Just Friends (The Agency Book 1) Page 8

  As if reading my mind, she stubs out her cigarette and opens the window. The cool spring air rushes in, mixes with the cigarette smoke and scratches the back of my throat, making me cough.

  “Sorry, terribly bad habit,” Stella says in her upper-crust English accent. She reminds me of a younger version of Helen Mirren, but with a Dior power suit and a potty mouth. “So, I’ll cut to the chase – Stuart Inman. Why won’t he work with you?”

  “Did he not give you a reason?” I ask apprehensively.

  “Lack of talent and a bad attitude. Apparently Quest’s marketing team are in agreement that Ethan is BMG’s shining star and you feed off his success.”

  I feel my jaw drop in shock as a pang of insecurity settles into my gut.

  “That isn’t true at all, Stella,” Ethan says firmly. “We’re a team and I couldn’t do what I do without Violet.”

  Stella waves her hand dismissively in Ethan’s direction. “I know, I know. I wasn’t born fucking yesterday. I’ve been head of this department for ten years. How many copywriters and art directors do you think I’ve managed? I know this job, I know my team and I don’t buy Stuart Inman’s bullshit for one second. So I ask again, what’s the story?”

  I squirm in my seat, my rage against Stuart building. “We went on a date that didn’t work out.”

  Stella inhales a sharp breath and rolls her eyes. “I fucking knew it,” she declares, thumping her fist down on her desk and making my heart jump into my throat. “I heard the rumours and I heard about the wine-throwing. What did he do? Is this all on him?”

  “In my opinion it is,” I say with as much conviction as I can muster.

  “Mine too,” says Ethan.

  “I don’t recall asking what you thought,” Stella says. “And what on earth have you done to your hair? Are you trying to look like Hugh Grant?”

  Ethan adjusts his tie, his eyes retreating under a bewildered frown. “Erm, no. I’m not trying to look like Hugh Grant.”

  “Good, because you’ll never pull it off.” She folds her hands together on the desk in front of her. “Now, Violet. You’re a good-looking girl –, smart, funny, talented . . . and I have eyes, so I can see that Stuart Inman is six feet of ripped and toned muscle. But he’s also a human-sized bollock. What were you thinking?”

  “Well, in retrospect, it wasn’t my finest moment,” I admit sheepishly.

  “You’re damn right it wasn’t. How old are you?”

  “Twenty-eight.”

  “Twenty-eight . . .” She stands up and closes the window, giving the metal handle an almighty tug. Unfortunately the cold shiver down my spine seems to still be there. “You know what I was doing when I was twenty-eight?”

  “Erm . . . no.”

  “I was going through my second of four divorces. Phillip Lovett, have you heard of him? He’s the son of Lovett Ives’s co-founder. Ah, Phillip . . .” she mutters pensively, her blue eyes sparkling with nostalgia. “He used to be so much fun, until career competitiveness turned him into a jealous prat. We were on secondment to New York. It was horrific. Never, ever fall in love with someone you work with. Phillip has turned into a stuffed-shirt and I’m still bitter about that. We were true bohemians back in the day.”

  Stella, a bohemian? The woman who lives in Chelsea, buys her groceries from Harrods and wears Chanel cocktail dresses to put the bins out? Have I stepped into the Twilight Zone? “I’m sorry to hear that, Stella, but I was never in love with Stuart Inman.”

  She looks at me in surprise. “So what’s the problem?”

  My brain is screaming at me to flee the interrogation and try to forget any of this ever happened. I glance briefly at Ethan just as he shifts nervously in his seat. Stella notices him too.

  “Phony Hugh Grant, why are you being so twitchy?”

  “For the last time, I’m not trying to look like Hugh Grant. This isn’t 1995 and he’s old enough to be my father. Nobody wants to look like Hugh Grant.”

  “Tell that to your hair,” says Stella, and I have to suck in a breath before I collapse into laughter. Funnily enough, Ethan doesn’t look anything like Hugh Grant – not even the hot-for-Julia-Roberts Hugh Grant of twenty years ago. “Now back to you, Violet. I’m still waiting for information. Don’t make me wait any longer.”

