The Late Blossoming of Frankie Green (36 page)

‘Right, yes. But did you hear what I said?'

‘Details are important, Simon Brown.'

She was refusing to acknowledge the thing he'd mentioned before because it wasn't happening. No one could be that lucky. Especially not her.

‘Yes. I know,' he said. ‘But so is listening. I love you, Emerald, do you hear me?'

‘No.' Em covered her ears because she couldn't let herself fall for either it or him yet again.

He stepped closer to her and gently took her hands. ‘I couldn't say anything when I was shadowing you,' he said, looking at her doe-eyed as though she was actually beautiful. ‘It'd have been so awkward if you hadn't felt the same. That night together, it was so right, but I'd promised myself that Megan would come first, always. It was like I was punishing myself for messing up.

‘When I realized the baby was mine, I could hardly tell you then – you'd think I was just doing it out of duty like I did with Megan's mum. Then there was the interview and I was scared you'd lose your focus if I'd told you. I've been through this in my head so many times, how I mustn't love you and your funny ways, and your wonky fringe, and the way you look slightly cross when you don't understand something, like you're doing now…'

Em hated her frowny face and she tried to unfurl her brow. But then she thought, what the hell, he likes it.

‘…but I do love you. I've tried not to and I can't help it.'

New information just in: Simon Brown says he loves me.

She grasped hold of him tightly because if she let go she feared she'd float off and the bubble would pop, and it would be just her style to squash the love of her life from on high with her big pregnant bottom. Em desperately wanted to believe his words and she was almost there. Almost. ‘You never showed it,' she said, still holding her armour close.

‘How could I? Would you show it if you felt it was unrequited?'

His Adam's apple bobbed, as if it was laying itself bare at her mercy. Locking it away, containing your love: hadn't she done exactly that?

‘I've waited so long to tell you. If we could be a family… Meg loved you that day we met on the beach. That made me realize she would be a part of us not apart from us. If you felt the same… Because if you don't I won't take the job. I'll never mention it again and I'll be the best dad I can possibly be and—'

She shushed him because she'd heard enough to convince her he meant every word. And that he was the most wonderful creature in the universe. Apart from Doctor Who, she thought in brackets, what with his regeneration skills. It was time to accept her fortune; she was afraid it would disappear if she didn't.

‘I love you, Simon Brown,' she said, seeing in his brown eyes flecks of gold, which she imagined were in his very DNA, ‘Times infinity.'

And then as she kissed him, the loop-the-loop she'd felt on the night they made their baby returned. Only now, she didn't have to instruct her mind to clock off because she felt whole rather than two halves: both her heart and head were in perfect symbiosis.

Ross breezed into the swanky hotel conference room and declared: ‘Blue-sky-thinking time!'

Walking to his seat at the head of the walnut table, he high-fived the guys and squeezed the shoulders of the women in his path, luckily not including Letty, as if he was on his way to get a bloody Oscar.

Ha, well, if her surprise went to plan then he would be the centre of attention – just not in the way he thought.

‘Hope you've all brought your swimmers,' he slimed in a crisp white shirt, unbuttoned halfway down his chest. Oh, the irony of all that hair bursting out when he had not one follicle on his head.

‘I'm looking forward to getting into that jacuzzi, I can tell you!'

What was the betting that he was a budgie smugglers man, Letty wondered?

He gave a leer and then an exaggerated groan. ‘That assault course has made me stiff.'

Letty felt a bit of sick come up into her mouth. Luckily there was a vase of lilies blocking her from his direct eyeline. She could hide here, down the end, next to Sal and Jools.

‘A couple of housekeeping matters,' he said, taking a seat next to his deputy, Nick. ‘Tonight's fundraiser is for Hope, the children's hospice in Cardiff that we support. On the tables will be envelopes for our silent auction, so please encourage the clients you'll be sat with to give generously. For those kiddies who are only with us for a short time.'

His sincerity was good, Letty would give him that: associating himself with such a wonderful charity made him look squeaky clean.

