A Class Act Read online

  A Class Act

  A Square Mile novel

  January James

  January James

  Copyright © 2020 by January James

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  For my husband and daughter. My world x

  Contents

  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

  Thank you

  Reading Group questions

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Lottie turned her back to the room and pretended to fish around for a notebook.

  “Saaariously,” Savannah sniffed. “How bloody typical is that?” Her beach-tousled bob, artfully highlighted by Matthew at Charles Worthington, bounced around her head as she shook it. “I finally get to be involved with a business where we can work with, you know, under-privileged schools, and none of us bloody know what a comprehensive school curriculum even looks like!”

  Olivia peered over the top of her thick-rimmed glasses and sighed. “Have you tried HR? They must have a record of the schools everyone’s been to. It seems a bit far-fetched that everyone at Falcon went to private school.”

  “I’ve tried! They’re not allowed to give me names they said. Data protection ‘of course’.” Savannah made quote marks with her fingers and pulled a face.

  Bea looked up, her auburn curls framing a discreetly filled and plumped pair of cheeks, shown off to perfection with a light sweeping of Nars Orgasm blush. “There must be someone in the building who went to a state school, surely. I mean, these people must end up somewhere.”

  Lottie’s search for the notebook intensified.

  “How about Rob Marsden in Sales?” Bea suggested. “He doesn’t strike me as the public-school type.”

  “Are you kidding?” Savannah gasped. “He’s Harrovian! I mean, okay, rumour has it his parents sold everything to get him in, and there’s no lineage to speak of, but he’s definitely a Harrow boy.”

  “There must be someone. Who’s new?” Bea mused, her freshly manicured nails tapping at the desk.

  “Jemima’s fairly new,” Olivia suggested. “Ed’s PA.”

  Savannah frowned just as far as her facialist would allow. “With a wardrobe like that on a PA’s salary, I doubt her parents sent her to a lowly comp.” She glided her eyes across to where Lottie was bent double, her head and shoulders hidden beneath her desk. “Do you know anyone, Lottie?” Savannah said, then added: “Actually, come to think of it, where did you go to school?”

  Lottie’s heart sped up. She knew she’d be asked a question like this eventually, and she was ready. She’d spent three years crafting a plausible past and rehearsing it day and night until she could recite it in her sleep. She abandoned the notebook search and sat up, breathless.

  “What’s that, darling?”

  “Schools, Lots. Where did you go? And do you …” Savannah crossed her fingers dramatically and squeaked, “know anyone who went to a comp?”

  “I’m sorry Sav, I don’t know anyone like that, I’m afraid. I’m an Ardingly girl.”

  “Nice,” Bea nodded approvingly. “That’s a great school. Did you board?”

  “Not at first, but you know, with the weekend activities and house comps, it just made sense to board after a while.”

  “Totes agree. I did the same when mummy and daddy moved to Africa. Would have been quite the commute otherwise!”

  “God, yes,” Lottie laughed lightly and turned to her screen. She knew what the girls were thinking without looking up. They’d put Lottie firmly into a box – a box for people like them: wealthy, privileged, privately educated. Lottie knew this was how the upper echelons of society worked. Where a person attended school said everything about them – everything that mattered anyway; namely how well off they were and how far up the tree of privilege they sat. Lottie knew this, and she’d prepared.

  Thanks to years of study and countless nights spent with Debretts, The Times and Tatler, Lottie had become an expert in upper and middle-class society. She knew that Ardingly College was a lower key bet than Marlborough – at least since the Middleton sisters had graced the halls. It wasn’t Ampleforth, the school Olivia and Bea had attended two years apart; nor was it St George’s, where Savannah had followed in the footsteps of Princess Beatrice. Ardingly was safe. It was less conspicuous than Cheltenham, less exclusive than Gordonstoun. There had been one slight risk. Savannah’s family friend Lady Lola Douglas had moved to Ardingly for her final year but was allegedly so reclusive after being bullied at her previous school, Lola wouldn’t have been aware if Lottie had attended or not. Lottie had researched it all. Fuelled by an obsessive fear of being discovered for who she truly was, she’d made it her business to know everyone else’s.

  “There’s a comp in north London,” Lottie said. “Hampstead School. Why not try there?”

  “Fine,” Savannah sighed. “It would be nice to have some sort of a link, but I suppose if we really don’t know anyone, a cold call will have to do!”

  Lottie turned her attention back to her client report. The adrenalin she’d felt at telling a lie had mellowed to a warm buzz. Her story – even just a snippet like the school she’d supposedly attended – felt good and right. It was important for her new image, for the life she’d been planning ever since she’d left home five years ago, to fit in with the right people.

