How to Slay at Work, page 1
HOW TO SLAY AT WORK
SARAH BONNER
To Bronwen,
for being nothing at all like Freya
CONTENTS
I. Millie
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
II. Freya
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
III. Millie
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
IV. Freya
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
V. Millie
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
VI. Sam
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
The Murder List
About Boldwood Books
PART I
MILLIE
1
My boss is a stone-cold bitch. But please don’t think I hate her; far from it, I admire her. She’s an icon. She slays. Freya Ellwood-Winter, Sales Director of Serendipity Cosmetics plc, goes through life not giving even one single fuck what people think of her. Just imagine how free she must feel to be so unshackled from propriety and the normal rules that govern our social contracts.
Of course, I would rather she wasn’t my boss. I’d rather I wasn’t the person being summoned into her office at 7 a.m., before I’ve even been able to take a sip of my coffee or change out of the trainers I wear for my commute.
She doesn’t bother with any pleasantries. ‘Samantha has quit.’
‘Oh?’ I reply, wondering if Freya will elaborate.
She doesn’t. ‘We leave for Paris in a few hours.’
‘We? As in—’
She cuts me off with a stare and a sigh. ‘You will obviously take over Samantha’s workload.’ This conversation is undeniably a complete waste of her time.
‘Right,’ I reply, trying to keep my tone neutral, as if this is a reasonable request from her and not an utter piss-take. I mean, it’s an overnighter, what if I had plans for this evening? Plans that don’t involve an impromptu trip to France. And don’t get me started on the fact that I now need to learn the ins and outs of the deal with C’est Magnifique. ‘I’ll need to go home to get my passport.’
The look she gives me could turn a person to stone. ‘Well at least you can jog there,’ she says as her gaze sweeps down to my footwear.
I message Sam on my way to the tube. I need to know what happened; did she get fired? Or did she finally reach breaking point and tell Freya where to stick the job? If that was the way it happened, I wish I’d been there to witness. Sam doesn’t reply.
The flat is quiet as I let myself in; Lissa must still be asleep, the vat of cheap wine she drank last night still cradling her in its languid embrace. The place is a mess, Lissa’s stuff strewn everywhere; there’s even a pair of her tights hanging off the lamp in the living room. We’re total opposites: I’m tidy and ordered – a neat freak, Lissa calls me – but she’s an absolute slattern. We’ve lived together since we were teenagers – sharing a room at the home and then this flat – and I’ve finally learned not to let it get to me. Plus Lissa is currently temping for a fashion PR company and having samples all over our communal space makes it much easier for me to borrow things. Like the fabulous Louboutin heels that are lying incongruously under the breakfast bar in the kitchen. They’ll be perfect with the black L. K. Bennett dress that’s been hanging in the hallway for almost a month.
I scribble her a note on the fridge. She’s notoriously dreadful at reading text messages or WhatsApp, but she’s a creature of habit who needs a milky coffee every morning, so she always sees the little magnetic whiteboard. Then I carefully pack my little carry-on case, pluck my passport from its home in the small safe in my bedroom, and head back to the office.
Lissa messages me just as I’m rehearsing the final touches of the pitch I will give our Parisian clients.
Ooooh! Look at you! International jetsetter xx
Lissa has always had this thing about business travel. She thinks it’s exciting and glamorous and a perk. A fucking perk! The next twenty-four hours will swing between absolute boredom and horrendous stress in luxurious settings that cannot be enjoyed. I will live in constant fear that I’ll say something outlandishly offensive in my terrible French, or order something in a restaurant that is delivered to the table still alive and squirming. And all the while under the watchful and ever-judgemental eye of Freya Ellwood-Winter.
I’ve worked for Freya for almost two years as her Bid Analyst. Technically I’m meant to write pitch packs for potential high-value clients and brand collaborators, but most of my time is spent as a glorified PA, running seemingly random errands for her while she makes vague promises about future opportunities if I prove myself. Sam is – was, I guess, seeing as she’s quit – the Bid Manager, the one who accompanies Freya as she jet-sets all over the place. It might sound more senior – and it is, of course – but the reality is Sam takes – took – a lot of meeting notes and spends – spent? Who the fuck knows – most of the rest of her time booking ridiculously specific hotel rooms and making all the travel arrangements. I guess I do both of these jobs now. And I guess there won’t be a pay rise any time soon. This will be dressed as an opportunity and I’ll take it, make some sycophantic noises about how I relish the challenge and then bitch about it to Lissa later. Welcome to office life in the twenty-first century.
