Keira

Score: Rockstar - Nickleback

"Sit," Jean nods towards the chair opposite her at the round glass table. I hastily pull the chair and take a seat on the edge, my heart beating so loudly in my ears, I wonder when the army will come stomping through the glass doors.

"You're late," she says, her eyes never leaving the screen of her laptop, as she squints in concentration behind her gold-framed Cartier glasses.

"Sorry," I mumble, shuffling uncomfortably in my seat.

The train ride from Heathrow Airport to the office in Stratford had been a nightmare. I was forced to skip two trains because they were too packed, and, when I finally squeezed my suitcase and my body through the mass of hot, tangled bodies and inside a train, it got stuck for fifteen minutes between stations near East Village.

If it hadn't been for the messages with Strange Hot Guy earlier, I'd say this day's just a lost cause, and I'd go straight home after my meeting with Jean and pretend it never happened.

But, the strange, warm feeling in my chest, which has nothing to do with being pressed against a wall of bodies like in a can of human-sized sardines twenty minutes earlier, is making me want to stay for as long as I can in this day. In this moment. Just not in this office, preferably.

"Congratulations on the deal with Brett Events," Jean says finally, and I can practically feel my whole body sigh with relief. "You've earned my trust, and my respect with that one," she continues, sparing me a glance, at last, over the rim of her glasses.

"Thank you, Jean, you don't know what this..."

"I haven't finished yet," Jean cocks a perfectly painted brow.

"Of course, I am sorry," I mutter quickly, as I slip my hands between the backs of my thighs and the seat of my chair to stop them from shaking.

"Having in mind your excellent performance on this deal, I am thinking about assigning to you our biggest deal for this year," she says, and she's actually beaming, as if she's ordaining me into knighthood, instead of giving me my next work assignment.

"I have to warn you, though, this one requires a top level of discretion. You are not to mention anything about it on your social media. You cannot talk about it, and you will be asked to sign a non-disclosure agreement, of course."

I pull my eyebrows in.

What the hell is she talking about? I am always expected to sign Non-disclosure agreements, and so are our clients. I am working with some big-ass names, and with some big-ass numbers, and I know for a fact that, if Big-Ass Client A found out about the discount we are giving to Big-Ass Client B, and not them, neither of them will ever sign with us.

Discretion is a big part of my work.

But, with the way Jean said that, and how her chin is trembling with excitement right now, I think there's more to it this time.

"This is so exciting! I was even thinking about taking this one on myself, because we cannot, and, I repeat, we cannot, and we must not mess this one up, but then I thought, You know what? Keira is one of Lavet Hotel Group's finest. She can do it. She is everything that Lavet Group stands for."

A lump forms in my throat, and I can practically feel my eyes straining to pop out of their orbits.

I have never, in my three years with Lavet Hotels, heard Jean talk to me, or, actually, talk to anyone like that. She's usually dry and straight to the point, and she has never, and I mean, ever before, said that she'd give anyone anything she'd thought about working on herself.

She's the best in what she does, and she will never spare you from reminding you of this tiny little detail about herself, and the fact that now she's contemplating handing me over something that she thinks is so important that it demands her attention is making me strangely unsettled. Nauseous even.

"So? What do you say?"

"Well, um, I don't really know. You haven't given me any details yet."

"As I told you, I can't give out anything yet. This is a super-high-profile case. Just tell me whether you are up for taking another job or not, and I'll email the Non-disclosure agreement to you. You'll then get the details."

The Mission Impossible score comes playing into my mind.

Your mission, should you choose to accept it...

"Yeah, why not," I say, finally, and as I utter the words, I wince because I know that, most probably, I will be on the road again for the next couple of months.

I just got back home. I wanted to spend some time with my friends and family. My best friend, Lisa, got a baby and got engaged recently, and I hadn't been there to celebrate with her. I had planned on organizing a huge celebration for her 30th birthday, which is next month, to make it up to her, and now...

Maybe this time it'll be different. Maybe this time most of the work will be situated in London. Or, maybe I will be able to take some time off and spend it with Lisa on her birthday.

Maybe...in another world.

But this is a huge opportunity. If Jean thinks that this assignment is so important, then, maybe this is my chance to finally, once and for all prove what I am capable of, and finally be promoted to a Sales Manager.

Just one more, I try to reason with the tired voice within my head, currently whining in protest.

"Great, I'll email you the NDA right away," Jean says, as I stand up to leave. Her gaze lingers a little longer on my body this time, her eyes following my moves, and she crinkles her nose with pure disgust, as she takes in my disheveled appearance.

