Getting Even

  Dan grinned. “So you wouldn’t be up for a quickie in the stationery cupboard later then?”

  3. Tush, never tell me!

  Rob peered at the pulse monitor on the cross-country ski machine. “You’re very fit for someone who says they don’t exercise. If I didn’t know better, I’d have guessed you’d been at this for years.” He glanced at his new client. Ivy was barely sweating.

  “I’ve a naturally low heart rate. Or so my GP once told me. It has its disadvantages, but my husband always says I wouldn’t survive in my industry otherwise.”

  Rob wasn’t sure why, but he was surprised Ivy was married—she didn’t seem the kind. “Oh?”

  “Advertising, marketing, being creative—it pays not to get easily stressed, you can imagine.”

  “You’re an art director?”

  “Copywriter.”

  “Who’s your art director? Would I know him?”

  “Her. Doubt it; she’s not into exercise. Her name’s Orianna.”

  “Unusual name.”

  “It’s Italian—aristocratic, so she insists. Her family is from Venice and she was named after a Renaissance noblewoman or something. Though they’ve lived here for years.” Ivy paused for a moment to focus. Rob noted she was pushing herself, determined to achieve a perfect rhythm.

  “You been working together long?” He was keen to learn more about Ivy—he found it helped gain an understanding of a client’s physical requirements if there was a strong mental connection. This seemed a safe place to start.

  “Yes, years. We met on a Design and Art Direction course over a decade ago. The tutors team you up and they put us together.” She frowned, recollecting. “I think the guy running it thought I’d knock a few spots off her.”

  Rob nodded. He could already tell Ivy wouldn’t suffer fools.

  “Orianna was straight out of high school whereas I’d been to college and studied copywriting so was more clued in about the industry.”

  Rob said nothing. His tactics appeared to be working; if he kept quiet she might divulge more—most new clients had a tendency to gab to fill awkward silences. Not Ivy, however; she was silent then deflected: “Anyway, enough about me and Orianna. Tell me about you. Have you been doing this a long time?”

  “Around five years. I used to teach aerobics classes, but got sick of it.”

  “I bet this pays more.”

  She’s quick, thought Rob, so countered, “Not as much as you chaps get, I’m sure.”

  “Ah yes, though we have to prostitute our souls.”

  Rob raised an eyebrow. “I hadn’t seen advertising like that.”

  “Oh, I love it.” Ivy gave him another dazzling smile. “Damn the morality; take the money and run, that’s what I say.” She strode on wordlessly again. After a while, the machine mastered, she seemed to grow bored. “Can I stop now?”

  Rob, mesmerized merely by watching her, had been contemplating what dramatic coloring she had. How her flaming hair contrasted with her pale and delicately freckled skin. He was brought back to the assessment with a jolt. “Yeah, yeah, of course. I need to take your measurements next. We’d better stretch a bit, first.”

  Shortly Ivy was standing in one of the staff rooms, arms lifted while Rob pinched what was definitely less than an inch with an evil pair of callipers. He checked the dial. “I just need your age.”

  “Thirty-four,” said Ivy, rather fast.

  Rob did some calculations. “Not bad, not bad,” he muttered. Privately he was incredulous. He had clients he’d been training for eons who would give their eyeteeth to have results like this. “Eighteen percent fat. Do you really never exercise at all?”

  “Only sex.” Ivy winked. “And shopping.”

  Rob laughed. He liked this woman. All of a sudden, he was inclined to take her into his confidence. There was something he was dying to find out, and Chloë’s departure had created a vacancy for a confidante. “Talking of sex … How well do you know Dan?”

  “Dan?” Ivy sounded surprised. “What do you mean? Goodness! You didn’t think anything was going on between us, did you?”

  “No, no. It’s just you said you know him, and I wondered … we’ve been out for a few drinks together, yet he’s never talked about seeing anyone.”

  “Really?”

  “I mean, I’m meeting him later, for instance.”

  “He invited you out?”

  “Well…” In truth Rob had asked Dan, but was loath to admit being so keen.

  “Are you asking if I believe Dan Cohen is gay?”