At twelve minutes past eleven, Freya suddenly appears at the door to her office and announces we’re leaving in five minutes. I scramble into action mode: I call a town car, shut down my computer, gather my things, and run downstairs to ensure I’m ready and waiting at sixteen minutes past. I watch the clock behind the receptionist as it ticks forward.
Seventeen past. Eighteen past. Nineteen past. I need to pee. Three more minutes pass; I could’ve nipped to the loo but it wasn’t worth the risk that the lift doors would open and she wouldn’t find me waiting. I’ll have to hold it, feeling as if I’m about to burst, until we arrive at St Pancras.
The uniformed town car driver pops his head into the reception area. ‘Pickup for Millie Brooks?’ I stretch my face into an exaggerated grimace at him. He’s driven us before and he knows what my expression means. ‘I’ll wait in the car,’ he says with a huff.
It’s twenty-nine minutes past before Freya steps out of the lift without even a sniff of an apology for saying five minutes when she meant twenty. ‘Are you coming, Camille?’ she asks as she strides past me.
My name isn’t Camille. Millie is short for Millicent – I was named after my grandmother, who began calling me Millie when I moved in with her to avoid the confusion of two Millicents – but I don’t correct Freya. It’s easier not to. And what is a name anyway? I’m being facetious; names are incredibly important, they define the very core of who we are. Millicent means ‘brave strength’, something I have had to learn the hard way. Freya technically means ‘noble woman’, but it was also the name of my neighbour’s aloof husky who considered herself far above giving anyone any affection. She looked like a wolf and had the teeth to match. My boss couldn’t have a more perfect moniker in my opinion.
Freya spends the first hour of our Eurostar journey quizzing me about the clients we’re meeting this evening and the details of the proposal. I’ve had about two hours to get my head around the deal, but she can’t help herself from nit-picking about the tiny little things I get wrong.
‘They launched C’est Magnifique four years ago, not three.’
‘It’s the second largest youth beauty brand in France.’
‘It’s pronounced Mar-tan, not Mar-tin. It’s French.’
I find myself making more and more of these micro-errors, probably in direct correlation to the pressure on my bladder as I still haven’t been able to go to the toilet. Thankfully, lunch arrives and Freya starts devouring her starter. I manage to excuse myself to wash my hands before I eat.
‘You were a long time, I’ve almost finished eating,’ she says as I slip back into my seat opposite her. She’s already eaten her starter and half her main course. I was gone for less than five minutes, but she has this thing – I was going to call it a talent, but it seems a rather odd thing to celebrate like that – for being able to eat incredibly quickly, as if she’s merely inhaling the food rather than eating it. I went on a date a few months ago with a guy who ate in the same way. He told me it was an old boarding school habit, but Lissa did some Google searching and discovered he’d spent two years in prison for identity theft. ‘That’ll be why he eats like that,’ she’d said with an arched eyebrow and self-righteous smirk. ‘I told you he was trouble.’ He was hot as hell though, and sometimes we all need a
Almost as if she knows I’m thinking about her, my phone begins to beep as a stream of messages comes in. I like to consider what I’m going to say before I compose a single and well-formed message. Lissa, however, messages like her phone is directly plugged into her stream of consciousness, randomly pressing send at whim before she continues to type. I fumble with my phone, trying to put it on silent as I offer Freya an apologetic smile.
But Freya stares back at me, finally putting down her knife and fork and crossing her arms. ‘We might be eating, but you are still at work, Camille.’
‘Sorry,’ I say quickly, and slip the phone under my napkin so the offending item is out of sight. But I hate myself for apologising, and for buying into the whole corporate ‘all my time is work time’ bullshit. She has literally dragged me to Paris with zero notice and now she’s begrudging me having a friend send a few texts over lunch. It’s not like I’m going to clock off at 5 p.m., the meeting with C’est Magnifique is over dinner and doesn’t even begin until eight.
It takes twenty minutes for the taxi to take us from Gard du Nord to the Marriot Champs-Elysée. It’s been a long time since I was last in Paris and I stare out of the window at the buildings with their stone facades and black wrought iron balconies.
‘My grandmother brought me here once,’ I say as we pass the Palais Garnier, home to the Paris Opera. ‘Although I slept through the performance. I think I was a bit young for opera.’
Freya doesn’t even look up from her phone. ‘That’s nice,’ she says dismissively.
