Concealment Read online

  Concealment

  By

  Rose Edmunds

  © Rose Edmunds 2015

  The right of Rose Edmunds to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the author. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real people, alive or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Paperback formatting by Clare Davidson www.claredavidson.com

  e-book formatting by www.ebookpartnership.com

  cover design by Ana Grigoriu www.books-design.com

  In memory of my sister Bryony, who deserved better

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  1

  There were too many brown-noses on the Blue Skies Brainstorming Group for any good to come of it.

  New boss Ed Smithies chaired the meeting. He was a pudgy, oily man with sinister white teeth, and a grating nasal whine of a voice. Few participants spoke, let alone challenged him. Instead, the gutless toadies dutifully transcribed his bombastic droning with their Pearson Malone plastic pens.

  I’d been flattered when they asked me to join—it meant I was passing as normal. But an hour into the opening session, the urge to pass as normal was waning fast.

  Smithies wittered on about diversity, though we already employed opportunistic robots of every imaginable colour, religion or sexual orientation.

  ‘And you’re one of them.’

  I jumped at the eerily familiar female voice, which came from by the window. Everyone else carried on, oblivious.

  ‘Go on—prove you’re not—tell them what idiots they are.’

  Not a wise idea, I thought, whoever the heck you are. And yet the suggestion was strangely appealing.

  ‘You do realise playing safe might be a high-risk option.’

  Yes—I’d felt that lately—not high risk for my career, you understand, but somehow high risk for me, as an individual.

  ‘Look, you guys,’ I said, succumbing to temptation. ‘Diversity doesn’t mean filling every job vacancy with a black lesbian in a wheelchair. It’s not some box-ticking formulaic exercise—it’s about people.’

  A torpid wasp buzzed round the curled-up remnants of the sandwiches, breaking the silence as everyone waited on Smithies for their cue.

  ‘Does anyone else find that comment offensive?’ he asked, wrinkling his nose in disdain.

  The puppets bobbed their heads in unison.

  ‘That’s bonkers—how can you hire disabled black lesbians if you’re not allowed to mention them?’

  An excellent point.

  ‘I think Amy meant to say diversity isn’t necessarily visible. You can’t always see why someone is different.’

  This trite observation came from Isabelle Edwards, the most junior committee member. She was a doll-like blonde who’d captained the women’s hockey team at Oxford and still emerged with a double first. Who asked this little upstart with her flawless French manicure and prissy pearl drop earrings to act as my unofficial interpreter? If I’d meant that, I’d have said it. I was, after all, the world’s leading expert on appearing the same and being different.

  ‘Egg-zackly,’ said Smithies. He gave Isabelle an appreciative little glance. ‘Although why Amy couldn’t have expressed herself less provocatively…’

  He broke off, as his bleak lizard eyes fixed on me, penetrating through the bravado to the quaking mess within. The invisible speaker cast her shadow onto the board table and then retreated.

  And that was the moment, before Isabelle was even dead, when I peered down into the abyss and realised I was running on thin air.

  2

  No way would I let Smithies spook me again—he might be the boss, but I was no underdog. More than a hundred people reported to me as head of the Entrepreneurs Tax Advisory Group, and you don’t end up in a job like that by being a pushover.

  Mind you, Smithies was no patsy either. Since moving from the Manchester office two years before, he’d systematically clawed his way into the role of Head of London Tax. Already, his “decisive management style” stood out in sharp relief against the non-interventionist approach of his predecessor, John Venner. And I knew, as you always do, that my intense and visceral loathing of him was reciprocated.

  A week later we sat in Rules, ostensibly to discuss the staff pay review over lunch. The place was full of paunchy, grey-suited men guzzling hearty meat pies and rotting game birds. As I’d specifically asked my secretary to tell him I didn’t eat red meat, I could only interpret Smithies’ choice of venue as a hostile act. But perhaps I was being oversensitive.

  Plaice fillet.

  ‘You can’t come here and eat fish,’ he said, appalled, before ordering roast rack of lamb for himself.

  ‘If it’s on the menu, I can have it.’

  ‘Any starter?’

  ‘Not for me.’

  ‘Me neither. But I think I might stretch to a glass of wine—how about you?’

  I waved aside this miserly token of his esteem—Venner would have ordered a bottle.

  ‘Water for me, thanks.’

  ‘Very wise,’ he said, ‘to keep the booze under control.’

  Smithies made a ridiculous show of asking for tap water. On the face of it, his reluctance to part with three pounds fifty for a bottle jarred with the Savile Row suit and Rolex watch, particularly as he would charge lunch to the firm. But this was an exercise in domination rather than frugality.

  ‘Certainly, sir,’ said the waiter. His gaze met mine for an instant—the knowing contemplation of a man who was likely writing a PhD thesis on Wittgenstein when he wasn’t waiting tables.