"What the hell happened to you?" She asks, raising her eyebrows at my wrinkled clothes, my messy hair, and my random Friday no-make-up face.

"I'm just tired, is all," I say, picking up my Chloe tote bag from the floor, deciding to spare Jean the details of the most eventful twenty-four hours I'd had in a while.

Oh, yeah, Jean, I kicked last night off with drinks at the rooftop bar of Lavet Paris, then I chatted up a random stranger, guest of the hotel, who also happened to be incredibly hot, then we went out wandering the streets of Paris till the wee hours of the night, and, oh, then we made out like teenagers up against my hotel room door, and if we hadn't been interrupted by a bachelorette party, I would have gladly shown him that my mouth is not only good for negotiations...

Yeah, no...

The most I'd get out of this conversation is possibly fired.

"Go work from home for the rest of the day," Jean says in a rare display of generosity.

And I don't allow her for any time to think twice.

When I finally close the door of my Greenwich flat behind my back, I let out a long sigh of relief. I roll my suitcase to my bedroom, and, decide that, before I get into the endless loop of washing, taking out the next dead potted plant that somehow made it through the last few months only to die a miserable death during my latest work trip, and sorting through useless mail, I'd pour myself a glass of wine. So what if it is only three p.m.?! And, so what if, technically, I'm supposed to be working still?!

So, I do just that, but I also pick my laptop up on my way to the fridge and lay it on the countertop of the breakfast bar.

I take out the bottle of white that lives in the fridge door, and toss the mossy, green ball of unknown origin that has been sitting at the back of my bottom fridge shelf in the bin, before I take out a wine glass (a glass for red, of course. I find that white wine glasses struggle to accommodate the amount of wine I need on an average night/afternoon), and climb into one of the bar stools at my breakfast bar.

Much like you climbed into that barstool last night in the rooftop bar when you met Strange Hot Guy, my inner sneering self adds.

I shake my head and open my laptop, taking a sip from my wine.

The first thing I notice is that Jean has emailed me the NDA for the new assignment. I click on the link in her email and am promptly routed to an online digital signing tool, where the NDA has been uploaded and I need a username and password to access it. I find the credentials in a follow-up email from Jean.

Jeez, these guys must be seriously paranoid. Usually, non-disclosure agreements would be shared as a simple email attachment, but this client seems very overprotective of their data from the very beginning.

Which is never a good sign.

After I put in my credentials, I am prompted to a workflow within the online tool that allows me to review the document, but a lot of the details are redacted. Like, full-blown blacked out. For example, the name of the company, their address and subject of trade. You know, all the important bits.

There's a digital signature field on the last page, and, when I click on it, I am prompted to enter my credentials. Once I do so, the whole document disappears. A message appears on the screen,  thanking me for my action and letting me know I cannot go back to the previous step now.

Great. I just signed something and I hadn't even read...

A minute later, the whooshing sound of an incoming email disturbs my passionate interlude with my wine glass. It is from an automatic mailbox, with the domain of the online signature tool. I click on the new email and the same document that I just signed, opens up on my screen, only this time the information isn't redacted.

"You have got to be kidding me!" My eyebrows shoot up, as I read through the document.

"Hollogram Entertainment, hereon referred to as "The Company", representing "The Flying Benjamins", hereon referred to as "The Client"..."

I read on and on, and my eyebrows pull further and further in.

Who are those guys?

This is the third time I come across them, in a single day, and I had never heard of them before this morning. And, apparently, now I'm working with them?

My eyes quickly scan the rest of the document, and then something in the email catches my eye. It is another link, much like the one in Jean's email that led me to the NDA. I click on it and am redirected to the same website again, only this time it is a different document. It's the actual contract. This time, the information is not redacted. I scroll through the entire sixty-four pages until I reach what I'm looking for.

The budget.

I nearly spit the mouthful of wine I'd just taken back into my glass.

Oh, my God!

Three Million Pounds.

Three. Million. Pounds.

My heart is beating so fast that I can practically hear it echoing through the room. My mouth has gone bone-dry, despite my futile attempts to wet it with my wine.

I've never worked on a deal so big before. There's no way I am qualified enough to work on this. An account so big must have their own account manager.

Is Jean crazy? Or is she trying to purposefully ruin my career?

I scroll back to the top of the document and start rereading it, line by line, trying to find the catch here. There's got to be one. But, when I reach the appendix with the budget again, I pick up my phone and dial Jean's number.

She picks up on the third ring.

"Hey," her voice comes echoing through my kitchen, as I put her on speaker.

