Stuck On You Read online

  ‘That’s great,’ Robyn says with a smile. ‘Damian Banks has quite the reputation. It must be so completely fascinating, seeing the inner workings of his brain.’

  Not as fascinating as reading his emails, that’s for sure. What a lot of people don’t seem to realise is that his ‘personal’ email address isn’t actually his personal one. Damian has a separate address that he uses but external emails come through to an inbox that I manage. I’ll be going about my day-to-day business when all of a sudden I’ll be confronted with something that was probably intended for Damian’s eyes only. Pitches from models, that’s what we’ll politely call them – not something you want to see when you’re eating a cereal bar at your desk.

  ‘And the parties,’ Robyn continues. ‘I’ll bet you’ve seen some things.’

  ‘It’s been a very fascinating and eye-opening job,’ I reply. Discretion is everything.

  ‘Well, Sadie, I must say we’re very impressed with you, with your CV – and for holding a job with the great Damian Banks. Everyone knows about his incredibly high standards so that speaks volumes. But do you think you might potentially be a little bored working here? Not that the work isn’t stimulating, far from it, but it will certainly be a change of pace.’

  They both look at me expectantly. It doesn’t just feel as if they’re waiting for my reply; I feel as if they’re waiting to see what I say, to read me. Selena talked over questions like this with me – it’s all about finding a balance. Suggest that you like things to be too hectic too often and you’ll seem as if you don’t consider how much you’re taking on. Say that you don’t like a fast-paced environment and you might seem as if you don’t know how to handle any pressure.

  ‘It’s a change of pace that appeals to me. If it’s a challenge, I’ll rise to it. Working with Damian has allowed me to experience a range of different responsibilities and paces, which has allowed me to determine what my preferences are. I think working as an assistant curator is exactly the right balance for me.’

  God, I sound like such a muppet. These are the sorts of things you’re supposed to say in interviews, right? The buzzwords, the things they want to hear.

  ‘Well, OK,’ Curtis says. ‘Thank you so much for your time. We’ll be in touch.’

  ‘Thanks very much,’ I reply, pulling myself to my feet slowly, making sure I don’t rush off before they give me something, anything to let me know if things are going to go my way. ‘If you have any other questions, don’t hesitate to call me.’

  I leave the gallery, popping into the M&S next door to grab a sandwich, seeing as though this is my lunch hour. I thought that went well – really well, in fact. At least until they mentioned the change of pace. They’re probably worried I’ll quit if I find it too boring. If only I could be honest with them, tell them that almost all of the time working for Damian is boring. You would think the fact that he relies on me so heavily would give me lots to do but, honestly, I really am practically like a mum to him. Everything he relies on me for is completely boring.

  I’m just leaving the shop when my phone rings. It’s a private number. Oh my gosh, is this it? Is it about the interview? That’s a great sign, right… or is it? To be calling me so soon they’re either so sure I’m right for the job or so certain I’m wrong for it. Either way, I have to answer, and I’m glad it’s sooner rather than later because I would have obsessed over it until I did hear from them.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hello, is that Sadie Kirke?’ a familiar man’s voice asks.

  I’m so nervous I feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

  ‘Speaking,’ I say. I need to get back into professional mode, otherwise the only thing he will hear is me throwing up my nerves.

  ‘Ah, Sadie, hello,’ the voice says. That’s when I realise why I know the voice. It isn’t Curtis from earlier. It isn’t anyone I’ve been expecting to hear from. I know exactly who it is – it’s no wonder his voice made me feel funny. Still, I don’t let on.

  ‘Hi,’ I say, suddenly even more nervous than I was when I thought it was someone calling about the job.

  ‘This is Terry Mackie, returning your call – I understand you work for Damian Banks?’ he says. His voice is impossibly smooth, so gentle it tickles, but in a completely uncomfortable way. He almost sounds as though he sings his words, sometimes, with the way he strings his sentences together. It was one of the things that creeped me out about him the most, when I watched ’Til Death Do Us Part. It almost felt as if he was trying to hypnotise the audience.

  A shiver runs down my spine. Somehow Mackie is even creepier when he’s talking directly to you. I hate that he knows my name, knows my job – has my phone number!