  Now Smithies directed his attention towards me.

  ‘So tell me, Amy,’ he said, flashing his flawless teeth in a reptilian grin, ‘are you destabilised by the management changes?’

  They say never smile at a crocodile. But it’s hard not to when it smiles at you.

  ‘Why, of course not,’ I assured him. ‘Should I be?’

 
; Smithies’ predecessor had left in a hurry to join the board of a client, amid rumours he’d been caught downloading child porn on his computer. You work closely with someone for years and think you know him well, but sometimes you’re mistaken—so his departure was surprising, but hardly destabilising.

  ‘You seemed on edge in the meeting last week.’

  ‘No, not at all.’

  ‘Well, you know what they say—perception is reality.’

  ‘But everyone’s perception is different isn’t it?’ I countered, perhaps unwisely.

  ‘Egg-zackly. And so when several independent people have the same impression, it’s liable to be correct.’

  Therein lay the power of this stale leadership maxim. Someone important formed a negative view, others “independently” followed, and it quickly became established as the truth.

  ‘And while we’re on the subject of perception,’ he added, ‘I’m afraid we’ll have to let you go from the Blue Skies committee. A number of people complained to me afterwards about your inappropriate comment.’

  The number was almost certainly zero, but I didn’t care anyway.

  ‘Fine with me.’

  So far, I’d handled him with ease.

  ‘Now, I am a bit tight on time,’ I told him, consulting my watch. It was an Omega not Rolex, but then my profit share was less than half Smithies’. ‘So shall we get down to the main business?’

  But Smithies was reluctant to abandon his attempts to unnerve me.

  ‘Yes, but naturally, it goes without saying that if you ever feel unduly stressed by things, just say the word...’

  His fake avuncular concern grated as much as the tenor of his voice—after all, at forty he was only two years older than me.

  ‘I’m perfectly OK, thanks.’

  He held my gaze for a moment, probing the turmoil inside. But that only stiffened my determination—he couldn’t see, he couldn’t know the insecurity that plagued me. Sure, pretending to be normal was tough sometimes, especially when you had no clue what normal meant, but I’d done a pretty effective job of it so far. I would not allow this pompous, tubby little man to freak me out.

  ‘Now before we talk about the promotions, I have some excellent news—a marvellous opportunity for you.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ I said, with a jaded cynicism I hoped he hadn’t detected.

  ‘You’ve heard of JJ Resources?’

  I had. It was a large private company in the construction business and an established Pearson Malone client.

  ‘Now Venner’s gone we need a new tax partner. If you can pass muster with Jim Jupp himself, you’re in.’

  JJ would have been a plum client, but FTSE-listed Megabuilders Plc had recently bid to take them over. After the deal, Megabuilders’ in-house department would take care of their tax work. And in the meantime, I would be stuck overseeing the responses to the purchaser’s due diligence questions and reviewing dreary tax warranties and indemnities. It wasn’t even as though the Jupp family shareholders needed any sexy tax planning done—that had long since been organised.

  ‘The company’s being sold,’ I said. ‘So it won’t be a client for much longer, will it?’

  ‘Such defeatist talk,’ said Smithies. ‘It’s up to you to use this opportunity to develop a relationship with Megabuilders so they’ll use us going forward.’

  Unlikely.

  ‘Can’t Lisa Carter run with it?’

  Lisa, the lynchpin of the JJ client team, was a director in my group. She was also my protégée and the closest approximation to a friend I had in Pearson Malone, or indeed anywhere.

  ‘Not appropriate, in the circumstances.’

  ‘I see,’ I said, although I didn’t see at all.

  ‘Eric Bailey thought you’d be ideal,’ he added, by way of encouragement.

  I drew no comfort from this. Bailey, UK CEO of our firm, operated on a feudal system, handing out favours to his henchmen in exchange for their undying loyalty. It was dangerous to be the recipient of his largesse because of what might be demanded in return—particularly in this case. Everyone knew that Bailey and Jim Jupp, JJ Resources’ CEO, were best buddies. And while this personal connection strictly precluded any involvement with the client account, Bailey had no time for such tedious technicalities. He would interfere when it suited him and there’d be hell to pay if something went wrong.

  If that wasn’t bad enough, Greg, my ex-husband, led the Corporate Finance team advising JJ on the Megabuilders transaction. I was bound to have a degree of contact with him during the process. Was Smithies trying to manufacture complications in my life? And if he truly believed I was ‘on edge’, why burden me with more work?

  I quelled the internal sniping. What had got into me? This was a simple request to take on a client.

  ‘I’m pleased to have the opportunity,’ I said with Oscar-winning sincerity.

  Yet still the queasy intuition gnawed at my guts.

