Lottie wound her way through the crowded streets of Borough. The smell of ale and cigarette smoke hung in the air and the crisp January breeze wrapped round her face as she arrived at Moorgate station. From her stop at Alexandra Palace it was a short walk to Wood Green. Lottie kept her address to herself. If anyone asked, she lived in Highgate – a much more appropriate location for her new image. And if anyone pressed further, she’d grown up in Kent, the daughter of a construction business owner. She was playing the role of a commoner, but a privileged and privately educated one at that. It was plausible enough to make Lottie interesting to the right people, but not so interesting as to invite many questions. In reality, there was no way she could afford to live in even a one-bedroom flat in Highgate, but no-one needed to know that. Highgate might have been home to money, but a Wood Green address was a fraction of the price.
She’d moved into the flat after graduating from UCL where she’d spent the entire three years befriending no-one, studying hard, researching her new life and perfecting an English public-school accent so clipped no-one would think to question it. The perfect accent came free of charge, but not much else did. With very little money Lottie had to be creative with buys from high street stores and charity shops. Business wasn’t Lottie’s only passion; her second love was thrift shopping. Borne out of necessity, Lottie’s charity shop and flea market habit had fast become a hobby, and one she was incredibly good at. She knew exactly where to shop for the second-hand cast-offs of London’s rich and famous, and she cleverly bought classic pieces that would stand the test of time. Both her home and wardrobe were elegantly curated showcases of second-hand chic.
“Lottie, have you got a minute?”
Lottie spun round, her key in mid-air, to see her landlady hovering just metres away.
“Hi, Mrs Ali. Of course. Come inside.”
Lottie unlocked the door and let the older lady into the kitchen.
“Lovely evening, isn’t it?” Lottie asked, her manners disguising her nerves. She silently prayed Mrs Ali wasn’t about to give notice; Lottie was unlikely to find another flat at this price so close to a tube station.
“It is, yes. A little unusual for this time of year!”
“Would you like a cup of tea?” Lottie asked, hoping the answer would be no. She really wanted to make a start on the Makeover proposal.
“No, no, I’m fine thank you.” Mrs Ali bent her head around the door to the living room. “You’re keeping this place very nice. I love the little cocktail table in the corner.”
“Oh, thank you,” Lottie smiled. “I carried it all the way home from Portobello Market in the pouring rain, but it was worth it.”
“Well, you have very nice taste, Miss Matheson.”
Lottie motioned towards the living room. “Would you like to sit down?”
“No, thank you, but I won’t stay,” Mrs Ali shook her head and shifted slightly from foot to foot. “I just wanted to make you aware of something.”
“Oh?” Lottie was intrigued. “Is everything okay?”
“Well, I hope so. It’s just, well, there’s been someone hanging around outside the flat the last couple of weeks. A young man …”
Lottie poured herself a glass of water and took a sip.
“He was asking the neighbours if someone called Charlie Matheson lived here.”
Lottie gripped her glass.
“I assume he means you,” Mrs Ali went on. “I know you prefer Lottie, but your full name is Charlotte, which can be shortened to Charlie, can’t it?”
“Yes, I suppose it can be,” Lottie replied, tentatively.
“Well, he seems very keen to see you. He’s about your age, blonde hair, a little, um, round. And nervous. Very nervous.”
Lottie’s pulse began to throb in her ears. “Did he leave his name with anyone?” She asked. “Or contact details?”
“No, but one of the neighbours gave him a description of you so he likely knows you live here. Does it sound like someone you know?”
Lottie placed her glass on the counter carefully. “He could be an old friend but I’m not sure.”
“Ah! Well that must be lovely for you. I’ve noticed you never have any visitors; it must be nice to have someone round.”
Lottie forced a polite smile. “Yes, absolutely. Well, if you see him again, please could you ask for his name and number? If it is who I think it is, it would be nice to catch up with him.”
“Of course. I’ve been seeing him every other day so I will ask for you. And if it isn’t who you think it is, maybe we should call the police. It’s not good to have someone hanging around all the time, looking the way he does. I mean, no offence to your friend but he looks a little, um, homeless.”
Lottie bristled. “Right. Of course. I completely understand.”
She moved towards the door, eager to end the conversation. “Thank you for letting me know Mrs Ali, I really appreciate it.”
