Page 51 of Forever, Maybe
Chapter thirty-nine
The night out had been full of surprises, starting with the fact that it wasn’t planned.
Marcus Sterling, White Lightning Communications’ owner and boss, burst into the office grinning like a Cheshire cat fresh from a feast. He’d just returned from pitching for one of the Scottish Executive’s high-profile campaigns.
Marcus never entered quietly. This time, he made a beeline for Morag, the receptionist, and planted a dramatic kiss on her cheek. It was a move designed to grab attention—and it worked. Heads turned, keyboards stilled and a ripple of murmurs spread through the room.
“You got the job, then?” Stephanie called, breaking the silence.
Marcus stepped away from Morag’s desk, ensuring he was at the centre of everyone’s gaze. Clenching his fists, he raised them to chest height in the classic footballer’s goal celebration, chin tilted skyward like he’d just scored a hat trick.
“Yes, you fucking bunch of beauties! We got the job!” he bellowed. “And not just that… they’ve invited us to pitch for a whole lot more long-term work.”
Scattered cheers and a few half-hearted claps followed.
There were muttered congratulations—“Well done,” “Great news”—but the enthusiasm was muted.
Marcus, whose vision of workplace loyalty involved his employees eating, sleeping and breathing White Lightning Communications, seemed momentarily disheartened by the lack of euphoria.
No doubt the shouting match he’d orchestrated during yesterday’s pitch prep still lingered in everyone’s minds.
“No, no,” Marcus said, holding up his hands for silence. “Not just ‘well done’ me. Well done you. All of you. We’re a team. A terrific team. Your hard work made this happen.”
He swept his gaze across the room, pausing to meet the eyes of each employee. It was a gesture meant to inspire solidarity but came off more like a headmaster doling out equal parts pride and intimidation.
Across their shared desk, Nell and Stephanie exchanged eye rolls. Nell, who had borne the brunt of yesterday’s theatrics while finalising the pitch visuals, bit back a sigh.
“And you know what?” Marcus said, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial tone as he played his trump card.
He paused for effect, scanning the room to build suspense. “It’s Friday. It’s four o’clock. And we’re all off to the pub. Drinks are on me!”
That announcement brought a much more enthusiastic cheer.
Marcus rarely let them leave early on Fridays, gripped by a constant fear that last-minute client demands would come crashing in with no one left to handle them.
When Nell and Stephanie had swapped their cushy council jobs for White Lightning Communications, the punishing hours came as shock.
At the council, Fridays meant winding down after lunch and heading home by four o’clock. , no questions asked.
Marcus clapped his hands and made impatient “c’mon, c’mon” gestures as PCs and Macs were hastily powered down. Coats and bags were grabbed, and the exodus began. The office wasn’t in the city centre—business rates there were astronomical—but it was close to a cluster of bars and restaurants.
Their destination was The Joker, the nearest pub and unofficial second office of White Lightning Communications. It served as a frequent lunch spot, a celebration venue and a safe haven for bitching about Marcus.
Decades of cigarette smoke had stained the ceiling an unappealing yellow-brown and the patterned carpet had a perpetual stickiness that no amount of cleaning could fix.
The furniture—worn, wobbly, and overdue for replacement—didn’t inspire much confidence either.
Yet the bar staff knew most of the team by name and drink preference, the booze was dirt cheap compared to city centre prices and the food was surprisingly decent.
“Who cares what it looks like?” Nell’s colleagues would often say. “It sells booze!”
Marcus, never one for outright flashiness—at least not in a pub—eschewed champagne but splurged on several bottles of Cava. He made a point of distributing them personally to the clusters of employees scattered around The Joker’s battered tables.
Despite its rough edges, the pub buzzed with the odd burst of laughter, clinking glasses and the low hum of gossip. It was a well-earned break and perhaps, more importantly, a chance to later complain about the man footing the bill.
Marcus plonked himself down at Stephanie and Nell’s table, a bottle of beer in hand. “Listen, Nell,” he said, leaning in slightly. “I was a bit short with you yesterday. Apology accepted?”
No, you prick, I left the office in tears last night. Of course, she didn’t say it. Marcus almost never apologised for his tantrums, so even this half-hearted attempt felt like a small miracle.
She forced a smile and clinked her glass against his bottle. “Yeah, no worries. The lead-up to a pitch is always stressful.”
