It's Complicated (The Agency Book 2) Page 9

  I look around the floor at my team of six as their work banter is replaced by an unnerving silence. This is my first run as a boss tackling an unruly team member, and I know some of them – particularly Will Thornton – will judge me forever on how I handle the situation. Laugh it off and I’m a pushover; rip Tom to shreds and I’m a bitch. I notice Ruby Sloan awkwardly turn away from me, and with every fibre of my being I hate this. This isn’t me. I never wanted to manage people; I only ever wanted to write. Pinkie Pinkerton turns back to his console too. Neil Dawson and Bianca Moretti suddenly have their heads down, and I find myself squaring up to Tom again. “What hours do you work?”

  “I’m sorry. It wasn’t my fault—”

  “Let me guess, you were kidnapped by aliens? You witnessed a mafia hit? Your dog died?”

  “Uhm . . . no. There was just really bad traffic and the DLR was down for a while.”

  Traffic? It’s like an omen sent from Hades. Why is the irritating little shitehawk giving me a traffic excuse from Ethan Fraser’s book of pathetic traffic excuses? “Tom, you live in Greenwich.”

  “So?”

  “So, it takes you ten minutes to get here.”

  “Thirteen minutes on a good day.”

  “What? Are you trying to be funny?”

  “No, I was just pointing out that my fastest journey time is thirteen minutes.”

  Would slapping him get me fired? “Okay, I don’t buy it and I don’t buy you. Consider this a verbal warning.”

  He screws up his face. “Eh? Are you being serious?”

  “Yes, I’m serious. You’ve just turned up to work almost two hours late on your first day with a ridiculous excuse. It isn’t acceptable, and if you do it again, I will make the warning a formal and written one.” It suddenly hits me that this could be the reason why our old boss, Malcolm Barrett, might have had it in for Ethan since the first day they met. Guys like Tom and Ethan are great fun to have around the office, but they’re an absolute fucking nightmare to manage.

  “Look, I’ve already said I’m sorry. Okay, I’ll admit I was late leaving home this morning, but there was an electrical fault on the line at Mudchute and the train was stuck for at least an hour. There was literally nothing I could do about it. Jeez, I know you’ve had a rough morning, but—”

  “Excuse me? What did you just say to me?” I hear Will tut and I shoot him a glare.

  Tom lowers his eyes. “Nothing.”

  Did they see me fighting with Ethan? My stomach rolls. Shit. Did they hear us? It’s always obvious when you’ve been the subject of gossip. I look around at all six of them and I’m met with five heads down pretending to be busy, and one pair of eyes – Tom’s – staring at me as if I’m crazy.

  I throw my hands in the air, turn on my heel and march back to my office. Somewhat infuriatingly, the architects who designed the stupid glass walls have made it impossible for me to slam the fucking door, so I kick over my wastepaper bin instead.

  9

  AT LUNCHTIME I RECEIVE AN email from Tamara Lockwood letting me know that she’s been given the Belle Oaks account to manage. I’m not surprised Tamara’s been chosen; she worked in Paris for years and Belle Oaks has a very distinct Franco-Anglo brand which practically screams entente cordiale. But I’m feeling a bit daunted at the prospect of working with her – Ethan’s university girlfriend. I’m annoyed with myself for feeling like this. I’ve always liked Tamara, but now, for entirely insecure and jealous reasons, I’m finding I don’t like her. And I hate that I don’t. I skip lunch and spend the next couple of hours dwelling on it, but my snarly stomach eventually forces me to grab a snack. I’m munching my way through a packet of crisps when Ruby Sloan suddenly gives my door a sharp knock. Or was it my wall?

  “Jesus, Ruby, you gave me a fright!” That’s the trouble with my new see-through office. If someone is in your blind spot they can frighten the living daylights out of you the second they move into your line of vision.

  “Oh god, I’m sorry,” she says with a laugh, her dark eyes twinkling under a hedge of long black eyelashes.

  “What can I do for you?” I ask as she glides into my office. She’s wearing a cream sweater paired with a silver pendant that is simple and classic. Ruby has a lovely style – youthful, yet corporate and tailored.

