Family Affair by Elle M Thomas
Chapter 2
Olivia
The journey into work is a nightmare, more of a nightmare than usual; the train is packed, beyond packed, although I probably need to accept some responsibility for being on the late train, the one that gets me to work on time, just, but I usually avoid taking it because it means I can’t experience any further delays without being late and as I previously noted, it’s crowded.
I am standing, along with many other commuters and I have managed to find myself wedged between an occupied seat and a slightly overweight man who is standing close, too close, closer than I believe he needs to be. I can feel his belly pressed against my back, his breath on my neck and worse still a fledgling erection that I am sure he is rubbing against my behind. I want to get off the train, be sick or cry, maybe all three, so I turn slightly to try and compose myself, to centre and refocus on something not involving the violation I currently feel. As I turn my head, I get a whiff of my dry humper’s breath causing my stomach to churn, so much so that the acidic taste in the back of my throat indicates that vomit isn’t far behind.
“Would you like a seat? I’m getting off at the next station,” the man sitting in front of me says as he prepares to stand.
“Thanks.” I sigh with a grateful smile and am unsure if I allow him to fully get to his feet before I am sliding into his space where I feel more settled, safer.
I avoid looking at the man who was getting off on our close proximity, focusing instead on the other commuters around me. Some are reading or working on computers, others are talking on phones and a couple of women are putting on make-up. Me? I’m just wishing the minutes away until the train is pulling into my station.
I disembark quickly and with my feet safely enclosed in trainers I begin a swift walk come jog until I reach the foyer of the office building where I work. Kicking my trainers off in a corner I dig through my rucksack for my heels that today are teal and perfectly match the button through blouse I’m wearing whilst my black pencil skirt that finishes just above my knees provides the ideal contrast.
There’s an odd sensation washing over me, as if I am being watched, scrutinised, but as I look around the only person I see glancing in my direction is the security guy on duty, my favourite, Sid. He’s about fifty and very sweet, like a favourite uncle.
“Morning, young lady, you’re cutting it fine,” he tells me with a smile and a wink.
“I know, I know,” I reply, already dashing towards the lift doors that have just closed. “Finer still now,” I add with a smile for Sid.
The next lift arrives and is empty. As I get in, I take the opportunity to give my appearance the once over. My near black hair has been very cooperative this morning and is up in a perfect messy bun. I don’t wear much make-up for work, well at all really, but due to the bags under my eyes I have used a foundation rather than my usual tinted moisturiser and highlighted my cheeks with a pink blusher that goes someway to mask just how pale I am, ridiculously so. In fact, I sometimes think I’m almost transparent, especially in the summer when I can burn from looking out of the window without sunscreen. My eyes look jaded and so they should with my lack of sleep, excess alcohol and equally excessive shagging. I have highlighted my lids with a golden coloured powder then added a touch of brown eyeliner and some dark brown mascara, the overall effect lifting the shadows and drawing attention to my actual eyes that are technically hazel, however they are more green than anything else and my look is completed with clear lip gloss.
I roll my canvas jacket up and push it into my rucksack with my trainers and wonder what I must look like to other people in my business dress and trainers and then my business dress and shoes with a great bloody rucksack on my back. I regret that it wasn’t on my back this morning preventing the creepy guy on the train from being able to get quite so close.
I take a deep breath as I step off the lift and head through the double glass doors of Peterson Michaels which is where I work. They’re a company of interior designers and whilst that is what I’m trained for I took the job here on reception because I needed the cash, but also because Mr Peterson assured me there would be opportunities for me to work in interior design. However, eighteen months later I am a permanent fixture on reception and design jobs total zero, although I have done a few jobs on the side, mainly for friends of friends, but it’s not the same as doing it as a real job.
I throw my bag under the reception desk and then head to the coffee machine. At least the coffee is complimentary, and this will be my first cup as my companion this morning made me so uncomfortable that I could barely breathe never mind drink coffee.
Returning to my desk I’m beginning to chicken out of the decision I made in the shower this morning where I go charging into Mr Peterson to demand that he keeps his word and allows me to build some design experience when the phone rings.
“Hello, Peterson Michaels, how may I help you?” I take my seat.
Sean, a real interior designer saunters in and waves at me with a big smile on his face. Sean is pretty gorgeous, tall, blonde and bronzed but a little too perfect for me, not quite rugged enough. Not that any of that stopped me dating him briefly, very briefly, about half a dozen dates over a couple of weeks when Brad and I were having some space, but when I didn’t shag him in that time he realised I wasn’t the girl for him and that was fine. We’re just friendly colleagues really.
