AJ thrusts a file into my hands and we hustle into the conference room. When Patrick assigned me this campaign, it never occurred to me I’d end up working for Tina. Seven years ago, when she was still working for Whitefish, she almost torpedoed my career. I was her assistant brand manager on Tetrotek, a major client, and we’d been working for months on a new pitch for them. Two days before we were due to deliver it, a rival advertising agency, JMVD, presented a pitch that was almost word for word the same as our own. Assuming we were the plagiarists, Tetrotek defected to JMVD, and there was a searching internal investigation at Whitefish to find the source of the leak.
I’d been the one seen lunching with JMVD’s Business Director twice in the preceding month; lunches Tina had personally asked me to take, and subsequently denied requesting. She deliberately set me up to take the fall to get back at me because she’d found out about me and Andy. Patrick came within a whisker of firing me, and it took me a long time to claw back my reputation and his respect.
‘OK, Caz,’ Patrick says, as I sit down, ‘why don’t you start us off with a general overview of where we are on the campaign?’
‘Well, it’s still early days,’ I stall. I haven’t even had a chance to speak to the creative team yet. I glance at Nolan Casey, our Creative Director, for help, but he’s studiously looking the other way. ‘Once we have a clearer idea as to what Univest are looking for on this—’
‘But you’re the Account Director,’ Tina coos. ‘Isn’t it your job to tell me what I want?’
I’ve had enough of this. ‘As you know, Univest has scored a few own goals recently,’ I say crisply. ‘That business with the sweatshops in India – it got a lot of media play. Then there was the scandal over the paraben-free shampoo, and the recall on the organic fabric softener—’
‘Obviously, that was all before my time as Marketing Director,’ Tina says testily.
‘What you need to do now is re-establish trust,’ I shoot back. ‘JMVD’s policy when they had the account was to ignore these PR disasters and focus on the quality of their brands, but I think they’re wrong. What we need to do is acknowledge the elephant in the room, apologise, and move on.’
‘Apologise?’
Patrick makes a calming motion to Tina. ‘Let’s hear her out.’
AJ nudges me and I open the folder he gave me, fanning a sheaf of bright graphs and pie charts onto the beech conference table. I have no idea what they’re supposed to show, since I haven’t yet had a chance to read them, but no one looks at them; they never do. ‘You’re not the only conglomerate to get caught up in a shit-storm like this. But the more you ignore it, the more the problem festers.’ I tap the graphs as if it’s all right in front of us. ‘After Barclays apologised to its customers for the role it played in the Libor rate-rigging scandal, the problem went away. Toyota, Goldman Sachs, even Facebook – they’ve all used the corporate apology as a means of addressing branding issues, and they’ve all bounced back quickly as a result.’
‘I disagree,’ Tina snaps. ‘If we apologise, all we’ll do is bring attention to the issue and give the story legs. Our brands are blue-chip. We need to focus on their strengths and let these distractions die down.’
How did this woman end up running the marketing division of one of the biggest international companies in the country? She wouldn’t recognise a market trend if it bit her on her flabby, conniving arse.
‘There’s no such thing as blue-chip anymore,’ I say tersely. ‘Your customers are dying off, and the next generation doesn’t have brand loyalty to anything. Social media has changed the landscape. The era of a specific media push around a single theme is over. Brands need to be having a conversation with their customers 24/7 to win their loyalty. And the foundation of any relationship is honesty.’
I hold her gaze, daring her to contradict me. We both know I’m not talking about advertising.
‘This is why I wanted Caz on this,’ Patrick intervenes. ‘You and I are part of a different generation, Tina. We need to think the way these kids think.’
Tina turns puce, and I think AJ’s going to choke on his caramel frappé. We spend the next hour and a half going around in circles, but Tina’s on the losing side, and she knows it. Challenging her relevance to the next generation was a winning move on Patrick’s part. There’s a reason he’s the CEO, even though, at fifty, he’s an archaeological curiosity in the ad business. He knows people, and that’s what this game is all about.
But my victory is Pyrrhic. I may have won this battle, but I’m still stuck working with Tina. She’s going to fight every pitch I make tooth and nail on principle. The next six months of my life are going to be a nightmare. I can feel a headache coming on at the mere thought of it.
Patrick shows Tina back to the elevator, and I grab a couple of paracetamol from my desk drawer and swallow them dry, then retreat to the bathroom and lock myself in a stall. I love my job; I’ve worked hard to get to where I am. I started here five years ago knowing next to nothing about advertising, having spent the first three years of my career in PR. But I listened and learned; I put in sixteen-hour days and seven-day weeks, and didn’t take a holiday for the first two years I was at the agency. Client servicing is demanding; agency heads want more billing; creatives want more time, quick approvals and minimal changes; clients demand everything yesterday. Despite the Tetrotek fiasco, Patrick’s entrusted me with some of the company’s most important clients. I refuse to let Tina Murdoch sabotage everything I’ve worked so hard to achieve.
