Unsurprisingly,theservicedapartmentfeels like a cross between a cheap hotel and a display apartment. Soulless. The building is so quiet I could be forgiven for thinking I’m the sole survivor of an apocalypse. At least I get some harbour views from the tiny balcony and a communal gym, which I spend a couple of hours in, hoping to wear myself out enough to sleep tonight without the three o’clock jetlag monster.
I order take away and eat it in front of the television, thinking about Will, Greer and the rest of the family, sitting around their living room, sharing their regular Sunday night meal. It’s been a tradition for as long as I’ve known them. I guess it’s their way of making sure they never lose touch with each other in their busy lives. I’ve missed that feeling of belonging. I’ve only ever had it with Will and his family. And I’m here to get it back.
As much as I’d love to be there, I can’t bring myself to go to the Carters’ tonight. Not because I’m jetlagged, although I am, but because the idea of seeing Greer again so soon makes me a little uncomfortable. And by a little, I mean a lot.
I can’t believe I hit on Will’s little sister. The last time I saw Greer, she was a sweet but nerdy kid of fourteen with long skinny legs and braces. It’s not surprising I didn’t recognise her. You’d think I would’ve seen a picture of her in all that time, on Facebook or Insta maybe, but the whole Carter family avoids social media like the plague.
It started with an online bullying incident with Greer in high school, and then there was Will’s naked selfie scandal at uni. Not his finest moment. None of which negates the problem. Or my reaction to her.
Cards on the table, I’m a man whore. There’s no other word for it. Always have been, and I expect I always will be. It’s in the genes. The problem is, I can’t go there with Greer. I don’t think I could bear the look of disappointment from Stella, not to mention Harry’s booming lecture and Will’s right hook when I inevitably broke her heart.
Regardless, there’s no denying the way my body reacted to her. And until I can get those thoughts out of my head, it’s best I keep my distance. Sadly, early indications are this strategy isn’t going to work. The thoughts aren’t going away. But if I keep my distance long enough, I’m sure they’ll fade. After all, I’ve never had trouble forgetting a woman in the past.
It’s a good thing I walk into chaos in the new job on Monday morning. My team has been leaderless for a while and pulling them back into some sort of shape will take work. Which is why they brought me in from London. I have a reputation as a team player and a strong leader and love nothing better than creating a collaborative working environment.
It also doesn’t hurt that I’ve been on a winning streak with the campaigns I’ve worked on recently—both from a commercial and an award-winning point of view—because there’s also a couple of high-profile pitches coming up, which we need to nail. And perhaps most importantly, the MD’s favourite client, a boutique distillery, restaurant and hotel, is threatening to walk away following some recent lacklustre creative. I have a fortnight to pull together something impressive enough to avoid us losing the business. No pressure.
Not that I’m complaining. I thrive on the pressure. And I love my job. Creative writing was always my standout subject at school. I guess inventing alternate realities helped get my head out of my less-than-happy home life. I thought about writing a novel when I left uni. And one day, I will. But at the time, spending too much time inside my head seemed a dangerous thing. The antidote? The fast and unrelenting pace of advertising.
Most of the first couple of weeks are taken up juggling. I split my time between pulling together the pitches and meeting with each member of my team. I need to assess their creative skills and interpersonal relationships to allow me to create a more effective department structure. Unfortunately, I have to let a couple of people go, which is never easy. It’s not a task I enjoy, but ultimately the team will be better for it.
I also physically rearrange the entire department. I hate the open-plan format most agencies use, and this one is no exception. Unlike some agencies I’ve worked in, though, there’s plenty of space at Parachute. So I use desks, sofas and bookcases to create zones. It helps provide teams with a bit of privacy and offers nooks for brainstorming and quiet thinking.
The upshot of all this is there’s no time for spare thoughts about anything other than work. Specifically, there’s no time to think about Greer. During the day at least. It’s the middle-of-the-night thoughts that plague me.
I managed to squeeze in a beer and a meal with Will and his brothers on Thursday at the grungy little Mexican restaurant we loved when we were at uni and it was all we could afford. I can’t believe it’s still open, and the food hasn’t changed. It’s so good to be spending time with these guys again. Reliving our clichéd misspent youth. It’s easy and seamless. Like I’ve never been away. Except for the ever-present spectre of my inappropriate attraction to Greer, which is always at the back of my mind.
It’s a relief that her name doesn’t even come up, although they both guilt trip me about not going to Sunday night dinner. I’ll have to do it eventually. I want to do it. Stella and Harry are the parents my own couldn’t, or wouldn’t, be. Which is one of the many reasons the Greer thing is such a problem. Because to avoid her, I have to avoid them. Which I don’t want to do. I’ll work through it, but for the time being, I settle for calling in on them unexpectedly when I have the chance, hoping she won’t be there.