  “It’s about the new guy, Tom,” she says, adjusting her beige pencil skirt so she can perch on the edge of my desk. “I don’t know how to phrase this as I haven’t known him a day yet, but I’m . . . uhm . . . worried we’re not well matched.”

  I swivel my chair around to face her. “What makes you say that?”

  “I can’t put my finger on it. He’s just very different to me. We’ve been looking through the preliminary client brief you passed us for the Belle Oaks campaign, and he’s already come up with a hundred ideas – most of which are bad ones – but he doesn’t want to listen to anything I come up with. I’m sorry. I know you don’t like dealing with these kinds of issues—”

  “You mean people issues?”

  “Erm . . . yeah.” She sighs and smiles sympathetically at me. I like Ruby. I was responsible for training her back at BMG when she was a new graduate. She’s sweet and kind and possesses a calmness that makes her approachable and easy to talk to. “I thought you’d be able to offer some advice, given he kind of reminds me of someone.”

  I can’t help but smile. “Let me guess. Ethan.”

  She nods. “Tom seems . . . cocky. And loud. And excitable. And did I mention loud?”

  “You did.” I pause for a moment when I realise I can hear his voice emanating from the row of six desks outside my office. Ruby and Tom are only six years younger than me and Ethan, but I suddenly feel like we’re their work parents. When exactly did Tribe: The Next Generation get commissioned?

  Ruby smiles again, and her eyes twinkle. “He’s also unpunctual.”

  “Yeah, I noticed that.” I think back to this morning and cringe. I wish I’d handled that better. “You need to give it some more time. Despite our obvious differences, Ethan and I . . . well, we just . . .” A gigantic lump gets caught in my throat, which Ruby notices straight away. Her usual ease transforms into awkwardness. “We just get each other.”

  “You miss him, don’t you?”

  Whoa, where did that come from? Ruby seems to be heading into sharing-of-feelings territory, so I slam on the brakes. “I just miss the way things were. A little.”

  “I can’t imagine you two not working together. You were inseparable back at BMG. I would kill to have the working relationship you guys had.”

  Jeez, what’s she trying to do to me? “Well, that was then. All good things come to an end.”

  “Can I ask you something?” She leans in closer, her mane of Afro curls bouncing around her light-brown face. “There’s talk Ethan used to date Lucas Bartle’s daughter, Jadine. Do you think they’ll get back together?”

  The mention of Jadine’s name makes my blood run cold. “I’ve no idea, Ruby. But Stella Judd has placed a ban on office relationships, so it’s probably unlikely.”

  Ruby’s delicate silver bracelets clink against her necklace as her hand shoots to her chest in shock. “Oh my god, she hasn’t? Are you kidding me? That’s mad. How don’t I know this?”

  I’ve already said too much, and yet I’m still talking. “It’s just for partners. She thought it was for the best given how BMG lost Quest.”

  “And because of Daniel Noble? I heard he got hot and steamy with the CEO of JET Financial’s married sister?”

  “Ruby, how exactly do you know all this? You’re going to steal my office-gossiping gold medal.”

  She shrugs. “People talk to me. I’m a good listener.” I wonder if Jadine’s been “talking” to her. I wonder if she’s heard stories of her and Ethan’s illustrious love affair. And I wonder why that is still bothering me so damned much. “I’ll let you get on,” she says after several moments of silence. “Tom said he wanted to run a few ideas past Film Production. I need to
make sure he doesn’t go to them with something horrible.”

  “Tell him he doesn’t speak to anyone in Production unless I give him the go-ahead. I don’t know how things worked in his last job, but creative directors take work to production departments, not creative team members – especially junior ones.”

  “Oh right, of course,” she says, a strong hint of apprehension in her voice. “I’ll go let him know.”

  I don’t doubt for one second that he’s already talked to Production. Please not today. Not when my tolerance level is lower than a worm’s belly. If new-boy Tom even thinks of going over my head on my first ever campaign, then I’m going to have to serve his head on a silver platter.

  * * *

  I’ve avoided Ethan since this morning. Not because I want to give him space, but because I’m a coward. I don’t know what to say to him and I miss him too much already. My thoughts are consumed by him. Wonderful memories swim around my brain, reminding me how much I love him, and how stupid I am for putting what we have in jeopardy with my jealous outburst. Every memory of him hurts: yesterday’s ridiculously romantic ice-skating adventure; our working holiday in Santorini; the great Christmas we spent together last year when we were still just friends. He wanted to make it special, so he pushed the boat out buying a goose that took eight hours to cook and eight days to finish eating. Who knew Thai green goose curry would taste so good after it had been frozen for two months?