The woman ranting in my ear is pissing me off in my semi hungover state as she tells me that the design work done on the sunroom in her five-million-pound mansion is a disgrace. Apparently, when her design remit was described by her as give me sunshine she hadn’t meant literally. Unfortunately, she hadn’t told Cathy, the designer who used lots of yellows and oranges.
I am struggling to stifle a giggle until she says, “You see dear, I expected a sedate room that made me warm and relaxed, as the sun does, not to feel as though I have entered the ninth circle of hell.”
The caller, Mrs Tyrell is a regular customer and loaded, seriously loaded. Like richer than God but her favourite designer, Ronaldo has left after falling in love with an Italian that he’s followed back to Milan.
“I love Dante’s Inferno,” I tell her for no reason I know. This could go horribly wrong because she, Mrs Tyrell, is a bit awkward at times and can be more than a little testy when the mood takes her, but I do love Dante’s Inferno and I like the fact she knows it. “Although from what you’re saying you probably only have the yellow face of Satan in that room, maybe the red one too,” I say, finally giving in to laughter, laughter she actually joins in with.
“I demand to speak to Christian, Mr Peterson. I expect a full refund and a reworking of my room,” she tells me as I roll my eyes in Sean’s direction.
“Let me just check if Mr Peterson is available for you, Mrs Tyrell.” I bring up his online diary on my screen. While I wait for it to load, I make conversation. “How’s Mr Tyrell?” I do it as a time filler but also because the subject of him calms her. She clearly loves him, adores him from the way she speaks about him.
“Oh, aren’t you a sweet girl,” she coos down the line meaning both of my objectives in using his name have been achieved.
I allow her to continue talking as the diary appears on my screen showing nothing at all for my boss until almost noon, meaning he should be free, but as Mrs Tyrell is in full flow, I allow her to continue.
I recall that she is an attractive woman in her mid-fifties with highlighted hair and blue eyes. I remember seeing her, the first and only time when Ronaldo was leaving and was shocked at how in condition she was, still is. Obviously, she’s a gym bunny, or more likely has a personal trainer on the payroll.
Mrs Tyrell is always nice to me when we speak, except when she is getting stressed or pissy, like today, but in fairness she never directs her anger at me personally. I think Ronaldo told me that her husband is not her first husband but is her favourite one. The richest one I assume. I reckon in her younger years she was a goer, a real goer and absolutely stunning.
Briefly, I wonder if she was the sort of woman to partake in one night stands, she kind of looks the sort, although if that is the case I must look like her because I am now the sort of woman who partakes in them too. But last night was different and I have never done anything like that before and in my own defence am unlikely to again.
We, my friend Sarah and I went out, her idea to cheer me up since I have recently split up with Brad properly and although I insist I have not been moping Sarah disagrees. She is smugly in love and engaged to Jed who she is marrying in a couple of months’ time. They are just perfect for each other, so perfect that Sarah wants everyone in the world to feel the same.
Brad and I ran its course several months ago but neither of us admitted it until more recently and although we were together for almost two years, we were the on/off couple. Sarah romanticised it into a Burton and Taylor, can’t live with ‘em, can’t live without ‘em scenario and refuses to accept that I’m not heartbroken on some level. We never were that couple and I think we were simply relieved to just be off with no pressure to get it back on again.
Last night we went to a club which is where I met Mr hair gel, ripped muscles and tattoos as my friend named him. Once she was happy that he wasn’t a mad axe man she bailed, called Jed and left me to it. I don’t mind that she left and when she did, I was as sober as a judge, almost, so I was safe. I haven’t yet plucked up the courage to call or text her with the details of what happened next, although I am sure I recall my overnight guest texting Sarah from my phone when we got back to mine, he didn’t want her to worry. I really need to check what he sent to her, possibly just check my phone because he could have text anyone, well anything’d anyone from my number.
“But apart from that he’s okay,” Mrs Tyrell informs me, reminding me that I am supposed to be working and checking where Mr Peterson is and as if by magic, he appears from his office.
He’s a strange man really, nice enough I suppose, but strange. He is only a couple of inches taller than me at about five and a half feet and whilst not fat he is what you’d describe as stocky. His hair is a mass of soft, messy, mousy curls. He is only thirty but seems older with his tales of mortgage rates, catchment areas and keeping a family that consists of a wife, three children, two cats, a dog, a hamster and six goldfish.