‘I also have another favour to ask of you,' he said, flashing a smile to his twenty staff.

‘Gittings PR will be going live on all social media formats at the dinner. It will be a co-ordinated cross-platform push to spread the news that we care about communication and reputation. To launch it, I will be doing a quick speech – our clients are our friends, blah-di-blah – when you have a nice evening with friends, what do you do, you take a photo. Our first post will be a mass selfie taken by yours truly from the stage, so please remember your best smiles.'

Letty held up a middle finger under the table in his direction.

‘What I want from you today are ideas on how we can represent our clients on this new format. Before we do that though, there's a short video to watch setting out our social media objectives. Dylan,' at whom he nodded, ‘has even come up with a slogan – “hashtag in good hands”.'

Oh, you beauty, Letty thought. She'd suggested it to Dylan when he was looking for inspiration and he'd fallen for it. Little did Ross know it was going to make him look like a serial groper.

‘Do the honours, will you, Dylan,' he said, as he twirled round his chair to face the projector screen.

Dylan fiddled with his laptop – Letty's heart was in her mouth. She swapped nervous glances with Jools and Sal. It had taken a while for Letty to persuade her colleagues to join her: they'd seen it as a big old risk. Yet even if they lost their jobs, they could pursue him through the legal system.

This was it. Please, technology, don't let me down, Letty prayed. She'd slipped in the room earlier to upload a ‘new' version of the video which Dylan had made. In cahoots with Jools and Sal, she'd aped the start of the proper one – using the same music and the same logos – so that at first no one would know anything was wrong, and Ross would suspect nothing.

Feeling hot then cold with nerves, she held her breath: she wouldn't know if it had worked for thirty seconds. The time dragged as footage played of Ross holding court, fighting PR fires, looking every inch Cardiff's version of David Brent.

The temptation had been to sensationalize his harassment. To savage him with a damning soundtrack and a bold narrative of the way he'd made her, Sal and Jools feel. But Letty had understood that the facts, in black and white, would speak for themselves. To simply expose a man who thought he was untouchable, had the right to harass his employees because they were women, and who shut down their discomfort with accusations that they couldn't take a joke.

Here we go, Letty thought, as the first still appeared. The wording of one of Ross's sexts to Jools, with the expletives in asterisks.

Great to have you sitting on the board… feel free to sit on my **** any time.

It took a few seconds before the room, including Ross, realized what they were reading. She'd imagined he'd be up out of his seat stabbing his fingers at buttons to stop it but he seemed frozen.

The next still, a written description of Sal's ordeal.

I was in the store cupboard. He came in, shut the door and touched my breasts.

Gasps came from around the room. The vein on Ross's neck broke free from his paralysis.

Then Letty's own experience when he'd invited her to go down on him.

‘Stop this!' Ross cried, jumping up, his eyes swinging wildly from the screen to his employees.

The final still asked a simple question.

Still think you're hashtag ‘in good hands'?

Then the video stopped and everyone was open-mouthed. Letty, Jools and Sal swapped terrified glances – this was it, their destiny was in the balance.

Ross banged the table, demanding to know who was responsible. ‘Who did this? Come on, who?'

He rested on his knuckles, like a gorilla, preparing to pounce.

‘It wasn't me boss,' Dylan said, looking around confused, unable to comprehend how this had happened.

‘You!' Ross, shouted, his mouth contorted, pointing a trembling finger at Letty. ‘You… witch.'

Letty noted how the colour of his sweaty bald scalp matched his awful red chinos.

Unafraid, she stood up, ready to stand her ground.

He went to come at her but, thank the Lord, Nick leapt from his chair and stood in his way.

‘It's all lies! She set me up!' Ross gurned over the top of Nick's arm. His deputy towered over him. But while Ross twitched and fumed, Nick was quite still, radiating professionalism and control from his solid clean-shaven chin right down to the very stitching in his navy blue suit.

The room was silent apart from Ross's heavy breathing.

‘If I were you, Ross,' Nick said, moving towards him, shepherding him to the door, ‘I'd get yourself out of here.'

