My fingers are drumming relentlessly. My feet are doing their thing: forward-across-back, forward-across-back. I can’t stay here. I can’t let Seb Marlowe get away with it. Who does he think he is?
Drawing myself up short, I suddenly recall the vow I made to myself in Seb’s office. I wasn’t going to try to fix stuff anymore, not unless it was super-important and vital.
But then, what’s this if not super-important and vital?
Abruptly, I reach for my bag and coat.
“I’ll be back in a while,” I say. “Stay at mine tonight. We’ll sort all this out.”
As I stride through the party, I feel grim and determined. “I have to go,” I say to Hannah. “Can you tell Jake?”
“Well, sure,” she says, looking surprised. “But what—”
“I have to fix a thing,” I say succinctly, and march out.
I stride to the tube station, travel all the way to Farringdon, and get out, feeling stony and unforgiving. Within a few minutes I’m at the ESIM building and I glance up as I approach, feeling suddenly foolish. I rushed out in such a blaze of indignation, I didn’t think about what time it was. Maybe no one’s there and I’ve wasted my time …
But there are lights on. A few, at least.
My heart pumping, I press the buzzer and someone—not sure who—lets me in. I rise up in the lift and emerge, all ready to say, “I’d like to see the CEO, please,” in my most cutting tones—but he’s there. It’s him. Seb. He’s waiting for the lift, looking fairly astonished to see me.
“It’s you,” he says. “I thought—”
“Hi,” I say curtly. “I wanted to see you. If that’s convenient?”
There’s a short silence. Seb’s pleasant gaze doesn’t waver, but I can sense his brain is working.
“Sure,” he says at last. “Come on in.”
As I follow him to his office, I notice he’s looking slightly rumpled, as though he’s spent too long at work, and his brown frondy hair is askew.
I fight an urge to put it straight. That would not be appropriate. Anyway, I need to focus. I need to come in fighting.
His office is warm and inviting, just like it was before. The coffee-cup sleeve is still on his desk, I notice, and I feel a pang of indignation. Some favor. Some favor that was.
“So,” he says as we sit down, and from his wary tone I sense he knows exactly why I’m here. It seems only about five minutes ago that I was here with Ryan, feeling so joyful that everything was working out. The memory fuels my rage, and I take a deep breath.
“I simply wanted to say,” I begin in my most castigating tones, “that I think when you enter into an agreement with someone you should do it in good faith. That’s all. You should have honest intentions.”
“I agree,” says Seb after a pause.
“Oh, you agree,” I say sarcastically.
I know sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, but I’ve never actually known what that means, and I don’t care. Low is fine. Low is good.
“Yes,” says Seb steadily. “I agree.”
“Well, I don’t,” I shoot back—then instantly realize that’s wrong. It’s his fault. He’s flustering me. “I mean, I do,” I amend. “I do agree. But that’s not how you’ve treated Ryan. It’s a travesty! Just because he’s a man of the world, you can’t cope with him? Just because he has ambition and vision and knowledge in areas you don’t? Were you so threatened you couldn’t find a way to make it work? Or is he right and you never intended to keep him on at all?”
As I break off, I’m breathing hard. I’m expecting Seb to spring to some feeble defense, but he’s staring at me as though I’m talking gibberish.
“What?” he says at last.
“What do you mean, ‘what’?” I say, incensed. “I heard all about it! I know you blocked Ryan from coming to meetings. I know the staff were asking his advice. I know he could see all the flaws in your company. He’s got charisma and experience and you couldn’t cope! So you get rid of him!”
“Oh my God,” says Seb. “Oh my God.” He gets up, running his hands through his hair, walks to the window, and gives a weird laugh. “OK, where do I start? Do you know the disruption that Ryan Chalker has caused to this company? Do you know how obtuse, how stupid … how inane he is? If I had to hear one more anecdote about some tech guy in a pool