  “We went out, had a nice time, one thing led to another . . . but it didn’t go too well . . .” I take a deep breath. “Um, okay, he couldn’t perform, and he blamed me for it.”

  “He blamed you for what?”

  “For his poor performance.”

  Stella’s body stiffens and the angles of her face harden. “Violet, I’m still bitter about the plot holes in Lost. When I only get half a story I always get really pissed off.”

  “Stuart dropped his bombs before the mission completed,” interjects Ethan, and my mouth falls open. I fire a glare at him. He responds with a shrug.

  “You’re kidding me. Stuart Inman? Really?” Stella says, her eyes creased with laughter.

  “Technically, the bombs were dropped before the mission even got started,” I add for clarity.

  “Oh, Jesus Christ,” she cries, holding her sides. “Well, who’d have thought that? Stuart Inman, one of the most arrogant pissants I’ve ever met, is crap in bed.”

  “That’s not all,” says Ethan with a hint of mischief. “He’s hung like a field mouse and he couldn’t find a clitoris if it painted itself purple and danced the tango on top of Tower Hill.”

  “Ethan, do you mind?” I snap. “I don’t want the most intimate regions of my anatomy discussed with our head of department.”

  “I’m sorry, Vi,” he says. “But this isn’t right. You’re not taking the blame for this.”

  “So, let me get this straight,” Stella says after regaining her composure. “Stuart Inman was rubbish in bed, blamed you for it and now he’s trying to get you fired?”

  My blood boils as Stella’s words sink in. “Yes, and he also has a fiancée he didn’t tell me about.”

  Stella’s eyebrows arch to the heavens. Without a word to either of us she picks up her phone. “Gabriel, get me Stuart Inman,” she barks at her executive assistant.

  Moments later, Stuart’s voice erupts through the phone’s speaker. “What can I do for you, Stella?”

  “I just wanted to let you know that I’ve spoken with Ethan and Violet and under no circumstances am I removing them from your campaign. As head of the city’s largest and most successful advertising creative department, it would be PR suicide following our win at the AdAg Awards, so it isn’t happening. Have I made myself clear, Stuart?”

  “I’m afraid not, Stella. I made it clear to you that we don’t want Violet Archer on our campaign.”

  “Is that a ‘we’ as in your board of directors and CEO, or a ‘we’ as in just you?”

  “I’m the marketing director, Stella. I have the authority to make this decision.”

  Stella rises from her chair and rests her balled-up fists on the desk in front of her. “Okay, listen to me, you little shitgibbon. Violet Archer is my best copywriter, she’s a valuable member of my team, and an attack on her is an attack on me. If you insist on bumping her because you flopped in the bedroom, then I’m going to fight you with everything I have, starting with a lawsuit. Now, is that clear?”

  Silence. Except for the rumbles of my half-starved stomach. Jesus Christ, I wish I’d eaten some breakfast.

  “What did you just say to me?” comes the crackly voice of a broken man.

  “You heard. And if you ever mention removing Violet from your campaign again, I’ll take your lying, cheating arse straight to your CEO. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we all have work to do. I’ll get Gabriel to set up a meeting once Daniel Noble signs off on our creative work.”

  She ends the call before Stuart has a chance to respond.

  Ethan starts to clap. “That was awesome. Absolutely awesome.” I have to admit, I feel the same way. I don’t want to be Stella when I grow up any more – I want to be Stella
right now.

  She sits back down at her desk, but she isn’t smiling. Her demeanour has returned to stone-cold serious. “Consider both of your arses covered, but a warning – when workplace relationships jeopardise the reputation of my department, I take a very dim view. Some discretion from now on, please.”

  We agree. I’m pretty confident workplace relationships won’t be an issue for either of us ever again.

  ***

  I head to the break room and grab one of Max’s Polish cereal bars from a box marked “Finger weg!”. I don’t know German, but it’s either a warning or the name of the food I’m stealing. I eagerly rip open the pink wrapper and stare down at a grainy, rectangular dog turd.

  “Ew, that looks gross.” Ethan appears over my left shoulder. He opens the fridge and takes out a bottle of mineral water, also labelled “Finger weg”. He doesn’t think twice about snapping the plastic tab, unscrewing the top and taking a gigantic swig. Maybe “Finger weg” means “help yourself” in German.