  ‘Fish alright?’ he asked, his chubby fingers working to prise his meat from the bones and sinew. My stomach heaved—lamb was the worst for me.

  ‘Lovely, thanks.’

  ‘Tricky staying slim once you reach a certain age, isn’t it? No surprise that so many women end up with eating disorders.’

  ‘Not me,’ I said, prickling instinctively. Could I have an eating disorder without realising it, which Smithies had identified? He had this knack of making me doubt myself.

  ‘Well, he’s not suffering from an eating disorder, that’s for sure,’ piped up the little voice from last week’s meeting. ‘Look at the size of that belly.’

  She was spot on—his rotund physique must have presented his tailor with a considerable challenge. Still, the moment had passed for a pithy response.

  ‘On the whole, you’ve made a fair attempt at these promotions,’ he said, at last getting to the main point of the meeting. ‘Far from easy in an economic downturn, so well done.’

  He had no more experience of recessions than I did, but this didn’t stop him from patronising me.

  ‘Though a couple of them jumped out at me as anomalous.’

  ‘Which?’

  ‘Ryan Kelly—promotion to manager. I struggle to understand how such a major promotion is appropriate after that dreadful business in Daly’s wine bar.’

  There was no reason for Smithies be aware of the incident, but somehow he seemed remarkably well informed about everything.

  ‘You’re talking about the last appraisal period—he’s really got his act together now, and we graded him as “meets expectations” this time around. Anyway, Daly’s was outside office hours.’

  ‘And it was your Jimmy Choos he puked on, so you should decide if it screws his career,’ came the little voice again.

  ‘I’m sure I don’t need to remind you Amy—we are all ambassadors of the firm, twenty-four-seven. And I made it crystal clear that only those graded “above average” would be eligible for major promotions.’

  ‘Yes, but…’

  I’d also understood some exceptions would be allowed, but he choked me off before I had a chance to say so.

  ‘You should have pressed for him to be graded higher in his appraisal if you felt so strongly.’

  ‘I wish I had now. Ryan is way better than some guys in other groups who were ranked as above average,’ I said, thinking of the worthless sycophants in Smithies’ old section.

  ‘I very much doubt that,’ Smithies said dismissively. ‘And you do need to be unbiased, even though Ryan’s related to you…’

  Ah yes, I should have mentioned. Ryan was my ex-husband Greg’s kid brother. But by God, Smithies was crafty, trying to manipulate me by suggesting nepotism was at work.

  ‘I am unbiased.’

  ‘And even Greg thinks Ryan’s a moron, so no need for you to stick up for him on his account.’

  ‘All the more reason to defend him, I should have thought.’

  ‘Then there’s Isabelle Edwards—you’re promoting her from one manager subgrade to ano
ther.’

  If Smithies needed proof of my impartiality, this was it. I hated the suave little bitch, but I’d recommended her for promotion anyway.

  ‘You can’t have an issue with her—surely. We graded her as outstanding...’

  ‘Plus she’s cosied up to slimy Smithies.’

  ‘Precisely my point—we need to sort the sheep from the goats—we should double promote her to senior manager.’

  Smithies had told us all “for the avoidance of doubt” that double promotions would be vetoed in these straitened economic conditions. So this latest U-turn caught me unawares.

  ‘But I thought…’

  ‘You evidently haven’t thought at all, or used any imagination. The promotions process is not some box ticking, formulaic exercise—this is about people.’

  ‘Bloody cheek, pinching your words,’ piped up the little voice once more.

  Too right—especially when done with no apparent irony.

  ‘Is this from the man obsessed with Bell curves and normal distributions?’ I challenged him, emboldened.

  ‘That’s different,’ he replied, with a satisfying level of defensiveness in his voice. ‘We had a significant problem when I took over—eighty percent of our people were graded “above average” in the previous appraisal round.’

  ‘Hey—they might be if the other twenty percent are completely useless.’

  ‘Mathematically, that’s perfectly possible,’ I said, without thinking.

  He eyed me suspiciously. I wasn’t sure where this cheeky disembodied voice was coming from and why I let her egg me on. Did I have some kind of subconscious death wish? For sure, if I valued my own survival in the Smithies regime, I would have to rein her in.

  ‘We digress,’ he said. ‘I take it you’re not happy with a double promotion for Isabelle.’

  ‘It could cause some ill feeling. I guess you don’t know Ryan and Isabelle are an item…’

  ‘I did know—and I can’t see it’s relevant. If the relationship endures, which frankly I doubt, for various reasons—he’ll have to get used to her leapfrogging through the grades.’

  ‘But you said no double promotions…’

  ‘There are always exceptions,’ he said. ‘And Isabelle Edwards is a most exceptional young lady, in all respects…’