To Have and Hate Page 9

  ‘Shows what you know. Anyway, what would you know? When was the last time you rode public transport?’

  ‘You’re just a voyeur.’

  ‘Among other things,’ he replies a touch defensively.

  ‘I’ve never paid for it,’ Harry grumbles.

  ‘I didn’t pay her for sex. I paid her for the experience. It’s brain sex, not actual fucking. No body contact unless you’re touching yourself.’

  ‘Or deepthroating her rubber strap-on,’ Harry sneers.

  ‘Fuck, you. It’s no different than seeing a therapist. Besides, I only had a couple of sessions.’

  ‘Because you realised there was no fucking.’

  ‘You were telling us about the girl you met outside,’ I interject before the pair’s arguing escalates.

  ‘Girls, plural,’ Griffin corrects with a gleam. ‘Coming out of the tube station.’

  Harrison groans as he folds his arms across his chest. ‘You did not pick up two girls on the tube.’

  ‘First, we were coming out of the station, and second, it was just one girl I was interested in. The one who was crying. They’re so pretty when they cry.’

  ‘It’s just because you’re used to their tears. They always cry when he whips out his dick,’ Harrison remarks, turning to me.

  ‘Cry at the thought of how it’ll destroy them,’ the other man quips.

  ‘Get to the point of why you’re late. She was crying, and apparently, you like puffy eyes and red faces.’

  ‘Yes, she was upset, God love her. She’d just been dumped.’

  ‘So you thought you’d offer to be her rebound fuck?’

  ‘A very particular kind, if I’m lucky.’ And by the grin, I’d say he thinks he is lucky. Or he plans on getting lucky. ‘You should’ve heard her, crying on her friend’s shoulder. I can’t believe he dumped me!’ he intones in a terrible falsetto. ‘The bastard dumped me right after I let him shag my arse!’

  This is beginning to make sense as Griff carries on.

  ‘Well, babe, her mate says, that’s why. You gave him what he wanted and now that he’s had it, he’s gone. The other girl, the prettier one of the two, looks up at her friend all wet lashes and big brown eyes, and says, that wasn’t what he wanted, though. He wanted ATM.’ Harry sits forward in his chair, muttering something unintelligible. ‘He wanted to go to the cash machine? her friend asked. No, she replies, he wanted me to eat his arse. I told him, no fucking way, but you just can bum me instead.’

  ‘Whoever said romance is dead obviously never met you.’ I chuckle almost begrudgingly. He really does get himself into the most awkward scrapes. ‘You paint such an eloquent picture with words, Griff. Perhaps, you should’ve gone into the art instead of law.’ Griffin is a barrister, Queens Council, no less. Harrison, meanwhile, deals in art.

  ‘Get off your high horse,’ he crows. ‘Anyway, did I just see you crack a smile? What’s with that?’ Before I realise what he’s doing, the bastard leans across the table, pressing the back of his hand to my forehead. ‘Are you running a temperature or something?’

  ‘I didn’t know you cared. Sadly, your very obvious homoerotic overtures aren’t really my thing.’

  ‘Piss off,’ he retorts baldly. ‘You boarding schoolboy types are the ones who like a bit of bumming.’

  I slide my phone from the table, my gaze drawn to the screen. ‘I thought that was more your style.’ Still nothing. I leave it face up on the banquette next to my thigh.

  ‘It’s not gay if you’re into bumming girls.’

  ‘I thought the saying went more like it’s not gay so long as your balls don’t touch?’ Harry helpfully supplies, raising his glass to indicate to the passing waitress that he’d like another. ‘Not that I’d know anything about that kind of stuff, situational homosexuality or the other kind.’

  ‘Are you watching porn?’ I glance around the restaurant rather than give Harry the satisfaction of an answer. By glancing at my phone again. ‘You’re very preoccupied tonight. You keep looking at it, so it’s either porn or you’re on a promise.’

  ‘It’s business.’ Did I just snap?

  ‘Nah, this is different. You’ve got your knickers all sticky over something.’

  ‘It’ll be money,’ Griffin offers, helping himself to another chip. ‘Some deal he’s brewing, which means there’s some poor fucker somewhere waiting for him to pounce.’

