We rise and follow Henry to the elevator. As the doors close, he scrunches his nose; his brows pinch and his nostrils flare.
“Does something smell like sour milk?”
Chapter Four
Gemma
These guys are the big players.TheGrayson Livingstone, from Livingstone Hotels, and his chief development officer, who I’m told is absolutely brilliant.
Henry and I have been burning the candle at both ends to craft the perfect pitch for Gray Hotel.
Luxury hotels are my specialty—my bread and butter—so it was no surprise that Henry’s boss picked us when Grayson Livingstone reached out about collaborating. Some of my colleagues were absolutely fuming. Every marketing agency in the UK wanted this campaign. Louise and Theo, our colleagues, have been shooting daggers at Henry and me ever since we were announced for the pitch.
Louise hates me with a passion. We both started at Prestige together, but my career has progressed much faster than hers, and she’s never forgiven me for it. I was promoted to creative director while she stayed stuck as marketing strategist, and where Louise goes, her loyal minion Theo follows. She’s only gotten more bitter with time. Not that I care—I find her about as appealing as a colonoscopy. The vindictive cow reached peak evil last year when she nearly cost me an entire account.She went behind my back and told them I was “difficult to work with” and had a drinking problem, all because she couldn’t stand that I was chosen to be promoted, not her. I’m lucky HR didn’t performance manage me after her wicked lie.
Now that Henry and I were selected to pitch for this project, she’s dropped the two-faced facade entirely. She openly mutters insults as I walk past—mainly about the way I dress—gives me filthy looks across the office, and has even stooped to petty pen thievery, the little shit.
Having your pens go missing? It’s bloody annoying. I know it’s her because I canfeelher eyes follow me from my office (she’s in a cubicle) all the way to the supply closet. Every. Single. Time.
So yeah, Louise can suck on my big, fat, metaphorical balls.
Waving my hand under the sensor tap in the ladies’ bathroom, I attack my trench coat with damp paper towels, attempting to save it. The coffee stains have set into the cream fabric, and my blood pressure rises with each useless dab. At this point, I’m just diluting and spreading the stain even further.
Giving in, I toss out the paper towel. The hand dryer roars to life, blasting hot air over my ruined coat to dry the wet patch. I watch in horror as the expensive fabric stiffens under the assault, setting the stain deeper.
Perfect. Just bloody perfect.
My phone chimes and I dig it out of my pocket, swiping across the chipped screen to open Henry’s message.
Henry:Where the hell are you?
The glass snags my thumb and a small bead of blood blooms on my fingertip.
My eyes dart to the time: 9:00 a.m.
Shit.I need to get to this meeting. My blood smears over the screen as I hurriedly type out a response.
Me:On my way! Go ahead and I’ll meet you in there.
I bolt into my office, sweeping my hair out of my face and adjusting my glasses. I snatch my folder, and then, unusually for me, I’m running—as much as one can in heels—toward the boardroom.
Ping.
I flip my phone over, reading the message banner as my legs propel me toward the end of the corridor.
April:Are we still on for drinks tonight?
Anna:Yes! Come to mine, I picked up some cheeses.
My fingers fly across the screen.
Me:I’ll bring wine.
Anna:Fab.
Another message comes in.
Henry:I’m starting without you.
