Getting Even (30 page)

Damn!

The machine hadn't been used for an hour or so, and had gone to sleep. It was vast, and always took several minutes to warm up. She could hear the sound of the vacuum cleaner even closer now, on the landing outside.

Ah! That was it—the fax machine. Ancient technology, barely used these days, but some printers still preferred orders faxed through, so there was one in production. It made photocopies too, and was left on 24/7. She ran over to Dan's desk, and fingers trembling, shoved the statement into the document feeder. She pressed the
Copy
button and it whirred into action, sucking the sheet of paper into its roller. For a dreadful moment Orianna thought it was going to chew it up, but no, slowly, slowly, it fed the page through, and,
beep beep beep,
spewed it onto the top of the machine. Simultaneously, a copy popped out the other side.

Orianna grabbed both items, ran back to Russell's office, shoved the original statement back in the bottom of his in-box, turned off the desk lamp, and scooted out again, shutting the door swiftly behind her. She was just heading back to her desk across the open-plan department, clutching the copy, her heart racing, when the cleaner wheeled the vacuum into view.

 

35. These may be counterfeits

Ten minutes later, Orianna was on the subway home. It was between rush hour and pub closing, so she managed to find a seat. Before the train had reached the first stop, she'd yanked the photocopy from her bag and scanned the contents. It didn't take long to get the measure of it.

That was just the start. It was a list that would have made Victoria Beckham proud. The previous month's balance appeared to have been cleared in full, but the outstanding amount due was still in excess of £1500. Moreover, not one of the items appeared to be a legitimate work expense.

As the train hurtled from Covent Garden to Holborn, Orianna's thoughts shot ahead. Why is this statement being sent to Green? she wondered. Far as I know, Ivy doesn't even have a company credit card. Creatives are mainly office-based and deal with clients via account handlers—no copywriter has a call for one. I never had one till I was made CD, let alone a Harvey Nichols charge card.

It didn't look good, but Orianna was reluctant to jump to the wrong conclusion.

I suppose, she justified, it's possible there's a reason for Ivy to have details of her personal store card sent to the agency—perhaps she doesn't want Ed to see how much she's spending on clothes.

If Orianna had found the statement among Ivy's papers, she'd have been convinced this was the case. Though why was it at the bottom of
Russell's
in-box? Not only that, but his e-mail warning he'd be keeping a tighter rein on expenses showed the issue had been on his mind.

Orianna was totally honest when it came to claiming money back from the agency—and her instinct was to assume no one else would dare take liberties, especially given the firm's finances were so stretched. If Ivy had been surreptitiously spending company money, it explained a lot. The sums weren't enough to make or break the agency—whose turnover went into seven figures annually—but the expenditure wouldn't help, as it came straight off the bottom line. It didn't take an Einstein to calculate that if Ivy was going through this much on a monthly basis, it added up to a junior's salary—and thus a potential layoff if she carried on. It also helped to explain how Ivy always looked so fantastic, dressed from head to toe in designer gear. Orianna knew Ivy was paid well—she'd been shocked to learn how well—but her official income still didn't seem high enough to fund her near-legendary wardrobe. And whereas Orianna had previously assumed Ed shelled out for the extras, now she was wondering if that was only half the story.

Could Ivy be the chief culprit Russell was referring to in his e-mail? she thought. Although why would he be prepared to let her expenses slip through unquestioned—what's so special about her? And if he's willing to sign off on someone else's illegitimate purchases, who's to say he won't be prepared to claim huge sums on his own behalf, too? After all, if the rumors are true, Russell doesn't only have a huge house in the country; he has an amazing penthouse in Chelsea Harbour, too.

Jesus, these are big accusations, Orianna realized. Yet it did make sense. For months she'd been thinking the money coming into the agency didn't equate with its profits. Perhaps this was why. But would Ivy really be involved in something so ugly?

I'm sure she doesn't realize how serious this is, she thought. Though it would be odd; Ivy's the last person I imagine would get involved in anything unwittingly. Then again, perhaps she's all too aware of the trouble she could get into and how her actions could affect the agency and its staff, but is prepared to risk it for her own ends … Wise up, she told herself. If Dan can lie to me and Cassie can be altogether blasé about my feelings—isn't it possible Ivy could be equally self-seeking too?

At once she pushed the idea aside.

Ivy is my friend, she protested inwardly. I know her better than anyone. She's far from altruistic, true, but don't forget how kind she's been in the last few months. Think how she supported you though your breakup with Dan—remember that night with the pizzas and wine? And didn't she swallow her pride and push aside her grievances about the promotion so you could both carry on working together? Hasn't she been a model of professionalism when it comes to teaming with Cassie, yet also gone out of her way to forewarn you about the pregnancy, so you were forearmed when confronted with it face-to-face? Surely this speaks volumes about your friend.

Deep in her heart I'm sure she cares for other people, Orianna concluded. I reckon she's been hoodwinked by Russell. Her insatiable desire for the latest clothes has prevented her from seeing things clearly.

However …

If there was a stronger force that drove Orianna than loyalty, it was honesty. And no matter how much she'd sharpened up her act and learned to mask feelings of late, and no matter how much she loved her friend, Orianna had integrity. She was determined to seek out the truth. To add fuel to this, Orianna was also driven by ambition. And when it came to her career, heaven defend those who threatened it. The well-being of the agency—and her livelihood—was at stake. If she had to go out on a limb to fight for them, then she would.

The train took several minutes to get to Caledonian Road, and Orianna began to formulate a plan. One lone charge card statement was not enough to hang anyone by. She had a suspicion Ivy's expenses were the tip of the iceberg and more financial irregularities lurked beneath. If Russell was stealing from the company on a grand scale, she'd need better evidence. It would be easy for Ivy and Russell to come up with some excuse about the store card; for two such swift thinkers, justifying relatively small-time filching would be child's play. And she really wanted to expose Russell, not Ivy. Yet if she was going to gather enough proof to accuse Russell of full-blown fraud, she wasn't sure she could handle it on her own. She'd need help. Someone who knew the company; someone with a head for figures.