  I’d like to pounce. And when the time is right, I will.

  And the best part? Olivia won’t go down without a fight.

  Chapter 12

  OLIVIA

  Everyone has their price. Bah!

  There is nothing on this earth that would persuade me to contact that man.

  I don’t care about the depths of delicious depravity.

  Or what the press of his lips silently promised.

  Or how his behaviour, coupled with the bulge beneath his belt, hailed a penis trifecta of stamina, length, and girth.

  Even if—no, especially because I can’t get any of the finance fuckers in town to take my calls. Whether because of his influence in the industry or some other Machiavellian scheme of his, I don’t know. But what I do know is I will not bow down to that rich, beautiful autocratic devil in a three-piece suit.

  I am not for sale.

  ‘Is your laptop insured?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  Pushing the unwelcome thought away, I glance up from the email I’m crafting at the sound of Jorge’s voice, only for my gaze to slick down again when something on the screen catches my attention. Seems my email has been infiltrated by my angry thoughts; my speculative email turned to a hate-filled rant. I hit delete and look up once more. ‘I’m sorry, what did you say?’

  ‘I asked if your laptop is insured because the way you’re hammering those keys, it’s not going to last very long.’

  ‘I suppose I am a little crabby this morning.’

  ‘Crabby isn’t the half of it,’ Jorge mutters, turning back to his own workstation with a cup of coffee in one hand and a chocolate biscuit in the other. Crumbs trail down the front of his shirt, suggesting he’d stuffed one in his mouth while waiting for the kettle to boil.

  ‘Where’s my coffee? You know the rules. Whoever goes to the kitchen—’

  ‘Or the corner shop,’ Miranda, our twenty-one-year-old marketing expert pipes up, pulling a biro pen from her messy blond topknot. Wearing Sass & Bide jeans and a sleeveless shirt with a Peter Pan collar, she’s effortlessly stylish as always. She makes me feel ancient, despite there being only a few years between us.

  ‘I asked,’ he says in his sad Eeyore tone. Actually, Eeyore has a little more personality than Jorge. For someone who’s resume promised creativity and flair in the field of development, Jorge is very staid in both personality and appearance. The most exotic thing about him is his name, and I’m not sure where that comes from because he’s anything but Mediterranean looking. Today’s ensemble is much like any other day except for his daring choice of double denim; a long-sleeved shirt buttoned to the neck and skinny jeans that have gone a little baggy at the knee. Over these, he wears a brown knitted cardigan with square pockets and large buttons that look like old-fashioned leather soccer balls.

  ‘I asked,’ he repeats as Miranda scoffs. ‘No one answered.’

  ‘That’s because when you can’t be arsed to make anyone else a cuppa, you more or less whisper,’ retorts Heather, Miranda’s younger cousin who’s interning with us this summer—for free, supposedly. She has little love for Jorge, and even less like for him, and can often be found rolling her eyes and complaining that his unironic grandpa chic gives her migraines.

  ‘Well, you didn’t ask if I wanted anything from Subway when you went yesterday.’

  ‘Only because you didn’t get me what I asked for when you went to the Co-Op on Tuesday.’

  ‘I’m not picking up your bloody tampons!’

  ‘They aren’t bloody. Not beforehand.’ Jorge appears to be turning a funny colour. ‘Any
way, periods aren’t catching, you know.’ She stands, pressing her palms against the surface of her Ikea desk, her silver tutu springing around her colt-like legs while drawing up the knotted hem of a white slogan T-shirt which reads:

  Girls just want to have fun

  damental rights.

  She’s not the only fashion parody in this office. She wants to work in PR, following studying for a degree in social media. Which is three years spent scrolling through Instagram, I think.

  ‘I don’t get paid to shop for your feminine hygiene products.’

  ‘Well, I don’t get paid,’ she retorts, which isn’t strictly true. She wanted to get a little experience and was willing to work three days a week just for the experience, which was the only reason I said she could—even the accountant said I couldn’t afford to take on anyone else—yet she’s now getting a hundred quid a week, off the books, so basically out of my pocket, plus her travel expenses. And I know for a fact she travels in with Miranda in the Mini Cooper her parents bought her for her twenty-first birthday. But Mir is worth her weight in gold, so I don’t make a fuss.