  I don’t know what to say to him. Luckily smooth-talking Mackie knows how to lead a conversation (and a jury, if you ask me).

  ‘You called to enquire about Damian taking my picture,’ he prompts. ‘I understand one of my aides said no?’

  ‘He did,’ I eventually say. ‘Not a problem at all. We respect your privacy, Mr Mackie.’

  ‘Well, I think he might have been a little hasty,’ he says. ‘I think you and I might be able to come up with some sort of plan – a way to make things happen – if I tell you what I want, and you convince your boss it’s what’s best for all of us…’

  ‘I thought you didn’t pose for photos,’ I say, perhaps a little unprofessionally. I don’t want to sound as if I’m discouraging him, maybe… although I absolutely am, reminding him of his own rules.

  ‘It’s true that I don’t pose for photos,’ he says. ‘But, as I also understand it, your boss doesn’t take pictures at weddings…’

  ‘He doesn’t…’ I say cautiously.

  ‘Perfect,’ he says. I hear him clap his hands together. ‘Then let’s talk.’

  9

  ‘He wants me to shoot a wedding?’ Damian shrieks. ‘Me?’

  I purse my lips and nod my head.

  ‘He’s not even killed this wife yet and he wants to book me for his next wedding?’ Damian asks in disbelief.

  ‘I mean, I’m not saying I disagree with your verdict,’ I start. ‘I absolutely think Murderous Mackie killed his wives, but he was never found guilty so we’re not technically allowed to talk about him like he’s guilty. You really need that to sink in, if you’re going to spend any time around him. And anyway, it’s not his wedding, it’s his daughter’s wedding.’

  ‘Right, I don’t want to sound like a dick – but I know I’m going to, so don’t feel the need to point it out – but I’m Damian Banks. I’m not a wedding photographer.’

  I don’t think he sounds like a dick, not really. Hiring Damian Banks to shoot your wedding is a bit like hiring Banksy to paint your bathroom ceiling.

  I shrug my shoulders.

  ‘OK, just… hang on a minute,’ he says. Gosh, he seems so frustrated. Whenever anything puzzles him, stresses him out, or gets him thinking, his brow furrows to the point where it looks uncomfortable. Damian massages his forehead, as though he can iron the creases out with his fingertips. ‘Run this by me again.’

  ‘Mackie says you can have your photoshoot with him… in exchange for you taking pictures at his daughter’s wedding,’ I explain again.

  ‘Don’t they already have a photographer?’ he asks.

  ‘Yeah, but it sounds like they want you for fancy wedding portraits, rather than being the person who snaps the relatives while they get hammered,’ I explain.

  ‘I do really want to take his picture, Sadie, but a wedding? What do you think?’

  ‘I think…’ I pause for a second. What do I think? I think I definitely don’t want to be in a room with Terry-wife-murdering-Mackie. But I wouldn’t be doing my job properly if I talked Damian out of it, would I? And after sitting in a job interview, talking about what a great employee I am, should I really be proving myself wrong less than an hour later?

  ‘Look, sure, it’s his daughter’s wedding, but it’s not exactly a trip to the village church
before a reception in the function room at a three-star hotel. Mackie is one of the most famous people on the planet at the moment. This wedding is going to be something really special.’

  ‘Go on,’ Damian says curiously. His brow remains furrowed but it’s a look of curiosity now, rather than stress.

  ‘Angel Mackie, his daughter, is a socialite. She’s marrying Ryan Sharpe – a premiership footballer, plays for England, the one everyone was going mad for during the last World Cup.’

  I’ve heard Ryan’s name in passing – there was a lot of hype around him during the World Cup – but I really don’t care about football so I don’t know much more than his name. Angel is a lot more familiar to me because she’s a popular influencer. Damian isn’t interested in football and he meets so many influencers they all blur into one.

  ’Yeah, I probably care less about football than you do,’ Damian says dismissively. ‘But it sounds like there’s going to be a lot of buzz around this wedding.’

