Promise Me: A heartbreaking and unputdownable page-turner Page 3
Gone are her trademark blonde corkscrew curls, replaced by a sharp, edgier bob that’s more rampant bed-hair than wash-and-go. The unstylish work wardrobe has been upgraded with hip-skimming pencil skirts, one with a zip that runs tantalisingly from the waistband down between her legs to the hem. Shirts are diaphanous, revealing a hint of well-chosen lingerie, and the heels have climbed higher and higher. She’s upped her game, no denying it. This job, and excelling at it, is everything now. Wedding planning? Well, on the back-burner. Just like her fiancé’s plans to publish his first novel.
It’s more than a year since Jacob proposed and the two of them excitedly started Googling wedding venues. But then his long-awaited and prematurely celebrated book deal fell through – a new sales director at the publishing house just couldn’t be convinced of the selling power of his sci-fi trilogy. Overnight he’s retreated to the dumping ground that is their second bedroom, carved out some desk space in amongst the broken clothes horse and his neglected dumbbells, where he well and truly wallows in it. Taking the promotion and alleviating their money worries seems like the naturally supportive thing to do. Betsy can hardly be blamed if it switches her ambition into overdrive, can she? Anyway, the space that her trips to London affords them is a good thing, giving Jacob ten hours of uninterrupted peace and quiet as he starts on draft four of the so far failed manuscript.
The only person to beat her in this morning is Dylan. She can see him in his glass office, scanning the business pages online with one hand, mobile in the other, already making things happen. He isn’t expecting anyone in for another half an hour so his crisp pale blue shirt is still slightly unbuttoned with the sleeves rolled back to the elbows, revealing lightly tanned arms and the sort of watch that hints at the number of deals he’s already closed this year. His chocolate brown hair is peppered with a hint of mature grey, casually un-styled and pushed back off a face that is slightly weathered and rugged from being all outdoorsy when he’s not in the office. She tries not to think of him bare-chested and pulling himself up the side of a mountain with just his hands.
She’s also momentarily reminded of what Jacob looked like this morning when she left, shuffling around their house in an unflattering dressing gown, moaning because there was nothing for breakfast and he had six hours of writing ahead of him. She has every sympathy for him, knowing he has to motivate himself with absolutely no promise of a pay day at the end of it all, and she wishes she’d been more supportive – but there was a train to catch.
Dylan ends his call and turns to see Betsy has arrived. She watches the smile break over his face before he shouts, ‘Morning, trouble! Get in here.’
‘Morning, boss. Who was that? The London Stock Exchange wanting your permission to open the markets?’ From that first morning a few months ago, Betsy felt comfortable enough in Dylan’s company to slip into an easy, early-morning banter.
‘Yep, I’ve told them to hang on, my chief advisor isn’t in the building yet. But now that you are, talk to me about what our year-end is looking like. I need revenue forecasts, a view on where our contractor numbers are, the realistic prospects of any new business leads, any new pitches for preferred supplier lists and the number of new roles coming on. But before all that, go and put those incredible red velvet heels of yours on. I can’t focus properly until you do.’
Betsy pauses for a moment, not entirely sure of the correct response here. She takes half a step back, feeling her cheeks start to warm to the colour of those shoes, as Dylan erupts into hysterics.
‘Bee, I’m bloody joking! What d’you take me for? I know I’m a product of the seventies, but credit me with a little more sensitivity, will you?’ He’s holding his sides, looking like he is thoroughly enjoying having the upper hand, and, if she’s not mistaken, rather pleased he can make her blush so easily.
The fact he’s noticed the shoes at all is interesting.
‘Er… right. Well, all those reports are ready on my system so when I’ve finished lodging a complaint with HR about your gross sexism, I can present them to you any time you like.’ She’s relieved his sniggering is as convincing as her faux outrage.
‘I look forward to it. Although my diary is rammed today so let’s chat it through at the drinks tonight, shall we?’
