You Don't Know Me Read online

  ‘Miss Scotton.’

  My eyelids flick open and as I turn to face the voice, something quakes deep down inside. Bloody hell, he really is handsome. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever clapped eyes on anyone this good looking outside of a magazine. He’d be gloriously perfect if he wasn’t exuding arrogance from every pore.

  ‘Maya Scotton. Welcome to the organisation.’

  His lips snap into a straight line, his eyes seem to harden into steel and I realise that there’s no trace of a real welcome in his expression.

  I falter. ‘Thank you, Mr Foster.’

  ‘It was nice talking to you earlier.’

  The air is heavy with sarcasm. I almost choke. He really isn’t that pissed off about the phone call, is he? Maybe I should apologise for that right now. I really should, but there’s something about this man that renders me speechless. I let my mouth fall open and gawp at him. He gazes back at me for a moment or two, then shrugs dismissively and glances down at an iPad. So that’s it then? No sacking?

  ‘So, Norman, you need to fill us in on the latest figures for Tyneside.’

  ‘I do, Mr Foster.’

  ‘Dan.’

  ‘Yes, Dan. Well, I’ve come up with the following …’

  While Norman’s voice begins to drone on, laying out a seemingly endless stream of facts and figures about sales of concrete mixers, I stare at my notepad, wondering yet again why on Earth I’m in this room. And all the time, a curious spark is jumping its way around my body, returning again and again to my crotch. Oh bugger, this really isn’t good at all. I already have it on good authority that this man is a womaniser and a complete shit, and yet my thoughts are running amok like naughty little children, and like an over-indulgent parent, I’m quite happy to sit back let them get on with it. I glance down through lowered lashes to find his left hand laid flat on the table top, palm downwards, his fingers splayed slightly. There’s no wedding ring. He’s not married? Someone this bloody gorgeous should have been snapped up long ago.

  I let my eyes travel up his arms, past the rolled up sleeves of his uber expensive shirt, and the obviously ripped biceps that are lurking beneath the cotton, up to his collar and his perfectly knotted black tie, and then I risk a peek at his face … only to jump clean out of my skin. He’s looking right back at me. And coldly too. Oh God, I want to die. He’s been watching me all the time. And while I’ve been ogling him like a dirty, old pervert, he’s been taking it all in and probably still musing over that phone call. He’s just biding his time, I decide. He’s been waiting for the perfect moment to tell me to sling my hook. Shit, my mouth has gone completely dry. I turn away quickly and pick up a glass of water that’s on the table top in front of me. Taking a swig, I tip the glass too quickly, spilling most of its contents down the front of my blouse.

  ‘So … to … to sum up,’ Norman stutters. ‘In the current market, I’m afraid there’s simply no hope.’

  ‘That settles it then,’ Mr Foster murmurs absently, glancing at the wet patch on my chest. ‘We’ll shut it down.’

  I hear myself choke. What? In one fell swoop, and without the slightest trace of emotion, he’s decided to put an end to an entire factory? I sense a knot of anger in my stomach. I’m thinking about my dad.

  ‘Norman, you’re in charge of liaison.’

  ‘Of course,’ Norman sighs.

  I know that I’m staring at him, and I know that it’s probably the worst thing I can possibly do, but I just can’t help it because suddenly I’m wondering how a man who seems to be so completely perfect on the surface could be so completely cold and heartless beneath it all. I watch as he flips from one document to another on his iPad. Finally, he looks up, straight back into my eyes and I’m caught. I should turn away now, but I really can’t. I’m locked in by his blue irises, and I’m beginning to tremble. He knows the effect he’s having on me. I can see the corners of his lips begin to curl up, ever so slightly.

  ‘So, tell me Miss Scotton. What’s your opinion on the matter?’

  My body jolts. Why is he asking me?

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes. You.’