  The right people had wealth, connections and, most importantly, careers. In Lottie’s eyes Olivia, Savannah and Bea had two-and-a-half out of three. They had the wealthy parents, they were part of privileged society circles, and they were working at one of the City’s most exciting firms. But they weren’t pursuing careers and none of them had the same fire in their bellies that Lottie had. They were merely playing at being marketing execs while they waited for their respective Prince Charming’s to come along, with country estate, city pad and a loose connection to the royals in tow. Then again, Lottie reflected, none of them needed to work at all; none of them needed careers, a regular salary or a professional reputation. Unlike her. Lottie knew if she hadn’t fabricated some of her CV, she wouldn’t have been given the time of day by Falcon’s recruitment team. Despite the fact it was nearly 2020, and as much as they’d argue otherwise, the team wouldn’t have hired someone whose background included a criminal record and two months in a secure centre.

  “Guys,” Olivia whispered. “Carmel’s got a visitor.”

  The four girls looked over to where their VP Marketing sat, talking quietly to a man standing over her desk. It was Marcus Armstrong, founder and CEO of Falcon Group, and the sole reason most of the staff – women and men alike – had joined the business.

  “Oh my, is it possible he can look even hotter from the back than the front?” Bea sighed.

  “It’s all that working out,” Savannah replied. “Look at the muscles in his shoulders. He’s got a bit of a tan too.”

  Bea nodded. “He was in St Tropez with Annabel at the weekend – I saw the photos online.”

  “Gawd, I’m not sure I’d want to look,” Savannah said, still gazing over to where Marcus stood in the far corner of the office. “The sight of Annabel Gainsborough in a bikini is bad enough for my self-esteem without having to see more of a man I already have far too many filthy thoughts about.”

  “Savvy!” Olivia gasped.

  “What?” Savannah looked back at her, perplexed. “Don’t we all? I mean, we’re only bloody human for God’s sake. That man can stimulate my pheromones from a mile away, I swear.”

  “Incoming!” Bea shrilled, as they watched Carmel point Marcus in their direction. They all buried their heads into their screens as the distinctive click of Oliver Peoples brogues approached. It bounced off the polished floor and gleaming desks, like the light coming in through the large sash windows. Lottie’s first thought when she’d entered the offices on her first day was how much Falcon’s interior looked like that of an Apple store – expensive, full of genius and completely unattainable, much like the man who owned it all.

  Olivia was the first to look up. She pushed her glasses up her nose and smiled broadly. Bea pouted her freshly filled lips and fluttered a hand through her curls, giving it instant volume. Lottie envied Bea’s ability to do that. Her own fine, chestnut hair resisted most attempts at tousling and general preening, so she’d given up trying to make it do anything other than hang sleekly around her shoulders. Savannah adopted her prowling pose; her butt pushed out behind her and her chest thrust forward as she located a strand of glossy blonde hair and twirled it seductively around her fingers.

  The rich scent of Tom Ford Ner
oli Portofino filled the air as the footsteps stopped by Lottie’s desk and she looked up, determined to fight off the blush threatening to creep up her neck. Marcus’s six-foot-three frame stood solidly in front of her, his toned biceps clearly visible beneath his navy Ralph Lauren Polo shirt. Falcon was one of the City’s most successful investment firms, but Marcus insisted on, and role-modelled, a casual dress policy. His warm brown hair, curled boyishly at the ends, always looked one trim away from unkempt. And regular weekends networking on yachts in the south of France had given him a permanent caramel glow which made his pale blue eyes stand out like pots of silver ink.

  Lottie had known this about Marcus Armstrong before she’d joined Falcon. He was lauded obsessively in the society columns for his good looks and famous charisma, but she’d never expected him to be so disarming in the flesh. It took every ounce of willpower to not give in to her baser instincts and adopt a more flirtatious presence around him. She had to continually remind herself that while this man was the reason she’d chosen Falcon, it wasn’t because of his looks.

  Marcus Armstrong was one of London’s most successful entrepreneurs. Not only was he a regular entry into Tatler’s list of the UK’s most eligible bachelors, he was an incredibly successful investor, a financial genius and the rocket fuel behind more than three hundred start-up businesses. He’d been listed in Fortune Magazine’s Top 40 under 40 three years in a row and won The Times Businessperson of the Year. He’d taken the square mile by storm. Women saved photos of him to their phones while men tried in vain to emulate his style and mannerisms. He was the most powerful – and therefore, arguably, the sexiest – entrepreneur the British banking industry had seen in a decade.

  He was also the moodiest, most impossible-to-please person Lottie had ever come across in her life. His impatience was legendary and his temper alarmingly unpredictable. Lottie had lost count of the times she’d seen colleagues return to their desks in tears after meeting with Marcus. He wanted only the best, all the time. He had no tolerance for mistakes, no capacity for second chances. He was ruthless, but it had got him to where he was today; just thirty years old and at the top of his game.

