Page 2 of One Last Thing
‘I like your ring,’ she says, a mixture of what I think is admiration and envy across her youthful features.
‘Thank you,’ I say warmly, before standing aside to read my emails while I wait for my coffee. As usual, I have a hundred fuck-ups waiting in my inbox from the juniors on my team that I’m going to have to help sort out before the end of the day.
The majority of my team are great. Really, they are, and they are even more efficient when I constantly remind them of what I need and when, but there’s a select few who I’m discovering might be more trouble than they’re worth. Seamus, for example, fresh out of university a couple of months ago, told me in his interview that he hopes to make senior manager like me by the time he hits thirty. Yet, this week he managed to accidentally deck one of our clients on a boozy night out when, in response to the ‘5,6,7,8’ by Steps coming on in the bar, he swung his bag containing both of his laptops around his head and whacked the client round the face. Luckily, the client was, in Seamus’s words, ‘a good lad about it’ and didn’t take the matter any further. I’m glad all’s well that ends well, but I did mention to Seamus that I’d rather he were abitmore careful with company property and the general wellbeing of our clients from now on.
I tense when an email comes through from Cameron, a senior partner and my boss at the financial services consultancy. He wants an update on the deal I’m working on and mentions that Angus came to see him yesterday to discuss it.
‘Angus, you slimy little prick,’ I mutter under my breath as I read it through.
Both Angus and I interviewed earlier this month for the role of senior partner, a process that involved a Zoom callwith a panel of partners from several international offices. I did my best to prove to them why I deserve this promotion, because I do. I work harder and longer hours than anyone else in the office –something Cameron is well aware of, because he likes to take advantage of it –and I haven’t yet buckled under the pressure of running a large team that features liabilities like bag-swinging Seamus whilst also delivering high-level deals within strict time constraints. But I’m up against that seemingly charming yet truthfully snivelling weaselAngus, who got his job apparently because he’s good at what he does and nothing to do with the fact his aunt owns the company.
To his credit, Angus is adept at getting as much credit for as little work as possible, an infuriatingly impressive talent. He schmoozes better than anyone I’ve ever seen and loves to take the reins in meetings so that it appears he’s in control and knows what he’s talking about. It doesn’t surprise me that he’s already been to see Cameron about a deal thatI’mleading.
We were both at a client dinner the week of the interview and when Angus found me at the bar, he looked at me bleary-eyed and slurred, ‘I’m big enough to say that we both deserve this promotion, Megan. Honestly, you do as much as I do. It’s true. I only hope that if you get it, you get it on merit, and not just because you’re a woman.’
I turned to him with a strained smile. ‘Excuse me?’
He glanced around us before leaning in conspiratorially. ‘You know how they’re always hoping to tick those boxes when it comes to inclusivity and diversity, and I guess it would look good to give it to you for that. And if that’s how this plays out, which it probably will, then hey—’ he lifted his hands up in surrender‘—that’s the world we live in nowand I have to accept it. It is what it is, you know? It is what it is.’
He walked away before I had the chance to scramble my furious thoughts together and clap back cleverly at him, which has bothered me ever since. The next morning, I got to the office early while he rocked up two hours late, but it didn’t matter. I saw him and Cameron high-fiving later over an anecdote about the night before.
Deciding to reply to Cameron’s email when I’ve got my coffee so it’s not rushed, I slide my phone back into my pocket and begin to plot my response in my head. When my order is announced, I pretend not to notice the girl at the counter glance my way again. Boosted by the attention, I take my coffee from the barista before leaving, flicking my hair back over my shoulder. For a moment, I convince myself that she’s thinking she wants to be like me one day. Successful, in control, happy. Someone who has their shit together.
2
DAWN
My editor is doing a terrible job of dancing around what he really wants to tell me.
Which is that my latest manuscript is abysmal.
‘You see . . . uh . . . the thing that we’ve come to discover recently . . . that is to say, we’ve started to notice, is this, um, shift amongst readers, not necessarily all readers, but those who we would consider as a target for, uh, this sort of thing . . .’ Michael trails off, the creases between his eyebrows deepening, his eyes darting up to the ceiling, down to his tie, anywhere but landing on mine. He exhales the air from his cheeks and then brazenly continues: ‘This is.. . to be expected. Things change and move and as a business we must reflect the wants and needs of . . . uh . . . the people that keep us . . . moving. Like a boat, for example. If you picture a boat and how it . . . drifts with the water. Although, I suppose with boats you can steer them, and to some extent wecansteer things, but not . . . not as it stands . . .’
I watch him, utterly mesmerised.
What onearthis he going on about? Why is he talking aboutboats?
Brandon, my agent, is squirming next to me. He may well break before I do and offer Michael some help, but for now he stays quiet, shifting his weight in his chair, twirling the stem of his wine glass round and round between his thumband forefinger, creasing the tablecloth beneath it. Brandon doesn’t think much of Michael, but that’s not surprising. Brandon doesn’t think much of many people. He likes them toprovethemselves as worth thinking about in the first place and I don’t think Michael is doing very well at that, bless him.
I think he’s rather sweet. He’s in his late twenties, but he looks barely past his teenage years. He’s veryalmosthandsome with his mop of fair hair, brown earnest eyes and clean jaw, but he has no command of a room. I’d write him as a lingering ex-boyfriend who continues to ‘check in’, or a gentle younger brother maybe, a non-threatening character desperate to make his mark and not quite getting there. He might come into play in the second book, proving his worth and taking the readers by surprise when they realise that they didn’t notice him much before but they really quite like him.
Real-life Michael has done well to be so senior an editor at his age. I’d be impressed but his father is CEO. Still, you can’t get this far without knowing something.
He’s still going, rambling on about boats and time, stammering and tripping over his words, refusing to look me in the eye. He’s intimidated by me.
I like that. Nice to know I still have that sort of power.
Brandon is checking his watch now. I shoot him a look of disapproval.
Michael has every right to tell me to my face in his own way that my work is terrible. Hewantedto say his bit in an email, but that wasn’t going to fly. He did his best to avoid this lunch –cancelling and rearranging it twice –but we held firm.
I was determined he’d tell me ‘no’ to this manuscript in person.
Despite the embarrassing circumstances, it gives us the chance to actuallymeetMichael. Since the publisher underwenta ‘change of structure’ last year, the only contact I’d had with my new editor, who had inherited me when my previous editor left for pastures new, was over email. A lunch also provides an opportunity for a bit of collaborative brainstorming for the replacement book I intend to write for him, and the wine, paid for by the publisher, will help get ideas flowing as soon as Michael has finished his bumbling monologue.
‘What I really think we’re looking for –and I say “we” meaning the public as well as our team and brand –is something that speaks to us.’ Michael reaches up to run a hand through his thick fair hair that must be laden with some sort of product, because as his hand drops, his hair remains sticking up in tufts. He runs his fingers over his mouth. His upper lip is sweating. ‘And things move withtime. Time changes everything.’
I glance at Brandon. He looks like he’s in physical pain.