I open the cubicle door, and jump when I see Tina leaning against the washbasins waiting for me. ‘What do you want?’ I ask coolly.
‘I want you off this account.’
I turn on the tap. ‘That’s not going to happen. You heard what Patrick said. He wants me on this.’
She reaches across me and turns the tap off again. ‘You may have Patrick wrapped around your little finger, but you don’t fool me,’ she says. ‘Take yourself off this account, or you’ll regret it.’
I lean on the washbasin as she slams out of the bathroom, my heart thumping in my ribcage. I practise my breathing the way my therapist taught me, trying to calm myself down. I can’t let her get to me. I know what I’m doing, and I’m good at what I do. I can handle this.
My pulse finally stops racing. I straighten up, and smooth my hair back from my face. AJ is waiting right outside the bathroom when I come out, and I mentally resolve to make time next week to get to the bottom of what’s going on with him. He’s the most loyal man I’ve ever met, and he deserves a little kindness. There’s no way I’d survive going toe-to-toe with Tina Murdoch if I didn’t have AJ to watch my back.
‘So,’ he says, as I head briskly back to my desk. ‘Do you have a plan?’
I always have a plan.
ANGIE LARK
PART 1 OF RECORDED INTERVIEW
Date:- 28/07/2020
Duration:- 41 Minutes
Location:- Kingsbridge Police Station
Conducted by Officers from Devon & Cornwall Police
(cont.)
POLICE And you are Caroline Page’s best friend, Ms Lark? AL I’ve known her since we were at primary school together. I’m telling you, she wouldn’t lie about something like that. POLICE When was this altercation, exactly? AL I don’t know. Three weeks ago? Maybe four. [Pause.] You must have a record of it; Caz reported it. POLICE And until— AL Not that anyone did anything. Caz warned you what Louise was capable of, but none of you took her seriously. POLICE We take all such reports very seriously, Ms Lark. But until the altercation between them last month, there hadn’t been any trouble? AL [Laughs.] Are you kidding? POLICE No, Ms Lark, I am not. I don’t consider murder a laughing matter. AL Look, Caz is no angel. She’d be the first to admit that. Technically, Andy was still married when they hooked up. So, you can imagine, Louise wasn’t exactly Caz’s biggest fan. But the woman behaved like a total bitch over the divorce. She wouldn’t let the kids meet Caz for, like, a year. She just couldn’t let Andy go. If it’s over, it’s over, you know? POLICE So how would you characterise the relationship between the two women? AL Shit, is how I would characterise it. POLICE Care to explain? AL All that stuff about Caz in the papers, none of it’s true. I can’t believe Louise has the balls to play the grieving widow when she’s the one who killed him! POLICE If we could just stick to the facts, Ms Lark, rather than speculate— AL I’ve seen Louise in action. She comes across so nice and sensible, right? Mother of the year. But I’m telling you, underneath it all she’s a fucking psycho. POLICE In what way? AL Well, for a start, she used to call Caz all hours of the day and night, yelling and crying down the phone. I mean, Caz is tough, but she’s put up with years of it; it’d wear anyone down. POLICE You witnessed these calls? AL I was there when Caz got some of them, yeah. But Louise is smart. She never called when Andy was around. POLICE Did you hear what was said between them? AL I didn’t need to. My best mate ended up in tears, and she doesn’t cry easily. It wasn’t just the phone calls. Louise was a bloody stalker. She wouldn’t let Caz alone. Turning up at the house, at her work, and then claiming Caz was harassing her. I thought there were laws against stalking these days? POLICE Yes— AL She’s got form, you know that, right? POLICE “She” being—? AL Louise. POLICE Yes, right. AL She got done for stalking before. Caz said some bloke had to take a restraining order out against her. POLICE When was this? AL I don’t know the details. Look, don’t you people have computers or something? You can look it up. POLICE Ms Lark, are you all right? You seem a little upset. Would you like to take a break? AL Sorry. It’s just … [Pause.] I know Caz is my friend and everything, and I would say this, but she’s, like, so the opposite of a drama queen. I’ve been telling her for months to report Louise, but she wouldn’t have it, said it’d just make things worse. But that woman hated Caz … [Pause.] Sorry. POLICE We can take a break here if you’d like. AL Sorry, no, I’m … I’ll be fine. POLICE Roy, would you get Ms Lark some tea? For the tape, Detective Sergeant Steve Roy is leaving the room. AL I told Caz not to go to that damn party – I knew something bad would happen. POLICE Why? AL Things have been building up. Ever since— POLICE (SR) DS Steve Roy re-entering the room. POLICE Here you go. Careful, it’s hot. AL Thanks. It’s just … no one believed Caz and look what’s happened. Louise is really plausible, but I’m telling you, there’s another side to her; honestly, I think she’s unhinged. I mean, that business with the cat, and all the nonsense she pulled with the school play. Who does that?Chapter 6
Min
Luke is curled up on the sofa when I come downstairs on Saturday morning, a small boy snuggled into the crook of each arm. All three are covered with Coco Pops, the empty cereal box on the floor testament to their nutritious breakfast. Akin to the unshod cobbler’s child, the offspring of doctors are the least healthily nourished in the land. ‘I can’t believe I slept in so late,’ I exclaim. ‘It’s after eight. You should have woken me.’
