How to Slay at Work, page 2
‘Is it fabulous?’
‘Question,’ I say and she waits for me to ask it. ‘If you saw someone in an alley, dressed all in black on a warm afternoon, what would you think they were up to?’
‘Something nefarious, for sure.’
‘Right? I mean, it’s weird?’
‘Maybe they’re an assassin, casing out the place?’ she suggests, always prone to over-dramatising a situation.
‘It was my boss.’
‘Oh.’ She sounds disappointed. ‘You had to ruin it.’
‘She was wearing leggings, and a hoodie, and a baseball cap.’ I try to pique her interest again.
‘And trainers?’
‘Well, yeah.’
‘She was probably going for a run.’
I reach for yet another cigarette and light it, taking a deep drag. Lissa is probably right. Freya is very private about her life outside of work, only sharing the barest minimum. All I know is she has an apartment slap bang in the middle of Covent Garden – not that I’m jealous – and she doesn’t seem to have a husband or kids. I guess she could be a runner. But then I see a black-clad figure enter the alleyway. ‘She’s coming back,’ I hiss into the phone, despite the fact that I’m too far away for Freya to hear me from the alleyway.
‘Is she sweaty?’
‘I’m like five storeys up,’ I say, frustrated I can’t see more closely.
‘Your phone has a zoom function…’ she makes it sound like I’m a moron. She’s generally the scatty one, the one who surprises me at her ability to navigate the real world, but sometimes she’s a straight-up genius who doesn’t even realise it. I open the camera and snap a series of photos, then I enlarge her face. ‘Well?’ Lissa asks, sounding quiet and tinny without the phone pressed against my ear.
‘She is definitely not sweating.’ But then I peer over the edge of the balcony again. She’s squeezed herself behind one of the huge bins stored where the alleyway opens into the rear courtyard of the hotel and is staring up at one of the other rooms. I tuck myself down a bit so she won’t spot me if she turns in my direction. ‘She looks like she’s up to something,’ I whisper into the phone.
I fall silent as she climbs onto the roof of the bin, crouching low before springing up to grab the railing of the first floor balcony above her. In an impressive display of upper-body strength, she pulls herself up, then stands on top of the balustrade to grab the railing of the second floor balcony. ‘Jesus…’ I whisper to Lissa.
‘What’s going on?’ she almost shouts into the phone.
‘My boss is…’ I start but I’m struggling to put what I’m seeing into words. ‘She’s… like… climbing up the balconies,’ I say eventually, but it doesn’t do the spectacle justice. It’s like she’s Spiderman. But some kind of modern feminist parkour take on Spiderman.
‘Are you drunk?’ Lissa asks in mock horror.
‘Of course I’m not drunk. I have a meeting in…’ I check my watch. ‘Shit! My meeting is in like forty-five minutes. I need to get ready.’ I go to hang up then add ‘Love you’ before I press the button to end the call. I hear her say ‘Love you’ back before I cut her off.
At seven twenty-nine I’m standing in the Atrium Bar, dressed in the L. K. Bennett dress and Louboutin heels, my long brown hair in a classically chic chignon, make-up understated but flawless. There is literally nothing Freya can criticise about my appearance.
At seven thirty-nine I’m still standing in the Atrium Bar and Freya hasn’t turned up yet. I suppose it might take her a few minutes to get ready after scaling the outside of the hotel. I’m starting to wonder if that’s what I really saw. I mean, it’s just too ridiculous. I should have taken a video of it, even if just to prove to myself what actually happened.
At seven forty-nine I’m still standing in the Atrium Bar and I’m debating calling Freya to ask where the hell she is. We cannot be late to this meeting. Am I meant to just go alone and then make up an excuse for why she’s late? What do I say? Oh, sorry Freya is a little late this evening. I just watched her climbing up the side of the hotel using the lovely wrought iron balconies like a ladder. But I’m sure it was nothing and she’ll be with us any moment.
I’m being ridiculous. She’s probably already there, probably came down to the bar at seven twenty-six, found I wasn’t already waiting and went straight to the restaurant to prove a point.