My luck runs out on the Friday of my second week on the job.
“There’s someone here to see you, Josh. She says it’s your airport pickup? I didn’t know you were going somewhere.” The receptionist’s voice calls through the hands-free set on my desk. “I told her you’re in a meeting. She said she’d wait. Is that okay?” She sounds all kinds of confused and I don’t blame her.
“Oh. Ah, yeah. That’s okay, Ingrid. And no, I’m not going anywhere. It’s a joke.” Suddenly it feels like my stomach is up somewhere near my tonsils.
“Lunch date, boss?” One of the copywriters sends me a smirk from where he’s stretched out on the floor in my office, back propped against the glass wall. It hasn’t taken the team long to gel. We’re already on pretty familiar terms.
“Not exactly. Okay, have we cracked the concept, guys?” I stand up, signalling the meeting is over. “I know it’s a big ask, but I’d like to see, say, three or four rough executions for discussion after the WIP meeting on Monday?” I stretch my arms over my head, trying to appear calm whilst at the same time getting them out of my office. Fast.
Hoping to appear cool, I buzz Ingrid to send Greer in. She waltzes through the open-plan creative department, which moments ago was buzzing with activity and has now fallen silent. Wearing a sharp, cherry red pants suit, she somehow manages to look professional and sexy at the same time, trailing red hair and, no doubt, her delectable spicy cinnamon scent. Mouths are left hanging open in her wake. With a playful rap on the glass wall of my office—as creative director, I’m the only one afforded the privilege—Greer swings in through the door. She lifts on her toes to peck my cheek, which pulls her silky cream top tight across those perfectly formed breasts and delivers a lungful of the scent that’s been haunting me. Shit.
“I know we didn’t have a date, but I had an interview with a recruiter up the road, and I thought why not call in and see if you can spare an hour for lunch?” Greer perches on the arm of the sofa in front of me.
Date? Not a word I want to hear from Greer. Because we can’t be doing that. But all the blood has effectively drained out of my head and is making its presence felt in my jeans, and I’m struggling to come up with a reasonable excuse.
“Yeah, umm, I don’t know, Greer. I’m pretty busy—” The disappointment on her face stops me. It’s only lunch, I guess. What harm can it do? It’ll be like exposure therapy. “I guess I could spare forty-five minutes.” Her face lights up, which doesn’t help the situation in my jeans. Too late now, bigmouth.
Which is how I find myself heading for the lift with Greer. Thank God I’m in the habit of wearing long, loose t-shirts to work when I don’t have a client meeting. I can feel every eye in the office on me. I’ll have some explaining to do later.
“I haven’t had much spare time to get to know the area yet. Do you have any idea where you’d like to go?” Awkward small talk it is then. Anyone would think I’d never been in a lift with a beautiful woman before. And therein lies the rub. I’m not sure I know how to interact with a beautiful woman without hitting on her.
“There’s a little bar round the corner that does a great counter lunch, and they’re quick,” she replies, stepping out into the winter sunshine and turning left. I usually have to shorten my steps when walking anywhere with a woman, but Greer’s long legs eat up the pavement as we head along the street to a tiny bar set right on a corner. Greer slides her perfect arse onto one of the last two free stools at the bustling bar and gives the bartender a dazzling smile. “Hi there. Lemon lime and bitters for me, thanks. Josh?”
“Asahi, thanks.” I’m going to need a beer to get through the next half-hour or so. I can feel myself scowling at the bartender, who seems to be enjoying his view of Greer’s cleavage as she shrugs out of her business-like jacket, while simultaneously chanting ‘don’t flirt, don’t flirt, don’t flirt’ in my head. Because I know what I’m like.
“We didn’t get much of a chance to talk the other day. I thought it would be fun to catch up. I’m glad you’re free.” Greer swings around on her stool, and our knees brush. Even through two layers of cloth, I feel the buzz of electricity between us. I start to swing my stool back and forth, trying to break the connection without being obvious. Jesus, I’m beginning to understand what guys mean when they say they have a case of blue balls. When Greer is around, I feel like I’m on high alert, ready to come to full attention any minute. Meanwhile, she’s looking over the menu as though she hasn’t a care in the world. Maybe she didn’t feel that hit of electricity, but I doubt it.
“You said you were at an interview this morning?” I try looking anywhere but at her, which is hard, because there’s a mirror behind the bar, reflecting her gorgeous red hair perfectly. “I thought you’d still be at uni. What is it you’re doing? Did Will tell me architecture?”
