“You know this man is the star of our company?” Justin says to me, gesturing at Sam. “Sir Nicholas’s heir apparent. ‘One day, dear boy, all this will be yours.’ ”
“Now, that’s just bullshit,” Sam says pleasantly.
“Of course it is.”
There’s a beat of silence. They’re smiling at each other—but it’s a bit more like animals baring teeth.
“So, I’ll see you around,” says Justin at length. “Going to the conference tonight?”
“Tomorrow, in fact,” Sam replies. “Lot of stuff to catch up on here.”
“Fair enough. Well, we’ll toast you tonight.” Justin raises his hand at me, then walks away.
“Sorry about that,” says Sam to me. “This restaurant is just impossible at lunchtime. But it’s the closest that’s any good.”
I’ve been distracted from my churning thoughts by Justin Cole. He really is a prick.
“You know, I heard Justin talking about you last night,” I say in a low voice, and lean across the table. “He called you a stubborn fuck.”
Sam throws back his head and roars with laughter. “I expect he did.”
A fresh bowl of butternut squash soup arrives in front of me, steaming hot, and suddenly I feel ravenous.
“Thanks for doing that,” I say awkwardly to Sam.
“My pleasure.” He tilts his head. “Bon appétit.”
“So, why did he call you a stubborn fuck?” I take a spoonful of soup.
“Oh, we disagree pretty fundamentally about how to run the company,” he says carelessly. “My camp had a recent victory, so his camp is feeling sore.”
Camps? Victories? Are they all permanently at war?
“What happened?”
God, this soup is good. I’m ladling it down as though I haven’t eaten for weeks.
“You’re really interested?” He appears to be amused.
“Yes! Of course!”
“A member of personnel left the company. For the better, in my opinion. But not in Justin’s.” He takes a bite of baguette and reaches for his water.
That’s it ? That’s all he’s going to tell me? A member of personnel left the company?
“You mean John Gregson?” I suddenly remember my Google search.
“What?” He looks taken aback. “How do you know about John Gregson?”
“ Daily Mail online, of course.” I roll my eyes. What does he think, that he works in a secret, private bubble?
“Oh. I see.” Sam seems to digest this. “Well … no. That was something different.”
“Who was this one, then? C’mon,” I wheedle as he hesitates. “You can tell me. I’m best friends with Sir Nicholas Murray, you know. We have drinks at the Savoy together. We’re like this.” I cross my fingers, and Sam gives a reluctant snort of laughter.
“OK. I don’t suppose it’s any great secret.” He hesitates and lowers his voice. “It was a guy called Ed Exton. Finance director. The truth is, he was fired. Turned out he’d been defrauding the company for a while. Nick wouldn’t press charges, but that was a big mistake. Now Ed’s suing for wrongful dismissal.”
“Yes!” I nearly squeak. “I knew it! And that’s why he was worse for wear in the Groucho.”
Sam gives a short, incredulous laugh. “You know about that. Of course you do.”
“And … Justin was angry when Ed was fired?” I’m trying to get this clear.
“Justin was gunning for Ed to take over as CEO, with himself as right-hand man,” says Sam wryly. “So, yes, you could say he was fairly angry.”
“CEO?” I say in astonishment. “But … what about Sir Nicholas?”
“Oh, they would have ousted Nick if they’d got enough support,” says Sam matter-of-factly. “There’s a faction in this company that’s more interested in creaming off short term profits and dressing in Paul Smith than anything else. Nick’s all about playing the long game. Not always the most popular position.”
I finish my soup, digesting all this. Honestly, these office politics are all so complicated. How does anyone get any work done? It’s bad enough when Annalise has one of her hissy fits about whose turn it is to buy the coffee and we all get distracted and forget to write up our reports.
If I worked at White Globe Consulting, I wouldn’t be able to do my job. I would spend all day texting the other people in the office, asking them what was going on today and had they heard anything new and what did they think was going to happen.