Getting Even (11 page)

That Ivy knew his game only made her hornier. There was nothing like playing with fire, and when Russell removed his hand and lifted her—legs apart—onto the cool marble work surface, rapidly undid his belt and fly, and penetrated her hard and fast, it brought back that classic scene from
Fatal Attraction
, with a similar mix of pleasure and pain.

*   *   *

At 4 a.m. Ivy woke with a jolt. The situation felt worse with Russell snoring beside her, so she gathered her strewn clothes, dressed in the bathroom so as not to wake him, and left the apartment.

The night air was cool, but she lowered the roof of her BMW anyway, hoping the wind might help blow away the hurt. But as she headed east along the Thames Embankment, the city's emptiness only emphasized her loneliness, and by the time she drew up to the traffic lights of Vauxhall Bridge, there was no getting away from the indelible sense of betrayal.

Ivy pressed the arrow to lower the window and leaned her elbow on the door while she lit a cigarette, inhaling the toxicity deep into her lungs. She could feel its poison burning, burning, and savored the sensation. And as she watched the smoke coil up in a thin gray trail away from the glowing red, dissipate, and finally disappear, she cast her mind back, ancient fury rising again.

It still made her spit how she and her brother had been forced to live after their father had run off with
her
. Ivy's mother had been strapped for cash; Ivy had never had the clothes, cosmetics, LPs, and books she craved. But her father had argued—persuaded by
her
Ivy was sure—he couldn't afford child support, and their standard of living had crumbled. The walls of their mock Tudor had seemed to grow increasingly closed in, and as Ivy had passed the huge house where her father had lived with his new family on her walk to school, it had made the injustice feel more acute.

Yet despite her unhappy adolescence—or perhaps because of it—Ivy had been determined to be no put-upon Cinderella. Instead she vowed she'd never lack for anything, and chose a career that enabled her to claw a comfortable lifestyle as swiftly and painlessly as possible. Once through the indignities of training, copywriting proved the perfect vehicle for her cynical, sharp mind and by her early thirties, she had the apartment, the car, the husband, and a lover who could wangle her even greater financial security. She'd felt safe, at last.

Until now, when it seemed her material well-being was in as much danger of being taken away from her as it had been all those years ago …

Once Ivy was back in her apartment, surrounded by familiar objects, she began to feel better. It might not be homey, but she always felt at ease in her spacious loft apartment.

Thank God, she thought. At least in here I can breathe.

Ivy had chosen the few pieces of furniture with painstaking care; no one was more aware how others would judge her from her purchases. Compromise made her shudder, and luckily her husband was happy to fund her extravagance—or perhaps he realized it would be more trouble than it was worth to argue. So from the retro refrigerator to the sleek power shower, Ivy got her own way on everything.

There was irony too, for Ivy relished spiked humor. Take the neon-lit sign on the wall, visible from the street when the blinds were up. Only she knew it also advertised the whereabouts of her stash of cocaine in a desk drawer beneath. She liked to have a tiny envelope put by for when she was in the mood, and enjoyed mocking authority with the proclamation: C
OKE.
T
HE REAL THING.

Ivy flicked on the kettle—a freebie from a lust-lorn photographer who'd hoped if he let her keep it after a shoot it might help him get into her knickers (it didn't).

Russell's right, she thought as she waited for the water to boil, I do have a lot to lose, and it won't be easy get a similar salary elsewhere. I'll get in touch with my headhunter, but I'm not hopeful. I suppose there's freelancing, but all that having to be nicey-nicey to keep in favor and be rehired—ugh. She shuddered. So there seems no getting around it, for the time being I'd better stay put and make the best of a bad job. I'll have to build bridges if I'm not to come completely unstuck. What a hideous prospect.

Hmm, she calculated. Perhaps there is a way to salvage a sense of self-worth. I'm not going to fall apart like my mother … Oh no. I'll show Orianna I'm still a force to be reckoned with, bring her down a peg or three.