It’s not really a question, she knows that. No one says no to Dylan. Not because he’s a bully, but no one ever wants to disappoint him. Or look ungrateful for his unlimited generosity. Tonight, he’ll be putting his gold card behind the bar at Dirty Martini’s like he does every last Friday of the month and there it will stay until the final member of the team leaves. That cannot be Betsy. She has to make the 9.20 p.m. from Euston or Jacob will already be in bed and grumpy as hell with her tomorrow morning. And she’s promised to read the three new chapters he’s intending to write today.
‘Yep, I’ll be there. And I’ll fill you in on the meeting I had with that MD of the new digital marketing business I was telling you about. He’s got the investment in place now and I’ve almost persuaded him to partner with us, bringing the first five senior execs in. It’s a whole new sector for us so could have great growth potential.’
‘Does anyone ever say no to you, Bee?’ Dylan is giving her the look now, the one she has seen him use countless times to defrost uptight, you-can’t-flirt-with-me female clients. Full eye contact, the slightest smirk on his lips, one that suggests he’s thinking about something very different to work. She always marvels at how quickly women unravel in his presence. Except she can feel herself doing it too now and is keen to escape before he notices.
‘Ha, no one with any sound business sense, obviously!’ She’s turning to leave but just catches Dylan say, slightly under his breath, ‘I have to admit, they are bloody great shoes, though.’
And so starts a day of relentless phone bashing, only disconnecting from her headset to glug back the three litres of water needed to keep selling for nine hours or to troubleshoot ideas with her team. She loves the three of them: Lauren, fresh out of Bristol University with an inexperienced but razor-sharp strategic mind, who is yet to work out how powerful her natural beauty is going to be; Anton, who joined from a rival agency last year with obvious ambitions to be the next Dylan but also a host of bad business habits that Betsy is having to unravel. Then there’s Kirsty, the only one with a young child so consequently the one who makes the best use of her time before she flies out the door on the nursery run.
By six o’clock Betsy can practically taste the first chilled glass of Sauvignon Blanc in the back of her throat. As she gathers the team together an email arrives from Dylan explaining he’ll meet them there, as he’s having a quick drink with a client the other side of town. She can’t deny she’s a little disappointed. The evening won’t really get going until he arrives and she’s keen to show off the progress she’s made with the new digital client. If she can pull this off, it will mean a whole new revenue stream for the agency and the warm glow of Dylan’s approval, perhaps even the prospect of another promotion in the new year. She throws her phone, purse and a bunch of reports that she needs to read overnight into her bag before pausing for a moment. Then she kicks off the black ankle boots she’s had on all day and replaces them with the much-higher red velvet heels.
Dirty Martini’s is heaving but they’ve reserved their usual table in the corner and everyone starts to drop bags, unpeel coats and sink onto the low gold leather seats and footstools. Betsy tries her best to reserve the seat next to her for Dylan but Anton plonks himself down and immediately starts a verbal assassination of a client who got the better of him today. A waitress in a microscopic black skirt and vest, and with the sort of legs Betsy thought only existed in the movies, appears with cocktail menus and a couple of bottles of prosecco. ‘They’re from Dylan,’ she explains. ‘Until he gets here.’ Betsy is first in. If she has to have this conversation again with Anton, then a little light lubrication won’t go amiss.
‘No client can expect us to spot absolutely bloody everything on
every single CV we see, for crying out loud!’ Anton’s had all day to get over this but it’s like he’s saved up all his annoyance to dump on Betsy now.
‘Well, as I’ve already said, Anton, it was a pretty big oversight. Not spotting a three-month break in someone’s employment history, and then leaving it to the client to discover those three months were actually spent at Her Majesty’s leisure for GBH at a football match is really not ideal, is it?’ So far, Betsy has protected Anton by not sharing the details of this balls-up with Dylan, but Anton’s inability to just accept he’s wrong and apologise unreservedly to the client is really starting to rankle with her.