  Every thought brings me back to one question: why did I have to spoil everything? Stella’s relationship ban wasn’t his fault. Tamara, Jadine and Kiki the bloody cleaner weren’t his fault either. So why did I do it? Ethan is the best thing I’ve ever had in my life and I might have ruined everything by being jealous and insecure. He’s probably in his office now slowly coming to the realisation that I’m more trouble than I’m worth. Why would any man want to tie himself down to me with my knack for creating drama?

  Before I can think anything through or formulate a plan, I’m on my feet. I look through my glass wall, over the floor and into his office. I see him throwing on his suit jacket and I realise there’s no time to lose. I have no idea what I’m going to say to him, but I have to say something now. I practically sprint to the door and wrench it open.

  And then I slam into a pair of arms carrying a file full of papers.

  “Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” I say to a river of bright orange hair as the redhead I was so intrigued by earlier this morning picks herself – and her papers – up off the floor.

  Freja manages to laugh as she retrieves her shoe from a huge potted fern. Out of the corner of my eye I see Ethan leave, and my stomach sinks. I’ve lost my chance. The impulse that was pushing me in his direction is unlikely to return. I’ll have overthought a thousand reasons why whatever I was going to say to him would have been stupid by the next time I see him – which might well be tomorrow now.

  “Hey, that’s one hell of a knockout punch you’ve got there,” says Freja, tucking her tailored white shirt into the waistband of her trousers. She looks around the room and flips her hair. “Okay guys, back to work. Nothing to see here,” she says with a strange blend of humour and authority in her voice which works like a charm. Everyone immediately does as they’re told. She laughs again, then leans in close. “Jeez, you’d think they’d never seen a breathtakingly gorgeous woman fall on her arse before.”

  “I’m sorry. Are you okay? I should have been watching where I was going.”

  Freja waves off my apology and beams a huge smile that makes the corners of her caramel eyes crinkle. “No harm done. I’m Freja.” She offers me her hand. “We kinda met earlier.”

  For a second my heart skips a beat because I think she means when Ethan and I were eavesdropping on her argument with the Aussie guy, but then I realise she must be referring to this morning’s welcome meeting. I shake her hand. “Violet Archer. Uhm . . . did you want me for something?”

  She grins. “That was the direction I was heading in before I went splat.” She twists her mouth and accentuates the “t” when she says “splat.” She’s funny. I decide I like her.

  “I’m sorry, please come in. What can I do for you?”

  She walks slowly into the room, her eyes taking in the surroundings. “Your office is nice,” she says, walking over to the window. “You’ve really lucked out. You have the best view of Canada Square.”

  “Do I? I hadn’t really noticed.”

  She turns around quickly, her long, copper hair swinging around her shoulders. “You haven’t looked out of your window? Please don’t tell me you’ve spent all day glued to your computer screen.” Her eyes scan my body from head to toe. “No . . . you don’t look like a stuffed shirt. Your dress is too cute and your hair is too wild. English girls trying too hard have an entirely different and far more boring look.” Her eyes narrow curiously as she scans my face. “And you’re far too pretty.”

  I giggle and feel my cheeks warm. “Thank you, but I have looked out of the window and noticed the view. I just didn’t realise I had a great one, that’s all.”

  “Well you do!” she exclaims, her eyes growing wide. “You should see my view from the basement. Oh wait . . . that’s right, I don’t have a view. Or a window. I have four walls, a door and a serious case of upper-floor envy. But that’s where I’ve been for the past three years, so just call me Queen of the Dungeons.”

  “Ooh, like Persephone.”

  Her face goes blank. “Persepho-who?”

  “Persephone. You know? Goddess of the Spring, kidnapped by Hades and forced to be Queen of the Underworld? Tricked into eating pomegranate seeds?”

  Her eyes grow wide again, but her face is still blank. “Greek myths?”

  “Yes.”

  “And was this Persephone chick captivating, popular and extremely hot?”