  “So, what did you make of Stella back there?” I take a tentative bite of the cereal bar. Urgh! It tastes like a dog turd too. I rip a square of kitchen roll off the stand and empty the contents of my mouth into it.

  “I think she’s amazing,” says Ethan, like a schoolboy with a crush on his headmistress.

  “And her parting shot?”

  He hesitates for a moment, then takes another swig of water. “She makes a fair point. We’ve both fucked up, Vi. You with Stuart. Me with Carly—”

  “And Zoe, and Kiki, and Jenny in HR, and Erin from Sunta Motors, and the emaciated receptionist with the unfeasibly large chest.”

  “Her name is Pamela, and she has a very lovely chest.”

  “I don’t know how she paid for it. BMG must pay their receptionists well above average.”

  “She saved for years, but Pamela’s chest is irrelevant. Don’t lay this all on me. Stuart Inman can’t be your only workplace dalliance.”

  “Aside from Ryan when I worked in New York, he is. Eugene is up for debate due to him knocking himself out a couple of hours into our only date.

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “You’ve known me for three years. All my dates have happened off-site. I’m very committed to obeying my law. In fact, I’ve already turned down an interested party.”

  The expression on his face changes to one I don’t expect. It’s as though the air has been knocked out of him. He awkwardly lowers his eyes to the carpet-tiled floor.

  “Oh,” he says, and even though my brain has already prepped a witty retort, I swallow it back down. His skin reddens and I don’t understand why.

  “Yes . . . um . . . Daniel Noble asked me to have dinner with him, but I explained my law. I have self-control. You, on the other hand . . .”

  I meant it as a joke, but as I watch him swallow hard, his Adam’s apple locking against the collar of his shirt, I regret saying it. He forces a smile onto his face. “Hey, I’ve had an idea. Why don’t we have a little wager? Spice things up a bit? You think you’re going to see this out longer than me, so we need a bet . . . I know, I’ll buy you one of those “Patron of the Royal Opera House” things you’re always talking about.”

  Oh my god, he’s an idiot. “A patronage at the Royal Opera?” I raise my eyebrows. “I think you should check out how much they cost before you start making those kinds of wagers, hotshot.”

  “Doesn’t matter. I’m not going to lose.”

  “Fine then. You’re on.”

  “Okay,” he says with a smile that slowly fades as his curiosity sets in. “Erm . . . so how much are they?”

  “Almost six.”

  “Hundred?” he asks hopefully.

  “Thousand.”

  “Fuck.”

  “Yep, and that’s something you’re not going to be doing for a while.”

  “What if I win?”

  “I’ll buy you a pint.” I laugh as he screws up his face. “What? You only gamble what you can afford to lose, and I had to invest in a new tumble dryer last month.”

  He snatches up the remnants of the discarded Polish cereal bar and takes a bite. I wait for him to spit it out, but he finishes his mouthful and takes another bite instead. “How about you buy me a pint and clean my apartment every Saturday for a month?”

  “Not fair. I hate cleaning.”

  “So don’t lose,” he says with a wink, extending his hand.

  I consider the repercussions of the bet for a moment. Given that Ethan is a virtual man-slut, it’s a hundred times more likely that he’ll fail than I will. “You’re on,” I say, “but one last thing before we shake. In order to spice it up a little, we’re allowed to play dirty.”

  One of his eyebrows heads skywards and he retracts his hand. “What do you mean?” he asks suspiciously.

  “How about we’re both allowed to indulge in ways to get the other party to fail?”

  A glint of mischief twinkles in his eye, and he extends his hand again. “Deal.”

  We shake, smiling. But deep down I’m wondering whether I really want him to fail, and I’m not sure I want to know the answer.

  9

  FINISHING THE COPY OF QUEST’S winter catalogue TV commercial is proving as difficult as getting front-row tickets at the latest West End show on opening night. I came up with nothing useful yesterday due to being boiling mad at Stuart, and I’m sure my brain no longer works. I run my fingers over the silver pendant Ethan gave me, and my mind throws up question after question. When did he get so thoughtful? When did I start to notice how beautiful he was, not to mention kind, funny and smart? He’s the most perfect best friend.