I keep quiet for the rest of the journey, drinking in the sights and opening the window a crack to allow the scent of freshly baked bread and coffee to waft into the car from the plethora of streetside cafes. The May sun has warmed the pavement, bringing the city to life around me. We turn onto the Champs-Elysée, the Arc de Triomphe in the distance, and pull up in front of the Marriot. I remember Sam – Freya always called her Samantha, but she thought that made her sound like a Sex and the City character and always went by Sam to the rest of us – spending almost two hours on the phone last week trying to wrangle a specific suite Freya wanted. You may have figured by now that my boss is rather exacting in her tastes. Sam never said if she resolved the issue and I hadn’t thought to ask, it was her problem after all and I had plenty of my own to worry about at the time.
‘I assume you sorted out the correct suite,’ Freya says as she pulls up the handle of her roll-on case and heads towards the entrance, leaving me to pay the taxi driver. Right. Well, I guess Sam’s problems are now my problems. I cross my fingers as I try to catch up with Freya.
Somehow Sam had pulled off the suite and Freya almost breaks into a smile as the receptionist hands her the key. My room, of course, is not a suite. I’m in one of the cheaper rooms the hotel offers – which even then is so expensive it makes me feel a little queasy; I could pay my share of the rent for over a month with that kind of money – but I do have a tiny little balcony. At least I’ll be able to sneak an illicit cigarette without having to come down to the street.
‘We will meet at seven thirty in the Atrium Bar,’ Freya tells me, before heading to the bank of lifts up to the rooms. Then she stops and turns towards me, raising her voice to ensure I can hear her across the space. ‘Make sure you look a little more put together for dinner.’ She waves the hand she is holding her room key in at me, motioning not to something specifically wrong with the way I look, but that all of me needs some attention.
I send a silent plea for strength to the sky, before trotting dutifully after her.
As soon as I’ve closed the door of my room, I unzip my little case and pull out the bottle of wine I had stashed in there. Thank God for the Eurostar not having any liquid restrictions. It’s warm; but warm Prosecco is better than no Prosecco, plus it isn’t like I’m picky. I pop the cork and pour a generous measure into one of the little glasses wrapped in hotel-branded tissue paper from the bathroom. The door to the balcony slides open to reveal a space no larger than a yoga mat, the world’s smallest table and two chairs squeezed into the space. It’s bourgeoise and ridiculous and an absolutely perfect place to watch the last vestiges of a spring afternoon with a glass of wine and a Marlboro.
The smoke hits the back of my throat and the headrush hits me like an old friend; I trap the involuntary groan behind my lips. I know old-school cigarettes aren’t fashionable any more, but my grandmother was never without a Marlboro or even a brightly coloured Sobranie and I find the smell comforting; it’s the scent of home and a life that had almost made sense. I can see the Sacré-Cœur in the distance and I step forward to lean over the balcony railings to look at the street below. Unfortunately, my room looks over the rear of the hotel, so there isn’t much to see.
Except a woman dressed all in black: black leggings, a black hoodie – slightly incongruous in the early-May warmth – and black trainers. Is that… but of course it is, her almost white blond hair reflects the sun even though her long bob is scraped back into a stubby pony tail. Freya pulls on a black baseball cap as she hurries down the alleyway, looking behind her as if to check she isn’t being followed.
What the actual fuck is she up to?
2
I smoke four Marlboros back to back as I wait to see when Freya returns, soothing my throat with another glass of Prosecco.
Just as I’m grinding the last cigarette into the minuscule ashtray, I hear my phone beeping from inside the room. Shit, I didn’t message Lissa back. She has a tendency to get pissy about these things, even though she so frequently ignores my texts, the queen of double standards.
Now, I know I’m meant to have an army of friends and lovers and people who send me stupid GIFs and memes and links to random Reddit threads about skateboarding dogs. But I don’t. I’m very much team ‘small and exclusive friendship group’, not the kind of person who collects acquaintances and hangers-on. That’s how I know the person messaging me is Lissa. It quite simply can’t be anyone else. Especially since Reggie and I broke up. Well, he dumped me because all I ever did was work, but I was having doubts about our relationship before that, so our separation was effectively mutual.
Ooh la la, how is it? Are you having the best time?
I’m sitting on my balcony chain smoking.
With champagne?
Warm Prosecco *grimace face*
Close enough. Are the men gorgeous? Have you found a paramour yet?
If she was with me, I’d have rolled my eyes and made a face like I was about to vomit. Lissa has this whole fantasy about meeting an attractive stranger and having a night of unbridled passion leading to an illicit affair. Unfortunately, this results in a monthly incident where she will end up doing the walk of shame, or knocking on my door to ask for help in the removal of said attractive stranger, who never ends up looking quite as alluring in the cold light of day. I decide to call her instead of trying to type quickly enough to get a word in edgeways; I can see she’s already writing something else.
‘Buongiorno!’ she says as she answers the phone.
‘Italian, but close enough,’ I deadpan.