  “She was so hot and captivating that a whole host of bronzed and ripped gods fell madly in love with her.”

  Freja places one hand on her hip, flicks her hair and laughs from her belly. “You’re weird. I like you.”

  I smile because I like her too. Really like her. “So, why did you want to see me?”

  She does a little jiggle as if she suddenly remembers why she’s here. Then she passes me the folder of papers she dropped earlier. “Everything you wanted on my FCUK commercial from eighteen months ago. I’ve included all the prep I did on the thirteen or so ads Razzledazzle discarded – some had great location ideas that would be perfect for Belle Oaks. Oh, and if you want my advice: I know you’ve asked for Jadine Clark to produce, but . . . well, I sense I can trust you, so excuse me while I leap into the sea of unprofessionalism – don’t use her. She sucks big time.”

  I flick through the documents, not really sure why I’ve been given them and knowing I absolutely did not ask to work with Jadine Clark on the Belle Oaks campaign. And yet a truly wicked part of me wants to laugh that she apparently “sucks big time”. “Why exactly are you giving me this?”

  “It’s my FCUK work . . .”

  We stare at each other in silence. I think I can hear the cogs in her brain whirring almost as fast as mine. “Tom asked for this?”

  “Yeah. He worked for Razzledazzle Creative when they contracted us to produce their TV ads. He emailed me earlier.”

  “And he asked for Jadine?”

  “Yes. They were quite friendly, if I remember.”

  Tom is literally Ethan of six years ago in every single way imaginable. I’m not surprised they share the same little black book. “Okay, thanks for this. I’ll have a look through it, but Tom hasn’t passed any of his ideas through me yet, so excuse me while I also kick his arse. For the second time today.”

  “Argh, I’m sorry. Teething trouble? For what it’s worth, Tom’s a good kid. You just need to know how to handle him.” She walks towards the door. I notice again how tall she is – almost as tall as Jadine – and how her vibrant red hair seems to perfectly embody her fire. “Oh god, I’m sorry. I don’t want to tell you how to
do your job.”

  “I wish somebody would tell me.”

  Freja scans me again, but this time I’m met with empathy instead of curiosity. “You seem lost. And conflicted.” She tilts her head to one side and holds my gaze. “And you look sad. Don’t worry, this is only your first day. It takes time to find your way in a new agency.”

  “I know, it’s just . . .” I sigh and walk to my desk, placing Freja’s folder of papers into a tray. “I’ll be fine. I’m just adjusting. You must have work to get back to, so please don’t let me keep you.”

  “I already said I like you.” She smiles until her nose crinkles and dozens of freckles merge together. “You don’t know me yet, but I’m a giver – a giver of acceptance, strength and the most unbelievably awesome nights out. I admit the nights out are totally at the top of my skill set, by the way, but I ace all the other stuff too. We’re going to be great friends. I can feel it in the part of my heart which has a huge squishy soft spot for crazy people.”

  I’m going to disappoint her. I can feel it in the part of my heart which knows I’m really rubbish at having female friends. I always say the wrong things and either irritate them into indifference or piss them off forever. Of all the cruel things my father said about me, some of them were true. I’m not a people person and I’m not popular. “I hope we’ll be friends too.”

  “Hope?” she says with a laugh.

  “Uhm . . . yes. I don’t have many friends.” Freja’s fawn eyes fill with empathy again and I wish I hadn’t been so open. I never, ever talk this freely with someone I’ve only just met, and I’m already cringing to my bones. Why am I so ridiculous? Just give me five minutes with somebody new and I’m guaranteed to make an absolute tit of myself, aren’t I? “I don’t make friends easily. You know . . . due to being weird.”

  “Luckily I only invite weird, smart and fabulous people to my circus. And on my awesome nights out.” She gives me a friendly wink, places her hand on the door handle and opens it. But then she stops and swings around to face me again. “But, you need to cut out that Greek-myths bullshit. You’re pretty much looking at a head-to-toe goddess standing here before you, but you picked the wrong myths. I have some pretty serious Viking blood running through my veins. I was named after a goddess, and the mighty battle-maiden Freja would kick that Persephone chick’s ass. Kidnapped and forced to marry some Underworld dude? As fucking if!”