Yes. That's it, the way forward …

 

12. A capable and wide revenge

The shrill sound of Rob's alarm at 7 a.m. dragged him from a fulfilling dream about being the lead singer of a boy band, yet for once he was pleased to be interrupted. He knew it wasn't very nice of him, but the prospect of seeing Ivy was enough to propel him from bed at speed. He was dying to see if his client mentioned anything from the night before, and how she would paint it. Given Orianna's upset, perhaps his sympathies should have lain with her, but he so loved juicy gossip …

By the time he arrived at the gym, he'd had the journey to work himself into a frenzy of anticipation.

“Ivy!” He pounced on her before she was hardly through the door.

“Rob, hi.”

She sounds tired, he thought, and there are circles under her eyes. She was already dressed in her workout clothes. “So what do you feel up to today?” He chose his words carefully, hoping she might reveal her state of mind.

“Something tough.” She went over to the verti-climber, a challenging test of endurance and coordination. “This? Show me how it works.” Given her apparent exhaustion, he was surprised.

Once she was up and running, he played his opening hand. “What did you do last night?” He watched her reaction.

“Nothing much.” Her face was expressionless.

“It's only I thought I saw you.”

“Oh.” If she wasn't so darned focused he'd be able to gauge more. Still, he could swear she was taken aback. “Where?”

“Wardour Street.” With luck she'd think he'd seen them in Cassio's and offer her version of events.

But she was silent, scowling, then said, “Where,
exactly
?”

How infuriating! She wasn't making it easy. Rob hesitated. If I admit I saw her hurrying down the street, she'll sidestep the issue, he calculated. And I can't confess I spent the evening with Orianna—that would stir dreadful trouble. Best opt for middle ground. “I saw you and Orianna in the window of Cassio's. Looked like you were having … er … a bit of a fight.”

Ivy stopped pumping and turned to him, green eyes flashing. Lord, he thought. She's terrifying! Though in a weird way, her scariness was almost erotic.

“She fucked me over,” said Ivy, straight out.

“Oh?” said Rob. Rob was a master of social extortion; at lightning speed he decided he'd play Ivy's cohort, button up about his encounter with Orianna. He prayed Orianna wouldn't let slip that she'd seen him.

“She went behind my back professionally. And it's not the first time.”

At once Rob could see why she had been so livid, but feigned innocence. “She did?”

“The board offered her the post of creative director—”

“You don't say!”

“—without me—”

“Fuck!”

“—and she's chosen to accept it.”

“
No!
”

“It's true. But far as I'm concerned, it's pretty much all down to her relationship with Dan.”

Rob was confused. He couldn't see an obvious link between the two.

“In fact,” Ivy slowed her stride a touch to talk, “I'm beginning to wonder whether she didn't start sleeping with Dan as a means to an end.”

Before Rob had a chance to disguise his disbelief, out popped, “That doesn't sound like Orianna to me.”

“You've witnessed how underhanded she can be, seeing Dan on the quiet for months on end.”

Rob nodded.

“Nothing would surprise me these days.” She paused for a moment, adjusting the machine to a less frenetic pace. “The thing is, Rob, this may sound ludicrous to you, not being in the business, doing something worthwhile like you do. You're in control of your own destiny; you dictate your own terms.” She gave him a broad smile. “I admire you for that.” He was flattered. “But our industry has a unique set of quirks and prejudices. The truth is creative directors tend to be art directors who've worked their way up.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Certainly in more old-school agencies like Green.”

“Why?”

“Because they tend to know more about production.”

“Production—where Dan works?”

“Precisely. So Orianna being in with Dan the Man is bloody handy. She already understands about commissioning illustrators and photographers and he can help her gain more expertise. I can see them now, discussing printing techniques and Pantone references before they drift off to sleep.” She snorted contemptuously. “It's probably their idea of foreplay—Orianna's such a workaholic I bet she finds it a turn-on. Nevertheless, that's something our board would hold in high regard.”

“Right.” Rob knew Ivy was being bitchy, but it did seem feasible.