  ‘Guys, guys!’ Heedless, the trio continue to argue like a bunch of grade school kids. So I do what my mom would’ve done and bang my empty coffee cup on my desk. Unfortunately, it’s not completely empty, so my white blouse is now doused with cold coffee. ‘Mother fuck,’ I whisper viciously.

  ‘Oh, no!’ Heather immediately jumps to her feet. ‘Quick, give me your top. I’ll get the stain out before it sets.’

  ‘I’m not taking it off,’ I protest as she begins to untuck the hem from the back of my skirt. ‘I’ve only got on my bra underneath,’ I continue, wriggling away from her woman-handling. I really wasn’t cut out to have employees. Or plants. Or pets.

  ‘Heather, leave Olivia alone, for goodness’ sake.’

  ‘Oh, sorry. Did I, like, miss a social cue there?’ The young girl’s fingers loosen, her anxious gaze flicking back and forth between her cousin and me.

  ‘Generally, people don’t strip to the waist at work.’

  ‘Unless it’s blokes on a building site,’ Miranda offers with a kind smile. ‘Then it’s fair. Stuff the patriarchy.’ She half-heartedly fists the air.

  ‘No,’ I add, reaching for my purse because I don’t want to get into another one of the “gender discrimination in the workplace” conversations. ‘Let’s just stuff our faces with pastyarchy instead, eh?’ I pull out a twenty-pound note and hand it to Heather. ‘Do you want to do a bakery run? You can get yourself a peach melba?’

  Heather nods and snatches the twenty from my hand. ‘Vanilla slice, Jorge?’ she asks sweetly without even a hint of teasing. He nods, and Miranda asks for a skinny cappuccino as she eyes her empty cup of crappy, as she likes to call the instant stuff, before sending a pointed glance my way. Apparently, Mir’s last start-up office had a European bean-to-cup coffee machine and croissants delivered every morning from a nearby patisserie. Meanwhile, I offer Nescafé and the occasional greasy treat from Greggs, which is, let’s face it, only a bakery if you squint. But little does she know she’s just lucky I have enough in the bank for this month’s salary run.

  Next month is another matter altogether.

  Heather trots off without asking me what I’d like to order because I’m always on the latest detox to hit the Internet. That’s the official line, anyway. The back channels will tell you I prefer to save my pennies for a bottle of wine for the weekend.

  We all have our vices.

  I head to our gender-neutral bathroom in a building that I’m pretty sure was once an East End slum. I’d opted to rent office space in the vibrant enclave of Hoxton for a number of reasons, but none of them were relevant right now. Particularly as we’re at the less desirable end where there seems to be a definite demarcation line for the gentrification of the suburb to end.

  This end of Hoxton is less Café Society and more greasy spoon.

  The warehouse-sized windows, bare brick walls, and old timber floors were quite seductive selling points. Now I see them as another sticking point because they’re impossible to heat in the winter and like a sauna at just a hint of sun.

  I succeed in taking the coffee stain from café au lait to sludge before I give up and resign myself to an afternoon of follow-up emails and pestering, begging phone calls. It’s been ten days since I stormed out of JBW’s offices, and since then, I haven’t had one bite as far as interest goes. I have until the end of next month before I lose everything. I have no collateral to borrow against, and no one to borrow from. I could ask my family, but I know what would happen before I even do. The Spanish Inquisition has nothing on my grandmother, Elsie, who is my stalwart supporter. But as far as she’s concerned, her darling granddaughter is the toast of London town. A businesswoman on the rise. There’s no way I can disappoint her. Confiding in her is out of the question.

  I have a mom, too, but she’s more interested in the ranch in the San Fernando Valley that she bought after her divorce. Not her divorce from my father. He split before I was two. There, she’s quite content rescuing all manner of four-legged creatures. Which, as she likes to tell me, are far more reliable than the creatures with two.

  ‘How are things going with you today?’ I ask as I pass Miranda’s desk once more.

  ‘Yeah, pretty good. I’ve got a journalist at the Standard interested in doing a piece for us, and I’m waiting on a call back from the Evening News.’

  ‘Newspapers?’ She nods happily, and I try to return her enthusiasm, but it’s hard. Articles in these would be awesome but not if we’re going to go bust before we can capitalise on the exposure.