  “Er … I suppose so.” Rob knew his own sexuality was so transparent Ivy would take it for granted, and wasn’t perturbed by her assumption. He was more concerned he shouldn’t look like a lovesick puppy in front of someone he wished to impress.

  Ivy’s face registered understanding. “Do you fancy him?”

  Rob was longing to confess. “I think he’s lovely.”

  “Well I never!”

  Is it that surprising I’d fancy him? thought Rob. He’s very attractive, and seems a really genuine guy. Perhaps the notion he’s gay—or at least persuadable—hasn’t occurred to Ivy. Dan is pretty macho, in an understated way.

  “It’s only I reckon he might like me,” he said. “He’s always so friendly it’s hard to tell. Normally I know if someone’s interested or not, but he’s quite elusive—whenever I mention his love life he changes the subject. He certainly never talks about having a girlfriend—he’s not even mentioned fancying anyone in all the months I’ve been seeing him.”

  “Mm. How strange.” Ivy examined her well-manicured nails, checking she’d not broken any during her workout. “What an intriguing thought. I wonder if he’s not out of the closet yet … I’ve never really seen him around enough gay men to tell.”

  “That’s what I wondered.” Rob danced a little jig inside. Maybe there was hope. Impulsively, he asked, “You doing anything later?”

  Ivy hesitated, plainly unwilling to commit until she knew what to. “Why?”

  “Perhaps you could join us.”

  “Oh?”

  “We’ll be at Lucifer’s on Dean Street from about nine.” Rob grew excited at the thought. “After all, you work with Dan—”

  “True.”

  “—and Dan recommended me to you, so it wouldn’t seem odd, all hooking up. Then you could see how he behaves with me. Watch, and—if you don’t mind—tell me what you think.”

  “Sure,” said Ivy. “If it’s just a quick drink later on, why not? I’ve got to meet someone straight after work, but that shouldn’t take the whole evening. I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

  * * *

  “Hi, sweetie.” That Orianna whisked her book out of sight under the desk the moment Ivy returned didn’t escape her notice. “What are you reading now?”

  Sheepishly Orianna lifted the paperback.

  “The Betrothal,” said Ivy, peering at the title. She leaned forward and squinted at the back cover. “‘Amy and Saul. Forced to wed by cruel circumstance. Will it turn out to be a marriage in name only? Sexual passion that quickly burns out? Or could it actually be love?’ Orianna, honestly!”

  “What?”

  “That looks dreadful!”

  “I like it!”

  “Oh well. Each to their own.” Ivy knew there would be no stopping Orianna—her appetite for romantic fiction was voracious. The only prerequisite was she had to be confident the story had a happy ending. Ivy had witnessed a few occasions when Orianna had been duped into reading something more downbeat; tragic endings could upset her for days.

  “How was the gym?” asked Orianna.

  “Fine.”

  “What’s Rob like?”

  Ivy was inclined to be fulsome with her praise. “Seems a total sweetie. Not your typical all-brawn, no-brain gym instructor.”

  “Fit though?”

  “Yeah, nice looking in a fresh-faced, trendy kind of way. Gay, of course.”

  “Che sorpresa. So, we need to run th
rough these ideas with Dan. I said we’d go and see him. Is now OK?”

  “Sure.”

  Together they made their way to production. As head of the department, Dan was in much in demand. Tasked with having to juggle the needs of both creative and account handling, his desk was chock-full. There was a pile of transparencies he’d been asked to deal with because the photo library was screaming to have them returned and the art director who’d been in charge of them couldn’t face confessing he’d lost one, several urgent pieces of artwork due for immediate signature, a jiffy bag of T-shirt samples, and a half-eaten sandwich. Yet the man himself was not to be seen.

  Orianna jumped up to look over the walls dividing the large, open-plan office. Each partition was painted a complementary shade—lime, olive, apple, teal—to reflect the agency’s name.

  Dan came charging around the corner. “Sorry, sorry.”

  “No worries, we’ve only just got here.”

  Dan grabbed his lunch and they headed for a group of bottle-green sofas in the center of the room designed for informal meetings. They sat down, Orianna and Ivy together, Dan at a right angle to them.

  “Remind me.” Dan munched as he spoke, egg mayonnaise spilling onto his napkin. “This is the July mailer?”

