Love to Hate You (2 page)

Beverly doesn't know what he's asking for.

But Colin remembers all too well those turbulent times when Ian and I used to work together, and banged heads again and again and again. His face creases up in panic and he turns as white as a sheet. Poor guy, this is going straight into his 'top ten worst mornings of my life'.

“Lord Beverly, I think Ian might have an appointment—” stammers Colin in a vain attempt to save the situation, but Beverly isn't one to be intimidated by other people's appointments. The bottom line is that he has been sitting in this meeting room for an hour, obediently drinking tea and eating butter biscuits, and he knows that whatever he requests will be given to him.

“I must insist, Colin,” he says. And damn him, he knows that that's all it takes.

Our boss nods resignedly. “Do you think you can free yourself up, Ian?” he asks.

“Of course, no problem. Excuse me for just one moment,” says the man of the day, before disappearing.

*

Oh God. I can't do it.

I've just got time to get the documents out of my bag before Ian is back, perfectly at ease, smiling and with a determined look in his eye. He's loving this morning, and it's all thanks to me.

This is undoubtedly the crappiest day of my life. Previously, the worst had been the one when they took out my appendix and I spent all morning throwing up because of the anaesthetic, but today… oh, today is
much
worse!

My number one enemy has made himself comfortable in a nice black leather chair next to Lord Beverly and sits there in eager anticipation of the brilliant tax optimization plan I'm about to present to my client.

For a moment I feel as though I've been catapulted back in time: it's the aristocrats versus the commoners all over again.

Lord Beverly, son of a marquis, and Ian St John, grandson of the Duke of Revington, son of a marquis and successor to the title and thus a count of something or other, stare at me from their seats with ill-concealed impatience, anxious to discover just what the hell I've come up with.

And then – because, basically, I am the most brilliant mind that this bank has to its credit, despite whatever Count whatsisname might think – I launch into my brilliant presentation and show them what I'm made of.

I'm exhausted and my head feels like it's about to explode. The pain has been keeping me company since the dramatic moment when I first opened my bleary eyes this morning and realised that:

a) I hadn't heard the alarm going off two hours earlier;

b) I was late for a
really
important appointment;

c) I had the first serious hangover of my wretched life.

I've always been a determined girl, one with her head screwed on, and I've never been anyone's doormat, but the previous night the latest in a long string of romantic failures had just been too much for me – and the coup de grace was less that it had been
him
who'd dumped
me
and more the awful realization that I couldn't even have cared less.

The moment he'd said that he didn't want to come and live with me, I'd felt so relieved that I'd practically burst out laughing. Again.

That was the third serious relationship that had broken up just before we moved in together, and last night I'd finally realised that it's not because of my pathetic boyfriends, but because of me.
I'm
the cause of my romantic failures,
I'm
the reason why they dump me: sooner or later, they realise that I just don't care about them. And that I'm kidding myself. And they run for it.

If I was in their shoes, I'd have done the same thing, a long time ago.

This sudden realization had floored me so much that Laura and Vera had eventually bullied me into going out, and we'd gone to a few pubs and had a few drinks. And then a few more.

In terms of making me forget about myself and my problems, the mission was a complete success. There was so much alcohol in my system that I did actually stop thinking about my useless boyfriends and my own failures for a while. I even stopped thinking about the reason I'd chosen them, which was basically that they were insignificant non-entities who wouldn't have the slightest impact on my messed-up life.

I hate not being in control of things, and in relationships I always end up choosing people who are completely unable to hinder my plans in any way – people who let me lead them. Pushovers.

Pity, then, that realizing the fact meant crashing back down to reality. And what an ugly reality it was.

All of this is running through my mind as I trot out facts and figures to Lord Beverly and Ian – two card-carrying wankers, certainly, but at least, for some perverse reason I feel that we're on the same level.

*

For a very short period I really thought that Charles, my last boyfriend, was perfect for me: he teaches philosophy at university, he's very serious and thoughtful, hates conservatives and dreams of changing the world. Ok, so he doesn't get any further than dreaming or actually do anything
practical
about it, but at least he dreams the right things.

My family fell for Charles immediately and established a bond with him that they've never had with me. I'm a kind of genetic error that they still don't quite understand – the pinstripe sheep of the family.

This latest failure with Charles is going to mean doing some serious work on myself. I have to find the right person – someone that
I
like, and not just someone my family are going to accept.

My phone rouses me from my thoughts and, seeing that it's Vera's number, I pick up straightaway.

“Hello gorgeous,” I say, smiling.

“You're alive, then!” she answers in relief.

“You could say that—”

“So how did the infamous presentation go?”

“Oh, couldn't have gone better,” I say, sarcastically. “I woke up two hours late, barely managed to drag myself to work, and then found out that my client loves surrounding himself with people of the same social class, so I had to try and act totally at ease while I explained everything not only to him but also his fellow nobleman. Ian.”

“Ouch—”

Vera knows all about the feud that's been going on for years between me and Ian – she's spent whole evenings listening to me moan about him and knows practically every detail of our now–famous quarrels.

I think she even warns all the new interns that it's probably not a great idea to get too close to us.

Her theory is that at the base of our animosity there's a kind of class struggle, but to be honest, I just think he's a massive idiot and that the difference in social class has nothing much to do with it. His being from the gentry has nothing to do with the fact that he's a conceited, puffed-up cretin.

“Yeah, you can say that again. Ouch—”

“That bad?” she asks fearfully.

“God, it was
worse
than that bad. But you know me, always on the ball, so I managed to pull it off. I have to admit, though – Ian wasn't too painful, and he kept strangely quiet.”

“Well that's good, isn't it?” asks Vera.