Lottie closed the door and leaned back against the kitchen counter, covering her face with her hands. It was Jacob. It had to be. How the hell had he found her? She’d worked so hard to cover her tracks, regularly changing her mobile number and personal email address, even giving false forwarding addresses to the secure unit at Dogsmoor and the University. Why did he have to show up now? She’d just landed the job of her dreams and, only today, this assignment briefed by Marcus Armstrong himself; the timing couldn’t be worse. She pushed her hair back from her face and took a deep breath. Jacob was the only link she had left to her mother, and it was a link she didn’t want. If he was trying to track her down, something must be wrong. And as much as Lottie hated her mother for everything she’d done, she wouldn’t wish for anything bad to happen to her.
Lottie really didn’t need this right now, not with a marathon working weekend ahead of her. Screw the water, she thought, pouring it down the sink. And screw a clear mind. She sometimes worked better, and longer, with a bit of alcohol inside her. She opened a cupboard and took out a bottle of sauvignon blanc. For the next few hours, she decided, Jacob Kavanagh would not exist.
It was 3am when Lottie emerged from behind her laptop. She cast an eye over the report. It was impressive even by her own standards. Lottie had uncovered every possible retailer and online marketplace that would benefit from a version of Makeover. She’d obtained their sales figures, details about their operating models, their investors. She’d researched their board members and their senior leadership teams. She now suspected which businesses would go under in the next few years and which ones would innovate to survive.
She’d then summarised them into a list of top thirty targets. And once Marcus had approved the list, she’d already obtained the names of every commercial chief, every CTO and, failing those, every Chief Exec and Chairman. She’d written her pitch to the retailers, outlining all the arguments they wouldn’t be able to say no to, and she’d drafted her numbers. Marcus would challenge them, she knew that. So, she had a counter proposal in her back pocket. She was ready.
Lottie re-read through her email to Marcus, double-checked the attachments and hit send, her heart thumping. She was desperate to impress him, to make him see she had potential, way beyond the junior work she was being assigned now. Seeing and speaking to him in the flesh had only fuelled her desire to become the best she could.
As the dawn light streamed through the curtains, Lottie stretched out on the sofa where she’d fallen asleep after hitting the send button. She padded barefoot to the kitchen and made herself some toast and a coffee. Then more out of habit than with any real objective, she opened her MacBook and typed her password out with one buttery finger. Her inbox appeared, clear, except for one new email:
From: Marcus Armstrong. Subject: RE: Makeover licensing proposal. Time: 05:24.
Lottie sat up, adrenalin pumping through her veins. She felt suddenly sick. What if he hated her proposal? She would never get another chance like this to impress Marcus Armstrong; this was it. She silently wished she hadn’t sent it so soon. It had been late, she was tired. She should have slept on it then reviewed it in the morning. But it was too late now. Lottie took a deep breath and clicked open the email.
“See me in my office Monday 7.30am.”
Blunt. Without pleasantries. And with a million lines to read between. Why couldn’t he have given her some indication of his thoughts instead of reasons to worry for the next two days? She pushed her unfinished toast aside and pulled a blanket over herself, falling eventually into a chequered, anxious sleep.
Lottie checked her reflection in the doors of the lift. As they opened on the fifth floor, an atmosphere of calm efficiency greeted her. It was quiet still, with only the sound of a few personal assistants setting up their desks and coffee being ground at the far end of the floor. Her shoes made soft clicks across the polished tiles, causing one PA to raise her head. Not recognising Lottie, she turned back to the task in hand, an unresponsive desktop computer. Seconds later she spoke into her headset. “It’s Lola, Bertie Barrington’s PA. Can you get someone from IT up here please?”
Lottie continued in the direction of Marcus’s huge and unmistakeable office in the far corner. She recognised Janet Rod-Pelly, Marcus’s PA, as she strode into view from the direction of the coffee grinding.
“Good morning, Janet,” said Lottie as she approached. “I have a seven thirty with Mr Armstrong. Lottie Matheson.”
“Ah, good morning Lottie. He’s just popped down to the first floor. He won’t be long. Why don’t you wait in his office?” She opened the door for Lottie then followed her inside. Lottie stifled a gasp as she took in what was the Falcon equivalent of the oval office. A long antique-oak boardroom table stretched out before her, surrounded by sixteen Fritz Hansen chairs. Each chair faced a fresh, black branded Moleskine notebook, engraved silver Urban Parker pen and a crystal tumbler.