  ‘There is… There’s going to be lots of celebrities there – not to mention how obsessed everyone is with Mackie. People literally follow him, keeping an eye on him, waiting to see if his reigning missus pops her clogs. It’s a lot of attention for the wedding, for Mackie – for you and your next exhibition, if you play your cards right.’

  ‘God, you’re right,’ he says. He sounds almost disappointed. ’You’re always right.’

  ‘I know,’ I reply with a smile. ‘Best of all, the wedding venue… it’s on a disused sea fort just off the coast somewhere down south. It’s like a tiny island with a five-star hotel built on it. They’ve hired the place out for a long weekend. Mackie says you’d be invited for the whole thing.’

  Damian rubs his chin thoughtfully. I can practically see the cogs turning in his brain through his narrowed eyes. He stares at me for a couple of seconds before a smile spreads across his face.

  ‘When is it?’ he asks.

  ‘It’s this weekend,’ I tell him. ‘Honestly, you couldn’t have asked at a better time. If you’d left it any later you wouldn’t be in with a chance.’

  ‘Right, OK, I’ll do it,’ he says. ‘I need to shoot him. I’m at the end of my rope.’

  ‘Erm, less talk of anything related to guns or ropes, please,’ I insist. ‘He makes my blood run cold.’

  Damian laughs.

  ‘I need this, right? This is the first idea I’ve had in ages that I’ve felt passionate about.’

  And don’t I know it? It’s all he’s been talking about for the last two days.

  ‘You definitely seem passionate,’ I confirm.

  ‘OK, get him on the phone, tell him I’ll do it,’ he says confidently, although I’m not sure how confident he actually is.

  ‘Sure thing, boss,’ I reply with a playful salute. ‘I’ll get back to my desk.’

  ‘You’re an angel, Sadie,’ he calls after me. ‘Who knows, maybe we’ll have fun if we’re there together?’

  I sigh ever so gently. I mean, of course I knew I would be going with him, as his assistant and general hand-holder, but still… no matter how cool the trip sounds – the awesome location, the celebrity guests – knowing that Mackie will be there is more than enough to put me off. I’ve watched the whole series of ’Til Death Do Us Part now and, honestly, Mackie terrifies me. He’s so overly charming, always making little jokes, seeming so sickly sweet that it just makes him seem all the more guilty.

  ‘At the very least we can keep each other alive,’ I reply. I’d be tempted to say I was kidding but you never know.

  I plonk myself back down at my desk. So… I need to ring Mackie and make arrangements, get everything ready at our end – I probably won’t be in the office again this week so obviously my top priority is to write a note for Adam.

  We’re only going to a disused naval fortress in the middle of the sea so he can take pictures of a potential serial killer. I definitely don’t get paid enough for this. You might not hear from me until next week. If you haven’t heard from me by the time you’re in the office next Tuesday… well, I guess I didn’t make it. I leave all my desk snacks to you. x

  He’ll know that I’m, kidding, right? God, I hope I’m kidding.

  This is exactly why I need a new job, because at no point during my art degree did I imagine myself attending celebrity weddings with alleged serial killers, socialites and premier-league footballers. I have this feeling I’m going to wind up at the bottom of the sea, or as a talking head on some Netflix documentary, chatting about what happened on ‘that day’, people making memes out of me. I’m not sure which is worse…

  10

  I’ve always been a nervous flyer. It’s not that I’m not used to flying. I’m often jetting around with Damian (don’t get too excited, they’re not always glamorous locations – a lot of the time it’s just because he’d rather fly to places like Newcastle than drive there), and I’ve been on a few holidays. Still, something about being in a heavy metal tube thirty-five thousand feet in the air doesn’t sit well with me, despite knowing how technically safe it all is, and that millions of people do it every day.

  I don’t know how I thought we were going to get to Astern, the ex-naval fortress turned five-star hotel – I suppose I didn’t think about it at all. I figured we’d have to take a boat from the coast, from a southern seaside town I could at least recognise by name, but that’s not what has happened at all.

  On the one hand, I can finally tick flying in a helicopter off my list. On the other hand, regrettably, I’m going to have to tick it off again to go home and I’m really not looking forward to doing it for a second time.