  Lottie had read every article she could find about Marcus Armstrong. She knew he’d started Falcon Group fresh out of a grad placement at Merrill Lynch, growing it to a £300 million success story in just six years. She knew he’d broken the mould of traditional investment banking. Falcon’s Venture Capital arm was the first to create an in-house agency of specialists who advised entrepreneurs on everything from branding and marketing to supply chain and sustainability. With so much competition to snap up the newest hot deals in the tech start-up space, this in-house agency gave Falcon the edge every time.

  Lottie had studied the way Marcus worked. She knew every business he’d invested in – who ran them, how they performed. She’d learned from Falcon’s successes and mistakes. She was Marcus’s protégée; he just didn’t know it yet. And now she was here, working for the man himself, starting out in a career she’d dreamed about since leaving the secure centre five years ago.

  Working at Falcon was exhilarating. In two short months Lottie had helped to promote a mouth-watering mix of brand-new businesses. During daylight hours she did everything asked of her, and more. She made tea, filed documents, typed up investor reports and marketing plans. Her evenings and weekends were consumed with reading, planning and researching. She was always the first to know about a new start-up on the scene, a new investment coup, an exciting entrepreneur. She knew Falcon’s competitors inside out and had a keen eye for industry trends. She knew before anyone else what was happening in San Fran, Mumbai and Berlin – not just London. Lottie’s passion for the start-up scene was unrivalled.

  “Mr Armstrong,” she smiled. “How are you today?”

  “Good,” he replied. “I want to see the latest materials for Makeover. Who’s working on it?”

  “I am, Mr Armstrong,” Lottie replied.

  “And you are?”

  Lottie swallowed any small hint of disappointment. Of course he didn’t know who she was. Marcus Armstrong employed hundreds of staff.

  “Charlotte, sir. Charlotte Matheson. But everyone calls me Lottie.”

  “Right,” he replied, as though he couldn’t have cared less. “Do you have the second half brand creative? Keeley’s coming in this afternoon, so I’d like to show it to her myself.”

  “I have it here,” said Lottie, uncrossing her legs to stand. She could feel Marcus’s eyes follow her as she opened a cupboard and pulled out a neat pile of printed artwork - website skins, banner ads and email mock-ups. He scrutinised each piece as she handed them over.

  “Why haven’t I seen these before?” He snapped, not looking up.

  Lottie swallowed. His tone felt like a punch in the stomach. “I wasn’t sure you’d want to see them, Mr Armstrong. I know how busy you are.”

  “I’m never too busy to see the work we’re turning out,” he looked up, his eyes piercing into Lottie’s like daggers.

  “I apologise. I’ll make sure you get to sign off all work in future,” she said, sounding as confident and determined as she could.

  “I’m not saying I need to sign it off,” he sighed, exasperated. “I just want to see it before the client does. The last thing I want is for a founder to be talking to me about something I’m not aware of.”

  “I understand,” Lottie replied, firmly. She refused to wilt in front of anyone, no matter how intimidating. And Marcus was very intimidating. It wasn’t just his physical presence as he towered over her and the permanent echo of dissatisfaction in his voice; it was in everything that surrounded her – the building, the desks, the TVs hung around the walls, the awards that graced every floor. It was all ultimately Marcus’s work, Marcus’s possession. It was intoxicating and petrifying at the same time.

  “When is the roll-out?” He asked.

  “The first of September,” she replied. “To kick off our autumn season.”

  Marcus’s pale blue eyes narrowed, revealing a few delicate lines at the corners. “Where’s the timeline?”

  “It’s right here.” Lottie turned back to her desk and tapped a few keys on her MacBook, mentally cursing herself for not having a hard copy to hand. She was keenly aware she was bending over in front of her CEO, her jeans straining slightly around her curves. She stepped aside to let Marcus view the screen. He was close enough that she could feel the warmth of his chest and smell the leather notes of his fragrance radiating from his collar bone.

  “Email it to me,” he said, straightening up and pushing back a curl that had dropped on to his brow. Lottie nodded, feeling the close proximity she had with Marcus Armstrong making her stomach flip. Stop it, she scolded herself; he’s your boss.

  “Of course, Mr Armstrong. I’ll do it now.”

  “Thanks,” he said, looking anything but thankful. “And next time, don’t let any work reach the client before I’ve seen it first. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir. Of course.”

  Marcus glared at her one last time before turning on his heel and walking away, leaving Lottie to exhale a deep breath she’d held for too long.

  “Well done, Lottie,” Olivia said kindly. “He’s like that with everyone, don’t take it personally.”

  “Oh no, I totally get it,” Lottie shook her head. “I’d assumed Carmel showed him everything. I’ll make sure I show him the work in future.”

  “You know how busy she is. You handled it so well, Lots,” Savannah added. “I would have been a gibbering wreck. I hate confrontation. And as hot as he is, he’s pretty terrifying.”

  Bea watched as Lottie sat down. “At least he spoke to you,” she said, with an edge in her voice. “He doesn’t normally speak to anyone but Carmel. He probably said more to you in those five minutes than he’s said to all of us in two years.”