“Take a seat. He’ll be here shortly.”
Lottie pulled out one of the chairs and seated herself gently, taking in the Falcon grey walls, the giant orchids and the handful of original artworks hanging on each side.
“That’s a beautiful landscape,” Lottie said, gesturing towards a large, intricate oil painting.
“Ah yes, stunning isn’t it?” Janet replied. “It’s Kinross in Scotland.”
Lottie recognised it almost straight away. “Is that a significant place for Mr Armstrong?” She pressed, knowing full well it was.
“It is, yes,” Janet said, turning to look at the painting. “Marcus lived on the estate when he was a boy; it was his family home.”
“It looks utterly tranquil; it must be so restful to return to,” Lottie said.
“He does return to Scotland for the occasional break but not to Kinross. His family doesn’t live there anymore.”
“Ah, I see. Did they move to another estate?” Lottie asked as casually as she could. She knew the answer but not the reason why, and despite the years of research she’d conducted into Marcus and his background, she’d never discovered why the family had downsized so dramatically.
“No, not exactly…” Janet began but stopped as a shadow filled the doorway. Lottie turned to see Marcus walking into the room, filling it completely with his presence. He was wearing a thin white linen shirt tucked into loose grey pants and sporting a layer of stubble around his jawline. His eyes swept over Lottie before landing on Janet, expectantly.
“Here’s your coffee, Marcus,” she said, hurrying over and placing the mug at the head of the table. Can I get you anything, Lottie?”
“Just a glass of water please, Janet.”
“Help yourself to any of the bottles on the table,” she smiled. Then added, looking at Marcus, “I’ll replenish them after your meeting.”
Fighting nerves, Lottie reached for the nearest bottle and poured herself a glass of sparkling water flavoured with a dash of elderflower, then turned to see Marcus’s eyes boring into her.
“Makeover,” he stated, as though buying time to recall the reason he’d requested the meeting.
“Yes, licensing.” Lottie reminded him. “I’ve printed my report if it’s helpful.”
“No, I don’t need to see it again.” Marcus’s expression was stern. Lottie felt a mist of sweat form on her palms.
“It was a fascinating read,” he continued. “Very thorough.”
Lottie held her breath and studied his face, but it gave nothing away. Did he think it was any good, or not? She found herself not just hoping he liked it, but hungrily craving his approval.
“I’d like you to go ahead with your proposal.”
“I’m sorry?” Lottie was stunned. She’d expected at least some challenge. “Are you happy with the numbers I projected?”
“Yes, they look fine to me.”
“Well, wow! That’s fantastic news,” she replied, not quite believing her ears. Where was the telling-off? Why wasn’t he listing all the things she’d overlooked? Then a thought occurred to her. “Mr Armstrong, I hope you don’t mind me asking … You’re a very busy man; why didn’t you just email me?”
Marcus sat back against the soft calf leather of the chair, his eyes still trained on Lottie. He paused to consider how honest he should be. Marcus had seen talent in the report that he hadn’t come across in any of his other employees, not even his directors. This junior exec had carried out extensive research, analysed it and compiled an outstanding fifteen-page report by 3am Saturday morning. It showed passion and ambition. If Marcus was truly honest with himself, Charlotte Matheson had reminded him of a spark he used to have before the corporate grind had begun to wear him down. He’d felt a glimmer of the buzz he used to feel back when he first started Falcon, when he first experienced the joy of discovering incredible ideas and genius entrepreneurs, the thrill of propelling them forward with cutting-edge strategies and industry-leading campaigns. Reading her report had brought it all back to him. It had made him feel nostalgic and excited. It had reminded him why he’d built Falcon in the first place.
“I want to know which of our investments you’re working on. I think you could add value to some of our other businesses.”
Lottie tried to swallow but her mouth was dry. She knew her report was good, but to have it signed off without challenge and then to hear from Marcus himself that she could add value elsewhere in the business, it was more than she’d dared to dream.
“Just Makeover and Lure.”
“Is that all?” Marcus frowned. “I thought our execs worked on three businesses minimum.”
“We do, usually, but I’ve only been with Falcon two months.”