  “Yeah.” Orianna straightened the pile of marker-drawn ideas and turned to Ivy. “Do you want to go through them, or shall I?”

  “Feel free,” said Ivy, pleased to settle back and observe. She suspected Rob’s theory about Dan was wishful thinking, because for a while she’d had a hunch Dan fancied Orianna, and that the attraction was mutual. Take their body language right now; although they were sitting on adjacent sofas, Orianna’s knees were almost touching his, and Dan seemed to be looking at her in a way that was decidedly sexual. It made Ivy, who was used to being the focus of male attention, feel a little ignored.

  Well, they can’t actually be shagging, Ivy concluded. Orianna always confided everything (including, occasionally, things that slightly bored Ivy). It was part of their unspoken deal: Ivy was witty, aloof; Orianna impulsive, vocal. Since the outset it had been this way, and it suited them professionally and personally. Not only had it earned them the respect of their peers and a clutch of prestigious industry awards; it meant that as best friends, each acted as a foil to the other.

  After a while, Ivy decided she’d better contribute. “And because we’re aiming this at older consumers, we thought we’d have very poetic copy.” She pointed at the black lines Orianna had used to indicate type. “Something quite old-fashioned and lyrical to appeal to the sensibilities of our more mature audience.”

  This was Orianna’s cue to lean forward. “So it would be good if we could print it on beautiful paper stock—something slightly textured.”

  “You’ll be lucky, with budgets this tight,” said Dan.

  “See what you can do? Just for your favorite team?” Orianna widened her dark eyes at him; again this wasn’t lost on Ivy.

  But then they were interrupted by Ursula, the account director in charge of the account.

  “Ivy-I’m-terribly-sorry-but-I’ve-got-to-leave-in-five-minutes-for-an-urgent-meeting-with-the-client.” She panted at twice her normal one-thousand-words-per-minute speed. “I’ve-got-some-comments-on-your-copy-and-I’d-like-to-go-through-them-with-you-if-that’s-all-right.”

  Ivy winced to herself. Ursula’s copy comments tended to be more valid than most, but she disliked being told her words needed improvement. Still, she knew better than to say so—years of feedback had made her resistant; now she could compromise without betraying how criticism grated. Ursula hopped from foot to foot; clearly she wouldn’t take no for an answer.

  Ivy stood up. “Sorry, folks, duty calls. Can I leave you two to finish?”

  “Of course,” said Orianna and Dan in unison.

  4. You rise to play and go to bed to work

  Not wanting to seem too vain or obvious, Rob only spruced himself up minimally for his date with Dan. In the privacy of the staff changing room, he showered, gelled his peroxide hair (though not in a way that might preclude someone running their hands through it), and swapped his shorts, T-shirt, and trainers for a freshly laundered shirt and jeans and his favorite shoes. A discreet dash of aftershave and he was ready.

  Considering how much he fancied Dan, Rob was surprisingly relaxed—that he was used to dealing with him in an advisory capacity meant he felt he had the upper hand. But there was a downside: their relationship was already established on a friendly but formal footing, which would make it hard to talk about anything personal, let alone their love lives. Broadening the conversation would involve courage on Rob’s part, especially as Dan was a client and might spurn him. Rob was no coward but didn’t enjoy rejection any more than the next person; if anything, he tended to take it particularly to heart. When he’d first come out at the tender age of sixteen, he’d fallen heavily for a succession of older men who hadn’t treated him well, and as a result, for the last few years had developed a tendency for casual sex and unrequited crushes. He gleaned much emotional sustenance from his friendships and working relationships, and was rarely short of company and camaraderie. But Dan … Rob fancied Dan more than was good for him. In addition, he really liked him. He felt at ease with him in a way he seldom did with men he was so attracted to—yet he was also worried that things were getting too comfortable, and if he didn’t say something soon, the opportunity for shifting gears would disappear.

  Perhaps tonight’s the night, he prayed to himself, checking his appearance one last time in the reception mirror. And as Dan emerged from the customer changing room and clapped him on the back to announce he was ready to go, Rob’s heart skipped a beat.