Obviously she couldn't involve Ivy, and she didn't want to involve anyone else who was on the board until she was sure.

She needed someone relatively impartial, but experienced with purchase orders and invoicing. A person with knowledge of agency profits and loss, who knew the company inside out and who Orianna could trust; an ally who was quick, shrewd, direct, and as plain-speaking as she was.

As the train drew into Caledonian Road, it came to her.

Ursula.

Ursula was away till after Christmas—her sister lived in Australia and she'd taken three weeks off to visit her—but once she was back, Orianna would turn to her for help.

 

36. She was too fond of her most filthy bargain

Usually Ivy took pleasure from the walk down the street toward her apartment on a winter evening. The building, an old garment factory, was an impressive five-story, redbrick block built at the turn of the century. There was nothing quaint about its imposing silhouette against the night sky, and its huge bulk served as a welcome reminder of how well she'd done. But tonight she looked up at the windows to her loft apartment and her heart sank.

The lights were on.

It couldn't be the cleaner: she came on Mondays. Ed was home.

First Russell, now Ed, she growled to herself. Today is not a good day.

She turned the key in the lock and pushed open the door. Thanks to several cumbersome shopping bags and her Louis Vuitton purse, she had to edge her way through sideways. She'd been late-night shopping—needing a spree after Russell's sharp words, though she knew better than to risk his wrath by doing so at Green's expense. Instead she'd gone to Selfridges and used the account card she shared with Ed. From there she'd headed to the gym to pump out any remaining resentment, and by the end of her workout it was so late she'd decided to get a taxi back and bathe at home. Here she was, at nearly ten thirty, tired and sweaty from exercise, not to mention hungry. All she wanted to do was pop a snack in the microwave, have a nice deep bath, and tumble into bed.

Yet there he was—her husband—shoes off and feet curled up comfortably beneath him on the sofa, looking to all intents and purposes as if he lived there.

“Hello,” he said.

“Hi. Didn't think I'd find you here.”

“Thought I'd surprise you.”

“You have.” Ivy knew she sounded curt, but couldn't be bothered to conceal it. His beard has grown even more, she observed. How repulsive!

“I got some unexpected leave.”

“That's nice.” Ivy hadn't expected to see Ed till Christmas Eve; for a dreadful moment she thought maybe he was going to stay until then and beyond. Involuntarily, she shuddered. “How long you off for?”

“Just a couple of days.” Ed took a sip of his usual whisky and soda. “Going back Saturday.”

“Oh.”

“So, how are you?”

“Me?” It was a long time since anyone had asked Ivy how she was. Even Orianna, who'd been relatively interested in her welfare before Dan came along, seemed to have too much else on her mind at present to inquire. Not that it bothered Ivy; she'd not necessarily have told the truth anyway. Indeed, she didn't really know what the truth was anymore, or how she was, deep inside. She was at a loss as to how to respond.

“Yes, you?”

“I'm fine, I guess.”

“Fine?”

“Mm.” She nodded. She was, wasn't she?

“‘Fine,' Ivy?”

“Yeah.” She scowled. What was he driving at?

“Is that all you can say?”

“Yes.” Her anger mounted. “Why?”

“Because I haven't seen you for nearly two months, Ivy, or spoken to you at any length for weeks. You even cut me short on your birthday, for Christ's sake.”

Hadn't they talked more recently than that? Ivy cast her mind back. It was true. She'd been just about to go to Cassio's with her colleagues when he'd phoned her at work. On her mobile it was easy to vet his calls, but the receptionist at Green had blithely put him through so she'd been caught short.

I promised I'd call him later, she remembered. Then I had some coke and got pissed off with Russell …

She felt a second's remorse.

“And now all you can say is that you're ‘fine,'” he finished.

She grimaced. It's not much in the way of communication, is it? she thought. But I can't face a confrontation with Ed, not now. “I need to have a bath,” she said, hoping to change the subject. “And eat.”

“
Fine
.” Ed emphasized the word. “Perhaps we can have a chat when you've finished you ablutions. Over some dinner.”

“I was just going to have something from the freezer.”

“Believe me, I wasn't offering to cook you a three-course meal. Let alone take you out.”

Ivy was stung. Although miffed by Ed's presence, she liked to be the indifferent one. If anyone was going to be rude, tradition held it was usually her.

She went into the bathroom and turned on the hot water. It was her custom to air the room while she was at work, so the ventilator window was still open, and it was chilly. She closed the catch, stripped off her clothes, and pulled on her dressing gown, which she kept on a hook at the back of the door. Then she scooped her hair up into a bathing cap; hardly her sexiest look, but sex was rarely on the agenda these days where she and Ed were concerned.

One drawback to living in a building that hadn't been purposely built for habitation was the water system left a lot to be desired. If another tenant chose to bathe simultaneously—as they must be doing now—it affected the pressure, and the hot tap took ages to run. Oh well, she thought, if Ed's going to have a go at me, better sooner than later. She stepped back into the living room.

“I guess it's been a while since we've talked,” she conceded.

“Mm.” Ed grunted.

“I said I'd call you back, didn't I?”

“Yes, Ivy, you did.”

“I'm sorry.”

He was silent, obviously waiting for her to continue.

“We've been ever so busy at work.”

“Me too.” His tone was dry.

“Though I suppose that's not much of an excuse, is it?”

“No. Not when it comes to your husband, I don't believe it is.” He drew in his breath. “That's the million-dollar question, isn't it, Ivy?”