoothie because my stomach is whirling with dread.

  Surprisingly, given his rubbish timekeeping, Ethan is already seated when I wade through the cigarette smoke and sit down next to him, my throat rasping at the stale air in the room. The 1970s have called numerous times to demand their Marlboro Man back, but Stella firmly believes Britain’s smoking ban doesn’t apply to her if she smokes outside the hours of nine to five and opens the windows twice a day.