“Don't get me wrong. I'm not saying she started their affair
just
to gain a promotion—I don't think even Orianna is that cunning—it probably helped, that's all.” Suddenly she unhooked her feet and extricated herself from the machine. “I'm going to do some cycling now.” She took several gulps of water from the fountain, then planted herself on an exercise bike. She knew what to do; he was more interested in encouraging her to continue.

“It doesn't sound fair to you,” he observed.

“Oh, we writers, we're used to that … take it from me, the powers that be would never be happy promoting a
copywriter
to CD—we're just about the words, the
ideas
. The ignorant tossers on our board don't value them at all.”

“Isn't that a bit shortsighted?”

“Of course. But take the Bellings Scott win a few weeks back. You might have seen the ads just out—‘Get up and go with
That Sunshine Feeling
'?”

“With the traffic lights?”

“Well, I came up with that idea. I'm sure even Orianna wouldn't have the gall to deny that, if you asked her.”

“Wow. They're great!”

“Thanks.” Ivy purred. “Although maybe I'm wrong—I've gotten Orianna wrong before.”

Rob was torn: last night he'd felt for Orianna, now he sympathized with Ivy. It must be tough to be treated so badly by any colleague, let alone one who was such a good friend.

“Yet despite the fact the account was worth a fortune to the agency, who do they choose to promote? The
art director
, of course. But then again, ad execs are rarely known for their long-term vision. Particularly at Green.”

Gosh, thought Rob, with all the clients I've got from there, it's fascinating getting this inside perspective. “Why Green especially?”

“When the agency started out in the late nineties, they specialized in direct mail and promotions—‘buy one get one free,' ‘ten cents off your next purchase' kind of stuff, designed to give sales a quick fix. They were hardly about big ideas.” Ivy adjusted the bike setting up a level. “So you can appreciate our bosses are the types who consider it more important that something makes a fast buck and looks OK than it has a great headline or concept behind it. But their myopia is doing the agency no favors.” She leaned forward on the handlebars, close to his ear. “Despite that new account win, it isn't a secret that Green hasn't had a great run of luck recently. I've heard there might have to be layoffs.”

Rob had a moment's panic. His clients! His income! He brushed his fears aside. “So, there's no way they'd have promoted both of you?”

“You've got it. I'm certain they can't afford more than one CD. If so, who would you choose? Orianna, the golden girl who sucks up to all the suits and is shagging the head of production? Or the ideas woman, who occasionally rocks the boat because she challenges the status quo?”

“I see,” said Rob. Ivy sounded somewhat bitter, but given how unfairly she had been treated, he was amazed she wasn't more so.

“You know the really sad thing?” Bizarrely, Ivy laughed. “In some ways I feel sorry for Orianna.”

Rob couldn't see why, then realized, “Because she works so hard?”

Ivy stopped cycling and looked directly at him, dropping her voice even lower. “You mustn't breathe a word to a soul.”

“No, no, of course.” Pigs might fly, but still, she
had
asked.

“Because last night I heard something that really
would
upset her.”

“Oh?”

“And it'll make your day.”

Rob's heart started to race. And he wasn't even exercising!

“Your hunch was right, dear boy. There's clearly no smoke without fire, and Dan the Man bats for your team. Not that often, but occasionally, no question. I have it on authority from the agency's number one queen. He saw him at G-A-Y, one Saturday. Snogging some guy, then they went off together, one can assume they got laid. And,” she winked at Rob, “I can't see our conventional little Catholic handling a partner who's AC/DC, can you?”

 

13. What is spoke comes from my love

The next morning, Dan woke before Orianna and lay watching her. She was facing him, unusually; they tended to sleep wrapped up like two
C
s, her lowercase semicircle encompassed by his larger one. Yet that night she'd kept him awake, tossing and turning and rucking the sheets, grabbing the duvet and throwing it off, sighing and shifting and thumping her pillows. Eventually he'd retreated to the other side of the bed in an attempt to get some sleep himself.