‘What? But this is my business.' His eyes were popping out of his head in disbelief.

‘Think about it, Ross,' he said, coolly but with precision. ‘This is a classic case of crisis management. Take a deep breath, understand the business impact of this, your seedy behaviour, getting out. Everyone will lose their jobs, including you. You will be ruined. Or you can resign. Compensate your employees. Who, incidentally, have produced a blinder of a campaign, which will be taken into consideration during my reshuffle. I buy you out. We'll say you've taken early retirement. No one will be any the wiser. You can crawl back into the hole you've come from. And we can all enjoy tonight's gala dinner.'

This man was a genius – an actual blinking legend of a genius.

Ross looked around in desperation for someone to defend him. But everyone, even the ones who had always laughed at his innuendo, avoided his stare. Their disgust was almost palpable.

Comprehending he was in a corner, he began to backtrack. ‘Okay, maybe I went a little bit too far. I'm sorry.' He gave an insincere smile. ‘There, you three, there's your apology. I've got witnesses to say I did it at the first available opportunity.'

‘I'm afraid what you've actually done,' Nick said, folding his arms, ‘is to admit guilt.'

Nick turned to the team. ‘It's time to vote. Who would like Ross to stay at Gittings PR?'

Ross was blustering now. ‘I'm in charge here! Me! Come on, people. You need me.'

No one put up their hands.

‘And who would like to work for me instead?'

Actions spoke louder than words as nineteen palms shot up into the air.

With a whimper, Ross dropped his head in defeat. His stubby fingers went to his eyebrows, a shaky breath escaped his lips and then he shuffled away.

Letty had done it! She went to Jools and Sal for an emotional group hug, as other members of staff came to them, saying they'd had no idea and well done.

Then she heard her name. Nick was beckoning her over for a word.

She went to him expecting that her afternoon would be spent contacting lawyers, briefing Nick on the order of play at tonight's event and taking down a statement on Ross's departure. It wouldn't matter that it would only say ‘left by mutual agreement' – the point was he was gone.

‘How would you feel about a promotion?' he said.

She could've kissed him. Not like that though. And she knew right away by the swell of her heart that this was what her self-worth would be measured on. Lance just wasn't enough.

It needed a lick of paint, a stunning white would do it, and a cooler look, but this place had potential, Frankie thought, taking in the peach-coloured ghost of a salon.

There was plenty of natural light, the sinks were in good condition and, if she moved things round a bit, she could have a nail bar too. High-gloss white floor tiles instead of this faded chequered lino, and padded grey leather arm chairs rather than the knackered split-vinyl seats, which reminded her of scorched legs from childhood car journeys.

Her very own beauty salon! She'd already thought of a name even though she hadn't had her business loan interview yet. It would be called Beauty Therapy: she wanted her clients to relax, whether that meant they sat in silence or offloaded their troubles. Of the four available premises she'd seen, this was by far the best one.

Only ten minutes' walk from home, in a strip of shops nestled beside Victoria Park, she could see herself working here. Alone at first while she built it up, but perhaps she could take on a trainee in the future. She'd rent the building with a view to buying it outright if she made it a success. The idea had been bobbing around in her subconscious for ages but only yesterday, with Dad's advice to be true to yourself in her heart, had she found the courage to Google properties and arrange some viewings. She'd been happy to do her job on the road when she was younger – she'd had a house and a man to look after then. The freedom of driving here, there and everywhere had suited her, yet now she wanted to create her own little kingdom.

The small space could fit four chairs – she wanted floor-to-ceiling mirrors to make it appear larger; the loo at the back needed freshening up, as did the kitchen area. But Dad had already said if anything needed doing he and Gareth would help. It was like having two dads, she'd realized in the forty-eight hours that had passed since Dad had come out. They'd popped round to hers together for the first time yesterday to do some gardening for her, but she knew it had been their way of introducing themselves as a couple. Dad had been so nervous. She could tell by the way he kept falling over his words; how easy it would've been for Gareth to tease him. Instead he was patient and kind, filling in when Dad stuttered.