  ‘I … er …’

  God, this really isn’t my territory. I can type a letter and send an email and sort a file, but I really can’t comment on the financial viability of a concrete mixer factory. But he’s got me fixed with those bloody eyes and I know exactly why. He’s giving me a mauling, teaching me a lesson for daring to be rude back to him. And when he’s finished mauling me, he’ll sack me. Quickly, I put down my glass, hoping to all that’s holy that he’s not noticed my shaking hand. He begins to tap the table with his index finger.

  ‘We haven’t got all day, Miss Scotton.’

  Norman coughs into his chest.

  ‘Maya’s a secretary, Mr Foster.’

  ‘Dan,’ he snaps.

  ‘Sorry. Dan. Maya’s a secretary and she’s only just started to work here. I don’t think it’s very fair to ask for her opinion.’

  ‘Why not?’ he growls. ‘I’d like to know what everyone thinks.’

  ‘You’re going too far,’ Norman mutters.

  Quickly, I glance around the table, at the suited, high-powered men and women who all know exactly what they’re doing in their jobs, and I notice that they all seem to be distinctly uncomfortable. What’s just happened here? Did Norman really just dare to tell the big kahuna that he’s going too far? I turn back to find that Daniel Foster doesn’t seem to be the slightest bit fazed by the fact. Instead of losing his temper with Norman, he’s simply staring at me some more. And I can feel something begin to quake inside, just between my thighs.

  ‘Well?’ he demands.

  ‘I … er … I …’

  ‘Surely you have an opinion, Miss Scotton.’

  ‘I … I do. But I’m not sure it’s of any use.’

  God, the man is a bastard. He’s putting me right on the spot, toying with me before he bares his teeth.

  ‘I’d like to hear it, whether it’s of any use or not.’ He lays his hand flat on the table in front of me, and like an idiot, I stare at it. It’s big and firm and strong and Lord above, I bet it would feel really bloody good on my skin.

  ‘Well …’ I squeak. ‘If you close down the factory, then that’s two hundred and twenty five jobs down the drain.’ I take a look at Norman. His head seems to have slumped to his chest and I suddenly realise that my suspicion is correct: I’m talking a load of bollocks. But well, hey, in for a penny, in for a pound. ‘That’s two hundred and twenty five families affected by the closure, and that will have a terrible effect on the community.’

  Taking a deep breath, I will myself to stop talking. I’ve said enough, and showed no business acumen at all. Wishing that the floor would open up and toss me back down into the Norman bubble, I stare out of the window. The silence is never-ending, and when I finally gather enough balls to look back at the sex god, I find him smirking. I hate you, a voice calls out from the back of my head. You may be eminently fuckable, Mr Foster, but the pink princess was completely on the ball: you are a complete shit! I pick up my glass of water and, remembering just in time that my hands are shaking, plonk it back down again.

  ‘Thank you, Miss Scotton.’ He gets to his feet and makes his way back over to the window. God, he’s got a sexy walk. It’s all effortless and graceful and self-assured. ‘A pithy summary of the effects of our decision. Two hundred and twenty five jobs. Two hundred and twenty five families. Just think of all those lives that are about to be ruined.’

  My mind shoots out an expletive and I catch it just in time.

  ‘Unfortunately, the factory isn’t turning a profit. It’s turning a loss. A huge, fuck-up of a loss. We’ll close it. You all know what you need to do. Get on with it.’

  Norman shoves himself up from his chair and waits until the suits have all left the room. And now it’s just me and Norman and the delectable shitbag.

  ‘I have some matters to discuss with you, Dan,’ Norman says quietly. An
d now I’m wondering why he’s not calling him Mr Foster any more.

  ‘Not now.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘Off you go, Norman. And you, Miss Scotton, I’d like a word please.’

  Feeling like a condemned woman, and certainly not a girl, I stay exactly where I am, watching as Norman waddles his way out of the room.

  ‘So, it’s your first day here?’

