Christmas on Primrose Hill (8 page)

‘So why would they accept three fifty from me, then?’

Lee smiled sympathetically. ‘The trustee involved owes me a favour.’

And he was doing her one, she knew, spurred on by the pity that everyone in the area reserved for her family. She’d be practically robbing him to buy at this price. She had to do this. Grasp the nettle. It was now or never.

‘I’ll offer three thirty-five,’ she said firmly, turning back to face him. ‘Obviously, with the amount of work it needs . . .’ she shrugged, glimpsing his shocked expression.

Lee looked uncomfortable. He was putting himself on the line for her. ‘They won’t take less than three fifty, Nettie. That’s the rebuilding cost, the lowest they can go. Anyway, I know you can afford it. I’ve taken you round properties that cost significantly more than this.’

She shifted her weight, remembering the red-topped electricity bill that had landed on the doormat last week. ‘Well, we’re all feeling the squeeze, aren’t we? I’ve had to revise my sums a bit. Three fifty is my top-out budget now, and there’s no point in me getting this if I then can’t afford to do anything with it. Let’s be honest, it’s uninhabitable in this condition. I’m sorry, but that’s the highest I can go to.’

Lee looked disappointed. ‘Well,’ he said slowly, ‘if that’s your offer, I’ll do my best, but . . .’ His voice trailed off as he rooted around in his pocket for his phone.

‘What will be will be. I’m a firm believer in that.’

‘Of course you are.’ He patted her arm, again sympathetically. ‘Let me see what I can do for you.’

Nettie watched as he wandered towards the kitchen, phone clamped to one ear, his other hand jammed in his pocket. She absently leaned against the radiator, but of course it was as cold as bone and she shivered as she stared into the sky, a skein of ice threading through the fat, congested clouds, which carried more than the threat of rain now that the wind had dropped. The temperature had been falling sharply all week – ever since they’d come back from Lausanne, in fact – and the Topshop duffel coats and Isabel Marant donkey jackets that had been the postcode’s autumnal uniform had long since been turned in for heavy-duty Canada Goose jackets and Prada mitts.

She watched as a battered Volvo estate parked on the street below, a Christmas tree tethered to its roof. A man jumped out, followed by two little girls in the back, clapping their gloved hands as he stretched to release the bungee ropes and lift down the tree. A woman came out of the house to help him, a tea towel flung over her shoulder, and Nettie watched intently as they stretched to carry it into the house, her breath fogging the glass so that she had to wipe it clear again.

She looked around for other signs of Christmas, realizing how many she missed at street level. The area’s new ‘heritage’ Victorian-style lamp posts – which her father’s local pressure group had managed to get the council to buy – had miniature Christmas trees secured on shallow ledges, and giant hoops like over-scaled door wreaths straddled the shopping streets. It looked bucolically pretty.

A bus crawled past, the top-deck residents at eye level with her, and she recoiled slightly as they glided past in the late-afternoon traffic, weary shoppers resting their heads against the steamed-up windows, bags pooled at their feet.

‘Well, well, well, I never would have thought it.’

Nettie turned as Lee walked back into the room; her breath caught. They’d agreed?

‘I’ve spoken to the vendor. It’s not a complete victory, but . . .’ he paused for dramatic effect, ‘if you can go to three thirty-seven and a half, you’ve got yourself a deal.’

‘D’you know what this is about?’ Nettie asked anxiously as she caught up with Jules in the lift the next morning.

‘No clue.’ Jules yawned, gripping her double-shot coffee even tighter. ‘He’s probably just having another of his hissy fits.’ She checked her hair in the copper-tinted glass just as the lift arrived and the doors opened.

They stepped in.

‘But he’s never called an emergency meeting before,’ Nettie said anxiously.

‘That’s because there’s no such thing. It’s an ego trip is all.’ Jules reached into her bag and pulled out a copy of
Grazia
. ‘Much more important – did you see this? He’s a bad boy. Really bad.’ She winked. ‘I like it.’

‘Huh?’

‘Lover boy!’ Jules said, tapping the page. ‘Looks like it’s going to take a bit more than sliding down a wall of death to hold
his
attention.’

Nettie felt her stomach drop. ‘He’s unfollowed me, then?’ She’d hoped for at least a week of kinship.