At seven fifty-four I make the decision to go to the restaurant; it’s only a few minutes’ walk and so I’m perfectly on time. Freya isn’t there. Enough is enough. Where are you? I text her from my work phone as I’m shown to the table. I watch the screen as it confirms the message was delivered and wait for the three little ellipses to show she’s replying. They don’t come.
I’m interrupted by the arrival of Nicolas and Julien, the Martin – Mar-tan – twins who were semi-famous models in the early 2000s and who now run C’est Magnifique. I introduce myself as Sam’s replacement.
‘No Freya?’ Julien asks with a raised eyebrow.
‘She’s just running a few minutes late.’
‘Is she sick?’ Nicolas’s voice drips with faux concern. ‘She has not had an accident, no?’
‘Oh no, no,’ I say with conviction. But… what if she had? What if – when I was having a quick shower as I rushed to get ready so I wouldn’t be late – she fell? What if she’s lying in that alley, no one any the wiser about where she is? No. I’m being ridiculous, catastrophising, spinning a story out of nothing but fear and paranoia and some kind of morbid fascination with people dying in gruesome ways that has followed me since I was a child.
‘Shall we begin without her?’ Nicolas asks, as he raises a finger to signal to the waiter that he wishes to order.
‘Of course,’ I reply with a smile, despite the fact my insides have turned to jelly and my brain to mush. I guess I’m going to have to negotiate this deal on my own. It’s only a ten million pound contract. Nothing to worry about. Apologies: I get snarky when I’m nervous.
I gulp the wine that appears at my elbow. I’m going to need it if I have any hope of making it through the next few hours.
I don’t want to blow my own trumpet, but I do pretty well over dinner. The Martin twins and I hash out a slightly refined deal – one well within the parameters I know Freya would expect – over an extremely good chateaubriand, and then we have creme brûlée paired with a glass of sweet Sauternes for dessert. They insist on walking me back to the hotel, despite it being mere minutes away, before hailing down a passing taxi for themselves.
‘It has been a pleasure, Miss Brooks,’ Julien says as he kisses my cheeks three times in that bizarre way that is somehow both shockingly familiar and horrendously awkward at the same time. ‘Please pass our regards to Freya. Such a shame she couldn’t join us. I wanted to congratulate her in person for that phenomenal presentation she gave in Boston last month.’
Despite the height of the Louboutins, there’s a spring in my step as I head into the hotel and I contemplate treating myself to a glass of champagne. And by treating myself I obviously mean that I will charge it to the room and make Serendipity – that’s the company I work for in case I haven’t already said – pick up the tab. There’s a hum in the air as I cross the reception area, a crackle of something I can’t quite put my finger on.
But then I walk into the atrium. Guess who’s sitting at the bar? OK, I know that wasn’t exactly difficult, of course it’s Freya. Just sitting there as cool as ice, as if she didn’t fail to turn up for the meeting and leave me to deal with everything by myself. My blood rises as I watch her casually sipping from the cocktail in front of her. I want to slap her, but I also want to tell her that I sealed the deal on my own. I want her to be proud of me. I’m such a fucking cliché.
‘Are you OK?’ I ask her, as I slip onto the stool next to her.
‘Of course, Camille,’ she says. ‘Shouldn’t I be?’ She genuinely sounds like there is no reason for me to even ask that question.
‘You didn’t show up for the meeting.’ It’s not an accusation, I sound like an abandoned dog left at the shelter by the person who was meant to give him a forever home. Eughh, what is wrong with me?
‘But I’m sure you got them to sign.’
‘Yes. And I only had to give away another ten percent.’ I wait for her to look impressed.
‘You gave away ten percent?’ She doesn’t seem impressed. She seems… incredulous.
‘Only ten, yes.’ I can hear the uncertainty creeping into my voice.
‘Oh, Millicent.’ It’s the use of my real name that sends a chill up the back of my neck. ‘We’d already negotiated as low as would make commercial sense.’
‘Shit.’
