I’m happy with payment-in-kind. xxx
In the lead-up to this exciting date, I did a little research and discovered, all via his own boasting, that Josh has five children, a stunning wife, a villa in Tuscany, a boat (not quite a yacht yet), three cars, a pilot’s licence, a love of rugby, and a huge pile in Surrey. All to display his fertility and status.
His fake date is already thirty minutes late. Josh has downed two cocktails and is getting annoyed. He glances my way once or twice, but I’m not his type by at least eighteen years. He texts Aimée, which I read surreptitiously and then reply. Aimée tells him she will be half an hour late because she wanted to wear something special for him and has been out shopping. He texts back to say she doesn’t need to wear anything.
After his third vintage cocktail, and increasingly annoyed texts to Aimée, I text on her behalf to say that I have to cancel. He texts back with a slur reserved for women who are believed to have promised something without providing satisfaction.
‘Been stood up, have you?’ I say.
‘Not a bit,’ he says, turning to me. ‘Just been enjoying the view in the mirror.’
‘Do you make a habit of taking advantage of interns?’ I ask.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Aimée. A prospective intern. I understand you suggested sex in return for a career opportunity.’
‘What’s it got to do with you?’ he says.
‘I’m her mother,’ I say, and although it galls me to say this, I’m pleased with his surprised reaction.
‘Don’t know anyone by that name,’ he says, and turns away from me.
‘I’m also a friend of Natalie da Costa. Do you remember Natalie? Left your firm quite suddenly in 2014.’
Josh swivels in his chair. ‘I don’t know who you are, but I’ve got nothing to say. And neither does Natalie da Costa.’
‘Is that because you sexually harassed her, paid her off and made her sign a non-disclosure?’
‘You can’t say that.’
‘Or Simone Farrell? She left in a hurry in 2018 after working under you. Another pay-off?’
‘If you keep making accusations you can’t prove, you’re going to find yourself with a fucking big lawsuit.’
‘There are three other women, do you remember their names?’
‘I’m leaving,’ he says, and waves to the barman for the bill.
‘I understand you booked a room for your meeting with Aimée. I asked at reception. Rather presumptuous,’ I say and smile. ‘A standard double too. Not even a deluxe room. That’s a little cheap, don’t you think?’
‘Fuck you!’ he says, waving a gold card at the card reader without looking at his bill.
‘I’m thinking of writing a story and sharing it with the press. I have all these details of strange departures – and Aimée’s messages of course.’
‘Listen to me carefully,’ he says, balling his fist. ‘Don’t fuck with me. I’m not someone you fuck with.’
‘Why not? It might lead to £50,000 and an NDA. I’ve even shaved in anticipation.’
‘Funny, ha-ha,’ he says, taking his jacket from the back of his stool and throwing it over his shoulder.
‘You want to comment?’
‘If you’re a journalist, you can’t print this. Not one of those women will say a word against me.’
‘Because nothing happened, or because they’ve legally given up their right to call you an arsehole?’
‘I can afford the best lawyers money can buy. Just give me your name, and I will end you,’ he says.