  I watch as he circles round to the back of his desk, knowing that my mouth has fallen open once again. Dear God, I’d love to see him without that shirt on. I’d love to run my hands all over those perfectly toned shoulders and right down that obviously taut chest. And, oh shit, I’d love to rip those expensive trousers off him and see what lies beneath. I tear my thoughts out of pervert mode and straighten myself up. Resting a long index finger on the glass top, he pins me down with his come-to-beds.

  ‘Yes. It is.’

  ‘And how are you finding it?’

  ‘Interesting.’

  His eyes soften.

  ‘I’m glad to hear it.’ He pauses, glancing down at my skirt. I feel my temperature rise and my legs begin to shake. ‘I kept you behind, Miss Scotton, because there are a couple of things I’d like you to know.’

  Oh great. So, here it comes. Number one, nobody talks to me like that. And number two, you’re sacked.

  ‘The first thing is that your blouse is soaking wet.’

  I practically hear myself swallow. ‘I know that, Mr Foster, but thank you for reminding me.’

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘And the second thing?’

  He taps his finger against the glass.

  ‘Well it’s sort of linked to my first thing, really.’ His lips part slightly and he lifts a hand, pointing a finger directly at my chest. ‘I can see your bra.’

  He shoots me a grin, and while half of me wants to leap across the desk and brain the sexist bastard right now, the other half wants to snog his ruddy gorgeous mouth off. But either of those things would be a little over the top. Instead, I decide to make a hasty retreat, to run away back to my desk and write my resignation letter.

  Chapter Four

  As soon as I get home, I run a bath, wriggle out of the tight skirt and the even tighter blouse, and soak for half an hour. My mind is whirling from the strange day I’ve just had. Fosters is a huge company, and every part of the headquarters is professional and business-like … apart from mine. So, what exactly is Norman’s role in all of this? And if Mr Foster isn’t willing to prop up an ailing factory on Tyneside, then why is he willing to put up with an old man and his pink teenage sidekick? And more than that, why wasn’t I sacked? After all, the big kahuna doesn’t seem to be the kind of man who’d take any sort of crap lying down. And yet he took it from me today. Well, I muse, dunking my head under the water, perhaps that was his idea of a come-uppance: belittling me in front of a room full of suits and pointing out that he could see my underwear through my wet blouse. Perhaps he’s finished with me now.

  At last I’m out of the bath, pulling on denim shorts and a camisole top. It’s unbearably hot, but that’s Camden in the height of summer. Even the pigeons are wilting. I lie on my double bed for half an hour, gazing up at the flowery curtains as they drift lazily in a light breeze, listening to the upstairs neighbour’s music. By seven o’clock I’m ready to join Lucy in our pokey excuse for a kitchen.

  ‘Finally.’ She turns and smiles, leaving the net curtains to dangle to a close. She’s wearing a short dress, all flowers and girliness. ‘Dinner’s nearly ready.’

  ‘What are you looking at?’

  ‘There was a motorbike out there earlier.’

  ‘It’s a road, Lucy. Sometimes it’s used by motorbikes.’

  ‘But this one was out there for ages.’ She points at the window. ‘For ages,’ she repeats, narrowing her eyes, as if this is really going to ram the point home. ‘And there was a bloke on it. All in black. And he was staring at our front door.’

  ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘How am I supposed to know? He had his helmet on.’ She blows out a good lungful of air. ‘Anyway, he’s gone now.’

  ‘That’s interesting. How was your day?’

  ‘Crap.’ She picks up a wooden spoon and waves it in the air, spattering something brown all over the work surface and the hob. ‘In fact, it was a bloody nightmare. We’ve started setting up for the exhibition. Big Steve wants this layout, Little Steve wants that layout and I run around like a blue-arsed fly.’ While she sucks in a breath, I laugh quietly to myself, thinking of Big Steve and Little Steve, the owners of Slaters, a swanky art gallery in the heart of Soho. ‘They’re driving me mad,’ Lucy complains. ‘Perhaps I should start looking for a new job.’