My husband cranes his neck around me so he can still see the television. ‘You pulled a double shift. You needed your sleep.’
‘Mummy! You’re in the way.’
‘What are you watching?’ I ask, glancing at the screen.
‘Stranger Things,’ seven-year-old Sidney says.
‘Luke! Isn’t that a bit scary for them?’
‘We like scary,’ Archie says, burrowing further into his father’s arms.
I pick up the cereal box and open the curtains, ignoring the boys’ squeals of protest as the Stygian gloom is dispelled. ‘Where are the twins?’
Luke finally yields to the interruption and pauses the TV. ‘It’s not lunchtime yet. Where d’you think?’
Dom and Jack transitioned effortlessly from getting up at five to sleeping in till noon as soon as the clock struck teenager. The sadist in me takes great pleasure now in waking them up for school, frequently with the aid of cold water, after a decade of being rudely bounced from my bed before sunrise. ‘I promised I’d go over and help your mother with the party this morning,’ I say. ‘Can you make sure the twins get to footie practice on time?’
‘What’s she need help with? The party’s not for weeks.’
‘She’s invited Andrew and that woman,’ I say indignantly. ‘Someone has to talk sense into her!’
‘Ah. So not exactly help then. More like interfere.’
Sidney grabs at the TV remote. ‘Dad! Push play!’
‘Your mother and I are talking,’ Luke says, holding the remote out of Sidney’s reach. ‘Honestly, Min, it’s up to Mum who she invites. I wouldn’t get involved.’
‘I know you wouldn’t,’ I say crossly.
Luke Roberts is the very definition of a good guy. He loves his family, works hard – doing what, I’ve never quite worked out, something unfathomable in IT, I think – and buys me flowers for my birthday, our anniversary, and sometimes for no reason at all. I’ve loved him heart and soul for more than thirty years, ever since he walked into double biology and tripped over my backpack, literally falling at my feet. But he is aggravatingly neutral about everything. Nothing bothers him. He never takes sides, or voices an opinion. Which is all very well, but we can’t all be Switzerland, or the world would be overrun by Nazis.
I’m not saying Celia Roberts is a Nazi, of course. But she could run the Gestapo with one hand tied behind her back. God knows, she’s had to be strong to survive what happened to her family; not many women could go through a tragedy like that and stay on their feet. But that’s no excuse to let her get away with murder. This nonsense with Andrew has to stop. It’s been four years. It’s not healthy to keep giving Lou false hope. She insists she’s over Andrew, but she isn’t, not even a little bit. She hasn’t even dated anyone since he left her. We all know how intense she can get, and I fear Celia’s started something with this party that won’t end well.
I leave the boys to their dystopian television programme, feed the dog, and drive over to Celia and Brian’s. They’ve lived in the same lovely old stone property on the outskirts of Steyning for nearly forty years; Lou and Luke both grew up there. Celia’s very lucky her children both live so close to her – something my own mother, up in Yorkshire on her own, never tires of reminding me.
My mother-in-law is kneeling by a flowerbed in the front garden when I arrive. She puts down her trowel and stands up when she spots me. ‘Min, how lovely to see you,’ she exclaims, tilting her cheek for me to kiss. ‘Was I expecting you?’
‘I’m sure you were,’ I say dryly.
‘Lemonade, darling? I made it fresh this morning. We can sit on the terrace in the back garden and enjoy the sun.’
I follow her around the side of the house. Brian waves genially in my direction, but doesn’t come over. He’s perfected the art of fading into the background over decades, and, like his son, hasn’t offered an opinion on anything in years.
Celia pours a tall glass of fresh lemonade for each of us, and we settle into a pair of wicker chairs on the veranda, for all the world as if we’re in an episode of Downton. My eyes water as the tart lemonade hits the back of my throat, but it’s delicious, especially on such a warm day.
‘You’ve got new tomato beds,’ I say, suddenly noticing the rectangle of dark, loamy earth enclosed by old railway ties at the end of the lawn. ‘How wonderful. You’ve wanted a raised bed for ages. When did you have it put in?’
‘Andrew came over last weekend and did it,’ Celia says.
‘Andrew did it?’
Celia takes a sip of lemonade. ‘You needn’t look so surprised. He knows how to get his hands dirty.’