  We are currently hovering above the naval base, about to land. I’m holding my seat so tightly I can see my knuckles turning white.

  Before we set off, when we were told our car was taking us to a helicopter, rather than driving us south towards the coast, I felt my usual pre-flight nerves, but flying in a helicopter feels nothing like flying in an aeroplane. The take-off is completely different. I was so nervous, but it happens in no time at all. All of a sudden, you’re up there, and then you’re going impossibly fast. You don’t really feel the speed in a plane, not like you do in a helicopter. You lose track of the landscape so quickly, and then all at once you hear through your headset that you’re almost there. It’s completely disorientating.

  As we prepare to land on what is essentially a tiny island, I take a deep breath. Damian must notice because he grabs hold of my hand and squeezes it – something I really appreciate. He does this whenever we fly anywhere together. He knows that the landing is always my least favourite part. I suppose, if you’re nearing the end of anything, and nothing has gone wrong, then all the more reason to believe disaster will strike in the short amount of time that’s left. I know that’s wrong, but irrational fears are exactly that. Irrational.

  I dare myself to peep out of the window next to me. I peer down towards Astern, watching as it grows bigger and bigger as it gets closer. It looks so peculiar, like a man-made island – which I suppose is exactly what it is. The large perfectly round island almost looks like a toy town, with a mini lighthouse, a grassy garden area, a pool. There are a few surface-level buildings, and a big glass atrium, but I’d imagine most of the hotel itself is deep down in the fortress, which, now that we’ve touched down on the helipad, appears to stand quite high up from the water, a bit like being on a cruise ship.

  ‘You made it,’ Damian tells me, in that reassuringly playful way he always does when we land.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say with a smile. ‘You can let go of my hand.’

  ‘Yeah, sure,’ he says awkwardly. ‘Damn, this thing is huge.’

  ‘Huge and so weird,’ I reply.

  ‘Apparently there are four or five of them out here, just off the coast of Portsmouth,’ he tells me. ‘A few have been turned into hotels. Kind of cool.’

  As soon as we’re out of the helicopter, (reasonably) safe on (semi) dry land, I peer across the water, back towards the land.


  ‘Oh, so that’s Portsmouth?’ I say as we walk down the few steps from the helipad.

  Damian takes hold of me gently and turns me around on the spot.

  ‘That’s Portsmouth over there,’ he tells me. ‘It’s a bit further away. That was the Isle of Wight.’

  ‘OK, if you want to wait here,’ our pilot instructs us. ‘I’ve got more guests to collect, but someone will be here to greet you shortly.’

  ‘OK, thanks very much,’ I say, extra politely, you know, just to make sure he takes extra good care of me when he eventually flies me home.

  It’s mid-December, so naturally it’s pretty chilly out here in the… I don’t know. The Atlantic Ocean? The English Channel? I’m still not 100 per cent on where we are exactly, other than knowing we’re south of England – assuming what Damian just said is correct.

  Despite it being so cold, the… is it a deck? Honestly, this place is so surreal. Whatever it is, outside is quite busy with people all wrapped up, walking around, taking in the sea air. Many of them have Astern-branded takeaway coffee cups in their hands. Without drinks or movement to keep us warm I’m feeling pretty chilly, standing here with our bags, waiting to be greeted.

  Of course, I tell myself that I would have happily waited much longer when I hear that silky-smooth voice coming from behind me.

  ‘Damian, Sadie, welcome!’

  I hear Mackie before I see him. His voice is practically iconic. It almost tickles my cold ears, to the point where I could happily itch them off.

  I take a deep breath before turning around. And there he is. Terry Mackie. He’s taller than I expected him to be – almost 6 ft, which is kind of intimidating – but build-wise he’s just average. He’s in his late forties but looks older. He has short, mousey-brown hair that sits sort of flat on top of his head, as if someone swept up the wispy bits from the salon floor and plonked them there. His rimless oval glasses make his eyes seem smaller, not bigger, which, coupled with the fact they seem to be permanently narrowed, gives him this chilling look. It’s almost as though he’s somehow simultaneously peering into your soul while putting up a guard so you can’t look into his.