Emily wondered what the job would entail. Not reception again, she guessed. Maybe he would train her up to … hmm. What was it that they did at Proem again? Stocks and shares? Something like that. Whatever—the point was that she had a new job, which meant money, which meant she no longer needed that loan from her parents. She made a mental note to call Juliet in the morning.
She curled up on the bed, grimacing at the memory of the bus hurtling toward her. She hadn’t felt like that for a long time. The pure, blind fear, and the feeling of déjà vu … and then that rising weightlessness as she fell, familiar as her own bedsheets. She thought she’d grown out of all that.
She warded her feelings off with an image of Scott. My hero. She smiled. In her hand she still held his business card. Could he be real? Perhaps he was a figment of her wishful imagination.
Reaching for her phone, she sent a text. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Seconds later, Scott replied, and his existence was proven.
* * *
The weekend was long and painful. A watched pot never boils, Emily reminded herself, but the anticipation was too much to bear, and she was soon glued to the pot like a kid to cartoons. But after a while the questions started to creep in. The sheer drama of Scott’s appearance and subsequent offer had temporarily erased the anguish of being dropped from Lara’s books, but what if he’d reconsidered? Or forgotten? What if she showed up at Proem and there was no record of her appointment? What would she do then?
By Monday morning, she was tempted to stay in bed, hidden under the blankets. But after giving herself a stern talking-to, she propelled herself out the door and onto the Tube. Accidentally arriving way ahead of schedule, she dithered on the street corner for as long as she could before finally riding the elevator up to the fifth floor. As she approached the reception desk, her heartbeat seemed so loud she felt sure someone would ask her to turn the volume down.
The woman sitting in Emily’s usual place was older than her, and clearly wiser. Emily marveled at the speed and efficiency with which she answered the phone, sent a fax, and filed a contract—all at the same time. “Hi there,” said the new (old) receptionist. “Do you have an appointment?”
“Um, yes. Yes, I do. I’m Emily? Emily Proudman. I’m here to see Mr. Denny.” She hesitated, feeling like a schoolgirl at the headmaster’s office. “Scott,” she added, and felt better.
The receptionist tapped on her keyboard. There was a nail-biting pause. “Ah, yes,” she said, at last. “Eleven thirty?”
“That’s right.” Emily looked at the clock on the wall. “Sorry, I’m a bit early.” The words felt odd coming out of her mouth. She was rarely early for anything—certainly never for work at Proem. Look at me changing, she thought happily.
“Take a seat.”
On the same velvet couch on which David Mahoney had waited to ambush her, Emily crossed and recrossed her legs, dabbing at her forehead and smoothing her hair. She tugged at her skirt, uncertain about the length. Be calm, she told herself. Be cool.
She pulled the topmost magazine from a stack on the coffee table and nearly fell off her seat. Scott’s dark eyes gazed out from the cover. Smooth Operator, read the headline. Proem Partners founder Scott Denny on innovation, tradition, and creating the perfect workspace. Emily flicked hurriedly to the main article, where two whole pages were taken up with a photograph of the lobby and its huge LED chandelier.
Housed within a refurbished Grade 2–listed Edwardian building in Mayfair, Proem is a breakout capital-investment firm focused on both emerging and established companies across a multitude of different industries. They describe themselves as “boutique,” but their profit margins and annual turnover indicate that they are anything but.
Another photograph of Scott, now perched casually on the back of a leather sofa, his feet on the seats, elbows resting on his knees. The photographer had caught him mid laugh, and the result was disarming for reasons she didn’t quite understand. Scott was undoubtedly good-looking. But the bubbling, kettle-boiling sensation under her ribs was something other than just sexual attraction; it felt bigger than that, somehow.
The wide range of flexible working spaces includes thirty-five workstations, ten offices, seven meeting rooms, and a twenty-seater boardroom with sophisticated AV technology for teleconference, video, and smart-board presentations. By his own admittance, Scott Denny places employee satisfaction at the top of his priority list, so naturally the designs had to include a luxurious breakout area and rooftop terrace.
A group of three analysts, one girl and two guys, wandered out of one of the meeting rooms and crossed the foyer, stopping at the desk to collect a stack of files. Emily smiled and half raised her hand in a greeting.
“Ann-Marie’s off sick again,” said one of the guys in a loud, bored voice.
“Please, she’s not sick,” said the girl, tossing blond ringlets over her shoulder. “Any excuse to plant her fat arse on the couch and eat crisps all day.”
“Didn’t she freak out? Like, have a legit breakdown?”
“Depressed, I heard.”
“What does she have to be depressed about?”
“Um, hello? Have you seen her boob job?”
“If anyone made me look like that,” said the girl, “I’d fucking sue.” The group gathered their files and wandered into the copy room.
Emily dropped her hand back into her lap, wondering whether her dismissal had become common knowledge yet. She couldn’t imagine that the office gossips had not yet caught wind of it, but then again, maybe she just wasn’t worth gossiping about. She bowed her head over the magazine, figuring it was probably best to avoid attention just in case.
Going into this project, Scott Denny wanted to eschew a traditional office setting in favor of a “warm and welcoming vibe.” Inspired by the lofts of New York, an industrial feel is juxtaposed with a “residential” ambiance, creating a textured materiality that brings radiance and depth to the space. Earthy tones and subdued colors provide a peaceful touch, while overscaled artwork and high ceilings create a sense of awe.
Awe. Yes, that was the word. That was what Emily felt when she thought about Scott.
The same loud, bored voice rang out again. Emily looked up. The copy-room door was ajar.
“So, any news on the summer party?”
“I heard we’re booking a restaurant.”
“Ugh, really? So lame.”
“We should do the superyacht again. That was insane.”
“I literally have no memory of that night. Total absinthe blackout.”
There was a wave of sniggers.
“So, Scott’s not offering up his French mansion this year, then?”
Emily’s ears pricked up. She shuffled to the end of the sofa, leaning closer to the open door.
“Dude, let it go,” said the female voice, wearily. “It’ll never happen. I’ve been at him for years, but apparently his batshit-crazy wife shuts him down every time.”
Emily froze. Wife? She put down her magazine. What wife?
“I heard she’s a bitch,” murmured one of the guys.
“Who even is she?”
“Is she hot?”