That’s not what I meant, and she knows it. ‘Yes, but why? What was he doing here?’
‘He often comes over when he’s down this way. He and Brian like to go down to the White Horse for a few beers on a Sunday afternoon. He offered to sort out the flowerbed a few weeks ago, when Brian had that bout of sciatica.’
I feel a rising tide of indignation. ‘Don’t you think that’s a bit … odd?’
‘Why? He’s quite handy around the house. Did the whole thing himself in two days.’
She’s being deliberately obtuse. I love my mother-in-law, but sometimes she can be extremely infuriating. ‘I honestly don’t understand you, Celia!’ I exclaim. ‘How can you even bear to speak to that man after what he did to Lou? Anyone would think you’re on his side!’
‘Min, darling, it’s very sweet of you to care so much about Louise,’ she says firmly, ‘but I’m not sure that sort of attitude is entirely helpful. Andrew is still part of this family. We didn’t stop loving him just because he stopped loving Louise. He’s been very kind to Brian and me. We’re extremely fond of him. And he’s Tolly and Bella’s father.’
I can’t bear it. I just can’t. Andrew is so charming and handsome and everyone’s taken in by him, even Celia, even now, after everything he’s done. If she knew what he was really like, she wouldn’t want him and Lou to get back together. She’d stab him with her gardening fork and bury him in a bloody flowerbed.
‘It’s not fair!’ I say angrily. ‘Andrew can’t just dump Lou and still keep you! There should be some … some shame! Some consequences! You can’t destroy someone’s life and be allowed to carry on like nothing’s happened!’
Celia puts down her glass and takes my hot hands in her cool ones, and my vision suddenly blurs. She is truly like a mother to me: I’ve known her more than half my life, ever since I was a teenager, and have spent far more time with her than I have with my own mother, whose chilly, detached temperament is so different from – and incompatible with – my own. Outwardly, Celia may be the epitome of the composed, stiff-upper-lip Englishwoman, but I’ve known her long enough to understand how fiercely passionate she is about people and causes she cares about. I know she’d do anything for Luke or Lou or me; that’s the trouble. She doesn’t realise she’s just making everything worse.
‘Min,’ Celia says, ‘I appreciate your loyalty to Louise. I do. But Andrew isn’t the devil incarnate. I’m not saying what he did was right—’
‘Well, at least we can agree on that!’
She looks hard at me. ‘Do you think, darling, perhaps you care about this a little too much?’
That brings me up short. I don’t want Celia getting any peculiar ideas; I am married to her son, after all. ‘It’s this party,’ I say. ‘It’s bad enough having to see that woman at things like Bella’s play, but inviting her to such a special, family time like your anniversary – it’s as if you’re giving them your seal of approval. You do see that,’ I add earnestly, ‘you do see, don’t you, Celia?’
She releases my hands, and picks up her lemonade again. ‘You catch more flies with honey than vinegar, darling.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, you don’t need to worry,’ she says serenely. ‘It’s all in hand.’
I recognise that expression on Celia’s face; I see it on those of my four sons whenever they’re plotting trouble. ‘Celia,’ I say suspiciously, just as her phone rings. ‘What, exactly, are you up to?’
Chapter 7
Louise
I lean on the horn and check my watch again, even though I already know how late we’re running. In the back, Tolly bounces delightedly in his car seat, clapping his hands. ‘Do it again, Mummy! Do it again!’
Unbuckling my seatbelt, I open the car door and lean on the window frame to shout up at the house. ‘Bella! We need to go!’
‘I’m coming!’ Bella yells.
It’s another five minutes before she finally appears. She’s wearing a pair of jeans that are more holes than denim, and a long-sleeved black T-shirt I haven’t seen before, emblazoned with the slogan ‘Friday is my second-favourite F-word.’ Her father would have a fit if he saw her, but we don’t have time for her to go back and change.
‘It’s twenty-eight degrees,’ I restrict myself to saying mildly, as she flings herself into the front seat. ‘Aren’t you hot?’
‘No,’ she snaps.
She pulls a woollen cap from her backpack, and tucks her hair under it, until the only thing showing are a few dark wisps at the front. A thick line of kohl is smudged beneath eyes smeared with heavy grey shadow. It looks as if she’s slept in her make-up beneath a bridge somewhere. Wisely, I say nothing, even though it breaks my heart to see my beautiful girl doing her best to disguise her loveliness. Her best friend, Taylor, is exactly the same, the two of them dressing as androgynously and monochromatically as possible, like extras from a dystopian movie. I suppose it’s better than crop-tops and micro-minis. And it’s just a phase, I remind myself with an inward sigh. She’ll grow out of it.
I start the car, and the engine makes its usual clunking, grating sound before reluctantly coughing into life. And then suddenly it cuts out. I try again, but the engine grinds ominously and then dies. The third time, it doesn’t even turn over.
