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“God, I hate him.”
“Why?” Gary’s assistant, Shelley, joins me, holding out a lanyard. “Because he’s sexist and narrow-minded? Or because he’s a plain dickhead?” I laugh as Shelley gives me a sardonic look, and I accept my name badge. “If it makes you feel any better, I hope you thrash him and make partner.”
“Thanks.”
“I better go hand out the rest of the name badges. I have a special one for Leighton.” She holds up a little white card that saysprickand slips it behind the card with his name on it. I press my lips together and watch Shelley slope off, slipping my lanyard over my head and frowning when I have to reach back and sweep my hair out from under it. I should have tied it up.
After a coffee and a few hellos, we’re directed through another glass tunnel and I’m once again in awe of Arlington Hall. Blades of water pour over smooth stone troughs onto pebbled channels that stretch the length of the walkway, and canopies of huge palm leaves climb the glass. White gloss wooden doors lead into a huge auditorium reminiscent of an old theatre, the chairs deep-red velvet, the fittings gold and intricate. It’s very art deco, and absolutely stunning.
“It’s the fanciest conference room I’ve ever seen,” Gary muses as I gaze up to the gold cornicing decorating the ceiling. With every inch more of Arlington Hall I see, Evelyn Harrison becomes more of an icon.
An attendant guides me to the third row, and I lower to the soft plush chair, with Shelley on the inside of me and Gary and Leighton on the outer two seats. I see many faces I recognise from the industry, nods and handshakes happening all around.
“I like the hair,” Shelley says, forcing my hand back up to brush it over my shoulder.
“Thanks.” I never anticipated my hair would cause such a stir. I collect the program from the back of the seat in front of me and flick through the schedule, making sure I’m carving out enough time during the one-to-ones to move in on my intended targets. My phone dings, and I open the message from Tilda Spector, smiling.
Are you here? I’ve not seen you. TS.
Third row back, near the aisle.
I crane my neck, searching the auditorium for her mop of silver hair and signature thick-framed glasses. I come up blank, returning my attention to my mobile when it dings again.
Oh, I see you. I’m four rows behind you. I didn’t recognise you with your hair down. TS.
I roll my eyes and turn, craning my head and finding her past someone directly behind me. “Hey,” I say, holding up a hand. “Would be great to catch up later if you have some time.”
“Always time for you, Amelia.” Her brown, friendly eyes shine behind her glasses. “How’s Nick?”
My lips straighten. “He’s good.”
Tilda takes her compact mirror out of her designer purse and checks her lips. She’s so quirky, famous in the industry for being stylish as well as studious. Her frames always match her outfit, and today she’s in a cobalt-blue skirt suit with matching frames. “Find me after lunch.”
I nod and return my attention to the stage, feeling Leighton’s beady eyes directed at me. I look across Gary to him and smile, all friendly, as a woman in a trouser suit walks onto the stage, approaching the podium and adjusting the microphone. Waiting for the noise to die down, she smooths back her slick hair, and I think to myself how ... stiff she looks. I cringe and tuck one side of my hair behind my ear, not used to it featuring in my working day. For the first time, I question why. And for the first time, I admit to myself that I need to be taken seriously. How hair affects that, I don’t know, but a man once said to me while I was working for my father, “Well done, Amelia. So you’re not just a pretty face?” And I wondered if that’s how people saw me. Just a pretty face. From that day on six years ago, my hair was tied back. How ridiculous.
Or maybe not.
“Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the FSA Annual Finance Conference.” She pauses, allowing a light applause. “My name is KerryGallow, and I will be your moderator throughout the event. I very much look forward to making the day as enjoyable and productive as possible.” She nods, smiling, her hands holding the sides of the podium. So fucking stiff. “Before I hand over to the legendary Garret Palmer—CEO of the FSA—to officially welcome you, we have a small adjustment to the day’s schedule in light of the last-minute change in venue. So please welcome to the stage the owner of the fine Arlington Hall, our venue this year, Mr. Jude Harrison.”
Turning her body to the stage entrance, she starts to clap, and everyone rises from their seats and joins her. Leighton leans across Gary, smiling at me. “Fair game,” he says, winking.
“Have at him,” I murmur, returning my attention to the stage.Sucha dick.
“Lord have mercy,” Shelley whispers, just as my eyes land on the man walking onto the stage.
What the ever-loving fuck?My clapping hands slow, my smile fading, as Jude Harrison makes his entrance. “Oh my fucking God,” I whisper, jolting where I stand, instantly burning up.
“Right?” Shelley whispers out the corner of her mouth. “He’sgotto be illegal.”
Jude Harrison. The owner of Arlington Hall.
Hey Jude.
You should definitely try Hey Jude.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” I watch him, his long legs, his grey-suited,killerbody. He reaches up and tucks a loose piece of his dark-blond hair behind his ear, his lazy eyes taking in the crowd.
Jesus, he’s . . .