  I’m still holding on to my necklace when Ethan arrives at his desk.

  “Can you believe Malcolm Barrett has just cornered me outside the loos demanding I have twenty different ideas to fit the Quest brief by four thirty?” He throws our newest client brief down on his desk. “We need a week to work on something as important as this. I don’t suppose you’ve got anywhere yet?”

  I rummage through my notebook and rip out a page of scribble. “This is all I have. It’s mostly crap, but it’s a start.”

  He takes the piece of paper and scans through it. “Well the first one is out. They don’t want to give off a ‘value brand’ vibe. Number two is out for the same reason. Number three is bollocks. Number four . . . I’ll do my best to un-see that one. Number five . . . eh? Were you high when you came up with this?”

  “No, but I was tired of doing your job as well as mine. You’re the ideas person; I’m words, remember?” I snatch my paper back off him, scrunch it into a ball and launch it towards the bin, but I can’t even do that right. I miss and it rolls across the floor, landing at his feet.

  “Okay, calm down. I’m sorry.”

  Fucking ‘calm down’. Seriously? Does he have a death wish? He retrieves the paper ball and tries to iron it out with the palms of his hands. “I didn’t read number six.” He tries to stifle a grin. “Nope, that’s shit too. Seven we could work on, though.”

  “You think so?”

  “Possibly, but there’s just one thing wrong.”

  “What?”

  “All of the words.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Remember what I was saying about Ethan being a perfect best friend? Well, he’s perfect except for the countless times per day when he’s being a complete dick. “This isn’t funny. We need to do our magic.”

  “Do you think I don’t know that?” He flops down in his chair, takes off his jacket, rolls up his shirt sleeves and adjusts his tie. “Right, prepare yourself. I’m about to magic up some awesome.”

  I laugh. “Is there anything I can do to help speed up the magic? Get you a cold beer? A club sandwich from Pret? A shoulder massage?”

  “Yeah, shoulder massage would be good, thanks. Can you do it here, or do I have to be naked and covered in oil?”

  “You mean you’re not going to strip off at your desk?”

  “Hmm . . . maybe after hours.
”

  I imagine him naked. I imagine rubbing oil over the taut muscles of his chest . . . Oh my god, why? What the hell is my brain doing to me? I need to change the topic of conversation fast, so I flick onto Quest’s homepage. “Christ almighty, who wears this stuff?” I ask as I scroll through the womenswear section.

  He rolls his eyes. “Tell me about it. I wouldn’t even buy a pair of socks from Quest. It’s for boring middle-aged dads who take backpacks full of sensible healthy snacks on trips to museums with the kids.”

  “Nothing wrong with visiting museums.”

  “Not if you’re over sixty-five, or boring,” he says.

  “Hey, I like museums,” I say, faking outrage.

  “Proving my point,” he says with a laugh. I love his laugh, even when he’s being a pain in the arse.

  “You must be able to find something to inspire you.”

  “Trust me, I can’t. Not even their website promo for a pair of khaki corduroy trousers is doing it for me. Shoot me if I ever wear anything made from corduroy, will you?”

  “Okay,” I say, half listening as I sign into my email.

  He peers over our cubicle wall. “What are you doing now?”

  “Hmm? Oh, I’m just writing an email to IT. I want a new keyboard.”

  “Are you blaming your tools for that crap you wrote earlier? A new keyboard won’t make you come up with better copy, you know.”

  I shoot him a glare, but I can’t stop a smile from creeping up on me. He’s beating me hands down on insults today. I’ll have to up my game. “No, it’s just that Jack Shipley spent hours using it to recover that corrupt file last week. Did you see what he was doing on the dance floor on Saturday night? I don’t want my nice clean fingers to go where his disgusting dirty ones have been.”

  “You’re crazy,” he replies, his eyes glued to his screen. He scoots backwards in his chair and picks up the client brief. “Okay, I need an hour or two to think. I’m going to grab a cup of coffee and head over to the break room.”

  ***

  I work through lunch, and when Ethan returns from inspiring himself, we both get our heads down. My stomach growls as I search in the bottom of my desk drawer for anything worth eating. I produce a week-old apple with crinkly skin and take a reluctant bite.