  I smile at her, sympathetically, knowing full well that she’s never going to hand in her notice. She loves it too much. She’s managed Slaters since graduating from Edinburgh with a degree in Art History, at the very same time that I graduated from the art school with honours, and sank into oblivion. ‘We’ve had an artist pull out, you know,’ she says tentatively. ‘They’ve gone and had a nervous breakdown and burned all their work.’ She arches an eyebrow and I know what’s coming next.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll find someone.’

  ‘There’s enough space for two canvases. If you get going, you could knock something out. There’s still a couple of weeks to go. Big Steve and Little Steve would love to see your stuff. You know that.’

  I hang my head. Lucy’s been at it again, informing the owners of Slaters that Maya Scotton’s shit hot with the oils, that she’s wasting her life away, that she just needs a little nudge in the right direction to get herself back on track.

  ‘No inspiration, Lucy. You know the deal.’

  ‘And there’s not likely to be any inspiration while you’re knocking out letters instead of knocking out paintings.’

  I laugh at that. If only she knew the truth, that apart from a deathly dull report, I haven’t knocked out a single thing all day.

  ‘So, come on then, how was it?’ she demands. She’s got her back to me now, stirring the contents of a huge pan. I really ought to ask what she thinks she’s cooking tonight, and then I ought to suggest we get a take-away. It smells distinctly strange.

  ‘Give me wine first.’ I slump onto a kitchen chair. ‘So, what are we eating?’

  ‘Chilli.’

  I swallow back a groan. From bitter experience, I know that Lucy’s chilli doesn’t taste remotely like chilli. In fact, it tastes more like mud. But I shouldn’t complain. She’s absolutely useless when it comes to cooking, but I’m even worse …

  ‘Tell me you got some wine.’

  ‘In there.’

  She points towards the ancient fridge that frequently makes strange noises and doesn’t seem to keep anything cold. I get up, shuffle over to the fridge and yank open the door, helping myself to a bottle that’s been trying its best to chill on the top shelf, noting with delight that there’s a second bottle lounging next to it. Picking two glasses out of the cupboard, I line them up on the tiny table and fill them to the brim.

  ‘Steady.’ Lucy holds out a hand. ‘I’ve got another full-on day tomorrow.’

  ‘And I’ve got another full-off day,’ I moan, downing half the glass in one go.

  ‘What’s a full-off day when it’s at home?’

  ‘Don’t ask.’

  ‘I am asking. What’s it like? Come on.’

  ‘Well,’ I muse, pausing to down the second half of the glass. ‘I think I’ve landed myself in a nut hole.’

  ‘A nut hole? I thought it was a building company.’

  ‘It is a building company. And most of it’s perfectly normal, all professional and that.’ I pour my second glass. ‘But not the bit I’ve got landed in.’

  Lucy checks on the chilli, turns down the heat, and joins me at the table. She pulls out a chair and takes her own glass of wine.

  ‘I thought it was Finance.’

  ‘It was supposed to be Fi
nance but they moved me at the last minute. I’ve been dumped in some weird Personnel department with a teenage Sudoku fiend and some old bloke called Norman. And there’s nothing to do. And that’s not the worst of it. The woman who used to work for Norman was given my job in the Finance department.’

  Almost immediately and pretty much as I’d expected, I can hear Lucy laughing. Picking up my glass, I take another glug of wine. Today, life has become seriously strange and it’s going to take a serious amount of blotting out. What does it matter if I end up with the mother of all hangovers in the morning? I’ll be amazed if I’m given any work to do.

  ‘Well, I’d just go with it.’ Lucy manages to squeeze the words out at last. ‘I mean, it’s a job. What does Norman do?’

  ‘Whatever Mr Foster wants him to do.’

  ‘And Mr Foster?’

  ‘The owner, the man upstairs, the big cheese, the big kahuna.’

  ‘And what’s he like?’