‘But he should have told me about it when we first spoke, how am I supposed to—’
‘Unless you drill down on this level of detail, you leave yourself, and this agency, wide open to these kinds of mistakes, you know that.’ She needs to shut Anton up before Dylan arrives, or he’ll want a full account of it all. And the last thing she wants is for it to reflect badly on her. Betsy’s eyes are at the door again but there’s still no sign of him.
‘The client was expecting this guy to start the role, they had rejected all the other candidates, which now means they are right back to square one with the recruitment process. And we’ve suffered reputational damage. You have to be more thorough.’
Betsy’s relieved it’s so dimly lit in here, helping to disguise her increasing lack of interest in Anton. He can wait until next week; she’s had enough work chat for one day and is happy to be distracted by what’s going on around her.
The place is packed with girls in their twenties who have clearly spent a good half an hour in the office loos with the bronzer and dry shampoo, now throwing back the Peach Bellinis and Negronis. Thirty-four’s not exactly old, but it suddenly feels like it, although she’s grateful to be out of this dating warzone. While Anton continues to blather on uninvited, she notices a girl in an emerald green mini dress being near-pinned to a wall by a man who’s finding himself more amusing than she is. On the other side of the bar another girl with a high glossy ponytail, wearing a black silk jumpsuit, is doing a valiant job of looking interested in a guy who’s just bought her a glass of wine. As he’s speaking conspiratorially into her right ear, he’s pushing his groin backwards and forwards in time to the resident DJ, perhaps giving her a little taster of what delights might await her if only she would agree to go home with him tonight. It’s all so… unsophisticated.
Eight o’clock and still no Dylan. Betsy’s thoughts flick back to Jacob, and whether he hit his three-chapter target today. Well, whatever he’s managed, she’ll be reading it tonight and loving it. He badly needs the confidence boost or the entire weekend will be lost to another one of his epic moods. The thought forces another glass of prosecco down her throat.
As the last of the heady fizz disperses around her mouth, her mobile vibrates in her lap. She looks down to see a text that reminds her of the wedding date that is looming roughly ten weeks from now. The dress that is yet to be chosen. The menu that remains undecided. The flowers she hasn’t given a second thought to.
* * *
Hi Betsy, remember I’m looking at bridesmaids’ dresses soon, so if you could come back to me on the shortlist of options I sent you, that would be amazing!
* * *
As she finishes reading, Betsy hears a cheer and glances up to see that Dylan has finally arrived at 8.45 p.m., just as another text pings through.
* * *
Timing is tight. Need to decide at the first fitting so do let me know, love Nat
* * *
Despite feeling an immediate connection with Nat, like she could trust her with anything, Betsy still feels uncomfortable about her decision to hire a professional bridesmaid. It’s not exactly the sort of thing women do every day of the week, is it? And she does have plenty of genuine friends to choose from. The ad popped up on her Facebook feed as she was leaving her mum’s place after a weekend of concerned remarks about the lack of progress on the wedding front. And her mum, Helen, should know. Owning and running two successful bridal boutiques, she couldn’t not be aware of how horribly behind her daughter is. Betsy is trying to make eye contact with Dylan, but all she can see is the look of sheer joy on her mum’s face the day she announced her engagement. Joy that is so needed in their family right now. In the days that followed, her mum’s excitement was palpable in every gushy text she sent and the daily calls they shared. After helping with so many other big days, finally, she was going to do it for her own daughter and she was raring to go. It’s just that Betsy’s not: she’s pulling back, not charging forwards, and hating herself for the stain of disappointment she’s casting over her mum’s eager anticipation. She wishes she could say she is merely protecting her already-busy mum from the burden of the extra workload, but there’s more to it than that.