“Oh!” Marcus raised his eyebrows in surprise. “You seem to know an awful lot about Makeover and the market. Where did you work before you joined us?”
Lottie’s pulse throbbed in her throat. “Nowhere. I’ve just graduated from UCL.”
Marcus held his face firm while her words sank in. It was impossible that this graduate, green as the rolling hills, had presented work that surpassed anything his middle management had ever turned out and rivalled the calibre of work his own senior leaders produced.
“Right,” he began, opening one of the notebooks and clicking a pen. “I’d like you on more projects. Is there anything you’re particularly interested in? I appreciate you won’t know all the businesses we work with, as you’re so new, but…”
“I know every single one of your investments, Mr Armstrong,” Lottie interrupted, realising the enormous opportunity laid out in front of her. Marcus looked up from his notebook, his pointed glare making her feel surprisingly weak.
“Forgive me for being blunt, Mr Armstrong; the business I would love, more than anything, to work on is Skilld. I really believe as a recruitment site it will play a leading role in abolishing CVs in favour of skills. It’s ground-breaking and I’d love to be a part of it.”
“Skilld isn’t one of our investments,” Marcus replied.
“Not yet it isn’t, but I know you’re interested, and you’d be mad not to invest.” Lottie leaned forward, her face becoming animated. “It’s going to turn the recruitment market on its head. Analysts are already starting to speculate on the demise of the big job sites – they’re too big to pivot and compete. And rumour has it a team in Palo Alto has already started to source investment to fund a rival site. But I don’t need to tell you this; I know you’re already speaking with the founder, Zac Morecambe-Cheney.”
Marcus cleared his throat. How the hell did she know all this? Even his own bloody analysts were behind the curve on the background. Marcus was still trying to convince the board to get behind the start-up. And here was this junior exec, barely out of Uni, who’d spotted the potential already and had the insights to back it up.
“Where did you get this information?” Marcus demanded.
“I read up. I’m part of networks. I live and breathe this stuff. I know you’ve been in talks for weeks now. If you don’t mind me asking, why is it taking so long?”
Marcus glared at her. He didn’t know whether to be impressed by her balls or incensed by the challenge. Charlotte Matheson had submitted an impressive report for Makeover and demonstrated insider knowledge on the situation with Skilld, but she was a junior employee – what right did she have to insult his pace? Admittedly, Falcon wasn’t as nimble as it used to be, but for God’s sake, he had a board to convince. Skilld needed a lot of investment; this wasn’t small fry even to a big VC like Falcon.
“There are others involved in the decision-making,” he replied, barely keeping the irritation out of his voice.
“Well, if you don’t invest soon, you might be too late. Genesis have submitted a term sheet. A very favourable one at that, I hear. You could lose the opportunity.”
Marcus clenched his fist beneath the desk. How the hell did she know that and why was she getting to him so much? He should have been pleased to have her passion and knowledge in his firm.
Lottie continued. “This is a unicorn, sir. It’s staring us in the face. Skilld is going to change the face of employment. People won’t be judged on their backgrounds, which school they attended or their job titles. They’ll be judged on their skills and their competencies.” The business idea was closer to Lottie’s heart than she cared to let on. “There’s no such thing as a career for life anymore,” she continued. “This is the future; it will make the world of recruitment much more fair and democratic.”
“I know all this,” Marcus hissed.
Lottie could sense he was getting angry, but she couldn’t stop herself. It was rare to get an audience with the CEO; if she didn’t say her piece now, she wasn’t sure she’d ever get another chance. He’d asked her what she wanted, and this was it.
“But do you know this …” she challenged. “Zac’s business model is missing a crucial segment. He’s going straight for businesses that do their own recruitment – paying for their own ads, using LinkedIn – but there’s a massive opportunity to partner with recruitment agencies and head-hunters. He can undercut the big job websites and take a fraction of the commission they charge, and still beat his first and second-year targets by eighty percent.”
Marcus did all he could to remain composed. On the one hand this junior exec was treading on thin ice, criticising his approach; on the other she was telling him something his analysts had so far overlooked. It was insight even the founder of Skilld had overlooked. She was right; there was competition to invest in Zac Morecambe-Cheney’s venture. Her observation could give Falcon the edge.
“Thank you for the valuable analysis, Miss Matheson,” Marcus snapped.