‘Quite.’ She takes a long slug of her drink and motions to the bartender for another. Then she takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly as she turns to look at me head on. ‘I suppose it would be best if I tell the Board I was the one who negotiated the deal. I’ll tell them it was a deliberate strategy to bring the Martin brothers on board to encourage partnerships with some other brands.’
‘But—’ I begin, but she cuts me off.
‘It’s done, Millicent. Let’s not talk of it again.’ Her voice is laced with disappointment.
I want to tell her that it is all her fault anyway. That she should have been there. That I was only brought into this deal a few hours ago. That there is no way it should be considered my fault. But instead I order a Chambord Martini and we sit in silence as we drink.
Half an hour ticks past, as I grow more and more angry that she fucked me over and then somehow made out like I was the one in the wrong. Screw this!
‘Freya,’ I start, ‘where were you this evening?’
‘I was with you, finalising a deal that I have the authority to negotiate, while you kept notes of the conversation. Notes that I’m expecting on my desk by close of play tomorrow. I suggest you spend the Eurostar journey home writing them up.’ And then she slides off her stool, scoops up her bag and walks away from me. Leaving me sitting at the bar, my mouth hanging open in disbelief. That woman has some serious gall.
I wait five minutes to ensure she won’t possibly still be waiting for a lift, and then make my way back to my room. There is still enough – very, almost unbearably – warm Prosecco left for another glass and I take it out onto the little balcony for a nightcap and a final cigarette. The alleyway is bathed in blue light; when I lean over the balustrade a little I can see a police car at the other end of the narrow space. Two men in black, the word POLICE emblazoned across the back of their jackets, are shining torches around the bins, searching for something. A German Shepherd in a police harness is with them, nose to the ground, tail swishing slowly from side to side as he works. Then suddenly he turns and looks directly at me, his eyes glowing red. He lets out a low growl and then returns to the job at snout.
What are they looking for? I slip back into my room and grab my phone. I didn’t delete the photos I took of Freya earlier and I pull them up. Zooming in on one I notice something in Freya’s hand. It looks like a pill bottle, one of those orange plastic ones with the white lid. In the next photo she’s slipping it into the pocket of her leggings, causing an unsightly bulge on one hip. I flick back to the first picture, zooming in further to see if I can read what’s written on the label. But there is no label.
What was in that bottle?
And what are the police searching for in the middle of the night in the exact same place I watched Freya climb up the side of the hotel?
3
Somehow I manage to sleep through the alarms I set on my phone – or, more accurately, I switch them off in my sleep – but thankfully I arranged for coffee to be delivered to the room at seven and the room service waiter is extremely persistent in knocking on my door until I drag myself out of bed.
‘I hope your night wasn’t too disturbed, Ms Brooks,’ he says in English but with a trace of an accent as he places the tray on a small table by the door. He turns and must see the confusion on my face. ‘With the ambulance and then the police outside.’
‘Ambulance?’
‘One of our guests…’ he trails off and clears his throat. ‘Such a shame.’
‘Are they OK?’ But it’s pretty obvious from the look on his face that no, they are very much not OK. ‘Who?’
But he shakes his head. ‘I can’t say any more,’ and then he thrusts the room service slip towards me for my signature.
As soon as the door closes behind him I reach for my laptop and open Google. I type in the name of the hotel and hit the News icon. Three hours ago, France 24 ran a story about the tragic death of an American businessman and someone has helpfully already snipped the segment and posted it to YouTube. The newsreader is impossibly perky given this went out at 5 a.m., but her co-host is almost comatose. I’ll try not to see it as an indictment of just how much harder women have to work to be considered equal to their male counterparts.
‘At nine o’clock yesterday evening, a body was discovered in a suite at the Marriot Champs-Elysée. The man, who we can now confirm as Cody Gelber, CEO of InterBank LLC and a regular feature of society in both New York and Paris, is believed to have been alone in his room at the time of his death. Early reports indicate the drug fentanyl may have been involved, amid suggestions this was suicide.’
Fentanyl? I call Lissa, half expecting her not to answer but pleasantly surprised when she does.
‘It’s the middle of the night,’ she tells me.