‘No, I’m talking about her! Look!’ Nettie looked down at the photo of Jamie Westlake and American starlet Coco Miller stumbling out of Mahiki together, his hand closed tightly around hers as they battled their way through the assembled paparazzi to their waiting car. ‘Tough act to follow.’

Nettie stared miserably at Coco’s LA legs – yoga-honed and tanned – emerging from a diaphanous pink silk negligee-dress and worn with high-tops for a bit of urban edge. A Chanel Lego bag dangled from her wrist (no yellow bucket for
her
, Nettie thought hatefully), and a punky (but still two-carat) diamond crescent followed the upper curve of her ear, her dark blonde hair swept back into a side ponytail and worn low at the nape of her neck.

‘Ugh,’ she groaned, thrusting the magazine back to her friend. ‘I wish you hadn’t shown me that.’

The lift doors opened and they stepped out into the bright whiteness of the office, the grey plastic-topped desks and blue nylon carpets tidied and cleaned for another week. The space itself was generous for such a small company – Daisy and Caro’s desks were a good paper plane’s throw across the room – with light pouring in on two sides through bland plate-glass windows, and posters from the agency’s various clients – White Tiger, Astra healthcare, Phoenix chemicals – Blu-tacked to the wall in an overt display of loyalty.

A red foam sofa was positioned by the water cooler, and the curling, out-of-date magazines on the coffee table opposite it were supposed to encourage the team to sit and relax occasionally, taking time out of their busy days to recharge; but given that it was set right outside Mike’s office, the girls far preferred congregating behind the giant potted yucca plant by the photocopier instead – much to Mike’s chagrin.

The slatted blinds showed that the team in the events management agency opposite had yet to arrive at work. Lucky things.

Caro and Daisy were already at their desks as Jules and Nettie trundled in. Daisy stopped applying her lipstick and cast them both quizzical ‘WTF?’ looks.

Jules just shrugged and threw her bag down on the floor beside her desk. ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’

‘Seriously? An eight o’clock meeting?’ Caro demanded, offering them all a stick of gum. They declined. ‘What the . . . ?’

‘Ego trip. Ego trip,’ Jules said again in her best bored voice, just as Mike’s office door opened and he marched down the corridor towards them. It was as if he’d been waiting for them.

‘Ladies. Shall we?’ he asked without stopping, and making a beeline for the conference room.

The girls watched after him in open-mouthed amazement. What was going on?

They trooped in slowly and took their usual seats at the table. Mike was perched on the table at the far end – no custard creams, expression inscrutable – and Nettie felt her nerves gather. Friday’s meeting had, after all, ended with a warning for her.

They settled into unusual silence, unusually quickly, and he clapped his hands together.

‘You might be wondering why I’ve called this emergency meeting.’

No one responded. They didn’t want to feed his ego with curiosity and questions.

‘Well, I’ve been in crisis talks with White Tiger all weekend.’

‘Crisis talks?’ Jules echoed, but there was a slight quaver to her voice that Nettie immediately caught. White Tiger were the agency’s star clients, the big tickets that had drawn them to the attention of their other accounts. It had also been a White Tiger event at which Nettie had . . . achieved a certain notoriety. ‘Yes, that’s right. Crisis talks.’

Mike puffed himself up, building the moment, feeling the power. ‘It would appear,’ he said slowly, ‘that the clip we viewed of Nettie’s accident on Friday afternoon, in this very room, has been leaked.’

‘No!’ Jules gasped with dramatic gravity. She was a truly brilliant liar. It was incredible to watch sometimes.

‘So?’ Caro asked, jaws pinging up and down.

‘So,’ Mike said, adding great weight to the word, ‘it’s gone viral.’

‘Viral?’ Daisy echoed. ‘But who . . . ?’

‘Who indeed, Daisy?’ Mike said, swinging his gaze over to Nettie. ‘Of course, it was simple enough to work out. The thief didn’t try very hard to obscure her tracks.’

Thief?
Nettie swallowed at his choice of word. That was overstating it, wasn’t it? She wouldn’t have called it ‘stealing’ necessarily.

‘
In fact
, the film was uploaded with a link to a Twitter account, @BlueBunnyGirl, which White Tiger’s IT team had no problem tracing back to the linked email address.’ He arched an eyebrow directly at her. ‘Had any broadband difficulties this weekend, Nettie?’

She blinked back at him, seeing her career flash before her eyes. This was it. She was going to get fired.

