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Fuck no-one you know, and know no-one you fuck.
It was a whole lot fucking safer that way, but damn what I’d give to see her cry again.
***
Frank and I had the same ritual every Monday morning. He’d knock at my door at 9.15 on the dot, blustering about how time flies, and then ask after my weekend. My answer was invariably the same.
“Can’t complain, Frank, how was yours?”
Cue his a long monologue of events. Golf, shopping, family meals, some story about the neighbours, and I’d sit and listen, making all the right noises. People like talking, and when they’re talking about themselves they aren’t talking about me. It suits me well. That simple fact has made me an exceptional listener, which also suits me well. It pays to listen. It pays tounderstand.
Frank finally turned his attention to White Hastings McCarthy, gushing at the potential of what the deal could mean for Trial Run. Another of the big boys on our client list. I shared his enthusiasm, and for a few minutes we were colleagues with a single common objective. It was one of those rare moments it felt good to be part of a team.
“Look, James, I know you aren’t up for overnighters. There’s no pressure on you to go, but Trevor White wants to kick off with a few days onsite once the paperwork’s in place. Brighton Head Office, nothing too crazy. A bit of a tour, an initial round of meetings, all the usual. I was thinking you could ask Sam from development in your stead, and send him with someone from project management. I figured maybe Steve Jones or Lydia Marsh, but it’s up to you. Lydia headed up the Anderson deal a few months ago, actually, went like a dream. She’d be a good fit.”
My throat went dry. “Lydia Marsh?”
“You must know her, pretty girl... tall... dark hair... crazy green eyes.”
“I’ve seen her around.” I glanced at my notepad, now cocooned out of sight in my in-tray. Lydia’s flowery text:Islington bound, safe and sound.
“Great. Do you want me to get Janie to handle it or will you ask them yourself?”
“I’ll do it,” I said, before I’d even realised.
“Good stuff, James. Good stuff. Let’s meet this afternoon, get the team together. I’ll send over a calendar invite.”
He made to leave, clearly satisfied with our plan, but I called him back from the doorway.
“I’ll go to Brighton, Frank.”
He shot me a puzzled expression. “There’s no need, James. Don’t feel obliged, there’s no pressure.”
“The fact is, we’d be better off if I went. I’ll go.”
Frank beamed like a cat who’d landed a fat pot of cream. He came back to shake my hand, big solid jerks of gratitude. “I appreciate it, James, and so will Trevor White. I’ll get Janie to book you a hotel.”
“Make a booking for Lydia Marsh, too,” I said. “She’ll be coming with me.”
“Good choice, James. I’ll get Janie on it right away.”
I cursed myself once the door was closed, hands in my hair at the absurdity of my impulsion.
What the fuck?!
In frustration I tore out Lydia’s Islington note and fed it through the shredder.
***
Chapter Three
Lydia
The senior management team at White Hastings McCarthy stared straight ahead at the man before them, nodding at every smooth point he made. James Clarke was polished, confident, faultless. That’s why they call him Mr Perfect, I guess.
My attendance at WHM, smiling and scribbling notes while Mr CTO presented the implementation proposal, was still a surprise to me. Apparently I’d been first choice. I was just glad he’d looked beyond my little meltdown to give me a shot. This project would be one hell of a gold star on my resume.
James handed me the room at the end of his presentation, and I was dropped right into the chaos of shared calendars and proposed schedules. By the time we wrapped up for the day we’d pretty much achieved sign-off on our timescales. We’d done good.