  ‘Wow. That’s . . . well done.’ I lean my hip against the side of her desk as she taps her notebook point by point, giving me a rundown of her plans.

  ‘And I’ve loaded a new post to the blog this morning: Best Places to Meet Guys in London. The hits we’re getting already are fucking awesome!’ Her gaze slides to Jorge, who doesn’t approve of profanity, as she adds in a little glance that I like to call fuck you, too.

  ‘What kind of things have you got on there?’

  ‘Honestly? Mainly trawling the bars.’ My expression twists. ‘It’s not that bad, though, hear me out.’

  ‘Go on then. Dazzle me.’ I can’t help but smile at her enthusiasm.

  ‘So, I’ve made a special mention of that hipster place in Shoreditch. You know, the one that has the slider plates you love?’

  ‘And the cinema on the roof?’

  ‘That’s the one. Well, I was thinking we could hit them up for a speed dating night. It’d be good for a laugh, as well as a bit of media attention.’

  ‘Isn’t speed dating a bit passé?’

  ‘The word passé is passé,’ she deadpans. ‘Speed dating is like having a revival. It’s totally retro now. And I’m going to get a celeb involved. I was thinking about one of the guys from Lust Island.’ At my blank stare, she sighs and rolls her eyes. ‘Do you even have a TV?’

  ‘Yeah, I just don’t watch it very much.’ And never to watch reality TV. The only reason I know what program she’s talking about is because it’s pretty much all she and Heather have done over the past few weeks.

  Can you believe Gav cheated on Cher? What about the new arrivals? But she’s his ex! Darcy’s a totally hottie, but I want Aimee ’cause she’s a normal girl.

  I’m not sure about normal. As far as I can tell, the contestants are buffed, bleached, and Botoxed to within an inch of their lives. Besides, can anyone who signs up live under the scrutiny of around-the-clock filming be normal?

  ‘I’ve reached out to their agent and am waiting for her to get back to me with the fees. Don’t look so stressed. It’s all just in the inception stages at the minute.’

  ‘So the blog post as it stands?’ I bring the conversation back. Mir is like a squirrel on speed with explanations and timelines.

  ‘Just recommendations. Like that place with the massive ball pool, though I always find the kid’s places s
mell like funky cheese. But they have singles evenings, apparently.’

  ‘Where you can touch all the balls you want?’

  ‘Even the blue ones.’

  ‘You’re bad,’ I reply with a snigger.

  ‘You set it up for me,’ she retorts, miming a tennis shot. ‘And then there’s the Samba place that has beginner’s lessons and any number of Latin men with snake-like hips.’

  ‘They’d also have broken toes if they partnered with me,’ Heather quips.

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Yeah, a rec for the place that serves drinks from smoking cauldrons.’ I look back blankly. ‘You remember the Alchemist’s Haven? I wanted you to come with me a couple of Fridays ago for cocktails and eye candy city gents.’

  ‘Urgh.’

  ‘Come on,’ she scoffs. ‘You can’t fool me. Suit porn and drinks bought for you by pretty and eager boys is every girl’s favourite Friday night.’

  ‘I’m not a fan of the type.’

  ‘But a well-tailored suit is to women what lingerie is to men.’

  I lean down as I lower my voice, flicking my eyes across the room to Jorge. ‘I’d rather date a cardigan than a suit.’

  ‘That’s blasphemy.’

  ‘It’s also a blatant lie,’ Satan says. And when I look up, the fiend has appeared in all his suited glory.

  Beckett.

  The man with one name.

  The devil I’ve been trying so hard not to think about.

  His lips quirk in something that resembles a smile. ‘How are you, Olivia?’’

  Chapter 13

  BECKETT

  I really thought she’d have cracked before now. After the incident in the office, and the minor altercation I’d had with Luke after she’d left, word has certainly gotten around. According to my PA, Olivia has been painted a little like Mata Hari within the glass walls of JBW. Adding to the fuel, the number of silly girls who still insist on making eyes at me have taken the hapless Luke to their collective feathery, maternal bosom. Staff gossip. Word gets around. People get painted in ways that are perhaps unfair.