"Um, Hi, Jean, apologies for bothering you..."

"What's going on?"

"I received the NDA and...and...um...Jean, there must be some kind of a mistake here...This contract...It says here...it says...three million pounds!"

"There's correct. I told you it was a big one," Jean's voice comes through and I can practically see her self-satisfied smile, like she's won the lottery, or she has single-handedly dragged Hologram Entertainment and forced them to sign with us.

"But...but..."

"There's no mistake, Keira," she repeats, more coldly this time. "I told you, I trust that you can handle this. Read the contract carefully, and let me know when you've reviewed it. I'll need to sign it, too."

Great. Just...great.

"But, Jean, it says here that I'd have to change location every week...sometimes every day, even...and...and I'll be on the road for a year?"

"That's correct. The company that's managing The Flying Benjamins is looking for an exclusive partnership on accommodation and hospitality for their world stadium tour, and, after that incident in LA last year and, and I quote, "Lavet Hotels' exceptional discretion and professionalism in dealing with the situation", they decided to work with us."

"That was them?" I gasp, not really knowing what I meant by that. What I do know, though, is that these guys must really be fucking huge. I mean, getting besieged in an Abercrombie and Fitch store by a horde of screaming girls, in fucking LA? Where bumping into a star is considered as mundane as taking the garbage out?

How come I've missed them?

I instantly open a new tab on my laptop and open Youtube. I type in The Flying Benjamins into the search bar and then click on a playlist at the top of the suggested videos. The first song starts, but I hit Pause. I'll listen to them when I get off the phone with Jean.

I quickly switch tabs, as I go back to the contract.

"I'll go with them on their World Tour? Like a...groupie or something?"

"I know! Exciting, right?"

"Exciting? This is fucking crazy!"

"Now you understand why I couldn't take the deal myself? I cannot simply leave my other work here. Not to mention, John wouldn't be very happy about my being away for a whole year, and you have nobody waiting for you at home..."

Suddenly, I am very grateful that she can't see me. I wince at her words. I can practically feel the blush rising in my cheeks.

An awkward silence falls in the room.

"I'm sorry darling, I didn't mean for it to come across like that. You know what I mean, right?"

"Yeah...Yes, of course, it's fine..." I mumble, even though I know it is not fine.

Everyone in my life seems to have a very strong opinion about my dating life. Or, rather, the absent of any whatsoever in the past couple of years.

Jean here, much like my mum, has let what she really thinks about me not having a man in my life slip a couple of times, so, her remark doesn't really hurt.

However, I feel a pang of...something, this time.

It's her instant assumption, that, just because I don't have a spouse and kids, I am free like a bird and I have no issue whatsoever to be away from home for months at a time.

"But..."

"No "Buts", Kiki. You know as well as I do that there is a big, fat paycheque waiting for you at the other side of this deal, so, you go on this world tour, with one of the hottest bands in the world right now, you make sure everything is fine in terms of hospitality and accommodation, you go fucking sightseeing with them, you wipe their bloody asses if they need you to," Jean's voice comes out irritated and high-pitched, "You do anything they ask of you, or, if you can't do it, you find someone from our people who can. Just, whatever you do, don't sleep with any of them!"

"Sleep with them?" I gasp, totally outraged by Jean's remark this time.

Who does she think she is talking to? I am a professional!

A flashback from last night and Strange Hot Guy's tongue down my throat flashes briefly before my eyes, but I chase it away.

That guy was nobody. Of course I won't sleep with my clients, and, also, I bet these guys are just a bunch of spoilt primadonnas.

"Yeah, their last manager got fired for sleeping with one of them. The scandal was massive. So, whatever you do, just...don't go there, alright? I don't care, even if all of them look like they've come straight out of the Hemsworth clan..."

"Jean, you know me," I say, still a little offended that she could ever think of me like that.

"Yes, I do, Kiki, that's why I am giving this to you," Jean's voice comes through the phone smooth like silk.

Damn, she's good.

"Alright, then. I'm in," I finally say with a sigh, and Jean's screams come echoing through my kitchen.

"Thanks, Kiki! I knew I could count on you!" She says and quickly hangs up, leaving me in the company of the sixty-four page contract.

I switch over to the Youtube playlist of the Flying Benjamins I selected, and press play, before going back to the contract, this time carefully going over what would be expected of me.

And, as I read through the pages upon pages of text, I come to the conclusion that Jean had probably read it already.

Because it basically says that I should be at their disposal for anything they need, which implies, if not saying it directly, some ass-wiping, indeed.