Dumped, Actually(54)

He’s trying very hard not to be angry. I’m not sure he’s doing all that well. There’s a venom in his voice that makes me squirm.

‘Then why not just sell it, then?’ I ask, which seems like the obvious question.

He shakes his head slowly. ‘No, Ollie. No selling. Not this one. I want it gone. I want it dead. And you can help me do that. Would you like to know how?’

I can’t answer. The rage coming off this man in waves is quite terrifying.

‘I’ll tell you how, Ollie,’ he continues without waiting for me. ‘All you need to do is march into that bitch Erica’s office and hand in your resignation. No more “Dumped Actually”, no more Actual bloody Life. You can take your little feature and go write it over at GQ.’ He grabs me by the shoulder. The stench of cigar makes me heave. ‘Wouldn’t that be wonderful, Ollie? Your story, your article, your baby . . . at one of the country’s most popular magazines? I can make it happen, Ollie. I can make it happen . . . if you help me. Help me end that stupid website, and crush that fucking bitch.’

So.

There we have it.

The reason for this little outing across the rolling English countryside. Benedict wanted to get me somewhere alone, and on his turf, so he could bribe me with the best job in the world – as long as I betray my boss (and more importantly, my friend) of the last six years.

My hand starts to tremble. Anger and loathing course through my veins. As does a mounting sense of shame.

Erica was absolutely right.

I should never have come out here.

I should have listened to her.

In my overwhelming desire to be proved right about a stupid story, I have placed myself in a truly awful position.

I’m out here, in the middle of nowhere, alone with the biggest bastard on the planet and his manservant, Hung, both of whom are looking at me expectantly. Hung contrives to also look a bit sick himself, though. This probably isn’t the first time he’s had to witness Benedict Montifore conducting his loathsome business practices on the ninth hole, and I doubt it will be the last.

For some reason I am instantly transported back to the courtyard outside The Blitzer at Thorn Manor. The same feelings of shame, stupidity, embarrassment and disbelief wash over me. The situation is entirely different, but the emotions are exactly the same. So are the overriding thoughts that crash through my brain like wrecking balls:

What the hell is wrong with me? Why did I do this to myself?

And what the bloody hell do I DO NOW??

‘So, what do you think, Ollie?’ Benedict asks, blowing yet another cloud of cigar smoke into the calm air.

I want to punch him. I want to kick him. I want to swear, scream and rage at him.

But that’s just not Oliver Sweet, is it?

He’s not a man who does well with confrontation. He’s not a man who knows how to vent his emotions. He’s not a man who knows how to stand up and be strong.

He is a man who will allow someone to rip the hair off his arsehole, though. He’s also a man who will squeeze his erect penis in front of a baby deer. He’s a man who will agree to wear a face mask during sex.

And above all, he’s a man who will let the woman of his dreams slip through his bloody fingers.

‘Can I think about it?’ I say in a trembling voice.

Benedict’s eyes narrow and his lips turn themselves into a cold white line. ‘Very well,’ he eventually says, with mild disgust. ‘Though . . . you shouldn’t think about it for too long, Oliver. I don’t make these offers very often, and when I do, I’m very careful about them. I can help the people who help me, Oliver.’ He leans a little closer. ‘And destroy those who don’t.’

Wow. He really is a gold-plated monster, isn’t he? I wonder if he’s friends with Donald Trump?

‘Okay. I won’t,’ I reply, hating myself with every fibre of my being.

Why don’t I just stand up to him? Why don’t I just tell him where to go?

Because he’ll make your life hell. Because he’ll take ‘Dumped Actually’ away from you.

Oh God.

He could do that.

I’m not sure he could actually straight out fire me here and now on this golf course – he’d have to go through Erica, and she’d never agree – but he could ruin everything anyway, though, I’m sure he could. He has the power to do that, without a doubt. Any man who owns a big enough stake in Condé Nast to hold sway with them would probably be able to destroy me if he wanted to, wouldn’t he? Benedict hasn’t actually said that I’d never work in this town again if I don’t do what he says, but he wasn’t far off it.

‘Let’s carry on with the game,’ he suggests, climbing back into the golf cart. ‘Perhaps while we’re on the back nine, you could think about my offer a little more, and give me an answer by the time we hit the eighteenth.’

I nod slowly, not trusting myself to speak.

As Benedict ferries us towards the next hole, I sit beside him, seething in a cauldron of mixed, negative emotions. I am colossally angry. At Benedict and, inexplicably, at Samantha. It’s a double-header of repressed rage that threatens to burst a blood vessel in my head.

I also feel stupid. Incredibly stupid. Stupid for coming here today, stupid for not listening to Erica and stupid for asking Samantha to marry me.