Hiring Nat seemed like a convenient way to keep the ball rolling, just to get something ticked off the list, buy her some time and satisfy some of the questions she doesn’t have time to consider. From the first moment they met in a discreet Italian coffee shop behind the tube station, Betsy knew in another life they might be firm friends. Nat strode in, pulled her into a hug without waiting to see if it might be appreciated, then announced, ‘Your stress is now my stress,’ and Betsy was sold – on the woman and everything she could do for her.
And, to be brutally honest, having Nat has helped avoid forcing conversations with Jacob he never seems to want to have because he’s editing, rewriting or talking game plans with his beleaguered literary agent. Now, as the weeks have rolled on and she’s pushed more and more tasks Nat’s way, effectively promoting her from bridesmaid to full wedding planner, she feels completely disconnected from the whole process. Jacob hasn’t even bothered to ask who this bridesmaid is, but Nat is amazing. Not cheap, but taking a ruthlessly professional approach to it all, which is what Betsy loves – and needs – right now. She fires a quick text back:
* * *
Whatever you think is best. I know you won’t get it wrong.
* * *
Dylan is waving at her from the bar, one hand tilting towards his mouth, the universal shorthand for ‘what d’you want to drink?’ as she works her way through the throng. He has already attracted the attention of the ponytailed beauty, who sidesteps her gyrating companion to get closer to him. There are another five or six colleagues swarming him too, keen to hear how the meeting went. It’s nearly nine o’clock, twenty minutes until her train leaves Euston. The only way she’ll make it is to go right now, grab a black cab and beg the driver to floor it down Great Portland Street. She gives up on Dylan, darts back to the table, grabs her bag and coat and is out the door, straight into an idle taxi. Then the driver is on and off the accelerator, speeding around corners and braking late at lights until she is feeling every bubble of the four glasses of prosecco start to climb back up her throat.
Six minutes to spare. She throws a tenner at the driver and sprints across the concourse at Euston, now seriously regretting the pointless shoe switch, to her usual platform three. No time for the loo, she’s going to have to use the vile facilities on board. No train! She belts back to the concourse, towards the information boards, until she is close enough for the letters and numbers to shift into focus. The 9.20 p.m. to Birmingham New Street, platform twelve. Shite! – it’s always platform three! She knows she’ll never make it but runs anyway, praying for once it might just be delayed – an extra two minutes is all she needs. As she rounds the corner to platform twelve, there it is, crawling away from her. All she can do is watch as it gathers speed.
Her phone is jumping to life again and this time it’s a text from Dylan:
* * *
Wow, that hurt. Running out on me like that. You’re a proper heartbreaker, Bee.
* * *
She slumps down onto the cold metal station seating, knowing she has forty minutes to kill before the next train and that dinner will now be whatever dregs are left in the Starbucks’ chil
l cabinet.
When she finally tiptoes through the front door of their house at 11.30 p.m. the place is in total darkness and Jacob is nowhere to be seen. He did at least leave her a note before he went to bed. It’s on the work surface, next to the kettle and a plate of stone-cold chicken stir-fry:
* * *
After being such a grump this morning, I thought I’d make you dinner, but it looks like you’ve had a better offer. Don’t wake me up when you come in. Two of the three chapters still need writing so I’ll be up early. That’s my weekend sorted, I suppose. And we were meant to have a Skype call with a caterer tonight. Did you forget about that too? Everything was way too expensive, in case you’re interested.
* * *
Sometimes she feels there is nothing she can do to make Jacob happy. Only getting this book published is going to achieve that. She re-reads Dylan’s text six more times before finally switching her phone off and climbing into bed. She can think of many things she’d like to text back, but decides against all of them.
4
Helen Whittaker
Lunch at Scott’s is going to be fabulous. And Helen has dressed for the occasion today in her favourite rosehip silk dress, cuffed at the sleeves, with a high V-neck and diamond seams that allow it to flare out playfully around her knees. She’s meeting Nick there at 1 p.m., leaving just enough time to confirm the full day of appointments she has booked in tomorrow – and to chase her daughter, Betsy, about her wedding dress, again.