Shopaholic & Baby
Page 107
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“Of course I’m not going to fire Amy.”
“So, what are your options?”
“Option one: I patch things over,” says Luke without moving his head. “Take the flak, smooth down some feathers, and carry on.”
“Until it happens again,” I say.
“Exactly.” Luke turns with a grim little nod. “Option two: I call a meeting with Arcodas. Tell them straight, I’m not having my staff bullied. Get an apology for Amy. Make them see reason.”
“And option three?” I can tell there’s an option three from his expression.
“Option three: if they won’t cooperate”—he pauses for a long time—“we refuse to work for them. Withdraw from the contract.”
“Would that be possible?”
“It would be possible.” He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes and rubs them. “It would be fucking expensive. There’s a penalty if we quit within the first year. Plus we’ve opened Europe-wide offices on the strength of this contract. It was supposed to be our brave new world. Our gateway to bigger and better things.”
I can hear the heavy disappointment in his voice. And suddenly I want to throw my arms around him tight. It was so exciting when Brandon Communications won the Arcodas pitch. They worked so hard to get it. It seemed like such a prize.
“So, what are you going to do?” I ask tentatively.
Luke has picked up an antique nutcracker from a side table. He starts rotating the handle, his face set.
“Or else I could tell my staff they just have to get on with it. A few might leave, but the others would knuckle down. People need jobs. They’ll put up with shit.”
“And have a miserable company.”
“A miserable, profitable company.” His voice has an edge which I don’t like. “We’re in this to make money, remember?”
The baby suddenly kicks me hard inside and I wince. Everything’s so…achy-painy. Me. Luke. The whole horrible situation.
“You don’t want that,” I say.
Luke doesn’t move a muscle. His face is flint-hard. Anyone watching would think he didn’t agree or hadn’t heard or didn’t care. But I know what’s inside his head. He loves his company. He loves it when it’s thriving and successful and happy.
“Luke, the staff at Brandon C…” I take a step toward him. “They’re your family. They’ve been loyal to you all these years. Think how you’d feel if Amy was your daughter. You’d want her employer to take a stand. I mean…you’re your own boss! The whole point is, you don’t have to work with anyone.”
“I’ll talk to them.” Luke’s eyes are still focused downward. “I’ll have it out. Maybe we can make it all work.”
“Maybe.” I nod, trying to sound more hopeful than I feel.
Suddenly Luke puts the nutcracker back on the table and looks up. “Becky, if I end up pulling out of the Arcodas deal…we won’t be squillionaires. You understand that.”
I feel a pang. It was pretty exciting when it was all going so well and we were going to conquer the world and fly around in private jets. And I was planning to buy these amazing £1,000 stiletto boots from Vivienne Westwood.
Anyway. There’s a £50 version in Topshop. I’ll get those instead.
“Maybe not right now.” I lift my chin defiantly. “But we will be when you pull off your next big deal. And in the meantime”—I look around the fabulous designer kitchen—“we’re doing pretty well. We can buy an island some other year.” I think for a moment. “Actually, islands are totally over. We didn’t want one.”
Luke stares at me for a moment, then gives a sudden snort of laughter.
“You know something, Becky Bloomwood? You are going to be one hell of a mother.”
“Oh!” I color, totally taken by surprise. “Really? In a good way?”
Luke comes across the kitchen and rests his hands gently on my bump. “This little person is very lucky,” he murmurs.
“Except I don’t know any nursery rhymes,” I say, a bit gloomy. “I won’t be able to get it off to sleep.”
“Nursery rhymes are overrated,” says Luke confidently. “I’ll read it pieces from the FT. That’ll send it off.”
We both gaze down at my swollen tummy for a while. I still can’t quite get my head round the fact that there’s a baby inside my body. Which has got to come out…somehow.
OK, let’s not go there. There’s still time for them to invent something.
“So, what are your options?”
“Option one: I patch things over,” says Luke without moving his head. “Take the flak, smooth down some feathers, and carry on.”
“Until it happens again,” I say.
“Exactly.” Luke turns with a grim little nod. “Option two: I call a meeting with Arcodas. Tell them straight, I’m not having my staff bullied. Get an apology for Amy. Make them see reason.”
“And option three?” I can tell there’s an option three from his expression.
“Option three: if they won’t cooperate”—he pauses for a long time—“we refuse to work for them. Withdraw from the contract.”
“Would that be possible?”
“It would be possible.” He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes and rubs them. “It would be fucking expensive. There’s a penalty if we quit within the first year. Plus we’ve opened Europe-wide offices on the strength of this contract. It was supposed to be our brave new world. Our gateway to bigger and better things.”
I can hear the heavy disappointment in his voice. And suddenly I want to throw my arms around him tight. It was so exciting when Brandon Communications won the Arcodas pitch. They worked so hard to get it. It seemed like such a prize.
“So, what are you going to do?” I ask tentatively.
Luke has picked up an antique nutcracker from a side table. He starts rotating the handle, his face set.
“Or else I could tell my staff they just have to get on with it. A few might leave, but the others would knuckle down. People need jobs. They’ll put up with shit.”
“And have a miserable company.”
“A miserable, profitable company.” His voice has an edge which I don’t like. “We’re in this to make money, remember?”
The baby suddenly kicks me hard inside and I wince. Everything’s so…achy-painy. Me. Luke. The whole horrible situation.
“You don’t want that,” I say.
Luke doesn’t move a muscle. His face is flint-hard. Anyone watching would think he didn’t agree or hadn’t heard or didn’t care. But I know what’s inside his head. He loves his company. He loves it when it’s thriving and successful and happy.
“Luke, the staff at Brandon C…” I take a step toward him. “They’re your family. They’ve been loyal to you all these years. Think how you’d feel if Amy was your daughter. You’d want her employer to take a stand. I mean…you’re your own boss! The whole point is, you don’t have to work with anyone.”
“I’ll talk to them.” Luke’s eyes are still focused downward. “I’ll have it out. Maybe we can make it all work.”
“Maybe.” I nod, trying to sound more hopeful than I feel.
Suddenly Luke puts the nutcracker back on the table and looks up. “Becky, if I end up pulling out of the Arcodas deal…we won’t be squillionaires. You understand that.”
I feel a pang. It was pretty exciting when it was all going so well and we were going to conquer the world and fly around in private jets. And I was planning to buy these amazing £1,000 stiletto boots from Vivienne Westwood.
Anyway. There’s a £50 version in Topshop. I’ll get those instead.
“Maybe not right now.” I lift my chin defiantly. “But we will be when you pull off your next big deal. And in the meantime”—I look around the fabulous designer kitchen—“we’re doing pretty well. We can buy an island some other year.” I think for a moment. “Actually, islands are totally over. We didn’t want one.”
Luke stares at me for a moment, then gives a sudden snort of laughter.
“You know something, Becky Bloomwood? You are going to be one hell of a mother.”
“Oh!” I color, totally taken by surprise. “Really? In a good way?”
Luke comes across the kitchen and rests his hands gently on my bump. “This little person is very lucky,” he murmurs.
“Except I don’t know any nursery rhymes,” I say, a bit gloomy. “I won’t be able to get it off to sleep.”
“Nursery rhymes are overrated,” says Luke confidently. “I’ll read it pieces from the FT. That’ll send it off.”
We both gaze down at my swollen tummy for a while. I still can’t quite get my head round the fact that there’s a baby inside my body. Which has got to come out…somehow.
OK, let’s not go there. There’s still time for them to invent something.