‘
Nets
did it?’ Caro exclaimed in shock. ‘Christ, I’m most shocked that you even knew how.’

‘Actually—’ Jules said, clearing her throat.

But Mike put a hand up to silence her.

‘Naturally, White Tiger’s board are highly concerned at this breach. They own the copyright to the event – and therefore of the film. This is industrial theft. Not only that but their branding is all over the footage. It is only by the grace of God that the accident ended fairly happily, but the fact remains that had it not, they would have been severely embarrassed, their reputation
damaged
, in fact.’

Nettie took a gulp of air. Theft? Damages? Oh God, what had she done? Why hadn’t she thought of this on Friday night? Of course she couldn’t just steal someone else’s footage of someone else’s event and get away with it. She closed her eyes, trying to stay calm. If they could just fire her and not sue . . . she’d take that; she’d be
grateful
for that.

‘Mike—’ Jules tried again, and yet again he stopped her.

‘I’m sure you can see why they find it no laughing matter that something like this should have got out. They can’t have a mole on the team who’s going to compromise their reputation just because she thinks something dangerous is funny.’

Nettie opened her eyes. ‘But . . . not that many people have seen it, not in the scheme of things,’ she said timidly, a hopeful wince on her face.

He sat up and with a dramatic flourish clicked the remote for the whiteboard behind him. The screen came up blue, a small whirring coming from the projector in the ceiling. Then it suddenly flashed white, with a large black number printed across the middle:
105,665.

‘That’s quite a lot, in my opinion. And that was as of half an hour ago. I think we can confidently say it will have gone up another few hundred, if not thousand, since then.’ He shook his head, but his eyes never left her and she knew exactly what he was building up to. ‘It was bad enough leaving things as we did on Friday afternoon, but this? What were you thinking? You must see that you leave me no choice. You’ve gone into a whole other league, Nettie.’

‘Exactly.’ Jules’s voice was firm, triumphant even, as she gave a small smack on the conference table, demanding attention. ‘It’s all gone exactly according to plan.’

Everyone looked at her.

‘Excuse me?’ Mike asked, irked to be interrupted from his monologue.

‘Well, I take it you’ve looked at the donations coming in?’ she asked disingenuously. ‘Oh, what am I saying? Of course you have – it’s patently
obvious
that with the number of views the clip’s now had, there’d be an upsurge in traffic to the charity link too.’ She worked on her iPad quickly. ‘Yes, twenty-nine thousand pounds,’ she shrugged. ‘Which clearly is a very tidy profit for a weekend’s work and a big uptick from where she was last week.’

‘Twenty-ni—’ Mike echoed.

‘And that’s not including any monies that will be paid from YouTube too, if we decide to go ahead and register as associates. Naturally, that’s your call, Mike – we didn’t want to go ahead on that without your say-so.’

‘My . . . You mean, you did all this deliberately?’ he asked, thunderstruck.

‘As a fundraising initiative? Of course! This isn’t theft. This is phase one of a carefully thought-out campaign, Mike.’

‘A campaign?’

‘Mm-hmm. Nettie took everything you said on Friday so much to heart that we had a brain-storming session after work and she came up with the plan. The footage was there, of course, doing nothing, and much as the thought of her humiliation and pain being made public was
utterly mortifying
for her, she agreed that if it would benefit the charity in any way, then it was only right and proper to let it go ahead and be seen.’

Nettie blinked at her friend, wanting to hug her, desperately hoping the hysterical laughter roiling in her body wouldn’t find a way out before they’d left this room.

Jules winked back.

Mike looked at her. ‘Is this true, Nettie?’

She nodded, not quite trusting what might yet come out of her mouth.

Mike sat back, pensive, the wind quite taken out of his sails. ‘Well, twenty-nine thousand pounds certainly is a lot of money to raise in one weekend.’

‘And it hasn’t finished yet. People are still viewing and sharing the clip. We can expect donations to continue going up,’ Jules said confidently. ‘As you said on Friday, this is the biggest fundraising week of the year. ’Tis the season of goodwill to all men – everyone’s beginning to wind down and relax in anticipation of the holidays. We’ve given them some entertainment.’ She grinned. ‘And we could still give them some more.’

‘More?’ Mike looked like he would blow over from a sneeze.

‘Mm-hmm. Only if you want, obviously.’ Jules gave a lackadaisical shrug, seemingly oblivious to Nettie’s sudden look of alarm.