“Okay, well, whose decision is it? Maybe you could talk to them for me?” Don’t beg, she told herself. Surely you’re above begging for a shitty temp job? But the words kept coming. “Maybe I could do something else, something with less responsibility. There must be other things that need doing?”
“Come now, you don’t need us. Good-looking girl like you?” David reached out as if to ruffle her hair but thankfully seemed to change his mind at the last minute. “I’m sure Hollywood is just falling over itself.”
Emily felt her cheeks burn. Proem was the only thing keeping her afloat. Bookings for temp jobs had been slow lately, and corporate videos and play readings didn’t pay much.
When the ordeal finally came to an end, David patting her shoulder like a headmaster sending her back to class, she returned to the mercifully empty reception area and the desk that was no longer hers. Behind her, the meeting-room door clicked shut and David’s busy footsteps faded away into the recesses of the building. A funereal silence settled like snow.
Well … fuck. What the hell was she going to do now? The upside of losing her job, of course, was that she would no longer have to pretend to care about filing and making new clients feel welcome. But then again, the rent was due, she was deep into her overdraft, and it wasn’t likely that she’d get another temp gig straightaway. Jamie at the temp agency had mentioned only a few days ago that they were struggling to find enough work for everyone, and getting fired wasn’t exactly going to propel her to the top of the list.
She lifted her head and glared at the computer screen. The phone rang but she ignored it. Nope, there was no other option: she’d just have to cook up a good sob story, phone Jamie, and throw herself on his mercy.
* * *
There was no reason to stay until the end of the day, but the midafternoon rush made it impossible to leave. Every time Emily went to pack up her things, someone would approach the desk and issue instructions so forcefully that she found herself unable to explain that technically she no longer worked there. Then a female client arrived for a meeting with a four-year-old in tow and dumped him at Emily’s feet like luggage, so then she really couldn’t go. The poor little boy looked so forlorn that she ended up playing hide-and-seek among the potted plants while simultaneously directing calls and signing for packages.
After a while she began to feel sad. As she watched the well-dressed human traffic flowing steadily through the foyer, she wondered what it would be like to have a job for life. Decent money, security, colleagues, Friday-night drinks. It all sounded so liberating.
Emily realized then how much she’d enjoyed her six weeks at Proem. She didn’t exactly fit in, of course, but people had started to say hi to her in the coffee room, and she’d even been sent a fun little questionnaire for the in-house “newsletter,” whatever that was. “Get to Know Your Team,” the email had said, with a note explaining that her answers would be posted the following week along with her photograph. It had felt nice to be included.
She looked for more excuses to hang around. Buoyed by the attentions of the abandoned little boy, she found increasingly elaborate ways to entertain him: Twenty Questions, magic tricks, a treasure hunt. She swept the floor. The photocopier was beeping; the paper tray was jammed. The coffee machine needed cleaning, the cushions straightening. She wanted to leave the place looking perfect. Maybe someone would realize what a great employee she’d been and call her back. But when the office activity began to wind down and the boy’s mother finally appeared to reclaim her shrieking, writhing child (Emily had pumped him full of sugary bribes), she knew it was finally time to go.
Picking up her bag, she took a last look around. Somewhere in a parallel universe, maybe she belonged in a place like this. Maybe there was a version of her walking around in a Stella McCartney outfit and carrying a briefcase.
But back in the elevator, she studied her reflection once more. On second thought, she decided, probably not.
CHAPTER TWO
SCOTT
THE FAT nib of the pen was too blunt to penetrate his skin, but Scott Denny was giving it his best shot. He forced it into the center of his palm, turning it slowly like a screw, first one way and then the other, grinding the metal against his flesh.
It was painful but not nearly enough. He cast his eyes over his meticulously ordered desk, searching for something that might do the job properly. There wasn’t a lot to work with. His phone obviously wouldn’t do much damage. Neither would the metal prongs of the charger, not even if he pressed really hard. He could maybe crush his fingers with one of the heavy granite statuettes. Or smash the ornate picture frame and use the glass to carve lines into his arm. If he had a stapler handy, he could slam it repeatedly into his thigh.
Too messy, though. Too loud. Too conspicuous.
On the other side of his desk, her slender frame perched delicately on a Danish cherrywood swivel chair, his executive assistant, Verity, blathered on. Her immaculately manicured nails tapped an irregular beat on the keyboard of her laptop as she made updates to his schedule.
“You’ve got the managing exec of Alkira-Dunn coming in with her lawyer tomorrow at eight thirty, and after that you’ve got a conference call with the rep for Truss and Boulder. He’s hoping we’ll finance a buyout. I’ve already talked to him; he doesn’t have a business plan and we’re a bit unclear on competitors, so we need to look at that tonight. And then if you need to run models you’ve got some time before your lunch meeting. Now, you need to tell me what you want me to do about…”
She droned on and on.
And under the table, grind, grind, grind.
He really should stop. It was going to leave one hell of a mark.
The sky outside, dissected into squares by bronze-mullioned windows, was dishwater gray. Where had the afternoon gone? In just a few hours, the streetlights would start flickering on: a neat line of fire stretching along Grosvenor Street all the way to Hyde Park, a procession of torches lighting the way home for all but the likes of him, the night owls for whom the days were not defined by the rising and setting of the sun but by the open and close of global trade.
Scott suddenly registered silence. He looked up. Verity had paused mid drivel and was giving him an odd look.
“What?” he said.
“Yesterday’s start-up. I need to know if you want me to go ahead and contact their director.”
Scott tried to recall the previous day and drew a blank.
“Everything okay?” Verity’s doll-like face was rumpled with concern.
“Fine.” He smiled thinly. “Just a few issues at home. Nothing major. Yes, set up a meeting. What else?”
Verity gave him a sideways look and returned to her screen, unconvinced but keen to press on.
Grind, grind, grind.
Beside him on his desk, Scott’s phone lit up displaying yet another new message. There was now a neat little queue of them.
Please talk to me …
Last night I thought …
We need you, don’t …
I swear if you …
I fucking hate you …
Selfish thoughtless cowardly bastard …
Grind, grind, grind.
He nodded along with whatever Verity was saying, his thoughts drifting further and further away. Images darted birdlike through his mind, swooping and flashing their colors at him. He saw an orange sun peeking through feathery fronds of pampas grass. A wet footprint evaporating on hot polished travertine.