I go to make a snarky comment, but to be fair it is only 6 a.m. in London. ‘Question. How easy is fentanyl to get hold of?’
‘Err… do we need to have a chat about something?’ Her voice is hard and I hear a slap in the background, followed by the rustling of bed sheets as she sits up. ‘You do not, ever, mess with that shit.’
‘Jeez, Lissa. I’m not trying to score, for fuck’s sake. What the hell?’
‘So why are you asking?’
‘Just. Well, someone died in the hotel last night. The news is saying it was a fentanyl overdose.’
‘I thought you were staying somewhere swish? Not some crack house. That said, it’s actually pretty easy to get hold of if you have money and contacts.’ There’s a giggle in the background and then that sound of a slap again. ‘Stop it,’ I hear her whisper under her breath.
‘Are you—’
There’s another giggle, slightly louder this time.
‘Lissa. Did you answer the phone while you’re having sex?’
‘Not like sex sex,’ she says, innocent as pie. ‘Just a little bit of fun.’
‘You are a disgrace,’ I tell her, but my tone is light, imbued with a touch of laughter. This isn’t the first time she’s answered the phone while she has company, just another thing I’ve got used to over the years.
I spend another half hour googling Cody Gelber, painting a picture of a man well known as a purveyor of capitalist hedonism: prone to excessive spending, excessive drinking, and excessive partying with a veritable harem of beautiful women. Wealthy, generous, and not that unattractive – especially if you like your men with the appearance of well-weathered leather – he was the kind of man who was invited to all of the most prestigious events. But under that artificially whitened smile is a hint of something else, something wrong, something wicked. I can sense it in his eyes, in the way the photos show him resting his hand on the base of whichever woman he is entertaining’s spine. This man is a predator.
Now, I know mental health is a silent killer, that you cannot possibly look at someone and have any idea of the demons they battle. Trust me when I say I have more experience of this than anyone should have; I was only six when my father succumbed to his darkness. But Cody Gelber doesn’t seem like the kind of man who would barricade himself in his hotel suite and take a huge dose of fentanyl. If he’d been found with a bevy of women, dead from an accidental overdose of MDMA or some other chemsex drug, that would have tracked. But this whole situation doesn’t seem to make sense.
On the drive to Gare du Nord, Freya barely speaks to me, her eyes hidden behind a pair of grossly oversized sunglasses like an ice-blonde Audrey Hepburn. But as soon as we’re seated on the Eurostar she takes them off, folding them carefully and placing them next to her MacBook.
‘Did you write up those notes from the meeting?’ she asks, with a hint of exasperation, as if she’s pre-empting me saying I haven’t.
Of course I haven’t. It’s nine in the morning – I’m not a stickler about these things by any stretch, but my contract does actually say my hours are nine to five-thirty – and the meeting was last night, for fuck’s sake. But I swallow my irritation. ‘I was going to use the train journey.’ Which was actually her suggestion in the bar last night.
‘Right. Well, I suggest you get cracking then.’ She pauses for a few moments. If it was anyone else I’d assume they were silently debating if they should say something more, but given this is Freya, it’s far more likely the pause is purely for dramatic effect. ‘I’m doing you a favour here, Camille. You understand what the Board’s position would be if they knew you’d given away such a huge margin, don’t you?’
I swallow. I would be fired. Summarily, no chance to tell my side of the story. And then everything I’ve been working toward for so many years would be lost, disappearing in a puff of iniquitous smoke. ‘Thank you, Freya,’ I say and open my laptop to write the absolute bullshit she wants me to spread.
I’m about halfway through this farce when my phone beeps with a message. I glance up at Freya, but she has headphones in, eyes half closed and her head resting against the back of the seat. I wonder for a moment what she’s listening to. But at least she has no idea I’m receiving random messages from Lissa.
The WhatsApp message isn’t from Lissa. I don’t recognise the number, the profile picture a plain black circle. I debate deleting it, it’s probably spam. Or something dodgy. To be fair, the most likely scenario is it’s some guy’s dick. But curiosity gets the better of me.