Lottie sat back and took a deep breath. “You asked me what I’d like to work on,” she stated, calmly. “Skilld. That’s my answer.”
Marcus sat still, his eyes boring into her. It felt so intense Lottie had to look away. After a few painful seconds of silence, Marcus spoke.
“Fine. I’m pulling together a small team to run through the business plan and outline how we can support it: Dan Buckingham, my VP Business Analysis, plus one of his team, and I wanted a marketing specialist, so that may as well be you.”
Lottie struggled to conceal her excitement. It had been a massive gamble, laying her cards on the table like that, but it had paid off.
“Oh my God,” she spluttered. “Thank you, so much. You won’t regret it, I promise.”
“This is only because I liked your report,” he warned. “You’re otherwise unproven; I’m taking a big risk putting you on this project. I want you to run all your work by Carmel before it reaches me.”
Lottie nodded. Her director hardly ever looked at her work now. It had become clear within the first two weeks that Lottie knew exactly what she was doing and was doing it better than everyone else at her level and even the level above. Lottie was the least of Carmel’s worries.
“And let me be clear,” he said, leaning forward, his face cold. “You won’t get another chance to impress me. I gave you an inch and you just took a mile. I’ve been in this game a lot longer than you,” he growled. Lottie’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “If there’s a delay in an investment, it’s for good reason. It’s not your place to come in here and tell me how to do my job.”
“I’m sorry,” Lottie replied, quietly. She knew she’d crossed the line, but it was only because she was so passionate about Skilld.
“You need to earn your stripes and my respect before you come in here telling me I’m not moving quickly enough. Do you understand?”
Lottie nodded mutely, but she could feel a knot of anger in her chest. She’d overstepped the mark, but she knew she was right. Marcus was at risk of missing out on one of the most exciting, high potential investment opportunities of the decade. Did he want to surround himself with yes men, or did he want astute and honest employees who spoke the truth, even if it was unpalatable?
Marcus watched as Lottie’s cheeks reddened. He’d need to keep an eye on this one. Falcon was becoming stale in his eyes. Charlotte Matheson could be the dynamite he needed to fire things up again or she could be a hot-headed disaster. That was the thing about raw talent. Moulded right, it could turn out the work of genius. But unguided, it could implode, taking everything it touched with it.
“I’d like to keep this between you and I, until I’ve spoken to Carmel.”
“Of course,” Lottie nodded, relieved the telling-off had ended. She stood up to leave, becoming aware that her skirt had creased under her thighs and now hung in angular folds just below her buttocks. She saw Marcus’s eyes flicker downwards then back to her face. The intensity of the last few minutes had raised the chemistry in the room; Lottie could feel it prickling against her skin. But if her CEO had felt anything, he didn’t let on.
Marcus listened as Lottie said goodbye to his assistant and walked away. Gradually, he allowed his clenched hands to uncurl and placed them on the cool surface of the boardroom table. What the hell had he just done? He’d given the project of a lifetime to a junior who’d only been with Falcon – indeed the industry – just two months, over the heads of his managers and senior managers and no doubt to the disappointment of the entire marketing team when they would eventually find out. She’d known the board was dragging its feet over the Skilld investment and more to the point, she’d challenged him on it. Some of his senior VPs didn’t even have the balls to do that.
And now he’d promised to put her in charge of the marketing strategy if he managed to get Skilld into the portfolio. How was he going to justify that to the board? He knew what they’d think; it was obvious. Some hot little exec’s come along and asked for a promotion, and Marcus, being just like any other red-blooded male, succumbed to the delicate curves and pretty face of a twenty-something star-struck employee and put one of their most valuable assets into her naïve and inexperienced hands.
The one thing working in his favour was the fact Marcus didn’t mix business with pleasure. He never had done, and he didn’t plan to. He’d seen men with far more experience and financial savvy ruined too early in their careers because of misjudged dalliances. There was no way he was going to let that happen to him. But it wasn’t simply what the board would think when they learned about the assignment that unnerved him. There was something else. There was more to Charlotte Matheson than met the eye. She was switched on. She knew more about the start-up scene than most of his peers. She had a hunger he’d recognised in no-one other than himself. And she’d made it very clear the only thing she was interested in was Zac Morecambe-Cheney’s venture. That should have pleased him, but it didn’t; it irritated him.