“Mrs Tyrell,” I begin, about to tell her that I am putting her on hold when Mr Peterson, who insists on being called Mr Peterson at all times during office hours is shaking his head and doing some strange hand signal to say he won’t be free until later and then he disappears into his office with his fresh coffee. “I have Mr Peterson’s diary here and he is quite busy today,” I lie. “I can get a message to him and have him call you as soon as he’s free and in the meantime, I will email an outline of your dissatisfaction to him,” I offer.
“Thank you, dear.”
Before I know it, I’ve hung up and wonder why my boss was unwilling to speak to someone who puts a lot of business our way, her own and that of her friends which equals big bucks.
After fielding another couple of calls and with Mr Peterson in a good mood, a very good mood I rediscover my earlier conviction to confront him about my own future. Grabbing my condensed portfolio that I put together some time ago for prospective clients and employers I head towards his office, stopping at the desk of a junior admin worker to ask her to cover reception. The door to my boss’ office is ajar and I can see him through the gap, sitting at his desk sipping his coffee between taps on his keyboard.
“Mr Peterson.” I gently knock the door and enter, my appearance startling him.
“Sorry,” he says, causing me some confusion with his apology. “Mrs Tyrell,” he expands. “I will call her back after lunch,” he assures me in a confusing near whisper.
I feel a little irritated at his assumption that Mrs Tyrell is the only reason for me entering his office.
“She was really upset about her sunroom,” I explain, getting sidetracked from my real reason for coming in. “She’s talking refund and free reworking.”
“Okay, okay,” he says, almost dismissing me, but not quite so I seize my moment before I lose my nerve.
“Look Mr Peterson, I need more than you’re giving me here,” I tell him and am thankful that nobody else is here to hear how those words sound when spoken aloud to my boss because what I want is entirely professional.
“Excuse me?” He looks directly at me giving me his undivided attention.
“Professionally, I need more. I am not a receptionist, well I am because that is what I do here, but that is not really what I am, you know that. You know I have a degree in art and design and the reason I applied for my job here was because of the business it is. I told you that when you interviewed me over eighteen months ago. I was honest about the fact that I wanted to gain design experience and you encouraged that idea, but nothing has been forthcoming.” With all the words out, I finally take a breath.
“I see.” I am not convinced that he is taking me seriously. “We should talk about this later, maybe Wednesday. I am free on Wednesday afternoon,” he replies, and I am irritated further because as far as I can see he is available right now.
I huff and glance around the room willing myself not to tell my boss to stick his job up his arse. My focus is drawn to the open door that leads onto the balcony that Mr Peterson insists on calling a terrace, but regardless of the noun we use to describe that area, I love it. I love the idea of one day having my own office with a balcony. I smile at that thought and then my smile drops through the floor as a body comes into view, in the open doorway of the balcony and I immediately recognise him as my one-night stand.
Shit, could this day get any more surreal?
“Christian.” He steps into the room he is now crossing. “I am happy for you to deal with your staffing issues.” He remains focused on my boss. “In fact, I would be interested to hear your receptionist’s ideas.”
I am staring between my boss’ face and the back of my, my what? My shag piece from last night? Whatever he is, I am still staring at his back that is turned towards me as he faces my boss.
“No, no, this can wait,” Mr Peterson assures my whatever.
“Christian, it would appear that it has been waiting for eighteen months so maybe it can’t wait any longer.”
“Oh, okay then.” My boss sighs and for the first time the possible consequences to my actions begin to register in my mind and I start to panic that I may get the sack.
“Good, let’s familiarise ourselves. It would be remiss of me to sit in on your meeting and not know your name,” he says turning to face me.
I know I’m staring wildly, mainly because it seems odd that he needs to exchange names to sit in on a meeting with me but not to fuck me. Fortunately, Mr Peterson has his mind together enough to introduce us.
“Mason Harding.” He gestures to the man whose deep blue eyes are boring into me.
“Olivia Carrington.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Mason says.
“You too.” I accept his outstretched hand, immediately regretting it as the burn of his touch registers and my nostrils are assaulted with the scent of him, the same scent from last night and this morning; woody, clean and citrusy at the same time. I pull away quickly as I feel my pulse rate increasing and my libido going into overdrive.
He smiles, convincing me that he knows the effect his touch has on me.
“You don’t mind if I sit in do you? I don’t want to be intrusive or overfamiliar.” His words make me stare even more thinking that he couldn’t be more familiar if he tried after last night.
“No,” I reply in a hushed tone, unsure who or what this man is.