“Hmmm. I'm not convinced. If it had been anyone else, maybe… but Ian's not to be trusted. I've got the feeling that the only reason he didn't stick the knife in today is because he's got something even more diabolical in mind.”

Vera laughs. “Has anybody ever told you you're paranoid, love?”

“Of course I am – I'm a tax lawyer, I have to be.”

Vera is still chuckling when I see Colin walking past my desk and beckoning me to follow him.

“Got to go, gorgeous,” I tell Vera, “the big boss wants to see me. Cross your fingers for me.”

“Will do!”

“See you later.”

*

I walk straight over to Colin, who's standing in front of the coffee machine.

“Skin of your teeth today,” says the boss, in a voice that is more admiring than reproachful.

“I know, Colin. Listen, I hope you don't think that I don't realise how lucky I was there. It was a mistake – the kind that I have no intention of committing again.”

Colin puts two coins into the machine and quickly presses some buttons, and a few moments later hands me a hot coffee. I taste it – it's very sweet.

“Extra sugar?” I ask.

“You're… going to need it,” he says, sounding mysterious.

“So I should probably sit down.”

“Oh, you're a tough cookie – I'm sure you'll manage without additional support,” he says, with a wink.

“Come on, Colin, you know I'm good at handling bad news,” I say, stoically. I'm actually starting to get an idea about where he's going with this, and I don't like it at all.

“And you, Jenny, know very well what the bad news is, or you wouldn't have a face on you like a cat sucking a lemon while you drink the sweetest cup of coffee of your life.”

I have a very wise boss, apparently.

“I know what it's about, but I'm not going to save you from the embarrassment of having to say it.”

“God, you're a nasty piece of work… Right, well, if you really don't want to make it easy for me, I'll tell you – Lord Beverly is insisting on having both you and Ian looking after him.”

“Ah—”

That's all I can say. Unfortunately, I'd sensed the vibrations.

“It is obvious that our customer doesn't know about your past difficulties, and frankly, I'd rather he never finds out,” he continues.

“Listen, Colin,” I say, seriously, “you know that I never shirk my responsibilities. I understand that I screwed up and that somehow I have to pay for it, but this… This is too much. Lord Beverly might not know what happened, but
you
do.
You
know what the risks are.”

Colin nervously stirs his coffee and looks at me. “It's been four years, Jenny. I was hoping that two intelligent, mature people might have overcome their differences in the meantime.”

“Yes, we might, if Ian was even remotely intelligent or mature. But at the moment he still seems to be lacking both the necessary features.”

I say it with an angelic expression on my face – a bit mischievous, perhaps, but angelic.

There's a certain nervousness in Colin's eyes. “Jenny—” he starts.

But I don't let him finish, because I know what he's going to say. “You're right, I messed up today and now I have to suffer the consequences.”

Colin changes tactic. “Look at it like this. You're paying for a mistake that you made yourself, but Ian… well, he didn't choose to get himself involved in this situation. He's probably not jumping for joy right now either.”

Put like that, things look a little bit less grim. After all, who am I to deny Ian the immense joy of having to work with me?

“Does he already know?” I ask, with new-found energy. Never underestimate the beneficial effects of making life difficult for others.

Colin smiles resignedly. “Nice to see that the old tricks still work. You two are like a couple of schoolkids, Jenny,” he scolds, good-naturedly.

“Excuse me – seeing as I'm two years older, it's
him
who's the kid.”

“Oh, of course, yes – the famous two-year difference—”

“The
fundamental
two-year difference,” I remind him, suddenly extremely serious.

The truth is that it was that two-year difference that started all this in the first place: five years ago, when the bosses set up the first tax team containing both economists and lawyers, they were forced to make a difficult and uncomfortable choice – who was going to be put in charge?

I was twenty-eight and my career was moving along incredibly rapidly and successfully, and Ian was twenty-six and still a recent acquisition. There were already stories about him going around, though – how he was a brilliant economist and how his customers hung on his every word.

Anyway, after studying the various candidates, the bank had to choose which of us to appoint, and each of us was expecting to get the job.

It was a tough call to make, so in the end the bosses, unable to choose, eventually selected the older person – me. We were told that they needed someone with a minimum of 'seniority'.

In my heart I knew that it was just a pretext and that I was fully entitled to the position. Being in charge of a team is not just about being the best – even though I undoubtedly am – but also about knowing how to guide and encourage the group. And as far as I'm concerned, Ian has only ever known only to guide and encourage himself.

He took it so badly that at first we all assumed he'd just give in his notice and go somewhere else, but instead he adopted a much more subtle strategy. He decided to stay, and to dedicate himself to a single goal: making my life difficult.

He kept his hostility well disguised for the first few months, but things gradually turned into an all-out war, and our team meetings became legendary and interminable.

If I said A, he said B, if I said white, he said black, and so on – with a vengeance.

After a whole year of no holds barred fighting, things reached breaking point. In the beginning, I'd tried to ignore his provocation and carry on regardless, but after the umpteenth dirty trick – this time trying to discredit me in front of a customer – I lost it. We had a showdown in his office. I told him exactly what I thought of him, he called me every name under the sun, and… well, it ended badly. All the anger that had been building up in me after a year of bickering exploded, and I ended up giving him a punch in the face. A good one, too, apparently, because Ian ended up with a broken nose and the doctor gave me a week off work for my hand.

Before that, I'd never hurt a fly.

The incident caused a stir and to try and save face, the company wisely decided that we should never work together again. We were each given our own team, and at that point the war became a professional one. And in fact, each of our groups obtained extraordinary results from trying to outdo the other, because it had become a battle to see who would be crowned ‘best'.