  * * *

  Orianna was waiting at the bar in Lucifer’s, clutching a much-needed glass of Pinot Grigio. She was early—being good at deadlines—but on edge. She’d been wrapped up in meetings all afternoon so hadn’t even had time to touch base with Ivy, and on top of that, pubs always made her feel like a spare part. Perhaps it was the Italian in her; they just weren’t her domain. Besides, she was impatient to meet Rob. Not that she thought Dan might reciprocate Rob’s interest, but it was intriguing, indeed a compliment, to have her partner sought after by someone else.

  She was all the keener because she’d not yet met any of Dan’s friends, nor he hers, because of their pact. Initially she hadn’t minded the secrecy—that would have been hypocritical given she’d suggested they keep quiet—but now that they’d been together for several months she believed they were ready to dip a toe in the water of going public. Meeting Rob indicated Dan was coming around to the idea.

  Orianna shifted on her stool, excitement mounting. She was proud of Dan, and the prospect of being introduced as his girlfriend for the first time was thrilling.

  * * *

  Ivy, on the other hand, was a long way from Lucifer’s. She was in Chelsea Harbour, with Green’s financial director, Russell. And she wasn’t just with him in the professional sense; they were in his apartment—a penthouse with a stupendous view over the River Thames and huge wrought-iron four-poster bed, Ivy on her hands and knees, Russell behind her holding her hips, making the beast with two backs with a vengeance.

  “Aaaaaah!” he cried, climaxing.

  “Ooooooooh,” she responded in kind, as his orgasm also tipped her over the edge. “Hold it … right there…” She writhed against him, prolonging the pleasure.

  “That was bloody amazing.” Russell collapsed on the bed.

  “Mm,” said Ivy. “Incredible.” As indeed it was: when it came to sheer, unadulterated, caution-to-the-wind, dirty sex, each was in their element. How much easier it was to let rip like this with one another than with their spouses! Both their partners were—obviously, conveniently—elsewhere. Ivy’s husband, Ed, worked in the oil industry, a profession that took him off to Aberdeen for weeks on end, where he remained unsuspectingly faithful to Ivy day in, day out; and Russell’s wife and three children lived in a huge house in
Herefordshire, just too far away from London for it to be worth commuting on a daily basis.

  Ivy looked at her watch. “Hell! I’ve got to go.”

  “What, so soon?”

  “I’m meeting someone.” She started pulling on her clothes. It was one of the benefits of not undressing fully; she was still in her stockings, shoes, and bra.

  “Who?” With long, bony fingers Russell reached for a cigarette; inhaling only enhanced his perfect cheekbones.

  “No one you know,” Ivy tantalized, stealing a drag. She exhaled, blowing smoke away from them both, up in the air. “Just a couple of boys.”

  She grabbed her handbag and car keys from the bedside table, and presently she was in her silver BMW cabriolet, speeding back into town.

  * * *

  “I hope you don’t mind,” said Dan, as he and Rob strolled down Old Compton Street, sports bags bouncing against their buttocks in a way that seemed to attract the attention of many of the locals. “I’ve asked a friend to join us.”

  “Oh.” Rob’s first reaction was disappointment. If Dan reciprocated my interest, he thought, surely he’d rather share a drink alone? Perhaps Dan’s shy and wants to protect himself—I do that sometimes. Or maybe, just maybe, he wants to introduce me to a third party to get a second opinion, like I want from Ivy …

  Rob recalled he’d not mentioned Ivy would be joining them either. He was poised to say so when Dan pushed open the door of Lucifer’s. At once they were caught up in the hustle and bustle.

  “Back in a sec,” shouted Dan.

  Rob scanned the room. Antique pine furniture, a ceramic-tiled floor, and aged terra-cotta walls lent the place a Tuscan rustic charm which contrasted with the clientele. There was the usual mix: girls giggling because they’d been in the pub since six and were well away, straight men bonding and gay men flirting, media couples enjoying a pre-dinner drink or three.

  Moments later Dan was back. And here, unless Rob was much mistaken, was cause for consternation. Because Dan had someone with him. And not any old someone: a girl. A pretty girl, with very dark, shoulder-length hair and big brown eyes.