The drinks menu was almost entirely made up of whisky-based cocktails. They’d been given glasses of champagne on arrival but apparently these were not being served behind the bar. Rose didn’t dare risk a negroni and instead ordered two gin and tonics. Everything was free.
‘He’s here. Fuck,’ a female voice whispered loudly to Rose’s left. She turned to see two women she recognised from Intel. They were among the few women in the editorial team there. Rose had never spoken to either of them directly but had seen them around the office, almost always together. Both of them were, like most of the Firehouse women, tall and statuesque, all high cheekbones and skin courtesy of a celebrity facialist’s cream that was rumoured to have been made from foreskin.
To her right, Rose overheard two men. ‘Why do you love it so much?’ one asked the other.
‘I just think the word “pussy” really rolls off the tongue,’ he responded, smirking. ‘Say it with me … “poo … ssea”.’
Rose shifted herself closer to the two women so their voices drowned out the men.
‘We can just avoid him,’ the other woman was saying. ‘He’s the one that should feel embarrassed, not you.’
‘I hate my life.’
‘Could I get two of the whisky cocktails please? Thanks. Look, you haven’t done anything wrong here.’
It was a widely accepted Firehouse fact that the editors at Intel were badly behaved. The publication had a hard time shaking the ‘boys will be boys’ reputation it had acquired under the editorship of Steven Stone, who was said to have had sex on every floor of Firehouse HQ with a famous British model when they were dating in the early 1990s. He used to leave bags of cocaine on his favourite writers’ desks on Friday afternoons. Sometimes he’d also leave phone numbers. The few women who dared to work there were walking targets. None lasted longer than a year.
This behaviour was not only tolerated but encouraged; it made you more of a man and therefore better suited to influence other men at the magazine. Simon had done his best to eradicate the culture Steven had left behind. It sounded like he needed to try a little harder.
‘It’s time,’ said the woman’s friend. ‘You need to report it.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘I’ll come with you. We can tell Jasper together.’
‘Jasper is the one who hired him. Their families play golf together or some shit.’
‘Still. He has an obligation here.’
‘What am I supposed to say when they ask for proof?’
The girl put her head in her hands and started to breathe heavily.
‘Come on, let’s just go home. This isn’t worth it.’
As they left, Rose’s drinks arrived. She was walking towards the smoking area and, distracted by what she’d just overheard, she bumped directly into someone walking towards her.
‘Oh gosh, I’m so sorry,’ she said, gin and tonic spilling down her hands.
‘Watch where you’re going,’ said Oliver, towering above her.
‘Oliver, please,’ she sighed. ‘Not tonight, okay?’
‘Milo isn’t here, if that’s who you’re looking for.’
‘I’m not. I’m here with my housemate.’
‘Yes, you enjoy yourself. Don’t worry about me, I’ll be here slaving away by the door.’
Rose sighed, knowing Oliver found nothing about his job ‘slaving’. Being by the door and greeting everyone with air kisses as they came in was literally his dream way to spend an evening, particularly because it also gave him the power to turn people away.
‘I can help if you like?’
‘No. Please don’t. I’ll keep all of the credit for tonight, thank you very much.’
‘You’d get that anyway, Oliver.’
He scoffed.
‘Do you know anything about an incident at Intel?’
‘You’re going to have to be a little more specific.’
‘I overheard the two women in editorial talking. It sounded like one of the editors had been … I don’t know exactly what. But one of the women … she seemed pretty upset.’
‘Yes, I know what that’s about.’
‘What?’
Oliver rolled his eyes. ‘It’s improper to gossip, Rose.’
‘Was it one of the senior editors?’
‘What do you think?’
‘If you know something, why aren’t you doing anything about it?’
‘Because I like having a job. Have a fabulous evening, Rose,’ he quipped before strutting away.