Under the table, Stephanie’s foot connected with Nell’s shin—a clear why the hell are you letting him off with it? —but Marcus was too busy basking in the glow of his own perceived magnanimity to notice.
Having ticked the “apology” box, he launched into a blow-by-blow account of the day’s events: which agencies had been in the running (all vastly inferior to White Lightning Communications), his thoughts on their pitches (amateurish), and his assessment of the executives they’d presented to (just savvy enough to appreciate his brilliance).
Nell and Stephanie nodded at appropriate intervals, tossing in the occasional question to maintain the illusion of interest. Gradually, other team members began to hover nearby, subtly edging closer.
It was an unspoken rule: being seen listening to Marcus was a politically savvy move, at least early in the evening when the drinks were still flowing on his tab.
An hour later, Marcus did the one thing that could genuinely boost morale by announcing his departure. “Right, team,” he said, standing with a theatrical stretch. “I’m off. But…” He pulled out his wallet and handed a wad of cash to the barman. “This is on me. Stay until it’s gone!”
The collective cheer that followed was the loudest of the night. Nell could feel the tension dissipate as Marcus strutted out, leaving his team to enjoy the rest of the evening without him.
Jamie Curtice, White Lightning Communications’ business development manager—and the man who’d recommended them for the job—strolled over to Nell and Stephanie’s table, his trademark smirk firmly in place. “Can I buy… or rather, can Marcus Sterling buy you lovely ladies a drink?”
Stephanie, unnoticed by Jamie, pulled a face. She didn’t trust him as far as she could throw him—Marcus’s lapdog through and through. But free booze was free booze.
“Vodka and slimline tonic, please,” she said, her tone pleasant enough to mask her distaste.
Jamie didn’t catch the underlying frostiness, or if he did, he pretended not to. His grin widened as he nodded and headed to the bar, leaving Nell and Stephanie to exchange a knowing glance once his back was turned.
Jamie had grown on Nell. Oh, he overdid the charm, laying it on thick enough to make him seem entirely insincere, but he had his moments.
They occasionally car-shared the commute, and once he’d exhausted his quips about her hair, clothing and makeup—all of which she brushed off with practiced indifference—he could be surprisingly thoughtful and even engaging.
And credit where it was due: he always made sure she was the designer for every account he managed.
Now, Nell sat nursing the Cava Marcus had purchased, noting she’d made respectable progress on the bottle all by herself. She ought to slow down. Sparkling wine was… lady petrol: light, bubbly and dangerously strong.
Jamie returned from the bar, balancing Stephanie’s gin and tonic and his own bottle of Peroni. With a grin, he tapped his bottle against Nell’s glass, then Stephanie’s.
“Cheers, dear ladies. To the good ship White Lightning Communications and all who sail on her. I shall miss it.”
“ What? ” Nell and Stephanie chorused, eyebrows shooting up in tandem.
Jamie leaned back in his chair with a theatrical sigh. “Tis true, dear ladies. My tenure here is drawing to a close and I am off to pastures new. In a week’s time, in fact.”
“A week?” Nell spluttered. “What about your notice period?”
“Alas, I have worked so hard for the last six months I have neglected to take any holidays. Such a shame.”
He smirked. Stephanie regarded him admiringly—no doubt reassessing her opinion of him as Marcus’s stooge. A stooge, for example, would opt for holiday pay rather than leave the company scrambling to replace him with just a week’s notice.
Or perhaps she was simply admiring him for having the courage to leave.
“Where are you going?” Nell asked.
Jamie named the largest NHS board in the country, and the job title he rattled off sounded suitably lofty. While White Lightning Communications was one of Scotland’s top PR agencies, its opportunities for career advancement were limited.
“Congratulations,” Nell said, joined by Stephanie, who chimed in with an enthusiastic, “Well done!”
Their questions came thick and fast, and Jamie, never one to shy away from the spotlight, answered with relish.
The salary? Astronomical. The responsibilities?
Managing a team of ten— ten! —people, overseeing the development and execution of the organisation’s communications strategy, controlling the marketing budget and handling press relations.
Stephanie finished her drink, pulled out her phone and flipped the top open, a smile spreading slowly across her face.
“I’m going to have to love you and leave you, folks,” she said, as she pushed back her chair and got to her feet. “I’ve got plans.”
Nell managed a smile. Stephanie was seeing a guy she’d met on Match.com, and so far, things seemed to be going well. A Friday night date was much more appealing than spending it with work colleagues in a noisy pub.