He smiles, a triumphant smile as I take the seat he’s gesturing to, putting me next to him and opposite Mr Peterson.
Unsure how best to sit I cross my legs and instantly regret it because not only does that position push my skirt up giving Mason a flash of my legs, moreover because the soreness I feel between my legs after my night with the aforementioned Mason is increased in this position.
Almost immediately I unfold my legs and place both feet flat on the floor to see him smirking. I would actually like to punch him for that smirk alone because I know he knows why I changed my position. That he is responsible for my soreness. That he fucked me senseless last night.
“Is that your portfolio?” Mason asks, pointing to the folder I’m holding, interrupting my thoughts.
I nod and hand it to him. “It’s an edited version of my full one.”
As he skims through my things Mr Peterson turns his attention to me. “Olivia, I know you may feel a little frustrated by your role here but you are an asset to the company, on reception.” He gives me a sense of optimism until he added the last two words of that sentence.
“You have some good ideas,” Mason throws in. “A good eye.”
I am still waiting for Mr Peterson to say something positive about my opportunities in the company, but he appears to have nothing else to say so I speak.
“Mr Peterson, that doesn’t reassure me or offer me any kind of incentive to remain here long term. Reception work is all well and good and the fact that I can placate Mrs Tyrell when she is seething about the state of her sunroom isn’t enough for me. It’s not what I want to do, so maybe I should look elsewhere for opportunities that don’t seem to exist here.”
Mason is looking across at me with a frown before turning to Peterson, “You have a dissatisfied customer?”
“What? No, yes, kind of, but Olivia has passed those concerns on and I will deal with them later. Mrs Tyrell likes Olivia, she calms her when she’s fraught,” he tells Mason and I have no clue where this fits in with anything but I can’t miss the scowl tossed my way by my boss or the one Mason throws at Mr Peterson.
“Miss Carrington, I am here to engage Christian’s services for some of my offices and I like your stuff.” Mason hands my portfolio back. “I have listened to your desire to gain professional experience and admire it so what if I agree to let you work on my building, with a more experienced designer of course?”
“Why would you do that?” I find myself asking and hope to God that his response doesn’t reveal our night together.
“Why do you think?” His eyebrows quirk making me panic that I am the one who is about to reveal our history to my boss now.
“I, erm,” I stammer.
“I said, I admire your desire,” he says, making me blush. “Professional desire, but if you’re not interested…”
“No, no I am, thank you, if Mr Peterson is agreeable.”
I want to slap my own face for handing control for the future of my design career back into Mr Peterson’s hands and if he says no, well, I will have nobody to blame but myself.
“Fine.” My boss sighs, shocking me slightly because this all seems a little too simple. I have been trying to get a break here for the best part of two years with no success and now, one word from Mason and a door is opening for me. “I was thinking of putting this design Sean’s way and I know you and he get on.”
I notice Mason frowning at me when my boss refers to me and Sean getting on, but that can’t mean anything, can it? No, because he never even gave me his name.
“Miss Carrington, I’d appreciate a further discussion with you at my offices. Three o’clock this afternoon is good for me.” His tone somehow offers no room to debate or discuss. “For us to establish exactly what you can and can’t do without consulting the lead designer or me. You’re good with Miss Carrington cutting work early to come to me, Christian?” he asks. It is more of a statement than a question.
“Of course. So, if you’re finished Olivia, maybe you could send Sean in,” Peterson says, and I know I am definitely being dismissed now.
I get to my feet and walk towards the door when Mason calls to me, “I’ll let you have the address on my way out, Miss Carrington.”
An hour and a half later Mason is leaving Mr Peterson’s office and heading towards me.
“Do you drive?”
“No.”
“Okay, I’ll pick you up at two, downstairs,” he says and is already on his way out.
“No, just give me the address and I’ll make my own way to you for three,” I insist.
He turns and studies me for a few seconds and then smiles. God, I remember that smile from last night and it still has the same effect, it’s melting me.
“If you insist, just this once.” He returns to my desk with an overconfident swagger. “Here,” he says, offering me a business card. “Address and my direct line, in case you get lost, but don’t be late, I hate tardiness, especially when I have offered you a way to be on time. Three o’clock, Miss Carrington.”
I turn away as he leaves and find Cathy and Sean grinning at me.
“What?”
“He is seriously hot,” Cathy replies.
“And he fancies you,” Sean adds.
“Erm, can we get on with work,” says Peterson from his doorway with a frown before he returns to his office, slamming the door shut behind him.